Murder with Majesty

by Amy Myers

  Chapter Nine

  “Might as well take down the thatch, Alf.”

  Bert broke the heavy silence in the White Dragon bar. Out of its customers’ respect for the landlord’s grief, the bar tended to be empty during the evenings now, which piled yet more worries on Bert Wickman’s bowed shoulders. He’d seized the opportunity of Wednesday’s Empire Day celebrations (if that was the word for a lacklustre turnout to see the schoolchildren and the village band march down the street dressed in a motley array of red, white and blue) to call a meeting of the committee for the following evening. Its members had, without a word being spoken, disbanded themselves after the unfortunate events of May Day, without bothering to remove the visible signs of their toil.

  “And them soggy paper tulips.” Adelaide sniffed.

  “I haven’t the heart somehow,” Bert muttered. Always spartan, the White Dragon was even to the least discerning eye in need of a woman’s touch — as indeed was Bert himself. An unfaithful wife was considerably better than no wife at all in his bed.

  “When’s Bessie’s hanging to be?” Aggie asked dolorously.

  “She ain’t been tried yet, you daft old besom,” Bert snarled.

  “Don’t speak to me like that. I’m an old woman.”

  “You’re an old witch, that I know. She’s sent for trial at the next assizes. Don’t you read the newspapers?”

  “It’ll buck up custom for the Dragon,” Alf pointed out with the kindest of intentions.

  “It’ll be doing without yours and that’s a fact,” its goaded landlord informed his best customer.

  When May is nigh out

  Folks do shout.

  Jacob suddenly woke up, and slurped angrily into his beer.

  “There’s no need for dat now, Jacob. All’s over,” Aggie informed him. “We done what squire asked.”

  “He didn’t ask for no murder,” Adelaide pointed out lugubriously. “Reckon we’ll still lose the pub, now Bessie done his lordship in.”

  “Bessie didn’t do it,” Bert howled. “It was one of them up there.” He jerked a thumb in the joint direction of heaven and Farthing Court.

  “Old Herne, it was,” intoned Aggie.

  “Ghosts don’t shoot bows and arrows and well you know it, Aggie.” Stuart Tudor had come marching into the bar and, at this symbol of quasi-authority, Bert hauled himself behind the bar in a feeble effort to resemble mine host of a well-kept inn. “Squire wants to see you, Bert. He’s arriving next Tuesday.”

  “What for?” Bert quickly waved aside a half-hearted attempt at payment for his pint.

  “How should I know? Paid your rent, ’ave you?” Tudor guffawed in a way that would have astonished the walls of Farthing Court. “Perhaps he wants you to lay on a buffet supper in the Dragon for the swells.”

  “What swells?”

  It was Tudor’s big moment. “Some of them are coming back for Whitsun. Lady Montfoy, all them Pennyfathers, ’Er Grace the Dizzy Duchess, Buffalo Bill Bolland. Quite a party.”

  “Returning to the scene of the crime,” Adelaide said knowingly.

  Aggie cackled. “The fairies are calling dem. What did I say? Old Herne’s a-blowing his horn.”

  “Shut up, Aggie,” Alf said quietly.

  *

  Four days in a cell at the Prefecture of Police had not been a pleasant experience. Quite apart from the terrifying feeling that he was about to be charged with murder, and the even more terrifying suspicion that Inspector Chesnais did not believe a word he said, even the comfort that food could bring was denied to Auguste. True, he had been allowed the concession of sending out for his meals, but somehow even the finest coq au vin lost much of its appeal when surrounded at close quarters by four grey stone walls. It took on the quality of a last supper before the guillotine. Chesnais had done his best; he had been allowed the privilege of two books, but the ones supplied, Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities in English and Dumas’s The Count of Monte Christo in French, failed to rouse his spirits. Eighteen years in the Bastille, and incarceration in the Château D’If made uncomfortable reading.

  “Egbert!”

  The clang of the cell door and the sight of his friend coming in did a great deal more than Mr Dickens could manage to cheer Auguste.

  “This is a pretty how-do-yer-do,” Egbert remarked, removing his bowler, tossing it on the austere bed, looking round in vain for a second rickety chair, and sitting on the bed himself.

  “Egbert, I didn’t kill Gregorin. If I’d had to, I would have done, but I didn’t.” Auguste did not bother to question how and why Egbert was here. There was hope, that was enough.

  “Who did then?”

  “Entwhistle, of course. He took a knife with him and waited in the passageway, listening to my conversation with Gregorin, then seized the first opportunity to creep back when he heard — or saw — us separate. Let me explain.” He did, graphically and carefully describing what had happened, even drawing Egbert a sketch plan to help, and reliving as he did so every terrible moment of his ordeal in the darkness. “So that,” he concluded, “is how I know Entwhistle killed Gregorin. I saw him.”

  “Saw him kill Gregorin?”

  “No-but — ”

  “Why should he want to kill him?”

  “I don’t know, Egbert, but that is the Sûreté’s job to establish.”

  Rose grimaced. “The Sûreté say you had every reason to kill Gregorin and Entwhistle had none. There’s no proof they even knew each other.”

  “There is,” Auguste retorted eagerly. “Ethelred Perkins and Stuart Tudor can testify to that. It was Tudor told me the two were meeting that morning.” Why was Egbert looking at him so pityingly?

  “I asked them. They deny it. They’ve never heard of Gregorin.”

  Auguste’s head felt like Escoffier’s mincing machine. How could he have forgotten? Et in Arcadia ego. These serpentlike inhabitants of his paradise had not only sent him to meet his death and been paid for it but, worse, were prepared now to see him hang for, they thought, the murder of their ‘generous’ employer.

  “Then Jeanne Planchet, Lady Montfoy’s maid, can tell you more. Her sister works at Gregorin’s house, she says, but I suspect it was her. She most certainly knows him and presumably knows he masqueraded as Entwhistle.”

  “I’ll ask her.” Egbert did not sound hopeful.

  “It was Gregorin, not Entwhistle, who was the host at the Place Vendôme.” Auguste stopped as a terrible thought came to him. “Egbert, don’t you believe me either? It was Entwhistle killed him, not me.”

  “Auguste, it wasn’t Entwhistle.” There was real pity now in Egbert’s eyes and Auguste shivered at the horror that this was precisely what Egbert thought.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because at the time at which you were talking to Gregorin, according to what you told Chesnais, Entwhistle was escorting a party of respectable citizens round Notre Dame. He’s a specialist in church history.”

  “He bribed them, as Gregorin did the staff.”

  “It was a party of nuns, Auguste.”

  The mincing machine went berserk, unable to grip, as Auguste desperately struggled to adjust the blades. “Who told the police to follow me from the catacombs, if not Entwhistle?”

  “No one did. The police had a telephone call to say where you were, and that they should go to the catacombs -where they’d find a dead body. And it wasn’t Entwhistle. He speaks English, French and Russian. Not German. And this voice, according to the police, had a German accent.” German? For a wild moment Auguste decided Cousin Bertie, who had had a heavy German accent all his life, was taking his revenge, but reluctantly dismissed the idea as on the whole unlikely. Then the blades of the mincer clicked home.

  “Eleonore’s husband,” he cried. “He learned that Gregorin was Eleonore’s lover, followed him to the catacombs, stole one of my knives, killed him, and then telephoned the police from a local café.”

  Egbert sighed. “Your powers of detection fail you whe
n it’s your own safety at stake, Auguste.”

  Auguste noted his inadvertent pause before safety. The word Egbert had intended to use was life.

  “If Eleonore’s husband or anyone else, come to that, was bent on killing Gregorin, he’d have taken a weapon with him, and not had to pinch one of yours left lying around. Would you go in to tackle Gregorin with your bare hands? No. You’re getting lost in the maze, Auguste. Start at the beginning. So far only you claim to have seen Gregorin and Entwhistle together and that there is a connection between them.”

  “Eleonore would confirm it.”

  “She doesn’t. She maintains that Entwhistle is Entwhistle, that she acted as she did to further the interests of her country and her husband as envoy to the Kaiser. She hints that she does have a lover, but that it is Entwhistle, not Gregorin.”

  “Gregorin told me she was his mistress.”

  “Only you, Auguste. No one else.”

  Why should Eleonore lie? Even as Auguste asked himself the question, the answer came: because, firstly, she believes that I killed Gregorin, and therefore she has no reason to want to help me and, secondly, with Gregorin dead she wants to distance herself from the Okhrana. “And Jeanne Planchet,” Auguste said once more.

  “Round we go again,” Rose said sourly. “I’m going to sort this out. That’s why you’re returning to England with me.”

  Like St Peter’s, Auguste’s prison doors miraculously flew open. Oh, brave new world that awaited him yet. Freedom hovered, hope dawned.

  “Under my eye all the time,” Egbert added warningly. “My head’s on the guillotine too over this.”

  “You are very kind, Egbert.”

  “No,” Rose answered shortly, embarrassed. “The Sûreté are bearing in mind that you are a cousin by marriage to His Majesty. If you are innocent, the prime minister doesn’t want to risk a diplomatic incident on his hands. It would be bad enough if you were guilty but that could be hushed up … ”

  “Thank you very much,” Auguste muttered savagely. To owe his liberty to Cousin Bertie was humiliation indeed. “Are you going to lock me up at Scotland Yard?” He tried to keep bitterness from his voice.

  “No. You can go home until Friday week, June the 9th. We’re going to spend Whitsun in the country.”

  “Not Farthing Court?” Auguste asked in dismay. “But now Gregorin is dead … ”

  “Farthing Court belongs to Thomas Entwhistle, not Gregorin, and you’ll be glad to know he’s opening up the house again for Whitsun. You'll see a lot of familiar faces. His Majesty invited them all to the royal garden party at Windsor on the fourteenth, the day before the wedding, and Entwhistle thought up this idea.”

  “I wonder why?” Auguste said bitterly.

  “So do I.” Egbert relaxed his formality, and sounded almost human again. “I came to the conclusion that there’s a lot we don’t know about Arthur Montfoy’s murder.”

  “Why should the real Thomas Entwhistle be interested? He wasn’t there at the time,” Auguste pointed out with a glimmer of interest now. He had assumed that with Gregorin’s murder, Entwhistle would have melted away into the vast elusive army of Englishmen who roamed the world like Flying Dutchmen, belonging nowhere.

  “So you say, Auguste. I still have to prove it. If there’s no connection, then I’ve one murder on my hands, Montfoy’s. If there is, I have two, though then Chesnais would be sharing one with me.”

  “Gregorin’s murder is tied up with Arthur Montfoy’s, Egbert.”

  “I hope you’re not right.”

  “Why?”

  Egbert lost his patience. “Because you’d still be suspect number one,” he shouted. “Surely you can see that? I would have to testify that you were dotty on the subject of Gregorin at Farthing Court; lo and behold there’s a murder in circumstances which make it only too likely you could have mistaken the victim’s identity.”

  “I didn’t.” Auguste could see Egbert’s point though, only too clearly.

  Rose said quickly, “That’s why I want to clear it up before the fifteenth. I wouldn’t want you to miss a royal wedding, Auguste.”

  Auguste managed a laugh. “How kind of you, Egbert. Where shall we be staying? Not at Farthing Court, I presume?”

  “No. The rectory. It’s hardly tactful to put up at the White Dragon.” Egbert paused. “I’m afraid Twitch has to come too.”

  “I will not try to escape,” Auguste said with dignity.

  “No, but has it occurred to you that even though Entwhistle isn’t a murderer, he might not be too pleased with you? If you’re right, you’ve deprived him of a nice steady income by killing Gregorin — as he believes,” he added hastily. “If you’re wrong, then to say the least you’ve been spreading some highly unflattering allegations about him.”

  “I am not wrong.” Auguste pondered this. “You mean I shouldn’t cook at Farthing Court in case Thomas Entwhistle tries to kill me?”

  Egbert did laugh at this. “I think it’s highly unlikely the Pennyfathers would ask you to cook for them, don’t you?”

  “Why not?” Auguste was indignant. “What is wrong with my cuisine?”

  “They may be afraid you’ll try to poison them.”

  “You are jesting, Egbert,” Auguste said, aghast.

  “I wish I were, but the fact is we all know there’s possibly a murderer at large in Farthing Court, and my guess is everyone there thinks so too. They’re just not sure who it is.”

  *

  Tatiana flew into his arms. Oh, the blessed familiarity of home. Even the painting over the Adam mantelpiece of Tatiana's first motor car acquired charm today. “What has been happening, Auguste? Egbert would not tell me. I was so worried when I reached home yesterday.”

  He held her close, aware that it was not the best of homecomings to have to inform your wife that her uncle has been murdered and her husband arrested for the crime.

  She listened, aghast. “You are sure he is dead, Auguste?”

  “Yes.” He tried to keep his voice steady. “Do you mind very much, Tatiana?”

  “I don’t choose my uncles, but I did choose my husband,” was her reply. “He has wanted to kill you for years, so how can I be other than relieved and thankful you are with me now?”

  “I am still under suspicion of the murder.” Would this understatement satisfy her?

  “And did you do it?”

  “No.”

  “How could I blame you if you had? But I am glad you did not.”

  “The Sûreté blames me. Even Egbert is not entirely convinced, and the only man who could have done it other than me has a splendid alibi.”

  “Then there must be someone else. Gregorin had a thousand enemies.”

  “But not a thousand who knew where to find him that day. Tatiana, tell me more about Gregorin. I only knew him as a killer, you as an uncle. It may help.”

  “Very well.” She went to sit by the window overlooking Birdcage Walk, and he sat by her. The familiarity helped distance the memories of those dark passageways and the dead body he had found lying at his feet.

  “Pyotr was my father’s youngest brother,” she began. “He came to live in Paris when I was six or seven, and he perhaps twenty-two or three. He was a wonderful uncle, and I saw much of him. He played endless games with me, he took me to places to which my father had forbidden me to go; theatres, puppet shows, the zoo, making everything exciting. It was he who whetted my appetite for life outside the walls of the Palace Maniovsky. Later, much later, when I knew what his role in Paris was, I realised I had been useful to him. Who would suspect an uncle escorting a niece of being the Tsar’s chief assassin?”

  “Did you like him?”

  Tatiana considered this. “I’m not sure. He was exciting but somehow I was always afraid of upsetting him. He only turned on me once in anger when I grew jealous of a lady who was taking his attention away from me. I read years later that she had died in strange circumstances and I often wondered whether he was involved.”

 
; “He never married?”

  “It is not a profession that lends itself to marriage, but he was very attractive to women from all classes, even his own servants, so the gossip went. I don’t think he knew or cared what love was, but he enjoyed pleasing women because he could manipulate them. He enjoyed the power as long as they pleased him. When he tired of them, he was ruthless. You think Cousin Bertie is — or was — flighty, but he is warm hearted whereas Gregorin was cold. The women could not strike back, either because of their reputations or for fear.”

  “Did you ever hear of Thomas Entwhistle?”

  “Only once or twice in Paris, and I never met him. Nor did I hear his name in connection with Gregorin’s.”

  “They would be careful not to move in the same society. Have you heard the name recently?”

  “Yes. Apparently he has some lady of high rank as his mistress now, a comtesse.”

  How lightly Tatiana said it. Auguste began to think he was in the mincing machine once more. Had Gregorin been lying to him about Eleonore being his mistress? Had it been Entwhistle at the reception all the time, and Eleonore his hostess? No, he couldn’t believe it. Blindly, without thinking, Auguste decided he needed to seek the sure ground of the kitchens. Perhaps with the order and precision of laying out the ingredients, he could make some sense of this. He abruptly rose to his feet and was stopped only by Tatiana’s puzzled voice.

  “Where are you going, Auguste?”

  “To cook. It is Mrs Jolly’s day off.”

  “My love, I am sure in that vast larder there must be something cold, or something that could be reheated, which would be perfectly acceptable. We have been apart some time — ”

  Guilt at his selfishness overcame him. “You want to tell me about the Isle of Man trials.”

  “Of course. If I bore you to sleep over our cold mutton, it will be no bad thing. And, Auguste, I shall come with you to Frimhurst.”

  “No,” he said sharply. Suppose Entwhistle did take his revenge, but on Tatiana, not him? “Aren’t the Gordon Bennett trials being held in France around that time?”