Murder in Pug's Parlour

by Myers, Amy

  ‘True, Inspector,’ replied Auguste with dignity. ‘I had overlooked that point.’ Rose should see that he could accord honour when it was due. ‘But Edward?’

  ‘That puzzled me,’ admitted Rose. ‘Maybe there’s something young Edward hasn’t told us. Or maybe our man heard Mrs Hartham was chattering about his secret in front of Jackson thinking a footman wasn’t a person and didn’t count. Then when I arrived he panicked. Or it could be the attack on young Jackson was because someone recognised him from Cleveland Street, but then we’re looking for two murderers because that villain would have no reason to rid himself of Greeves and Mrs Hartham. Edward says he doesn’t recognise anyone here. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t, but he wouldn’t keep quiet if that someone was the person who tried to kill him.’

  ‘Suppose that person was completely separate – someone who was staying in the house that Saturday night and recognised Jackson, but who was not here before and who took advantage of the cover afforded by the other two murders?’ Walter said.

  ‘Unlikely,’ said Rose, considering, ‘but possible.’

  ‘After all,’ said Auguste, ‘our three contenders do not seem to have interests towards little boys – the Prince is most attractive to ladies, I gather. Monsieur Francois also, and – er – Lord Arthur Petersfield.’

  ‘I have heard rumours,’ began Walter unwillingly, but let his voice drop.

  ‘Versatile some of those customers at Cleveland Street,’ recalled Rose. ‘Some of them straight nancy-boys, others respectable as you like.’

  ‘But it is too much of a coincidence,’ objected Auguste. ‘Greeves began this. And his murder was planned.’

  ‘You’re thinking like a mutton cutlet, Mr Didier. Not straight,’ pointed out Rose, with some glee. ‘If someone was being blackmailed because of young Edward, how did Greeves know about it in the first place?’

  ‘Perhaps Greeves knew of Cleveland Street,’ suggested Walter hastily, seeing the look of chagrin on Auguste’s face. ‘Though not of Edward himself.’

  ‘Rum coincidence,’ said Rose.

  ‘Or perhaps,’ said Auguste loftily, ‘the murderer had seen Edward before, on a previous visit. No,’ he caught himself immediately, ‘pas possible! He would not then have been taken by surprise at the ball.’

  ‘Suppose young Edward saw our villain earlier and told Greeves,’ put in Rose mildly.

  ‘When we came down at New Year, perhaps,’ said Walter.

  ‘But yes, at the Servants’ Ball.’ Auguste was excited. ‘Mon cher Inspecteur, I congratulate you.’

  ‘Too kind, Monsieur Didier,’ murmured Rose, as Auguste swept on.

  ‘Suppose Edward saw this person, and his expression of surprise was noticed by Greeves, who twisted the information out of the boy after the guests had departed? Surrounded by a hundred or so servants’ faces at the ball, the murderer would not necessarily have seen Edward, even if Edward had spotted him. Then Greeves could have started blackmailing the murderer the next time he saw him. At Chivers in June, or in London at the Stockbery House ball in August.’

  ‘So Greeves goes up to our villain and says, “I know you’re a pansy and here’s Edward Jackson to prove it”, does he? Then,’ said Rose, darting in as swift as a dipper’s hand, ‘why does he kill Greeves first and not Jackson?’

  A second’s pause, then: ‘Because, mon cher Inspecteur,’ Auguste replied with dignity, ‘Greeves did not tell the murderer what his evidence consisted of. Merely that he knew about Cleveland Street. The charge alone would be sufficient. Our man plans murder, he obtains the poison – and yet,’ mused Auguste, ‘though it is easy to hit someone over the head, it is not so easy to obtain pure aconitia.’

  ‘Unless you’re a cook,’ pointed out Rose meditatively, ‘with access to a garden.’

  ‘Inspector! This ceases to be—’

  ‘Only my little joke. No, it’s easy enough to get hold of the stuff. Dr Lamson just went into the chemist, said he’d left his prescription book at home, and gave the name of a real doctor in the medical directory; when the chemist checked the book it tallied, and Bob’s your uncle . . . ’Course they’ve tightened things up since then, but it could still be worked. Now,’ he ruminated, ‘let’s suppose the motive isn’t Cleveland Street. Suppose it’s the Rivers papers and our prince. Aconitia’s very popular on the other side of the Channel, I’m told, as a medicine; he could work out some stunt pretending to be a German doctor. He had time to plan it all out. The papers were stolen in June. Greeves probably obtained a copy of the drawing at the time of the Stockbery House ball in August. Easy enough for our villain to pay up till October, then bring down the aconitia with him. That could apply to the Prince, Pradel or Petersfield. They worked the livery trick, popped the poison into the sandwiches outside Mrs Hartham’s door—’

  ‘How did they know which one she would take?’ observed Auguste.

  ‘Only a midnight visitor could know that,’ said Walter slowly. ‘And it was hardly likely to have been Petersfield – he was after bigger fish that evening. Nor Francois.’

  ‘Herzenburg,’ said Rose, ‘Prince Franz of Herzenberg. No doubt then.’

  ‘There is always doubt,’ said Auguste, frowning. A maître should never be sure till the final taste. His brain may tell him that he has put the right ingredients, the right quantities into a receipt, but a maître can have an uneasy feeling that the receipt will not work . . . It has nothing to do with reason.

  Saturday dawned golden and clear. Looking out of her window, after May had drawn back the curtains to reveal the world, the Duchess congratulated herself on the success of her word with God. It was without doubt going to be a good day, a day when she might flirt a little with the Prince, making him hope she might return to him. She would not of course. He bored her now. Already she was planning future house parties, future conquests. She had heard of a certain actor she might invite . . . now that the profession had become respectable. She would introduce him to Society.

  Leisurely she sipped her coffee. After she had breakfasted, she rang the bell for May.

  ‘My bath, Fawcett,’ she commanded sweetly.

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

  May Fawcett disappeared into Her Grace’s bathroom. Bathrooms were still a rarity; had it not been for the insistence of the eleventh Duke’s wife, none would have been built at all at Stockbery Towers and the family, as the guests, would have had to make do with hip baths in front of the fire. As for the servants’ quarters, it was considered not a seemly subject even to discuss the question of servants’ cleanliness. Her Grace vanished into the warm scented depths of the huge porcelain bath and contemplated her day ahead, while May Fawcett laid the paraphernalia of Her Grace’s toilette in the dressing-room.

  Down below in the servants’ wing, the day had begun somewhat earlier. Normally beginning at six, today even the upper servants were on the scene without insisting on their prerogative of the extra half-hour.

  Hobbs was supervising, somewhat nervously, for it was his first ‘simple picnic’, the exit of chairs and tables, the wine emerging from the cellars in Messrs Farrow and Jackson’s wine bins, the arrival of the marquee, the chivvying of footmen. Ethel was up betimes, intent on getting all the daily household work done in time that she might accompany Mr Didier, as he had promised Hobbs he would condescend to attend in person. With the help of the still-room maid she was preparing breakfast for the servants. Auguste Didier, a frown on his face, was once more surveying his kingdom.

  One oak scrubbed table was allotted to the preparation of breakfast for the family. Ethel was supervising the dispatch of trays to the ladies, and the preparation of the huge silver salver chafing dishes that would be laid along the sideboards waiting for the gentlemen to descend.

  Auguste Didier had even more important concerns. He had dismissed from his mind all thought of murder, and concentrated on the luncheon. Hampers were laid out symmetrically as on a chessboard. One of the Freds was dispatched to the ice chamber at the far end
of the long walk in the south gardens; Gladys was detailed to get everything out of the refrigerators; Annie to coordinate sauces with the entrées; he, Didier, was the all-seeing eye, as each item was carefully lifted into its hamper. There had not been a minute to lose when the Duke confirmed that the big shoot would still take place on the Saturday. Straightaway the aspic had to be put on the stove for preparation, the stocks prepared, the pies raised. His Grace never appreciated the problems of the kitchen. Mr Tong, the butcher, had had to be disturbed at nine o’clock in the evening for more calves’ feet, the Home Farm’s supply having been used at the ball. He had not minded. Few would, considering the business he got from Stockbery Towers.

  Eight-thirty. The pace was quickening now.

  ‘The spit, Mr Tucker—’ William rushed in to adjust the guinea fowl.

  ‘Oh, Mr Didier, I been and dropped a junket—’

  ‘Mr Didier, this mayonnaise ’as gone funny.’

  Auguste rushed hither and thither: rescuing the plovers’ eggs from where they had been hidden behind a large boar’s head in aspic; checked the syllabub; reactivated the mayonnaise; added the touch of sloe gin to the coq au vin; tenderly removed the coverings from the terrine of partridge and truffles; inspected with critical eye the chicken pie with port; and checked Mrs Hankey’s cranberry jelly for the spit-roasted turkeys. He approved the desserts produced with a flourish: his speciality, the Nesselrode pudding made from chestnuts all picked on the estate; the croquante of walnuts; the crème awe amandes pralinées. And the cheeses. Auguste drew a breath, as he admired the cheeses disappearing beneath their vast china canopy. He came from a country of over three hundred cheeses, and yet the sight of the English cheeseboard never failed to move him. They seemed to him a stately progress of the sturdy English lords of old: My Lord Stilton, My Lord Leicester, My Lord of Cheshire, and his own favourite, My Lord Wensleydale. French cheeses were wonderful, but they were dainty by the side of these oaks: Monsieur Camembert; Madame Brie; les petits chèvres.

  On the other side of the green baize door preparations were also being made, but not with the same speed or desperation as in the servants’ hall. Lady Jane was pondering whether to wear her dark blue merino costume with the matching blue velvet hat and blue silk blouse that had been so much admired by Walter Marshall, or the dark brown severely cut Paris tailored walking dress that Arthur said matched her eyes so wonderfully.

  ‘Which shall I wear, Mary?’ she cried imperiously to one of Ethel’s underlings.

  Mary had no hesitation. ‘Oh, the dark brown, Your Ladyship. Without a doubt. It’s so distungwee.’ She had been conversing with the Marquise’s maid.

  Lady Jane was annoyed. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, Mary? I shall wear the blue.’

  With a sigh Mary hung Lord Arthur’s choice back in the vast wardrobe. Lady Jane began to look forward to the day with a sudden pang of excitement . . .

  In the bachelors’ wing, unaware that his judgement was being favoured by his lady, Walter Marshall hesitated between the Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, or a country suit. With some reluctance he donned his sporting gear. Not that he intended to shoot. It was all a ridiculous charade, but even he could hardly ignore the Duke’s – ‘Counting on you to be there, Marshall. Lend a hand, even if you won’t take a gun, what?’

  Walter shrugged and accepted it. He had an inkling that there would be more hunting than that of flying birds today. Rose had a look in his eye that smacked of the bloodhound taking the scent. He’d taken breakfast with him, Rose making his first appearance in the ducal dining territory, and Walter had taken this as confirmation that the hunt was nearing its end. The sooner it was over the better, but all the same he had his doubts as to the day ahead. There might be trouble, and if so he didn’t want Jane around . . .

  Lord Arthur Petersfield hummed complacently as he donned his shooting coat. He always had been a good shot, ready to take chances, where others hesitated. The Guards’ training. He too sensed the day ahead would be unusual. And tonight he would ask the Duke for Jane’s hand. A decent enough interval had elapsed since Honoria’s death. Just get the day over first. He was always one to face up to a challenge . . .

  Franz von Herzenberg stared at his reflection in the mirror. Strange, three years in England, and still when he donned English clothes, made in Savile Row, he did not look English. Who would want to after all? He was German. He had the honour of the Fatherland to maintain in the field. The English were hypocrites, pretending they did not care who had the biggest bag, when all the time they cared very much indeed. At the end of today he would have the biggest bag. At the end of the day . . . It required some effort to complete the intricacies of his toilette.

  The Marquise de Lavalleé wrapped herself warmly in her cloak. All very well for these younger women who could dash to and fro doing this and that, but for her it was to be hours of sitting still in the fresh October air. There was a knock at the door. Her maid went to open it.

  ‘Entrez, Francois. I am ready you see, prepared for the feast.’

  ‘Madame, it is too cold. Do not go, I beg you.’ His eyes met hers squarely. ‘I feel you should not go today.’

  She sighed. ‘Non, François. Vous avez raison. But still I shall go. We shall see the end of the play together, yes?’

  He bowed and then, as the maid went into the dressing-room to fetch her hat, stepped forward and fastened the button at the neck of the cloak, murmuring possessively, ‘Together, madame.’

  His Grace had no doubts over weather, or over the advisability of so many passions being brought together on a shooting field. His Grace was looking forward to the day, simply because His Grace liked shooting, and the prospect of a golden October day with the best drives of the season ahead of them was pleasing. All other thoughts were far from his mind. Even that of Rose. The sight of Rose, in what he fondly thought was a country suit, hastily acquired in Maidstone for the occasion, only aroused a slight impatience that the fellow didn’t know how things were done. That such an improperly dressed fellow might nevertheless have it in his power to ruin the best shooting day of the year never entered his head.

  Rose himself, little dreaming what emotions he was arousing in the ducal party, or perhaps fully aware of it, was closeted in the schoolroom with Auguste and Edward Jackson, smuggled in from Maidstone now greatly recovered, though the Towers was officially mourning his death.

  ‘Got it, Mr Rose, sir,’ he chirped. He was sitting on his bed, only a small bandage now round his head, and this almost hidden by a large cap.

  ‘And above all, you are to stay with Mr Didier. Not leave his sight, you understand, lad?’

  ‘Rightio.’

  Auguste remained worried. ‘But it is a risk, Inspector, is it not? A risk with a boy’s life. Even though we watch him all the time.’

  Egbert Rose looked sober. ‘I’m aware of that, Mr Didier,’ he said stiffly. ‘But unless we flush our trickster out, this lad is going to be in fear of his life all the rest of his born days. You still want to do it, Edward? Remember I explained this is for your country. Someone who means to harm England. You want to catch him?’

  The boy nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘It’s not like your hero Sherlock Holmes,’ said Auguste quietly. ‘This is real, you understand, Edward? You must be by me all the time, all the time, you understand?’

  Edward nodded. ‘I want to get home to see me auntie again,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘Anyway, this cove’s promised me a trip to London if I do it.’

  Auguste fixed Rose with a steely look.

  Rose blushed. ‘I’ll be watching, Mr Didier, and you’ll be watching. Nothing can go wrong. You’ve my word on that.’

  Constable Perkins put his head round the door. ‘Beg pardon, sir, Mr Marshall wants to see you urgent in the library.’

  Rose frowned. ‘Right, I’ll be along.’ It was not an interruption he welcomed.

  He found Walter pacing the floor of the library agitatedly, a stranger wi
th him. He turned quickly as Rose entered. ‘Inspector,’ he said, ‘thank goodness. I was afraid you’d left for the shoot. Lord Brasserby, this is Inspector Rose.’

  A reluctant handshake portrayed that Brasserby would much rather be preparing for the shoot than talking to Scotland Yard, but that he was prepared to do his duty for England.

  ‘Marshall here tells me you’re thinking Franz von Herzenberg had something to do with this spot of bother. That he took the Rivers papers and was being blackmailed by this butler fellow.’

  Rose looked none too pleased.

  ‘I told your other chappie only one chap could have done it,’ said Brasserby impatiently. ‘Assumed we were both thinking the same way. Couldn’t be Prince Franz.’

  ‘Why not?’ Rose rapped out.

  Brasserby blinked. He was not used to being rapped at.

  ‘As Marshall tells me, your idea goes something like this. Herzenberg is a von Holstein man, Holstein ordered him to obtain plans of Britain’s future navy so that he can build up Germany’s navy for an eventual war. Right?’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Rose cautiously. He was not pleased. The initiative seemed to have left his hands.

  Brasserby shook his head. ‘Got it all wrong. Firstly, the Prince is a Kaiser man, and the Kaiser’s the one with the bee in his bonnet about the British navy. Jealous, you know. And the Kaiser and von Holstein are at daggers drawn.’

  ‘So the Prince stole the plan for the Kaiser, not for von Holstein. What does it matter whom for?’

  ‘No,’ said Brasserby. ‘Franz wouldn’t dare. You don’t know von Holstein. He has black files on all his underlings, ready for use, just in case. He doesn’t allow the Kaiser’s men to work for him – and prosper. He allows one in from time to time, but keeps a careful eye on them. Franz would not dare spy for the Kaiser without von Holstein’s approval.’

  ‘So,’ said Rose impatiently, ‘even if this von Holstein and the Kaiser don’t like each other, why couldn’t von Holstein be equally keen to get the plans?’

  ‘Because,’ said Brasserby, ‘just at the moment von Holstein is doing everything in his power to keep England sweet; whatever his long-term plans are he doesn’t want to move a step to antagonise England at present. He’s holding the Kaiser back.’