by Amy Myers
“Motor cars are not everything, and nor is food.”
Almost, but not everything. He looked lovingly at his wife. What was a little cold mutton compared with her? Tomorrow would hold coq au vin, and tonight he would hold Tatiana.
*
“Hell’s bells, what is it, Bert?”
Alf, enjoying his temporary job in control of the White Dragon bar, looked up as Bert crashed the front door viciously behind him. Jacob, waking up abruptly, fell off his chair.
“It’s all happening again, that’s what!” Bert shouted.
“What is?”
“Squire says we’ve got to put on a show for Whitsun.”
“What sort of show?”
“Smocks, milkmaids, morris dances — all that old stuff again.”
“What the blazes for?”
“For the White Dragon, that’s all I care about. Threatening me, he was. Not good for the village, he says, if anything happens. He means Bessie. He’ll have me out sure as my name’s Bert Wickman.”
Alf glanced at the seedy furnishings and fare of the White Dragon and privately thought this might be no bad thing, but loyalty prevailed. In any case, squire might close the place and that would be bad. “He can’t do that.”
“I tell you I’m not dancing round no more bloody maypoles. Look what happened last time.”
Aggie cackled in glee. “Old Herne’s a-blowing his horn again. I told you so.”
“You shut up, Aggie. Now, Bert, what’s this about? For them swells, is it?”
“Mr blasted Tudor was right. Them Americans are coming back.”
“You ain’t thinking, Bert.” Alf tried to be fair. “It would look a bit odd, wouldn’t it, if they came back and saw the village looking different? No stocks, no flowers, no fairies, no thatch — bloody hell, I took the thatch down like you said,” he roared.
“Well, it’ll have to go up again,” Bert said with gloomy relish.
“I’ve got a living to earn,” Alf said, aggrieved. “Who’s paying?”
“Squire said we’ll have to foot the bill this time. I’ll pay you, Alf. Somehow. Anyway, Mr Entwhistle said he’d try to help Bessie. He reckons he knows who really did it and can prove it.”
“Who?”
“The French chap, like I always said,” Bert belatedly recalled. “That daft cook.”
“I remember him,” Alf exclaimed. “Poking his nose in all the time. It’ll be a pleasure to help, Bert. Right, we’ll want rhymes and superstitions for Whitsun from you and Jacob, Aggie.”
“I wish it were midsummer,” Aggie replied regretfully. “I could produce a good few for that.”
“They won’t know the difference,” Bert said. “You get Adelaide on to the morris dances, will you, Alf?”
“An ’orse.” Jacob woke up again.
“What about horses? You going to follow behind with a dung-puller then?”
“A mummer’s horse,” Jacob said hastily.
“That comes out for Christmas,” Aggie retorted. “Anyone knows that. Even Americans.”
“I don’t care a hang when it comes out if it helps Bessie,” her husband declared.
“That’s a good idea, Aggie. I’ll play the ’orse.” Harry Thatcher, coming in from the postman’s round for a lunchtime drink, offered nobly. “I’d like that. Frighten people.” His sweetheart Mary, for example. She’d just given him up in favour of the plumber’s apprentice.
“You can scare that cook into confessing,” Adelaide suggested brightly.
“Is he going to be here?” asked Harry.
“Oh, yes.” Bert was only too happy to enlighten him. “White Dragon’s not good enough for him though. Scotland Yard is bringing him down in manacles to look for evidence. They’re staying with the rector.”
“Sanctuary, that’s what they call that,” Aggie said knowledgeably. “So no one can do him in until the hangman gets the job.”
“Shut up talking about hangmen, Aggie.” Bert finally lost control.
*
“This one’s your room, Didier. Between us.” Twitch pointed this out with great satisfaction. At long last providence had seen sense about the Frenchie. Twitch had never had much time for the French nation, but suddenly he could see much virtue in the entente cordiale. The Sûreté had turned up trumps and arrested the upstart Frenchie cook, putting him in his (and the chief’s) custody. Twitch had a room on one side, the chief on the other. The disadvantage to this delightful arrangement was that every morning he would have to face the Frenchie across the rectory breakfast table, but this was a small price to pay in view of the power so unexpectedly placed in Twitch’s eager hands. He had been most disappointed that this morning he and the chief were taking him up to Farthing Court without leg irons and manacles. Twitch had eyed those stocks wistfully, as a sure place for keeping the Frenchie out of mischief. He’d fancied throwing a mouldy tomato at him. Knowing the Frenchie though, and the funny things he ate, he’d probably think it was a present and eat it.
Next door Auguste was assessing his home for the next few days. It spoke of the dust of ages, since the rector’s housekeeper was not much younger than he, and had long since given up the unequal task of keeping a strict eye on the general maid’s performance. A print of Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper hung over his bed, A Present From Margate in the form of an old china boot adorned the mantelpiece. The view from the window displayed a collection of outhouses dating from the sixteenth to the nineteenth centuries, giving the impression that rather than clear the litter from one storeroom a new one had been built. One of them, Auguste thought without enthusiasm, was undoubtedly a privy. Beyond them the branches of an apple tree could be seen waving enticingly and unattainably. Freedom was not for him.
The bed, with an ancient now non-white coverlet, was comfortable, the ewer on the washing table serviceable. The rector had in his youth enterprisingly installed a flush water closet in the rectory, and though Auguste had felt like His Majesty when he ascended this throne on his arrival, it was at least preferable to the daunting privy below him. A bathroom had followed the rector’s rush of enthusiasm for modernity, but after this he had been content to remain firmly rooted in the mid to late nineteenth century. The oil lamps glowed as at Farthing Court, for the delights of gas had not yet reached Frimhurst, and candles were already lined up below for night-time duty on the upper floors.
Auguste had enquired cautiously what the housekeeper’s idea of dinner would be, and had been dismayed to discover there was none. Dinner took place at noon, high tea followed at six, and something called supper at nine, consisting of biscuits, cheese and cocoa. On the whole the Préfecture did better, gastronomically, but gaolbirds on parole, he reminded himself forlornly, could not be choosers.
*
How could Farthing Court still look so mellow and peaceful with its grey stone glowing in the morning sun? As they walked up the driveway, exotic rhododendrons blazed on both sides, giving way nearer the house to June roses, and the catacombs and murder seemed far away. Auguste reminded himself that inside this peaceful house were, firstly, a kitchen seething with serpents, secondly, a host who might want to murder him and, thirdly, guests, all of whom were either oblivious of the woes of Auguste Didier or delighted that they themselves were thereby exonerated from suspicion of murder. Twitch’s ill-concealed glee at his predicament was galling. Tables, he told himself, must be turned.
Somewhere here, he was sure, lay the answer to Gregorin’s murder, and to Arthur Montfoy’s. True, he could not suspect the real Thomas Entwhistle of the latter, since even he could not conceive that the real Entwhistle had been hiding in the attics of Farthing Court while Gregorin masqueraded here. Entwhistle’s role must surely have been to remain in Paris. There were two keys to the Entwhistle-Gregorin puzzle: Eleonore and Jeanne. He would tackle both. And they, he reminded himself, were the only two suspects other than himself, if Egbert was right and the two crimes were linked. Or were they? Although he could (regretfully) see no motive for an
y other of Entwhistle’s guests to slaughter Gregorin, there remained two other possibilities. One of these opened the door to them, ushering them in without a hint he had ever seen them before.
Auguste’s tension grew as they waited in the morning room for Entwhistle to join them, not because he seriously thought Entwhistle had designs on his life — he was too useful as a scapegoat for that, but because this would be the first time he met the real Thomas Entwhistle face to face.
The door opened, and the owner of Farthing Court came in. Auguste’s heart thudded painfully. Gradually he relaxed. There was no atmosphere of chill withdrawal, but the likeness was staggering: the way of walking: the height and build; the sharp features were such that he found it hard to believe Gregorin himself was not standing before him. Perhaps Entwhistle’s cheeks had more colour than Gregorin's pale wraith-like face, the eyes perhaps lacked the feral stare of Gregorin. Certainly his manner was different. He showed an affability, even a warmth, which was alien to Gregorin. Auguste watched eagerly to see Egbert’s reaction as to whether he thought this was the same person that he had met a month ago.
“My dear Mr Didier, I am delighted to meet you again. You made a deep impression on my Paris household.” Entwhistle paused. “Also, so I’m told, on a gentleman in the catacombs, if you will forgive my turn of phrase. I understand from the police that he bore a certain resemblance to me, and I trust you were not under the impression you were attacking me?”
Before Auguste could answer, Egbert intervened. “Funny you should mention that. We had a telegraph this morning from Paris.” Auguste looked up sharply, for Egbert had not mentioned this. “The Sûreté have come up with a paper seller in the Place Denfert-Rochereau who saw two men going into the catacombs together who looked like twin brothers. He noticed particularly because they were both identically dressed. Have a look at this photograph. It’s of Pyotr Gregorin, kindly provided by his niece, Mr Didier’s wife.”
Tatiana? She hadn’t mentioned it to Auguste. The thought that Tatiana and Egbert were consulting without his knowledge illogically increased his fear about his own situation.
“It’s not a good photograph — he didn’t like having his picture taken, so Mrs Didier says — but it’s good enough for you to have to admit he looks much like you, Mr Entwhistle. Just for the sake of argument let’s assume Mr Didier’s thesis is correct that you doubled for Gregorin to provide him with an alibi on certain occasions. It doesn’t mean you were a member of the Okhrana yourself, of course.”
“For the sake of argument,” the affability hardly wavered, “let me remind you that I was nowhere near the catacombs that morning.”
“And I’m not doubting it. You could have gone in there with Gregorin, left quite quickly, and reached Notre Dame just as you said to conduct your party. But it might help us to find Gregorin’s murderer if you confirmed it.”
“Top-hatted gentlemen with morning suits are all too likely to resemble each other.” Entwhistle was unruffled. “Besides, I had thought — forgive me, Mr Didier — that the Sûreté had found the murderer. And if your interest is in this Gregorin, why have you come to Frimhurst for your investigations? Farthing Court belongs to me, not to any putative Russian agent.”
“There was a murder here too. And since you were here, you’ll know all about it.”
Of course. If only Egbert could find some little detail about the May Day celebrations which Gregorin would have known about but which he had omitted to tell Entwhistle, he could break down his pretence.
“Again, you have the murderer under lock and key — ah, of course, you think Mr Didier may have carried out that murder too, under the impression it was me — or rather Mr Gregorin. You may well be right, Mr Rose. Somehow, I don’t see Bessie Wickman as a murderess. She is far too fond of her own skin.”
To Auguste’s disappointment, Egbert did not press Entwhistle further, and even more to his surprise, accepted his invitation to stay on for luncheon.
“What do you think of him, Stitch?” Rose turned to him, not Auguste, after Entwhistle left them, and Twitch swelled in the unaccustomed glory of being the first person the chief consulted.
“Looks the same fellow to me, sir.”
“Auguste?”
“Different. Very close, but it is not the same man.” He really did feel that, it was not just because he wanted to.
“I agree with you, Auguste.”
Auguste was overcome with relief. Egbert agreed with him. He was as good as free. It took him some time to realise this was not exactly correct.
*
Luncheon was a strange affair. Auguste was uncomfortably aware that he was the object of much attention, and worse, that the attention was decidedly unfavourable. His two neighbours, Gertrude and Belinda, leant pointedly away from him, and even the delightful cherry ice cream which Ethelbert produced hardly compensated for the chill which emanated towards him from the guests in general. Eleonore ignored him, Horace nodded, but talked to Richard Waites and Harvey talked to Gerald. Bluebell gave him an interested grin from time to time, but only
Louisa and Entwhistle’s continued affability relieved the atmosphere. Even this failed to induce any general thaw, and Auguste was glad to escape.
Egbert announced he was to see Jeanne Planchet, implying that he did not want Auguste’s assistance. Twitch, hovering hopefully lest Auguste make a bid to escape to the high seas, was firmly summoned to attend Egbert. Auguste realised his friend was giving him a message and he must act on it. The rose gardens were the glory of Farthing Court and, seated on a bench in the midst of their blaze of colour, he at last found Eleonore.
“It’s the first time,” she laid her book aside, “I’ve been accosted by a murderer in a rose garden.” The words were harsh, but to his relief the coldness had vanished.
He too could be harsh. “Murder doesn’t upset you, Eleonore. It was Gregorin’s trade after all, and it was he who told me you were his mistress.”
“How very ungentlemanly,” she observed.
“Why did you tell the police that you were Entwhistle’s mistress, not Gregorin’s?”
“Did I? How very remiss of me.”
“You don’t seem very concerned about whether I live or die.”
Her face changed. Gone was the good humour and gentle mockery. “I’m not, Auguste, and since we are alone here, I will tell you once again just why that is. Your life for his, Auguste. It was not for my husband, not for my country, that I took part in Pyotr’s plans to discredit King Edward’s reputation.”
“For money then.”
“I have already told you. Pyotr was the only man I have ever truly loved. We were well matched, he and I, in bed, in wit, in mind. And you killed him. Is it any wonder I asked my husband to telephone to the police after you came running to boast so proudly of what you had done?”
Put that way he supposed not. Then he realised her mistake, at the same moment as she did.
“When did you ask him, Eleonore?” He already knew the answer though. “It could only have been during the time I was waiting for you to arrive, before I had told you of Gregorin’s death. So that means — ”
There was fear in her eyes now. “Go on, Auguste.”
“That you knew Gregorin was planning to kill me that morning in the catacombs, so that when I turned up on your doorstep, you realised it could only be for one reason, that the situation had been reversed.”
“You murdered him,” she stated simply. “That’s all I cared about.”
“But how could you know that I was to be killed and do nothing?”
“Love blinds, Auguste. It is a powerful emotion. Besides, I believed you tried to kill him at Farthing Court, and killed poor Arthur instead.”
“But this is ridiculous!” The mincing machine was tearing the shreds smaller and smaller.
She looked at him. “Is it? Then, Auguste, if you did not kill my Pyotr, and Entwhistle did not, who did?”
*
Tir Nan Og had to be faced. N
ow Auguste knew there were suspects within it was easier to do so, unless of course his own murder happened to be on their dinner menu. Appearances were beguilingly deceptive. Ethelred was tasting the soup, Mrs Honey’s skirt was whisking into the stillroom, and Jenny rushed to fling her arms around him in pleasure.
“Grannie said you’d been beheaded, Mr Didier,” she cried. “I’m so glad you’re not.”
“No doubt Mr Perkins would be only too happy to invent a recipe for my head,” Auguste jested bitterly.
Ethelred looked hurt. “I’m sorry you’re upset, Mr Didier, but I had to tell the police the truth. Maybe you misunderstood. Mr Tudor told you Mr Entwhistle was going to the catacombs to meet a Mr Gregorin, but I didn’t know anything about it. Mr Tudor will bear me out.”
“I’m sure he will.”
Ethelred looked virtuous. “And anyway, we only told the truth.”
“Especially if you are paid thirty pieces of silver.” Ethelred grinned cheerfully. “Not as much as that.”
“Then if I pay you, you might remember enough about your two masters to save my life.”
“Two masters, Mr Didier? We’ve only one.”
“You have now, I agree.”
Ethelred spoke very softly, so softly Auguste failed to hear him. “Thanks to you, Mr Didier.”
*
Somewhere there had to be a way to fight his way into the sugar web of illusion that surrounded this house and all in it. Horace Pennyfather had always seemed to Auguste a reasonable, down to earth man, and at least if he had no words of comfort to offer, just to be with someone who possessed some common sense would be a change. He found him, peacefully contemplating the stone nymphs of the water fountain, with Gertrude sitting nearby. Their deep mourning made them a stark sight on the sunny June day.
“Ah, Didier. Any further forward on that catacombs affair?” Horace might have been talking about his latest deal on the New York exchange, so casual was his voice. At least he didn’t flinch from his presence like the rest of the house party.
Auguste decided to accept the question as a gauntlet, rather than at face value. “Does it strike you, Mr Pennyfather, that Mr Entwhistle has changed since May Day, and Paris?”
