by Myers, Amy
Murder in Pug’s Parlour
Amy Myers
The first Auguste Didier crime novel
Copyright © 1986 Amy Myers
The right of Amy Myers to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2013
All characters in this publication – other than the obvious historical characters – are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN 978 1 4722 1383 9
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Also By
About the Book
Dedication
Floor plan
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Amy Myers was born in Kent. After taking a degree in English Literature, she was director of a London publishing company and is now a writer and a freelance editor. She is married to an American and they live in a Kentish village on the North Downs. As well as writing the hugely popular Auguste Didier crime series, Amy Myers has also written five Kentish sagas, under the name Harriet Hudson, that are also available in ebook from Headline.
Praise for Amy Myers’ previous Victorian crime novels featuring Auguste Didier, also available in ebook from Headline: ‘Wittily written and intricately plotted with some fine characterisation. Perfection’ Best
‘Reading like a cross between Hercule Poirot and Mrs Beeton . . . this feast of entertainment is packed with splendid late-Victorian detail’ Evening Standard
‘What a marvellous tale of Victorian mores and murders this is – an entertaining whodunnit that whets the appetite of mystery lovers and foodies alike’ Kent Today
‘Delightfully written, light, amusing and witty. I look forward to Auguste Didier’s next banquet of delights’ Eastern Daily Press
‘Plenty of fun, along with murder and mystery . . . as brilliantly coloured as a picture postcard’ Dartmouth Chronicle
‘Classically murderous’ Woman’s Own
‘An amusing Victorian whodunnit’ Netta Martin, Annabel
‘Impossible to put down’ Kent Messenger
‘An intriguing Victorian whodunnit’ Daily Examiner
Also by Amy Myers and available in ebook from Headline
Victorian crime series featuring Auguste Didier
1. Murder in Pug’s Parlour
2. Murder in the Limelight
3. Murder at Plum’s
4. Murder at the Masque
5. Murder makes an Entrée
6. Murder under the Kissing Bough 7. Murder in the Smokehouse
8. Murder at the Music Hall
9. Murder in the Motor Stable And Kentish sagas written under the name Harriet Hudson also available in ebook from Headline
Look for Me by Moonlight
When Nightingales Sang
The Sun in Glory
The Wooing of Katie May
The Girl from Gadsby’s
During a shooting party at Stockbery Towers, the steward Greeves is found dead – apparently poisoned whilst partaking of his habitual savoury and brandy alone in Pug’s Parlour.
The local police constable immediately suspects master chef Auguste Didier of the murder – and, hurt as much by the aspersions cast on his cuisine as by the suggestion that he is a poisoner, Auguste is forced to turn detective in order to prove his innocence.
Greeves had not been the most popular figure below stairs – and Auguste quickly uncovers a multitude of motives amongst the staff, whilst also finding the time to concoct the most exquisite and delectable dishes for the house party. The noble family and guests upstairs find this murder in Pug’s Parlour most amusing – until one of them is killed . . .
To Dot with gratitude
Chapter One
‘Murder?’ cried Mrs Hankey, billowing along the corridor towards Pug’s Parlour, with the rest of the upper servants following bemusedly in her wake. ‘But who’d want to murder Mr Greeves?’
One pastry-cook-cum-baker, one apprentice chef, two kitchen-maids, two scullery maids, one pantryboy, one still-room maid, one junior lady’s-maid, one lampboy, five footmen, one vegetable maid, five housemaids, one hallboy, two odd-job men, two sewing-room maids and four laundry maids, could readily have told her. But the lower servants had, naturally, not been present when Edward Jackson, the steward’s-room boy, had so unceremoniously burst into the hierarchical fastnesses of the housekeeper’s room where the upper servants were partaking of their after-dinner tea in formal ritual, yelling: ‘It’s old Greeves – he’s puking – gorlimy, you gotta come, Mrs Hankey. Someone’s tried to do ’im in.’
The housekeeper’s majestic figure had risen, delaying the disciplining of Edward Jackson in the interests of Mr Greeves’ health, gathered hastily, but with almost unnatural composure, a number of bottles from the oaken cupboards in her still-room, and swept out to bring succour. Only then had the full measure of his words sunk in. ‘Someone’s tried to do ’im in.’
Once inside the steward’s room, any hope she might have nursed that this was some horrible prank dreamed up by Edward Jackson was dispelled. On the carpet a prostrate figure vomited and retched, the face contorted in agony, the body jerking in spasms. Uttering only an involuntary ‘Archibald!’, Mrs Hankey sank to her knees in a rustle of black bombasine to administer relief. But it was soon clear that mustard and warm water would do little for Greeves, nor the ipecacuanha which followed with shaking hand.
‘Madame, I think the doctor – urgently.’ Auguste Didier, master chef, bent over her, quietly removed her arms from the unfortunate steward, and drew her to her feet. ‘Edward, to the stables with you. Send the governess-cart for Dr Parkes. Ethel, perhaps—’ He indicated to the head housemaid that Mrs Hankey should be removed.
But not even this emergency could rob Edith Hankey entirely of her training: ‘Put that nasty dirty plate and glass in the pantry, Mr Hobbs. And wash them up, if you please.’
Preoccupied with making the groaning man more comfortable, Auguste Didier paid scant attention to these innocent words.
Which was unfortunate.
‘Tea, Ethel,’ requested Mrs Hankey faintly, holding a sturdy piece of lace-trimmed cambric to her eyes. It was a sign of the unusualness of the situation that Miss Gubbins immediately busied herself with cups and saucers in the adjoining still-room, entirely disregarding what was due to her position as head housemaid.
With the exception of Auguste Didier, the upper servants, the Upper Ten as they were always known, regardless of their actual numbers, had trailed reluctantly back to the housekeeper’s room. Once there a problem of etiquette had to be attended to. This being October and the prime of the 1891 pheasant season, there was a shooting party resident at Stockbery Towers, and the accompanying servants
had perforce to be entertained by their counterparts. Present when Edward Jackson had precipitated himself into the room, they were now difficult to dislodge, and it took all Ethel’s powers of tact to persuade them to be about their lawful occupations. It took some time and, by the time Prince Franz’s manservant had been dislodged, Auguste was back amongst them, having himself been expelled from Pug’s Parlour, as the steward’s room was known, on the arrival of Dr Parkes.
‘The good doctor will visit us,’ he announced, still somewhat piqued that his presence was not considered necessary. He winced as he watched the inevitable milk being poured into the lemon tea; he had long given up protesting. These English – they took the best food in the world and they ruined it by inattention to detail. For times of shock, no, not tea, to awaken the spirits, but a tisane of verveine, some chamomile perhaps to soothe the stomach, but not the tea leaf. Or a chocolat chaud. Brillat Savarin was right, as always. It calmed the nerves. Yet did any of those present need soothing? he wondered. Greeves was no more popular with most of the upper servants than with the lower. The pompous, silver-haired, fifty-year-old steward to the Duke of Stockbery was responsible not only for the smooth running of Stockbery Towers and its estates but for the financial management of Stockbery House in Mayfair. A servant, but not a servant. A Power.
‘Such a lovely man,’ Edith Hankey whispered. ‘No one would want to do a thing like that on purpose.’
There was a pause while the upper servants studiously applied themselves to sipping tea. Auguste, partaking of the same ritual – it was, after all, necessary to conform in such times of stress – looked round at his colleagues; his Gallic shrewdness noted details dispassionately, despite the fact that he was as shaken as they at the day’s events. Mrs Hankey’s attachment to the steward might have been a subject of merriment among her minions, but Auguste thought he knew her well enough to detect genuine emotion. Though quite what emotion he was not sure. How old was she? Fifty, fifty-five? It was difficult to say. Old enough in her position to worry about her old age, and to welcome with enthusiasm the attentions of any that seemed prepared to share it with her. He was fond of her in a way; she was not a clever woman, and an autocrat when she chose, yet behind her formidable exterior there was a warm enough heart, if it could be reached. She had been handsome in her day; and indeed with her chestnut-brown hair still unstreaked by grey, and her full figure still could lay claim to the term. Only the lips when pressed together displayed the personal disappointment the years had laid there. Instead of a husband, for the ‘Mrs’ was the usual courtesy title, she had made Stockbery Towers her home, her family, her passion.
‘Might have tried to commit suicide, perhaps,’ put in Ethel Gubbins incautiously.
Edith Hankey fixed her with a withering look. ‘Mr Greeves – suicide? And why would he want to commit suicide, may I ask – when he had everything in life to look forward to? We had, as you know full well, Miss Gubbins, an understanding.’
‘Accident then,’ put in Ernest Hobbs, butler, hastily peacemaking. He was a Man of Kent born and bred, with the slow determined way of his ancestors; he always had the air of one faintly surprised to find himself no longer the lampboy he had started his career as at the Towers.
‘How can you accidentally swallow enough poison to have that effect?’ said May Fawcett belligerently, clearly piqued at being omitted from the circle of attention. A sharp-faced intelligent twenty-eight-year-old, she was lady’s-maid to Her Grace and it was an open secret to all, save Mrs Hankey, that she and Greeves had not so much an understanding as an actuality yielding more immediate physical rewards than those anticipated in her private moments by the housekeeper. Auguste’s sympathies were with Mrs Hankey, but his money he would have put on May Fawcett in the Greeves matrimonial stakes.
‘In something he ate most like,’ continued Ernest Hobbs defiantly, looking meaningfully at Auguste. Six pairs of eyes turned to the thirty-two-year-old master chef. The usual twinkle disappeared; his dark brown eyes flashed as centuries of French honour were aroused in him. For all he was half English, he had been reared in France. Something he ate? Were these blockheads suggesting that cooking supervised and prepared by him, for which he was responsible, could poison a man? Yet behind his anger there was a faint chill. These people facing him had but a few hours before been his colleagues, his friends, his family. Now they seemed accusing strangers.
‘Mushroom, it must have been a mushroom,’ put in valet John Cricket eagerly.
‘Or that nasty French stuff you pick, like spinach. Perhaps it was that. Perhaps you put some rhubarb leaves in by mistake. Easily done. Poor Mr Greeves, suppose he—’ But the thought was too awful to be put into words and Edith Hankey’s white square of cambric was pressed into service once more.
Auguste swelled in fury. He was used to a state of armed professional enmity with Mrs Hankey ever since he had insisted it was his prerogative as chef to prepare the desserts himself, instead of leaving it in her control as mistress of the still-room. He had had no choice in the matter. Ever since he had observed her thickening a crème bavarois with cornflour, he had realised that a stand had to be made. Now she was insinuating he could not tell rhubarb from sorrel.
Ethel leapt in as always to lower the temperature. ‘But, Mrs Hankey, we all had the spinach at dinner.’
‘We didn’t all have the mushrooms, though,’ put in Cricket doggedly, eyes flickering vindictively. ‘And he could have been unlucky. Just got the Death’s Cap. Might have been any of us.’
‘Monsieur Cricket, would you lay out for His Grace brown boots for a visit to his club?’ asked Auguste dangerously, quietly.
Cricket blinked nervously. He had nothing to say on the question of boots.
‘Then have the kindness to realise that I do not simply drop an Amanita phalloides into une garniture de champignons.’ Auguste’s tones were clipped and incisive. This was an affront that could not be ignored.
There was a nervous silence.
‘Perhaps it was something he took last night,’ put in Frederick Chambers, he of the unfortunate name. As Groom of the Chambers he was perpetually the target of feeble jokes from guests, all of which he suffered stoically, but worse, since the Duke was in the habit of calling all five footmen Frederick on the grounds that footmen at Stockbery Towers had always been called Frederick (way back in the last century one had been) he was in perpetual danger of being taken by surprise and answering to the name, in a manner unbecoming to his status as an upper servant; they were, of course, addressed by their surnames. Hence, Auguste presumed, Chambers’ always guarded manner, always watchful for some real or imagined affront.
‘Then why was it after dinner that he was took bad?’ Mrs Hankey’s voice wavered. ‘He was all right when we were there. Didn’t complain – not more than usual,’ she added honestly.
Servants’ dinner, as opposed to Their Graces’ luncheon, had proceeded as usual. The upper servants and their counterparts attached to His Grace’s guests for the shooting party, being My Lord Arthur Petersfield’s valet, the Marquise’s maid, the Prince of Herzenberg’s manservant, and Mrs Hartham’s lady’s-maid, had partaken of their entree in the servants’ hall, then progressed in stately and duly ordained order of precedence to Pug’s Parlour, the hallowed sanctum of the upper servants. There they had partaken of their dessert and cheese. In most households they would also have taken tea or coffee in Pug’s Parlour, but Mr Greeves, with a fine twist of the hierarchical knife, chose to underline his highly superior status by taking a savoury and a glass of brandy alone while the rest of the upper servants retreated part way whence they had come and smartly turned left to the housekeeper’s room. There they imbibed their own more modest refreshment, before separating to take up their several duties. Usually, that is. Today, their cups had hardly reached their lips before the white-faced steward’s-room boy had burst into the room without so much as a knock.
No one had an answer for Mrs Hankey’s question. Conversation dwindled, and priv
ate speculation rose. Reluctantly one by one they departed to take up their afternoon occupations, each one scuttling past the closed door of Pug’s Parlour, half fearful, half hynotised.
The lower servants too seemed to be milling in unusual numbers for this time of day in the humble milieu of the servants’ hall, which was conveniently close to Pug’s Parlour. There they were indulging in lurid speculations, based on their fascinated study of the deeds of Jack the Ripper, aroused by the occurrence of a sudden drama of life and death in their midst. No hesitancy here about what the outcome of the afternoon would be. In their minds Greeves was already a goner, done to death by an arch-fiend – though about the latter point opinions varied. But had the Duke himself been found with a knife in his back, it could hardly have caused more excitement. The Duke and Duchess were but mere names to the smaller fry of the vast indoor and outdoor staff who might never see them in the whole course of their lives in service, save for Their Graces’ fleeting and statutory appearance at the annual Servants’ Ball. Archibald Stewart Greeves, on the other hand, had been the ever present tribulation that might at any moment scourge them, a greater fear to these raw Kentish girls than ‘being catched’ by the Hooden Horse, a threat their mothers held over them still.
The appearance of both Sergeant Bladon and, in due course, Police Constable Perkins changed private assumption to public certainty. Greeves must be dead. The self-important demeanour of Dr Parkes, watch-chain lying with assurance over his paunch, as he emerged from Pug’s Parlour confirmed their best suspicions. This was Murder Most Foul.
It was about five o’clock when the upper servants again foregathered, with Ethel bringing them the momentous news that Sergeant Bladon’s bicycle had been seen in the courtyard, thus being as usual one stage behind the lower servants.
Scarcely had the ramifications of this news been absorbed than a knock at Mrs Hankey’s door revealed an agog lower minion ushering in Dr Parkes. All eyes turned to the portly frock-coated doctor.
