by Myers, Amy
‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Hawkshaw the Great Detective,’ said Sergeant Bladon smugly.
‘Just a look, Monsieur le Sergent, I implore . . .’
‘Now why should I give you a look, Mr Didier?’ said Bladon heavily. He was seated importantly behind the desk specially allotted to him at Kent County Police HQ in Maidstone, flushed with the success of his capture. ‘Trying to divert suspicion, that it? It wasn’t no book you was after, were it? It was the bottle,’ he shot out.
‘Bottle?’ echoed Auguste in puzzlement.
‘The poison container – the aconite bottle,’ explained the sergeant, unknowingly sending his reputation with Auguste down to the bottom again. ‘Revisiting the scene of the crime, retrieving it. You knew we’d be on to Mrs Hankey’s supply of aconitia, so you thought you’d be clever. You had your own bottle, and you hid it after you poisoned the brandy. So then you had to get it back.’ Good thing he’d come up to the Towers to see Perkins before he left.
‘Non,’ said Auguste. He glanced at the sergeant and decided his method of approach. ‘Monsieur le Sergent, you English are so logical, so clear-thinking. You must see that it is illogical. To a man of reason like yourself –’ Bladon’s neck grew pink above his uniform collar. ‘You must see that had I wished to poison Mr Greeves I did not need a bottle. I grate some root of wolfsbane into the horseradish with which it can so easily be confused. I mash the leaves into the sorrel, I put the sap in his gravy – I am the cook, it would be simple. No need of bottles from Madame Hankey’s storecupboard or anywhere else.’
He held the sergeant’s eye, praying he would not see the flaw in this argument. Apparently he did not, for the sergeant went on: ‘Then what was you after, then, eh?’
Auguste eyed the book lying under the sergeant’s large palm.
‘The book, Monsieur le Sergent. I think the departed Greeves practised the chantage – blackmail – and this is the book, if I’m right, where he kept the details.’
The sergeant drew a deep breath. This couldn’t be happening to him, Mr Tommy Bladon. Blackmail, murder, dukes, duchesses. Why, this was better than the novels of Mr Hawley Smart, whose The Great Tontine he had just been reading. Though, mind you, it was his racing mysteries he liked best. Took him back to that day out he and Mrs Bladon had taken, down to the Folkestone Races . . . He pulled himself back from this happy reverie of times spent away from Inspector Naseby and reasserted his native Kent common sense. ‘Who’d he have wanted to blackmail among you lot?’ he said scornfully. ‘The servants ain’t got two pennies to rub together.’
Auguste looked at him. ‘Not us, not the servants. The other side of that door. The family, the guests . . .’
Bladon’s eyes bulged. ‘Do you mean – gorlimy, not him?’
Auguste shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Why not? It will be in the book.’ Their eyes riveted on the object between them.
The sergeant, however, made no move to open it.
‘If you will allow me to glance at it,’ offered Auguste cunningly, ‘I will suggest another possibility that might not have occurred to you.’
The sergeant snorted. Then he veered towards caution. Just in case this Frenchie had something to offer . . . ‘I can’t let it out of my hands, mind,’ he warned.
‘It is understood. Now, Sergeant, this bottle of brandy left in the morning-room – you will undoubtedly be testing it for the poison –’ The sergeant regarded him sourly. ‘Does it not perhaps suggest that someone unfamiliar with the ways of the household might think it intended for the Duke . . .?’
Auguste watched as the sergeant’s face betrayed that he had taken in the full implications of this statement. He prayed that the crime of sending the police off with a – what did they say? – hareng rouge was not a crime punishable by death in England.
Awful chasms of possibility opened up in front of the sergeant. He hardly noticed as Auguste reached gently across for the little notebook.
The Duke was not a good interviewee, particularly as he seemed to be under the impression that Inspector Naseby and Bladon only wanted full details of last Monday’s bag.
‘Good God, man, how can I remember? Had several shoots since then. Look in the game book, if you like. Write it up every evening.’ Once this misunderstanding was cleared out of the way, the Duke turned somewhat mollified to the question of last Monday’s luncheon. ‘Luncheon was in the house that day. Laetitia’ll remember. Came back to the gunroom just before twelve – talked to old Jebbins there. Then over to the bootroom, boots off, change, luncheon at one. Always do. Always is.’
‘This bootroom, sir, is just by the servants’ quarters, isn’t it? Did you notice anything untoward?’
The Duke’s irritation broke forth once more. ‘Untoward? Mean to say did we see a damned tramp creeping around with a dose of poison in his hand? Got more important things to do than poke our noses into the servants’ quarters. Door’s there for a purpose, you know. Let them get on with it. No, get the scores out for the game book, make sure all in agreement, ready for the afternoon shoot, that’s what we were doing. Never got it, of course, what with all the Upset,’ he grumbled.
‘Yes, yes, sir. But nothing untoward,’ said Naseby soothingly.
Mollified, the Duke rumbled on. ‘Everything slipshod nowadays. It’s the servant problem. Above themselves. Running about all over the place getting themselves poisoned. Housemaids here, housemaids there. Me father wouldn’t have stood for it. Sacked any woman he saw round the place after twelve o’clock. There have to be rules you know. Freds in dress livery before luncheon. Butlers hopping about upsetting the port. What the place is coming to, I don’t know. Servants – treat ’em well and what thanks do you get? Go and get themselves murdered right in the middle of the shooting season.’
The inspector broke into this monologue.
‘Brandy, sir. I understand you gave Greeves a bottle of brandy personally, every Monday morning.’
‘What of it?’
‘That’s where we think the poison was, sir.’
The Duke’s face grew purple. ‘My brandy? Hell’s fire! May not have been my best Napoleon, but you calling it poison?’
The inspector broke in again hastily. ‘No, sir, not the brandy itself. We think someone may have added poison to it. When exactly did you give it to him, sir?’
‘Same time I always do. Before we set out on the shoot. After going through the affairs of the day. Ten o’clock, thereabouts.’
‘And it was left in the room unattended?’
‘So anyone could have put poison in it,’ contributed Bladon, eagerly but incautiously.
The Duke eyed him sharply. ‘Anyone? That mean me guests? Me family?’
‘Would your guests know it was for Greeves, sir, if they saw it there?’
The Duke’s face was a picture, as he contemplated this for a moment. ‘Are you saying one of me guests would want to poison me?’ His Grace was by no means slow on the uptake.
‘Not necessarily, sir. A servant, perhaps.’
‘Nonsense. All devoted to me. Anyway, servants knew it was for Greeves. The poison was meant for him all right.’ There was a note of finality in his voice.
Just as Bladon’s future in the Kent Police looked precarious in the extreme, the Duke saw the humorous side. The red face spluttered into mirth. His Grace roared. ‘Why not me, eh Bladon? Always fancied the silken rope. Tried by his peers, eh? That what’s in your mind?’
‘I’ll tell Teddy when I see him next. His Royal Highness will be very amused to hear I’m being investigated.’ Lord Arther Petersfield laughed lightly.
Relieved that His Lordship was taking the interview in such good part, Naseby ploughed on. Had he seen a bottle of brandy in the morning-room on Monday morning? Had he known Greeves well? Had he had conversations with Greeves?
‘I really could not say, Inspector. I do not keep a diary of encounters with the lower classes.’
Naseby might have felt put down, but His Lordship was smiling amiably
if a trifle aloofly. ‘Did you know about His Grace’s custom of giving a bottle of brandy to the steward every Monday morning?’
‘No, Inspector, I did not. I’m a guest, you know. Ain’t done to take a close interest in your host’s household running.’
Again the smile.
Where had he been that Monday morning?
‘My dear fellow, where should I have been?’ he enquired of Naseby. ‘Shooting of course. Shooting at Stockbery Towers is too damned good to miss just to murder a servant.’ He laughed easily, adjusting the elegant sleeve of his Norfolk jacket. With luck he could get another hour’s shooting in before tea. That still left two hours before dinner for the seduction of Lady Jane. Not physical of course – that chore could be postponed, but her emotional conquest.
‘And what time did you return for din – er – luncheon, sir?’
Lord Arthur considered. ‘I really cannot recall for sure, Inspector. At twelve, I believe. We walked back to the gunroom together of course, and then returned to the bootroom as and when we were ready. I went almost immediately.’
‘Alone, My Lord?’
Lord Arthur paused. ‘I believe so. His Grace and then Marshall came into the bootroom while I was there. Fellow doesn’t shoot, you know. Odd sort of chap. I went to change as Marshall came in. So yes, Inspector, I returned alone. Leaving me ample time to rush behind the door to the servants’ quarters, enter the steward’s room, tip arsenic into the food and return to enjoy my luncheon.’
‘You knew Greeves’ room was there, sir?’
Lord Arthur frowned. ‘Yes, Inspector. I believe so. Regular visitors to this house, and I have the honour to count myself among their number, are aware of the position of the steward’s room, owing to our patronage of the Servants’ Ball on New Year’s Eve, since we gathered there to be escorted to the ball by Greeves. That, however, is a different matter from entering the servants’ quarters at any other time of year. I fear I should be a reckless murderer indeed to plan a murder in such a way.’
‘And when you returned for luncheon, you noticed nothing untoward?’ said Naseby unctuously, anxious to move to safer and more indefinite ground.
One handsome eyebrow flickered. ‘Untoward? Ah yes, Inspector, I did notice something.’
The inspector and his subordinate leaned forward eagerly.
‘The pheasant was just a fraction overdone. Not Didier’s best.’
‘Good morning, gentlemen.’
The Prince’s manner was more friendly. Despite his thick accent, Naseby felt more at ease with him than with that elegant man about town Petersfield. True royalty, he said to himself, knowingly.
‘I do not see how I can assist you, gentlemen.’ The Prince reclined at ease in the Duke’s leatherbound armchair. ‘But His Imperial Majesty would wish me to help you if I can, but I do not see how. It is a servant that is killed, yes?’
‘Yes,’ said Naseby hesitating, but there was something about the Prince’s manner that made him expand. ‘But there’s some doubt about whether he was the intended victim.’ The Prince looked politely interested. ‘It’s been suggested that His Grace—’
‘Was! Was ist das?’ The Prince was startled out of his phlegm. ‘But why is this? He died in his room, this servant, yes?’
‘But we think the poison might have been in the brandy. And the brandy bottle was left unattended in the morning-room that morning until His Grace gave it to Greeves. It – er – puts us in a difficult position, Your – er – Highness,’ said Naseby, suddenly remembering to whom he was speaking. ‘Did you see it there, Your Highness?’
This was not as diplomatic as it might have been.
The Prince was a little offended. That was clear. ‘Nein, Inspector, I did not see a brandy bottle in the morning-room. Nor,’ his tone was mild, but cold, ‘if I had would I have poisoned it. In Germany it is not considered polite to poison one’s host. In your country I am a guest, as well as in this house. I would remind you of that, Inspector.’
The inspector was profuse in a flurry of apologies and denials. The Prince had not understood, had misunderstood, it was only he might assist—
‘Might have noticed a few details,’ put in Bladon helpfully, but earning a glare from his superior. The Prince accepted the apologies graciously with a smile, but they were still aware of an undercurrent of displeasure. Nevertheless he consented to continue.
‘My movements that morning, Inspector? I go to the shoot at ten-fifteen, the first drive is at ten forty-five. You see, I have a good memory, ja? You can check with my loader, but I think I took twelve pheasants and two brace of partridge. This is not a bad score, gentlemen.’
There were hasty murmurs of approval.
‘The second drive was at eleven-twenty. After the drive I compare the score with my loader, and return with the others to the gunroom. In the gunroom I discuss one of the guns which does not shoot well. I return to the house. I remove my boots. I go to change. I attend luncheon.’
There seemed little more to be said.
François was not so precise or so informative. Particularly as the inspector saw no need to be particularly gentle with someone who was both French and a sort of servant.
‘Non, Inspecteur, I did not see the bottle of brandy.’ His voice was almost a whisper.
‘Did you know it was there, sir?’ Naseby was congratulating himself on his masterly control of the situation.
‘I – er – yes, oui, knew. I have been to the Towers before, and I was there for the New Year when the Duke invited Madame la Marquise to the ball—’ His voice tailed off.
Francois, unhappily wondering whether honesty were the best policy, recounted his somewhat vague movements in returning from the shoot. He made such a confusion of it that Naseby saw a gleam of hope. The Stockbery case might soon be solved.
The trouble was, he could not, for the life of him, see why a French secretary should want to poison either the Duke or his steward.
The ladies were even less precise in recollection of their movements. Honoria and Laetitia smiled sweetly and vouchsafed that they were only conscious of its being time to dress for luncheon – their second outfit of the day, or third if they had accompanied the shoot. In fact that Monday none had. Her Grace had spent the time in the morning-room, and no, she informed Naseby frostily, she had not noticed a bottle of brandy. Mrs Hartham had been in her room, the Marquise in the library. Lady Jane was even more circumspect, a faint flush of annoyance on her cheeks. When pressed nervously by the inspector, she said shortly that she had been walking in the grounds – it was such a nice day. Had she met anybody? It transpired she had met Mr Marshall. Mr Marshall had left the shoot. She had been intending to go to watch the drive, but Mr Marshall had detained her. A certain grimness entered her voice.
By Monday evening only the Prince, Mrs Hartham, Lord Arthur, the Marquise and Francois and Walter Marshall remained. The Friday to Monday visitors had departed in a frou-frou of baggage and carriages for Hollingham Halt station, whence the train would bear them exhausted back to London for a few more days of energetic social life, before another quiet two days in the countryside. On this occasion they were torn between reluctance at leaving the scene of such excitement and anticipation of the delightful tales they could tell in London. Left behind, the resident shooting party – requested to remain for the inquest thus removing their freedom of choice – settled down uneasily. An inquest, summoned for the Tuesday in order not to inconvenience the Duke’s guests longer than was essential, offered both diversion and uncertainty. The death had, at first, been the subject of superior banter but the intrusion of the investigation, however apologetically, to their side of the dividing door suggested an unwelcome note of reality.
As one batch of guests departed, another arrived, to enter by different doors. His Grace had given orders that Greeves’ relatives – it had been news to the staff that he had a family – should be shown every consideration. As the donkey carts brought their passengers up to the kitchen court en
trance, the upper servants lined up with due ceremony and respect to greet them. In Mrs Hankey’s room a special tea was laid out. The guest rooms in the servants’ quarters were now to be filled with aliens who would be unaccustomed to the etiquette of the servants’ wing. The upper servants therefore waited uneasily. Auguste need not have been there, but he was curious to see evidence of Greeves’ other life. Few upper servants had one. Servants at their level were not expected to have sexual requirements, or if they did they should be sublimated in their job. Yet somehow, he was amazed to see, Greeves had managed to collect two cartloads of family mourners.
First to step down and sweep into the hall, handkerchief at her eyes, was a woman in her mid-forties with sharp black eyes and a firm fat figure that spoke of determination rather than pliability.
‘I want to know what’s been going on here,’ she stated without demur, disregarding the carefully rehearsed speeches of condolence.
Mrs Hankey attempted to regain the initiative. ‘And you are?’
The woman stared at her scornfully, eyeing her up and down. ‘Mrs Greeves. Mrs Archibald Greeves. Widow.’
Widow! There was a strangled screech from May Fawcett. Mrs Hankey paled. Auguste laughed. Edith Hankey heard him. With common silent assent, she and May Fawcett moved closer together. The ranks had closed.
Chapter Four
‘Raise the coffin.’
Slowly, with infinite care and two pairs of eyes fixed in devotion, they placed their hands upon it. There was a small gasp from the scullery maid, her mind still on the murder, not on her work.
Auguste held his breath. Even now, after all this time, a simple thing like this had the power to move him. It was a work of art, in which he and his assistants had striven together to produce something that would disappear without trace within twenty-four hours, without a moment’s thought for the labour and the love its creation had entailed.
