by Myers, Amy
The three days that followed did nothing to cool speculation; theories grew, swelled, overdid themselves and were dropped, others sprang, fully armed, to take their place. Superficially the ranks held, underneath each looked to himself convinced of his own position, uncertain of his colleagues’. On the Friday morning Auguste was in the morning room discussing the final details for the menu that evening and for the Saturday buffet, when Hobbs entered.
‘Chief Constable Herbert, Your Grace.’
Chief Constable? Eh bien, thought Auguste. No Chief Constables for an unfortunate accident that could be attributed by officialdom to a careless French cook. Ah non. It was certainly murder then. His French side was immediately excited. The Englishman in him thought of the disruption, not least to his kitchen, and of the consequences – for if it were murder, there must be a murderer. And it would be someone he knew. To a keen follower of Inspecteur Eugene Lecoq, it opened lots of intriguing possibilities. But, if he had hoped to stay to hear more of these interesting events, he was doomed to disappointment. A grunt from the Duke signified his dismissal; a small nod from the Duchess indicated he need worry no more about last-moment changes of plans for the buffet. It could proceed.
He passed the Chief Constable, a plump nervous ex-army major, on his way out. It was not usual for Humphrey Herbert, Chief Constable of Kent County Police, to be nervous, but it was not every day that he had to face the irascible Duke of Stockbery with what would undoubtedly constitute Bad News.
The heavy door closed behind him. Out in the deserted ballroom area Hobbs’ and Auguste’s footsteps halted. A quick glance of accord and they were side by side, ears pressed to the door. After all, whatever his pretensions, Greeves had belonged to the world of Below Stairs. It was their murder. Unfortunately the eleventh Duke of Stockbery’s architect had done his work well. The door was solid and very little sound escaped from the morning room. Only the Duke’s rising anger could be detected and a few words of the Chief Constable’s deprecatory shrill tones.
‘Murder, man?’ shouted the Duke. ‘Why, good God, man, who’d want to murder a perfectly good steward? This’ll cause an Upset.’ An Upset was the worst calamity that could befall the Towers. Placatory noises were offered by Her Grace. The word routine was mentioned by the Chief Constable. He murmured of post-mortems. Then of discretion. Just a quick word to ascertain if any of the family or guests had seen Greeves shortly before his demise. A mere formality.
‘Me guests? Search the house? Good God, man, don’t you know we’ve got a shooting party on? Got dozens of people coming today. Guests in the house besides. Ain’t suggestin’ any of them would poison a servant, are you?’
It appeared such a thought had never entered the Chief Constable’s head. There was a pause while they could hear nothing. Then the voices rose again.
‘Do you know what the family motto is, my man?’
It was difficult not to know what the Stockbery motto was in Hollingham, or even in Maidstone where the Chief Constableresided. It was emblazoned not only on the lodge gates, but on the school buildings (the eighth Duke, of an intellectual turn of mind), on the sixteenth-century prison house (the sixth Duke, frustrated in a desire to enter the law), on a chapel in the church (the first Duke, in a belated effort to redeem his soul), and on the almshouses (the seventh Duchess, who devoted herself to good works while His Grace devoted himself to his mistress in London).
‘Charity to the Weak. That don’t mean going around killing off the servants with namby-pamby poison. By God, my ancestor had the right answer. The Black Duke – ran through his valet with a sword. That’s the way to do it. The man’s way. None of this – what d’yer call it? Aconitia?’ The Duke was by no means a bloodthirsty man; he was a straightforward one.
Auguste expelled his breath in a sigh of satisfaction. There was a shuffle inside the room, the tension permeating even beyond the heavy door. They could hear stertorous breathing from the Chief Constable, and Auguste imagined a thick red finger being eased round the tight collar.
‘So, Mr Hobbs, murder will out, as your Shakespeare says,’ whispered Auguste.
‘I never thought anything different, Mr Didier,’ Hobbs muttered, ‘and that’s a fact. Whatever them women thought. He’d never have done himself in, and I don’t see it being no accident.’
‘But—’
‘No, I said to meself, Greeves ain’t the sort to commit suicide. And when all’s said and done, it’s hard to get a dose as big as that by accident like. Not when we were all eating the same food. I don’t know much about this – what did ’e call it? – aconitia.’
‘Extracted from aconite, the herb the Romans refused to allow to be grown in gardens, in the days when Emperors went in fear of their lives.’
‘Easy to get now, is it?’
Auguste shrugged. ‘Very. It is sold at any druggist. Aconite is the basis of many medicines. For colds, coughs. Not in sufficient strength to kill perhaps, for that you sign the poison book, but even that is easy, yes. The good Madame Hankey has a bottle –’ he eyed Hobbs keenly – ‘for Dr Parkes’ cough remedy. I remember it grew in the garden of the Widow Lamont, and I remember thinking how suddenly old Gaston Lamont had died. Wolfsbane you call it here. Monkshood.’
‘So any of us might have got it,’ said Hobbs, cutting this reminiscence short. He too was a straightforward man, and believed in getting to the heart of a problem.
Or was he so straightforward? Auguste reflected. He said he knew nothing of aconite, and yet talked of a ‘dose as big as that’. Perhaps, after all, Hobbs was not so simple.
He went back to the kitchen thoughtfully, for once his mind not wholly attuned to food and the perfect presentation thereof. He found himself methodically dissecting the fatal luncheon, much as he would fillet a turbot. It could not be the entrée to blame, it could not be the dessert, it had to be something Greeves partook of alone. And that left him with two choices: none of the upper servants, he could swear, went into the pantry themselves while Edward was serving dessert, and so either Edward Jackson or someone else had poisoned the coffee or the savoury or – he had that sudden sense of excitement, the thrill of satisfaction that he always had when distinguishing the final ingredient that made all the difference in the receipt of a maître cook – yes, it was the brandy. It could only be the brandy. After all . . .
The familiar smell of the kitchens wafting towards him distracted him, and he stood at the entrance savouring this moment, so important to him in the day. The moment when the work was done, the meal at its most perfect, ready to be served, awaiting only his accolade of approval. His thoughts were interrupted by William Tucker. He had been reminded at that moment of a particularly fine civet de lièvre served in the Café de Boulogne, where his old friend Anton Dumar had challenged him to name the herb. But he had guessed it.
‘Who do you think dunnit, Mr Didier?’ came Tucker’s voice eagerly.
‘There is no doubt. It was Dumar. Only he could have thought to have added the—’
Only the sight of Tucker’s blank face brought Auguste to reality.
‘Mr Greeves, Mr Didier. He was done in, wasn’t he?’
Auguste was in a dilemma. Admit it now seemed beyond doubt and the whole kitchen staff would forget the luncheon ahead of them. Yet they would have to know sooner or later. ‘Yes, William, it appears that the late Mr Greeves was – er – done in.’
Mr Tucker expelled a huge sigh of satisfaction. ‘Who by? Weren’t young Edward, were it? Wouldn’t blame him if he had, mind you. No, it’s to our way of thinking it was one of them.’
He gave a jerk of the head whose direction Auguste misunderstood. ‘One of the laundry maids?’ Auguste said blankly.
‘No, not one of us,’ said Tucker patiently. ‘One of them. One of the Nobs.’
The Lady Jane Tunstall, untroubled by thoughts of murder, waved her fashionable ostrich plume to cool her pretty flushed face. She dared not go into the morning room or to the door of the garden for fear the right m
an might not be there, and the wrong one would be waiting for her. It was a most awkward dilemma.
‘Lady Jane, my dance, I believe.’
Her worst fears were realised. That horrid serious Mr Marshall gathered the billowing folds of rose pink chiffon that encased her pretty body firmly into his arms and swung her on to the floor. She freed herself indignantly.
‘Mr Marshall, you are well aware that the one dance I promised you was the waltz and this, if I am not mistaken, is not it.’
He released her hand immediately and stepped back bowing in contrition which also served to hide the slight smile that came to his lips.
‘I do apologise, Lady Jane,’ he said gravely. ‘I feared seeing you unattended that I had been – er – remiss.’
‘No you didn’t,’ she retorted. ‘You were going to come and give me another horrible lecture.’
He looked hurt. ‘A lecture? I merely said—’
‘You merely said it was outrageous of me. I don’t see it is outrageous merely to kiss someone you – you—’ She broke off as his grey eyes looked amusedly into hers. How could it have been outrageous to grant a kiss to someone so handsome, mature and gentlemanly as Lord Arthur Petersfield? Twenty-year-old Lady Jane found it a great responsibility being a duke’s daughter. And with her brother away, he who had disgraced the family name by eschewing the Guards in favour of the infantry, she had no one to confide in. She had been out over two years now, and delightful company though Mother was she could not help noticing a certain insistence on her duty to marry – and marry soon was clearly the unspoken message. Mother was always producing new eligible young men, or not so young. Lord Arthur was a definite improvement on the previous four candidates and, at the August ball at Stockbery House in Mayfair, had been most attentive to her.
‘My dear Jane—’
She whisked round, lips consciously slightly parted, her face poised in profile to greet Lord Arthur, who studiously ignored Mr Marshall.
‘Our dance,’ he smiled, looking down on her from his superior Guards height. As she floated away on his uniformed arm, she gave Mr Marshall one gracious smile of forgiveness over Lord Arthur’s shoulder. He wasn’t looking.
Her Grace, Laetitia, Duchess of Stockbery, watched her daughter pirouetting with satisfaction. It was of course highly pleasing to have a daughter so beautiful as Jane that she might be complimented on having produced her, to be twitted that they looked like sisters, but less pleasing to have a daughter of marriageable age, and for everyone to be well aware that they were not sisters. True, the charms of a mere girl, however lovely, could bear no comparison with those of a mature beauty. And what did a twenty-year-old girl know of love? Her heart lurched.
‘Meine Röslein.’
For once the liquid honey tones of Prince Franz of Herzenberg failed to move her. The note in her voice as she greeted her dearest Prince, so perfect a lover, had a distinct edge to it.
‘Ah, Your Highness.’
Normally it was a game between them, this formality in public; but now the Duchess was hard put to it to keep her private feelings to herself.
‘I quite thought you had forgotten me.’ She tried to keep her tone light, but the laugh rang a little false. A point not missed by the Prince as he released her hand from the kiss. His dark eyes narrowed slightly.
‘Forgotten you, Liebchen? How could that be possible?’ he whispered softly.
She kept her eyes on the dancers on the floor lest the sight of his face so close to hers should lead her to say more than she should. It was a vain exercise.
‘Quite possible, it seems, when Honoria is around.’
There was a pause. She stole a glance at him to see how he was taking this remark, and was heartened to hear him say: ‘I have told you, Liebchen, it is for your sake I do this, dance with Mrs Hartham. Your reputation. We have our moments, our very special moments together. Always when dancing with another I think of those moments.’
Her heart melted. Dear Franz, how could she have doubted him? After all, she was Duchess of Stockbery, whereas dearest Honoria, sweet as she was, was merely the wife of a baron’s second son. There was no comparison. But all the same she was not completely at ease. And this murder . . . Suppose Franz became difficult and insisted on his diplomatic rights? His pride might well be offended if the policeman carried out his threat to question everyone in the house. It was not as though Greeves had been any loss. Very far from it. She had always disliked him, even before he . . .
She shivered, and forced her mind away from these unpleasant channels. She pulled herself together with great effort, and looked at Franz shyly from under her eyelashes. It rarely failed to charm him.
‘Dearest. There, I’ve called you that. In public too. That’s my second crime this evening. But I shall be good now. You can dance with anyone you please. You’re quite right. We mustn’t be seen too much together.’
No, she couldn’t sacrifice Franz. George knew about it, of course, but never mentioned it. It was a matter of discretion. These things were understood in their circles. Provided no one else knew. That was the code. She thought of the Beresford scandal, still the talk of London. Teddy couldn’t take another divorce in his circle, even if the idea of becoming Princess attracted her in her wilder moments. They’d be dropped from the Prince of Wales’ set if any breath of suspicion tainted herself and George. She watched Franz swirling round the floor in the arms of an unattractive matron – he was a clever man – and took the arm of a particularly shy youth standing forlornly by a potted palm. He was eldest son to one of the richest landowners in Kent, a fortune made, alas, from butchery, which put him out of the running for Jane even in these free and easy days.
‘Do take pity on me and ask me to dance, Mr Taylor.’ Her Grace was famous for her charm.
In his library George, twelth Duke of Stockbery, stood morosely in front of the fire, hands behind his back, an ancestor glaring down at him from the full majesty of his Van Dyck portrait. It had been a rum sort of day altogether. Started with a fellow bursting into the morning room before he’d even read The Times announcing one of your guests had butchered your butler or as near as dammit. Then old Hobbs had served the fruit before the dessert. Hobbs wasn’t going to be up to Greeves’ standard. Things were going to be deuced uncomfortable at the Towers for a while. He’d say that for Greeves, everything ran smoothly. No discrepancies in the accounts, never bothered him with details, just kept things going. The Duke tried to conceive what could have made one of his servants disturb the calm that he assumed existed behind that baize door. In theory he knew that beyond that door lay a whole world of men and women, but as they were devoted, he assumed, to the cause of serving him they became an amorphous block of them. Now unwillingly he was forced to face the fact that one of them had apparently dropped a dose of something lethal into Greeves’ victuals. The thought of there being such hatred tucked away in his domain was disturbing. He turned his mind to pleasanter topics – Honoria. His brows darkened. No, that wasn’t pleasant at all. Where the devil was she? And what was she doing dancing with that nancified Prince fellow? Real ladies’ man. Why, he’d sometimes thought he had his eye on Laetitia. The door opened.
‘Why, George, how silly. Here you are. I’ve been looking for you all evening.’
He looked at her suspiciously.
‘Dammit, Honoria, you knew I was waiting for you. What the devil have you been doing with the Prince fellow?’
Her pretty eyes lit up with surprise. ‘Really, George, what language. Why, I was just waiting to see you. We must be careful, you know. We mustn’t be seen together too much. After all, you see enough of me when we’re alone.’ She giggled. She put her head on one side in that way that always made him putty in her hands.
‘Trouble is, I never know with you, Honoria,’ he grunted. She came close to him and looked up at him with those large appealing eyes.
‘Now, George—’
‘Tonight, Honoria?’ he asked hoarsely. ‘You’ll give me
the usual signal?’
She smiled roguishly. ‘Ah, that would be telling, George, wouldn’t it?’
Lord Arthur guided Lady Jane through the intricate manoeuvres of his fifth dance with her that evening. He was pleased with himself. She was the best catch in the Home Counties, perhaps in England at the moment. Not much spare money, but couldn’t fault the breeding. And he didn’t have anything to fear from Walter Marshall.
‘What are you smiling at, Arthur?’ Lady Jane whispered, closing her eyes in the bliss of being so close again to this fascinating man, who admired everything about her.
‘Who wouldn’t smile, dancing with you, dear little thing?’ he replied, rather pleased with this turn of phrase.
In fact he was smiling with satisfaction at the future prospects of Lord Arthur Petersfield. He had little doubt about why the Duke and Duchess had invited him to join the select number of guests invited to Stockbery Towers for the whole of the three-week shooting party. After all, at forty-two years old, right regiment, right address, not bad-looking, member of the Prince of Wales’ set – and that still counted for something despite the Prince of Wales’ present unpopularity – he could hardly fail. And that baccarat scandal at Tranby Croft would soon die down, together with the rumours of his own involvement in it. Lucky that Continental trip had cropped up when it did. The smile left his face for a brief moment. Trouble was that once rumours started they spread to other areas. There were pressures, questions asked when you were forty-two and unmarried. It was time he married, and he could manage someone as docile as this little thing. A year or two’s attention . . .
