by Myers, Amy
‘Ask Mr Marshall to join us,’ Rose said abruptly, as though summoning His Grace’s footman was of no more import than summoning Betsy, their maid of all work at home. His response was a great deal more efficient than Betsy’s.
Typically Rose wasted little time in preliminaries when Walter arrived. ‘What do you think this is?’ he greeted him, pushing the piece of paper over to him.
Walter studied it and frowned. ‘I’ve no idea, Inspector,’ he said evenly. ‘No idea at all.’
‘Come now,’ said Rose cordially. ‘None of your “confidential government business” here. I got two murders to solve. Murders, Mr Marshall.’
‘I would have to talk to Lord Medhurst, my superior—’
‘Murders, Mr Marshall. Want another, do you? You heard a boy’s been knocked on the head. Think that has nothing to do with it? If he dies, that’s three. How many more do you want?’
‘Very well, Inspector,’ said Walter at last. He glanced at Sergeant Bladon doubtfully. Rose followed his glance.
‘Go and see how that boy’s faring, Bladon,’ he said kindly.
Bladon, deflated and reluctant, departed.
‘You were right to think this paper important,’ said Walter. ‘Have you heard of the Rivers papers?’
‘Ah,’ said Rose with satisfaction, ‘thought it might be.’
‘They went missing, as you know, last June. After Lord Brasserby’s house party at Chivers. Thomas Rivers, the designer of our future battleships, had given the papers to Lord Brasserby of the Admiralty for Saturday to Monday because there were rumours of a planned break-in at the Foreign Office and no risks could be taken. They turned out, of course, to be false rumours planted deliberately. The real plan was to take them at Chivers. They have not been seen since. Even this is not the original – you can see it is a copy, it is too poorly executed for anything else. But here, Inspector, is one vital plan for a battleship of the future.’
‘And it turns up in His Grace’s safe,’ said Rose. ‘Significant.’
‘More significant than you think, Inspector. These weren’t just any old state papers – they were naval papers. And, as you know, it was remarked on the new Kaiser’s last visit to England that he had displayed an over-keen interest in our naval plans. He is jealous of our navy. Some say so long as Queen Victoria rules England will be safe, for he is in awe of her, but the Queen cannot live for ever. It is our Prime Minister’s view, and that of most Conservatives, that England has nothing to fear from Germany, for she is anxious to be our ally; that she has signed one alliance and will others; that the Kaiser is the Queen’s grandson, the son of her favourite daughter; and that our enemies are still France and Russia, and it is against them we must defend our shores. So it might be that the Rivers papers found their way to Paris or to his Tsarist Majesty – were it not for von Holstein.’
‘Baron Friedrich von Holstein?’
‘You’ve heard of him?’ Walter eyed Rose with respect.
Rose nodded. ‘Did Bismarck’s dirty work for him. We get a few history lessons at the Yard.’
‘Von Holstein is still behind the strings of German diplomacy, the most dangerous man in Europe, we Liberals think,’ said Walter soberly. ‘He holds no high office, no obvious pomp, but he decides who shall be Germany’s allies, who her enemies. All our diplomacy is going towards making sure that Germany and Russia do not enter into an alliance, but for the wrong reasons. For fear of Russia, not Germany. It was rumoured that Bismarck signed such an alliance – and von Holstein started life under Bismarck’s instruction. Bismarck still lives, though no longer in office. Perhaps his policy lives also. With Germany and Russia in alliance, the balance of power is gone for ever. The British navy will need every battleship she has. And the reason, my dear Inspector, that the Liberals fear Germany, not Russia, is that there is a Machiavelli behind the scenes – and the Rivers papers disappeared.’
‘Very interesting, Mr Marshall, highly interesting. Now, I’ll tell you something even more interesting. Equally confidential. When these papers disappeared suspicion fell on Brasserby’s guests, and do you know which we decided it was? I’ll tell you. It weren’t no German. It was a Frenchman, a Monsieur François Pradel. And most interested I was to come here and find that same Frenchman a guest.’
Walter gasped. ‘François? But no, you must be mistaken. He does not have the—’ He stopped, for he realised he did not know what Francois was like. He was the Marquise’s secretary. That was all.
‘Father’s an admiral, you see. It all fitted. We never proved anything.’ And there had been nothing in the book, either, Rose thought regretfully. Not unless the P. F. he’d taken to be Prince Franz was a transposition of F. P.
‘Prince Franz is at the German embassy in London. Who more likely to be von Holstein’s spy?’ said Walter slowly.
‘At the Yard,’ said Rose, ‘it was thought a Baron von Elburg at the London embassy was behind it. Prince Franz’s name did not come up.’
‘He is answerable to von Elburg,’ said Walter. ‘His secretary.’
‘Ah,’ said Rose. ‘Now, one other thing I’ll show you,’ he went on, pushing the other envelope to Walter across His Grace’s Georgian desk.
Walter looked at the slips of paper that fell out. His face remained impassive.
‘Well?’ asked Rose.
‘Copies of gambling chits,’ said Walter slowly. ‘Baccarat losses.’
‘Read the signature?’
‘Petersfield. Arthur Petersfield,’ said Walter grimly.
‘Baccarat,’ said Rose with satisfaction. ‘Wouldn’t be popular, eh, not with the Tranby Croft affair so recent. Illegal game.’
Walter’s stomach lurched. The chits added up to a lot of money. Petersfield was not a rich man. But, married to Stockbery’s daughter, no one would dare to touch him . . . His answers to Rose’s questions grew more perfunctory and, as soon as was possible, he left Rose alone. He decided he needed air, the confines of the house were becoming stifling.
Rose paced around the room. It was all too neat. Motives, means and evidence, all before him. But which tied up with which? Who had donned the livery and crept behind the baize door? Who had seen that plate of sandwiches and added a twentieth grain of aconitia to each one? And which of them had knocked a fifteen-year-old boy over the head and left him to die?
Walter donned ulster and hat and went into the gardens. There he found Lady Jane on the croquet lawn viciously attacking the course with more determination than skill. It was a cold day and, between the fur collar and the large-brimmed hat, little of Jane’s face could be seen. What he could see of it did not bode well for an amicable conversation. Yet for once she did not seem disposed to vent her wrath on Walter.
‘A game’s always better with two,’ he remarked cordially. ‘I’ll join you.’
‘It’s a stupid game,’ she said. ‘And I’m tired of it. It makes me feel like something out of Alice in Wonderland.’
Ungainsaid, Walter fell in beside her as she strode off towards the wilderness that divided the park from the farmland.
‘Let’s go up to Seven Acre Field,’ she said.
‘We can’t,’ said Walter. ‘That’s where the next shoot is. The keepers won’t be pleased if we go striding through the coverts. Let’s go up the hill.’
‘Nothing but shooting, shooting at this time,’ she said moodily. ‘All those dead birds strung out, the men talking of nothing else. Disgusting.’
‘There I agree with you,’ said Walter mildly.
‘I can’t wait for the hunting to begin again,’ she said. ‘Father won’t allow it while the pleasant shooting’s on.’
‘Bloodthirsty woman,’ he said.
She looked at him, startled. ‘Bloodthirsty? Oh, the fox – but that’s different.’
‘Why?’ enquired Walter. ‘I don’t expect the fox thinks so.’
‘Because –’ She frowned and kicked a stone with the toe of her elegant black boot. ‘Well, it is,’ she said crossly. ‘Do
n’t you hunt?’
‘No,’ said Walter. ‘Nor shoot. I find them both unrewarding.’
‘Why do Mother and Father keep inviting you down here then?’ said Jane belligerently.
‘I’ve often wondered that,’ said Walter thoughtfully. ‘I’ve long since given up flattering myself I’m on your mother’s list of prospective suitors for your hand.’
Startled she looked up. ‘You,’ she said witheringly. ‘I should think not indeed. Anyway, I—’
He cut across her. ‘You’re hardly flattering to my self-esteem. You don’t have to dismiss the idea quite so out of hand. I’m what is known as an up-and-coming man. If you listen very hard, you can hear my name spoken of in the ripples round the circle that circles the circle round the inner circle.’
‘You’re talking nonsense,’ remarked the Lady Jane. ‘Anyway, I don’t know anything about politics, and moreover I’m going to marry Lord Arthur Petersfield.’
‘So you are,’ said Walter Marshall politely. ‘I’d forgotten.’
She glared at him, then suddenly she said in quite ordinary tones, ‘Walter, who do you think is doing all these awful things?’
He glanced at her, surprised by the use of his Christian name. ‘I don’t know. I thought I did – but now I don’t.’
‘Surely,’ she said, ‘it must be one of the servants. It couldn’t be one of us, could it? That steward man was killed in the servants’ quarters, so that means it couldn’t have been one of us. And Mrs Hartham must have known who it was, and that boy—’ Her voice trailed off unhappily.
Walter was silent. He could not, even for the sake of reassuring her, speak what he knew could not be the truth.
‘Walter,’ she went on in a low voice, ‘I’m so worried. Inspector Rose has had Father and Mother talking to him for hours. Arthur hasn’t even had a chance to ask them about us, yet.’ She stole a look at him. ‘You don’t think – I mean – what motive could either of them have had? He can’t think they did it, do you think? What reason could they possibly have for killing Greeves and then poor Mrs Hartham? Why, she was Mother’s best friend. And Father’s—’
‘No, I don’t think and none at all,’ said Walter firmly, putting an arm round her waist, unrebuked.
Walter was still in the garden as Auguste came up to him half an hour later, Jane having departed to change for luncheon.
‘How is the boy?’ enquired Walter.
Auguste sighed. ‘Bad. Still unconscious. The doctor says if he regains consciousness he will be all right, but otherwise – A boy,’ he said fiercely, ‘a mere insignificant boy.’
‘An important boy to someone,’ Walter observed. ‘Unless of course his assailant thought he was another footman. John is the same height. Perhaps it was not Edward who was with Mrs Hartham at the ball.’
‘No,’ said Auguste. ‘I have asked the other Freds. It was not them. What reason would they have for lying? So tell me, monsieur, what happened there – at the ball?’
‘Mrs Hartham had sent him off with a message to someone, I think the Prince, which I – and I think,’ he hesitated, ‘the Duke took to be a message of assignation.’
‘Why, monsieur?’
Walter thought. ‘She was very pleased with herself,’ he said slowly. ‘Very full of how beautiful she was, in the way that such middle-aged women have. Preening. She was being arch, twitting Petersfield about something and tapping him with her fan which was annoying him. Then she said she would tell his secret to the Duke, she’d tell all our secrets to the Duke. Then I saw the Duke was still standing there – and the footman who had come back.’
‘Makes our work a lot easier having gentlemen like you to help us.’ Rose had come up silently behind them.
It was Auguste who replied, taking his words at face value. ‘If we can help, monsieur, then we are delighted to do so.’ It was always difficult for him to adjust to the English sense of humour.
They had come to the end of the long walk and face to face with a naked Venus. Rose inspected her gloomily. ‘We like our statues in London with more clothes on,’ he pronounced at last. ‘You can have too much nature.’
‘You don’t enjoy working here, Inspector?’ asked Walter surprised. Used though he was to the smoky pall of London, he could not understand someone preferring it to the country.
‘I work best in the fog,’ said Rose, thinking longingly of one of those peasoupers, the smell of the gas lamps, the muted sounds. A man’s mind could work in that, better understand the murkier machinations of men’s minds. Here in the country, by the harsh light of day, he couldn’t seem to get to grips with evil somehow. Though evil existed just as much here, perhaps more. ‘Different sorts of crime, of course.’
‘In murder too?’
‘Yes,’ said Rose, considering. The stabbings, the garrotters, the railway murders, Jack the Ripper. It was what he was used to. ‘Your villains leave clues, bloodstains, you track them down, step by step, until you find their mistake. Bloodhound. Out here it’s different. I don’t say it’s not interesting, but it’s not like you find in the brothels, up the Haymarket. You feel you’re doing some good there. Sorting out things, like. Making life more decent. Cleaning up a mess, like in Cleveland Street.’
‘Cleveland Street?’ asked Auguste, at a loss.
‘A male brothel run by two gentlemen, Veck and Newlove. Their premises were raided and closed down yet they received notably light sentences when their case came up. There had been red faces in high places, as they say. Then a local paper took it up, started naming names, and an earl sued for criminal libel. He won, but it didn’t stop the rumours. The Prince of Wales’ friend fled the country, and plenty of others are keeping very quiet. Very quiet indeed.’
‘You were involved?’ asked Walter.
‘When it was raided, yes. Us lesser folk at the Yard were kept out after that. It was a mistake it was discovered at all, we suspected. They knew about it at the top, but let it be. All the patrons were men with plenty of money and position; all went there anonymously. No names, no pack drill. We only got on to it through some missing money from the GPO. Telegraph boys were very popular there, you see.’
He stopped abruptly. Auguste too.
‘Telegraph boys!’ they breathed in unison.
‘That’s where I seen him before,’ said Rose triumphantly.
‘Edward Jackson!’ exclaimed Auguste, simultaneously.
Chapter Eight
‘The Duchess! It’s the Duchess!’
‘Tiens, Gladys, clarify, clarify! How often have I told you you must clarify the butter. Of course you will not get the perfect results if you do not pay attention to detail.’ A ruined panful of pommes de terre duchesse headed for the waste bin and Gladys, cast down, laboriously puréed yet more potatoes.
Muttering exasperatedly under his breath Auguste continued preparing the sauce for his soufflé. For his part, he did not like duchess potatoes; give him the gratin dauphinois, or the pommes de terre Cendrillon, Cinderella potatoes, or à la lyonnaise, or – ah, but so many choices for that humble vegetable the potato. Yet was any taste more superb than the first scrubbed new potatoes from the Home Farm, simply boiled? Always there were so many different ways of preparing a particular food, yet in the end one dish was chosen. He remembered one of his lessons from the maître, Escoffier; he read out a long menu, offering many rich dishes. All sounded fascinating; all tempting to the palate. Yet when one had studied this menu carefully and analysed its contents, it resolved itself into one or two choices. Those that fitted the mood, the day, the individual. But which are the choices? had asked the maître. That is the secret that will single out the maître chef or the maître eater from the rest.
So with this murder, Auguste reflected, so many suspects, yet when one thought, when one analysed, there were only two or three people who could have committed it . . .
Dinner at Stockbery Towers that Monday evening was a gloomy affair, despite Auguste’s soufflé au saumon et aux écrevisses. His Grace was
more than upset. He was uncomfortable, especially with Mr Hartham acting as a depressing reminder of tragedy. How the deuce were they to get through to Thursday, the day of the inquest, and then the funeral on Friday? Would Hartham expect him to trail up to Hertfordshire? Now Honoria was dead, the Duke felt strangely remote from her. He stole a look at Laetitia, so able to cope even with this situation, charming that bore Hartham, filling the role of hostess so ably. Yes, he was lucky to have such a loyal and devoted wife. Damned if there’d be any more Honoria Harthams.
His loyal and devoted wife, concentrating her charm on Hartham, was in fact resting her gracious foot on that of the Prince, once more obediently attentive, now that Honoria was no more. None of the guests was at ease. It was possible that one of their number was a murderer. What if the Duke himself . . .? Stranger things had happened. It was not so long ago a viscount had been tried by his peers and found guilty of murder. And His Grace undoubtedly had a vile temper. It had been much in evidence at a recent shoot when a rash newcomer had shot at a bird over His Grace. He had wasted no time in finesse. He had turned purple with rage and only a belated realisation of his position as host had saved the young man from physical injury. He would not be invited to shoot again at Stockbery Towers.
Even Auguste’s best tournedos bearnaise, following the soufflé, and blanc de volaille de la Vallée, specially created in honour of the Marquise, failed to cheer the party and, after dinner was concluded, guests hung about morosely. It did not seem cricket to play billiards too often in a house where two had met unnatural deaths in the last two weeks and a third either had or would die, and conversation was stilted to say the least.
Finally His Grace could stand it no longer. He cleared his throat. ‘Thought of a shoot in the morning. What do you say, Petersfield?’ He avoided looking at Hartham.
Petersfield brightened. ‘I’ll take a gun.’
‘I also,’ chimed in the Prince.
‘You, monsieur?’ The Duke felt honour bound to ask the Frenchie. Francois looked unhappy and dutifully murmured he was enchanté.
