by Amy Myers
Chapter Eight
“The trouble with you, Didier, is that you have spies on the brain.” His Majesty, reclining in the luxury of his suite at the Hotel Bristol, regarded Auguste with a complacent eye, no doubt comforting himself that the previous evening had gone off rather well.
And the trouble with Cousin Bertie, Auguste thought savagely, was that he was seldom predictable — save where his mutton chops and other assorted culinary delights were concerned. Having been summoned to appear before His Majesty, he had naturally expected to receive His Majesty’s grateful thanks at being saved from a potentially highly embarrassing international situation. Unfortunately His Majesty possessed an uncanny knack of seeing matters entirely differently from Auguste Didier.
“Mr Waites will tell you that the comtesse is not what she seems.”
“The Foreign Office will tell me what suits them.” His Majesty looked rather pleased at his own ready wit. Then he remembered his cause for annoyance.
“You put me in an embarrassing position, Didier. The Duchess of Wessex is — ”
“Preferable to the German wife of the Kaiser’s envoy at this delicate moment, sir.”
There was a silence, until His Majesty produced his masterstroke. “I’d remind you I’m German myself, Didier. The comtesse and I have much in common.”
“I beg your pardon, sir. I assumed you did not know her background.”
“I have to admit that I was under the impression that she was from Normandy, and her husband Russian.” Coming from Bertie, this was a generous concession.
“As she told us, sir.”
“Us?” His Majesty turned a delicate shade of puce.
“Me, sir,” Auguste added hastily. “I had assumed — foolishly — Eleonore used her Norman title because her husband’s Russian title was unpronounceable.”
The puce lightened a little. “Very understandable, Didier.” Another heavy silence as His Majesty sought a path out of this thorny wood, then he pronounced judgement. “On the whole, Didier, you did the right thing, in the particular circumstances of last evening.”
This was munificent praise indeed and Auguste glowed with pleasure. “Have you seen the comtesse since, sir?” he asked, emboldened.
“Certainly. She explained to me that she does not use her married name in Paris, since being born in Alsace only a few years after the war, she always considers herself French. You can understand that, can’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” In this new-found amicability between them, Auguste decided to risk one further step. “And does she admit she knows Pyotr Gregorin?” It was a mistaken one.
“I told you. You’ve spies on the mind,” His Majesty roared. “She doesn’t know this Gregorin. She hardly even knew Entwhistle before she went to Farthing Court, and, I tell you this, Didier, you’re worse than Sweeney for asking impertinent questions.”
At least Auguste felt he was in good company if Cousin Bertie’s loyal detective was concerned about the situation.
“But Mr Entwhistle did ask her to be his hostess.”
“Because he’s English, and she was French, so he assumed, and it seemed good manners.” He managed to imply this was something alien to Auguste.
“However, Mr Entwhistle lives in Paris too and he, like the rest of Parisian society, must have known she was not.”
Bertie gazed at him, and Auguste held his breath. Would he explode? Order an immediate annulment of marriage for Tatiana? Forbid him his presence for ever (oh, happy thought)? None of these.
“If you think that way, Didier, I suppose others might get the wrong impression too.” The comment, however welcome, was grudging and there was a clear implication that the world was full of imbeciles and Auguste was in the upper echelons of their ranks. “Very well, I’ll invite the comtesse’s husband.”
“To what, sir?”
“I expect it’s escaped your attention, Didier, but there’s a state royal wedding on the 15th June. My niece Princess Margaret of Connaught is marrying the son of the Crown Prince of Sweden. Tatiana’s coming, and I presumed you would be good enough to join us too. You needn’t cook,” he added kindly.
Auguste had a dim memory of Tatiana having mentioned it, but higher in her social calendar for June had come the Gordon Bennett eliminating trials on the Auvergne circuit. Besides, if one were to attend every royal wedding in Europe, one would spend one’s entire life travelling between weddings. The Crown Prince of Germany was marrying in Berlin in a week’s time, and that, he knew, His Majesty had skilfully avoided attending, so bad were the current personal relations between the two Emperors.
“It will be an honour, sir.” He bowed deeply, and retreated, every backward step taking him back through the looking-glass into a saner world.
*
The day after a banquet was normally a pleasant day of relaxation and assessment, of noting tiny details that might improve on reflection for the future, and above all, of glorying in the achievement of the preceding day. Auguste walked back to the Hôtel Entwhistle in some trepidation. The guests, he knew, would be leaving on Thursday, as would Ethelred and Tudor. The latter had asked most specifically whether he would help them today in checking the bills to be submitted to Mr Entwhistle.
Auguste’s instinct was to leave as soon as possible, but he consoled himself that if he remained close to Ethelred, there was little Gregorin could do. He had seen nothing of his host, though he had lain awake last night behind the locked bedroom door, expecting that Gregorin might appear at any moment to take his revenge as promptly as possible. Now he had double cause, for in addition to his temerity in marrying Tatiana, he had foiled Gregorin’s political plans. He had waited on edge. How Gregorin would come he did not know, but he was convinced that come he would. Down the chimney perhaps, bearing the gift of death.
Nothing had happened. Had his and Richard Waites’ fears of what might have happened at the reception been overestimated? Had this whole thing been — as His Majesty implied — a blown-up figment of his imagination? He went to his bedroom to change from his best Bertie-visiting suit to working clothes, and even refrained from his recent, rather shamefaced search under the bed for assassins. He had almost convinced himself that he had been suffering from an overdose of imagination. With his familiar working suit and carrying apron and hat until he had reached the servants’ stairs, he turned along the corridor, turned the corner to the stairs, his confidence growing with every step. Then he came face to face with Gregorin.
“Good morning, Mr Didier.’’
“Bonjour, Monsieur Gregorin.” The shock made him blurt out the wrong name.
His host looked puzzled. Could it be genuine? Auguste thought, heart thudding, waiting for the panther to pounce. If this was Gregorin, he had ample opportunity to kill him here. He waited seemingly interminably for Gregorin to speak.
“I must congratulate you on your achievements last night.”
“Achievements?” Auguste stuttered. “The — er — table arrangements, sir?”
That puzzled look again. “The bécassines à la souvaroff in particular were superb.” Gregorin — or could it possibly be Entwhistle — passed him and continued on his way.
Auguste decided he must leave, and soon. Never had he wanted the comfort of Egbert’s dry advice and support more. In the kitchens he found Ethelred and Tudor packing up their personal implements before these disappeared into the drawers and cupboards of the Place Vendome. Glad of something definite to do, Auguste found his own precious knives and lovingly stored them away in their own carrying bag. Tomorrow evening his knives would be back in their home kitchen at Queen Anne’s Gate in London, and the only distance he intended them to travel thereafter was to Tatiana’s Ladies’ Motoring Club restaurant in Petty France.
*
“Where will you go, Gerald?” Belinda asked idly. “You can’t live in the Ritz forever.”
They were sharing a fiacre to the Gare du Nord, both preoccupied with their own position. Belinda with true historian’
s precision had hit the nail on the head. Young Gerald most certainly could not afford the Ritz forever, and so far no alternative plan seemed ideal. As for Belinda, she was experiencing a distinct sense of anti-climax. Once again, just as her friendship with Thomas seemed on the point of bursting into bloom again, he had withdrawn behind his barrier of reserve. She tried to tell herself without success that it was due to shyness.
Gerald grinned, deciding now was the time to explain to Belinda what his obvious, even if temporary, plan should be.
“Dear Belinda. I have no choice. I shall move into the Dower House.”
“What?” Belinda felt the shock like a physical jolt far worse than the fiacre bumping over the pavé. “But it doesn’t belong to you, Gerald.”
“Nor to you, Belinda.”
Belinda had long since faced the unpleasant fact that she would be dependent on her new sister-in-law to keep the Dower House roof over her head, since Arthur had in the euphoria of his coming wedding given no thought to wills. It was true she had a two-roomed flat at the top of a house in Doughty Street, but few Egyptian remains could be stored there. No, the Dower House it must be — but not with Young Gerald. She must speak to Gertrude at the first opportunity.
Gerald looked amused. “Don’t worry, Belinda. I’m sure Gertrude will see things my — or rather our way. After all, there’s some unfinished business at Farthing Court.” He paused. “Pay the cabbie, will you, there’s a dear girl?”
*
It lay on Auguste’s conscience that because of his own preoccupations he had not taken Ethelred round the delights of gastronomic Paris. He had not escorted him stall by stall round Les Halles market or introduced him to chef and kitchen at Voisin, or lunched with him at La Coupole. Even as the cab bore them along the Boulevard des Italiens and ever closer to the railway station, he found himself torn between pleasure at escaping with his life and reluctance to be leaving so many culinary delights behind with which he had failed to renew his acquaintance.
“I did not see Mr Entwhistle before I left,” Ethelred commented regretfully. “I hope he is not displeased with us.”
“He complimented us on the dinner when I met him yesterday,” Auguste mumbled.
“And us as well. However, he had told us he would see us this morning about arrangements for Farthing Court.”
“What arrangements for Farthing Court?” Auguste was instantly suspicious.
“I don’t know,” Ethelred explained patiently. “I didn’t see him.”
“His plans changed.” Tudor eyed a pretty French mademoiselle emerging from a boulangerie, and dragged his thoughts back to work. “My apologies, Ethelred. I forgot to tell you. I took a telephone message for him while he was at breakfast. He had to go out to meet a friend of his at noon at Denfert-Rochereau. He often goes there, so the Frenchie told me.” (The Frenchie was his Place Vendome counterpart, Auguste guessed, rather than himself on this occasion.)
“That wouldn’t be,” Auguste asked, feeling there was nothing to be lost now, “a Mr Gregorin, would it?”
“I believe so.”
Snap! Back into the jaws of death once more. How could he miss this opportunity? There were other trains and boats to England, but only this one fragile chance of seeing Entwhistle and Gregorin together. Hardly thinking how odd his behaviour must seem to Ethelred and Tudor, he leapt from the cab as the horses halted at the Gare du Nord, prepared to rush to the underground railway station. He was stopped only by the driver’s less than polite demand for payment. He threw him two francs, and with a muttered excuse of the sudden need for a visit to Fauchon, and still clutching his precious bag of kitchen knives, he hurried to the chemin de fer metropolitain. Fortunately Place Denfert-Rochereau was on the same line as the Gare du Nord, a new one since his days in Paris, which meant that if he was lucky he could be there by midday.
He fidgeted impatiently on the underground train, wondering what this would achieve. It would prove to him at least there were two Entwhistles, and also therefore two Gregorins, one standing in for the other as and when needed. Eleonore once more came into his mind and refused to be banished. Which of the gentlemen did she know? Or think she knew. And how well did she know him?
*
Coming up from the underground railway at Denfert-Rochereau, Auguste blinked in the sun, and walked into a scene of such normality he could have thought himself a boy again in Cannes. In late May the plane trees were adorned in their fresh green leaves, the women and children had a spring in their step and summer colours in their clothes. Already in the cafes the bread was being cut for luncheon, and the smells of coq au vin and tripes a la Caen were mingling with those of coffee and hot bread. The idea of sitting in a cafe with a bowl of moules, a glass of wine, and a crust or two of bread was almost irresistible, and had to be replaced firmly by that of Gregorin.
Where, he asked himself, would he find Gregorin and Entwhistle in this late morning hubbub? Their clothes alone would help mark them from the ouvriers of the Place Denfert-Rochereau. In the centre of the place the magnificent Lion de Belfort gazed down impassively on his problem. Not so very long ago this area had been outside the Paris boundaries, but now it was swallowed up into the city, and though the Seine and its bridges were far from here, it had the style of Paris. People sat outside and inside cafes watching the world pass by. A cafe was surely the most likely rendezvous point.
He decided to choose the grandest, and went in to stand at the bar where he had a good view of those outside as well as inside. Almost immediately he saw him. At a table by the window Gregorin sat impassively smoking a cigarette and drinking a small coffee. He was alone, clad in top hat, grey morning coat and striped trousers, the epitome of a gentleman. Only he wasn’t. He was a ruthless murderer. Or was it Entwhistle? Auguste was too far away to be certain. Through the main door came another identically clad gentleman to join him. As Gregorin stood up to greet him, he saw that he was slightly the taller of the two, perhaps by an inch. Other than that, they were remarkably similar, lean of body and face, and the same sharp features. Relief swept over him. He had, he congratulated himself, been right. The junket had set, the aspic de volaille had unmoulded perfectly, there were two Gregorins. Whether Entwhistle belonged to the Okhrana or was merely Gregorin’s paid tool was immaterial — for the moment.
Fear left him now, as he realised the two men were leaving. Of course he would follow them. It was easy enough in the crowded square. He merged with the crowd waiting its chance to cross the Boulevard St Jacques, amid the heavy flow of horse and motor traffic, then the Avenue Montsouris; he could see his quarry walking towards the building that used to be the tollgate for the old road south, the Avenue d’Orléans, pausing only for a moment for one of them to buy a flower from a rose seller. Such innocuous business. Surely it was hardly to believe at least one of these men was a murderer several times over, and the other one his willing accomplice?
Barriere d’Enfer, they called it, Hell’s Gate. And with great reason Auguste thought, for it was the entrance to the catacombs, the vast underground charnel house of bones taken from the overflowing putrefying cemeteries of Paris in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and stored in the ancient limestone quarries that underlay this whole area. Although the catacombs were only open two Saturdays a month, to Auguste’s curiosity the two men appeared to be going inside. Nor, he could see, as he reached the pavement not far from them, were they let in by a concierge either, but were unlocking it with a key. Perhaps they had special permission from the concierge, or more likely they had stolen or been given a key by a workman, as he recalled a group of bohemian artists and writers had done a few years ago when they decided they would like to hold a grim service in the crypt.
Gregorin and Entwhistle had disappeared now, but the door was ajar.
What should he do? Auguste hovered momentarily in indecision. He would be a fly walking into a spider’s web if he followed them inside and they saw him. If they did not see him, however, he could not only learn
something about them but, more importantly, what their future plans might be. An alarming thought had come to him. If Eleonore was going to the royal wedding, suppose Gregorin also had plans to attend, under the guise of Thomas Entwhistle?
He knew from his visit to the catacombs years earlier that there was a maze of crossway passages down there of which King Minos of Crete would have been proud. Even if many were barred to the public, they still provided alcoves for hiding places. But it was a terrifying place, especially alone and in all but pitch dark. Candles carried by visitors were the only means of lighting. With his heart in his mouth he slipped through the door, telling himself that if the two men were still in the small entrance hall inside, he had time to retreat. He relaxed slightly when he realised it was empty. The light flooding in from outside revealed only a deserted guichet and a box of candles for the use of visitors, and matches.
Now was the moment of decision. If he was to try to catch up with them, he must descend into the deep darkness beneath, with only a candle to light his way. He knew it was sheer foolishness, yet obstinacy sent him on. Realising he was still clutching his precious bag of kitchen instruments, he placed it on the counter of the guichet with some reluctance, for he could not carry both it and a candle and still have a hand free. Feeling absurdly melodramatic, however, he slipped one of the smaller knives into his jacket pocket, then lit a candle. Prudence suggested he put another in his pocket, together with the matches, and thus equipped he began the journey down seventy spiralling steps which led to the catacombs beneath.
At the bottom he stopped for a moment to listen to the silence. One could tell much from silence; it could speak of emptiness, of tension, of someone waiting to strike out from its depths. Ahead of him he knew there was a long, perhaps half a mile, narrow passageway, and he had only his own flickering candle to guide him.
Wherever Gregorin and Entwhistle were, he did not sense them nearby. He seemed to remember that this passageway bordered by its stone walls led to the ossuary, some way away, but that there were one or two changes of direction in it which might account for the fact he had no sense of Gregorin being nearby. A thick black line painted on one wall provided a guide for visitors as to which way they should take, for soon the crossway passages would start.
