Murder Makes an Entree

by Myers, Amy

  ‘How would you kill, Monsieur Didier, if you had to commit a murder?’ asked Algernon bluntly.

  ‘This is a parlour game perhaps, Mr Peckham?’ enquired Auguste politely. ‘Death is not a game.’

  But Algernon was undeterred. ‘Lord Wittisham then.’

  Alfred Wittisham was contemplating happily his recent evening with Beatrice Throgmorton, thinking that Alice’s hand had nothing like her delicate slender trusting sensitiveness. Oh, for the touch of it. He’d do anything for her. His misery swept over him once more. But there was nothing he could do. Or was there?

  ‘Could you commit a murder?’ Algernon continued.

  ‘Oh yes,’ declared Alfred enthusiastically. ‘I’d – I’d’ – inspiration deserted him. ‘Shoot him down like a dog,’ he added. This was lame in Algernon’s view.

  ‘Mr Pegg?’

  ‘Chloroform,’ he said offhandedly.

  ‘Rather unsporting, James,’ commented Alfred reprovingly and James flushed.

  ‘Miss Dawson?’

  ‘I think this is a very silly game,’ she gasped. ‘I couldn’t kill a fly.’ And she shut her mouth obstinately.

  ‘Herr Freimüller?’

  ‘I strangle,’ he said shortly. There was a short silence, while everyone tried not to look at his hands.

  ‘Sid?’

  ‘Set me granny’s dogs on ’im.’

  Alice giggled. ‘I’d hypnotise my victim and tell him to jump off Battersea Bridge when I wasn’t there.’ Some discussion followed as to whether this was practical or not.

  ‘And you, Mr Peckham,’ asked James rather belligerently. ‘You haven’t said how you’d do it.’

  ‘Oh. I couldn’t murder anyone,’ said Algernon smugly.

  There was a concerted murmur of outrage at this betrayal. Auguste noted Algernon’s successful manipulation of the group. An interesting if unlikeable young man. He also considered how strange it was that despite their previous enthusiastic discussion no one had mentioned internal poison.

  ‘There’s the sea,’ shouted Emily suddenly, putting an end to this morbid discussion.

  ‘Where?’ cried Alice, craning round Alfred, then jumping up together with Auguste, Emily and Algernon crowded to the left side of the carriage, by which time the brief glimpse had long since passed.

  The sight of Reculver Towers drew a deep sigh of appreciation, and animation grew. At Margate, the first general exodus from the train took place, while those remaining silently congratulated themselves on their wisdom or affluence in continuing to Broadstairs or Ramsgate. Spirits rose higher still as the train chugged steadily on to Broadstairs, a glimpse of blue-grey sea and white-tipped waves drawing exclamations, with the added excitement of steamers and pleasure boats gracing the scene.

  At Broadstairs railway station the group’s descent was far less decorous than their ascent at Victoria. Even Heinrich was seen to set his Homburg at a definitely more jaunty angle before positively hurrying to the barrier, the more quickly to enjoy the delights of the English seaside.

  Outside the railway station a line of flymen waited, less vociferous than at Margate or Ramsgate where landladies paid them to attract custom, but avaricious for custom for their ancient landaus and victorias.

  As their two landaus set off for Chandos Place on the seafront where their rented house awaited them, James glowered at the sight of Alice still nestling by Alfred’s side. He set Alice down as an unworthy mate for his aristocratic lordship, but feared his lordship’s susceptible nature. However, he had a suspicion that Alfred was keeping something from him; that there was some other lady in his life. James had no objection to that, provided she were worthy of his hero. He only hoped that she was reciprocating his advances. Alice’s hand had rested for some considerable time in his lordship’s which was not a good sign.

  Alice knew quite well what James was thinking and that he disliked her. This puzzled her, for she was not conscious of doing anything wrong. True, she had occasionally accompanied James to Hampstead Heath on a Sunday afternoon, and eventually had been obliged to point out that her future plans did not include him. She brooded about this. She loved Alfred now, had every intention of becoming Lady Wittisham and objected to her courting being carried out in a threesome. It was not as if she were pushing herself on Alfred. She was just there when he noticed her. Unfortunately so was James Pegg.

  Alfred mused happily, jogging along in the sunshine of the seaside. Perhaps in the mellowness of the Broadstairs air, Sir Thomas would change his mind. People did while they were on holiday. Sir Thomas would be here for a whole week. True, Beatrice would not be present, but perhaps that was for the good. He could concentrate on winning over Sir Thomas. If only girls didn’t have fathers, he thought idly, what a jolly world it would be. Just what would he do if Sir Thomas failed to change his mind? He remembered uneasily what had last passed between them.

  Heinrich was looking forward to the holiday. His Imperial Majesty the Kaiser Wilhelm II would be at Cowes. He might even get an opportunity himself to visit the island of Wight. He discarded the plan. He could not relax, for these were dangerous times. Much depended on how well His Majesty did at Cowes with his yacht Meteor. If well, all would be well. But if badly, it boded ill for everyone, especially for the Embassy. A cloud obscured his summer sky, but cleared quickly away as he thought of the German band that would be performing on the sands. At least he would enjoy part of this holiday. He was aware suddenly of Emily Dawson sitting by his side.

  Emily’s hands were clasped neatly in her lap. She was suppressing a certain excitement at coming to the seaside. If only . . . It was a long time ago, surely he wouldn’t recognise her?

  Algernon, too, was eager and ready for the seaside adventure, as yet with no unpleasant thoughts on his mind, save one important one, which he had already dismissed as having no relevance to Broadstairs. The thought of a banquet for the Literary Lionisers did not disturb him in the least, particularly if it meant they would be waiting on the Prince of Wales. He had his eye on his future. Old Victoria couldn’t last for ever. And moreover they were to cook from Mr Soyer’s recipes so at least the Prince would get some decent food. Didier wasn’t bad, but he had his blind spots and the Maître Soyer was one of them.

  Sid had very uncomplicated thoughts. Sid was simply looking forward to the whelk and jellied-eel stalls, the ice-cream vendors and donkey rides that his day trips to Southend had convinced him adorned every seaside pier. Not to mention some nice penny-in-the-slot machines. ‘What the Butler Saw’, for instance.

  The landaus turned off the High Street, having passed close by the grand entrance of the Albion Hotel. At the Victoria Parade on the seafront, there was a gasp as the full glory of Broadstairs was revealed. The smell of the ocean (rather sweeter than had been usual in former years owing to the provision of new outflows further from the Thanet towns) and the noise struck them simultaneously. Sudden awareness came upon them of the dull nature of their own attire, faced with the spectacle of ladies in light foulards carrying gaily coloured parasols and gentlemen in debonair blazers and audaciously white flannels promenading on the cliffside, swinging smart new canes or sticks that sported the latest fashionable knobs. The older generation chose Victoria’s portrait to adorn their knobs, the younger Ranjitsinhji. Balloons, toy windmills, buckets and spades, donkeys, beach entertainers, a line of bathing machines (no tents for stately Broadstairs) and sandcastles filled the glazed eyes of the new arrivals with impressions as vivid and gay as Mr Frith’s famous portrayal of Ramsgate.

  So this was Mr Dickens’s Watering Place. This was the English Seaside. No wonder, thought Auguste dazedly, assisting Alice down from the landau, that Dickens had declared the place too noisy and left. And if this were Broadstairs, what would Ramsgate be like? Poor, poor Egbert.

  In London, with only seven days before the Week of the Lion commenced, the committee of the Literary Lionisers were now looking forward to their ‘holiday’ with mixed feelings. After the unfortunate scene
s at the committee meeting, not only those overheard by Auguste but several private ones that had taken place after the committee meeting had broken up in complete disarray, this was by no means the pleasurable experience it had hitherto seemed.

  Samuel Pipkin was, strangely, the calmest. His plans were already laid. Thomas Throgmorton had gone too far. He would suffer for riding roughshod over Samuel Pipkin Esquire. His mind was made up. It was the mind of a John Jasper.

  Angelina Langham also had plans, but they were less inflexible. She had a notion that Sir Thomas would propose to her while they were away. Where better than under the heady influence of the seaside air? And, ah, then what pleasure it would give her to decline his proposal, and even more to tell him why. What would happen then she had not yet decided, but the thought of revenge could sometimes be very sweet.

  Oliver Michaels had noticed the apparently growing intimacy between Angelina and Sir Thomas with some bewilderment. Surely Angelina could not seriously be encouraging Sir Thomas? Yet it looked as if she were, in which case she was not the person he thought her. True, her last husband was much older than she was. With sudden resolution, however, he knew that whatever the reason, Sir Thomas could not be allowed to marry Angelina. He was surprised to find quite how strongly he felt about the matter.

  Gwendolen Figgis-Hewett couldn’t wait to get to Broadstairs. There, she was sure, she would know once and for all whether or not Sir Thomas had really meant those cruel words he had spoken to her, or whether it was merely overwork on his part combined with the unfortunate effect of the high temperature at the time. Surely no one could have meant them seriously, could they? Or perhaps, she brightened, he was deliberately concealing his devotion to her in this way, shy of declaring his real feelings. Under the passion inspired by a Broadstairs moon, ah, then she could gently coax him into confidence. But what if he once again rejected her? She shivered. Her face became quite blank as she thought just what she might do if Sir Thomas did once again reject her advances.

  Lord Beddington didn’t much mind whether he was in Broadstairs or London provided there was something decent to drink. And preferably to eat as well.

  Sir Thomas was filled with satisfaction at the prospect of the coming week. True, he had alienated some of his support, but the vote had been taken and was irreversible. Nothing would stand in the way of his chairmanship on 23rd April next. Royalty would be present at the celebrations, perhaps even Her Majesty herself. An earldom dangled its enticing prospect before him. He had no hopes that the Prince of Wales might bestow such an honour on him, but where ladies were concerned, it might well be a different matter. Yes, with Her Majesty Queen Victoria or the Princess of Wales present, his chance might be high. Either would do nicely.

  Meanwhile the passions aroused at the committee meeting would have had time to die down. Thank goodness he’d sent Beatrice out of the country for a while in case she had any more ridiculous notions about marrying that brainless young masher. He may be a baronet, but he was penniless, and, moreover, one who was given to horse racing was not what he wanted for Beatrice. Luckily Beatrice did not care for the seaside, not after what had happened to her when she was ten. She’d nearly been drowned, thanks to a damn fool of a woman. He frowned. He’d been unlucky with servants one way and another. Especially once. Still, the police had told him the man was dead. Murdered. Serve him right. A sudden inexplicable shiver ran down Sir Thomas’s spine.

  Inspector Egbert Rose and his wife disembarked from the Royal Sovereign paddle steamer at Ramsgate’s East Pier. He was glad he’d taken a notion to come by sea, even if Edith had looked a little on the green side. It seemed to make it more of a holiday somehow. He liked looking out on the Thames from his Factory window, and it seemed fitting that he should sail away down it on holiday. Edith had not been so sure.

  ‘Very pleasant,’ she announced as she looked approvingly round the hotel room with the large red and blue roses on the wallpaper, its roomy mahogany wardrobe and solid bed. There was even a screen by the washing bowl. She sat down heavily on the balloon-back chair with a sigh. ‘Very nice, Egbert,’ she repeated.

  Egbert was not listening. He had thrust up the sash window to let into the room the sounds of the street and the harbour below. Ah, here was life. Here was Holiday. Life, not Death. And somewhere, faintly – he sniffed he could even smell the sea.

  A boater-and blazer-beclad Auguste walked nonchalantly into the street. The work of unpacking and arranging was done – mostly, he noted grimly, by himself. Now he, too, could enjoy the seaside. Down on the sands opposite the house was an itinerant Punch and Judy man, his booth surrounded by children. At least he assumed this must be Punch and Judy, for it was clearly not like the marionettes of the Tuileries gardens. In a sudden lull in the overall noise around him, some words floated across to him: ‘That’s the way to do it.’ The gentleman, he observed, appeared to be hitting the lady over the head. She collapsed. Auguste smiled wrily. Truly, he could say that murder followed him everywhere.

  He looked around to get his bearings, sniffing the air appreciatively, feeling already part of this English seaside. To the right, at the west end of the bay, was the imposing Grand Hotel on the cliffside, and before it lay gardens with a bandstand. Ah yes. He knew how important this bandstand was to seaside life.

  Far to the left was the old town through which they had travelled, and at its foot lay a small harbour with a few fishing boats nestling against the old wooden pier. Even from here he could see that any fishermen on the pier would be vastly outnumbered by holidaymakers. Above the harbour on the east cliff was what must be Fort House, of which he had heard, the so-called Bleak House where Mr Dickens had stayed. A tall, gaunt building, it stood perched on its own, dominating the old town far below it. It was so high in proportion to its width that it looked an unlikely building to withstand the gales of the English Channel as they swept over the cliffs. In his beloved Fort House, Dickens had spent many holidays. What a view he would have had. But so windy. Auguste shivered at the thought. When you were born under the sun of Provence, the winds of south-east England seemed harsh indeed. Fort House had too stark a beauty for his eye, as he imagined what it must be like in winter.

  With sudden determination he set out briskly for the harbour. He and Sid had worked with a will unpacking his kitchen equipment and stores and it was some time before it dawned on him that the usual eager and willing helping hands were not present. Instead, strange and unusual sounds of laughter could be heard from upstairs as his pupils sorted out their belongings and bedrooms. Then a silence fell for a brief period before bursting down the stairs came an unexpected sight.

  Emily headed the column, in a bright pink dress with face to match. Heinrich followed her in check jacket and trousers that would certainly not have been tolerated in the Kaiser’s presence, then Alice in a provocatively thin muslin gown with hand-embroidered roses on it; Alfred with bright red cummerbund and Panama hat; James in a blue and white striped blazer and cricketing tie, and Algernon carrying what could only be one of the new gentlemen’s bathing costumes in bright green stripes over his arm. Without so much as a by your leave, this gypsy band of erstwhile eager apprentices, oblivious of Auguste’s indignant face, sped out of the door and disappeared.

  ‘Sid,’ said Auguste sadly, ‘it is good that some have a sense of responsibility.’

  ‘Yus,’ replied Sid, but was strangely quiet as he worked. Fifteen minutes later he tiptoed out of the door, leaving Auguste in the midst of a loving discussion of the differences between the taste of écrevisses and crevettes in a sauce.

  ‘Eh bien,’ remarked Auguste ruefully, when he discovered Sid’s defection, ‘perhaps it is that I grow old.’ He placed a bain-marie lovingly on the table, but for once failed to invent a new sauce to cook within it. He remembered the boater, he recalled the blazer waiting upstairs. ‘Non,’ he informed the bain-marie happily, ‘I do not grow old, not yet.’ And within five minutes he had emerged to greet The Seaside.

 
; ‘I will,’ he announced to his conscience, ‘investigate the fish.’ He strolled along the promenade, swinging his cane, fish rather less in his mind than the many most attractive young ladies adorning the sands. Kent, he said to himself, having recently read The Pickwick Papers in honour of the forthcoming weekend, is known for its apples, cherries, hops – and women. He hummed to himself, and a smile lit his face, as he crossed the bridge and walked down towards the pier.

  It was an attractive corner with an old inn opposite the pier and an old clap-boarded boathouse at its entrance. Most noticeable were two figureheads, no doubt from wrecks: a Scotsman performing a Highland fling, and another apparently of a Greek god. But Auguste had no time for sightseeing. The smell of the ocean was in his nostrils, and more than that, the smell of fish. Skirting round two ample matrons and a bathchair, he made his way to the end of the pier where two fishermen were engaged in tobacco-chewing and a silent contemplation of life. They glanced up as he planted himself before them.

  ‘Ah,’ said one uninterestedly.

  Auguste, however, was born in a fishing village, and this was an attitude he recognised. Cannes or Broadstairs, fishermen spoke the same basic language.

  ‘Bonjour, messieurs,’ he announced cordially. ‘I require some fish. Much fish,’ he added as this did not meet with instant reaction.

  ‘Sprats,’ announced one of the men succinctly. ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Lobsters,’ countered Auguste.

  ‘Outa season!’ He spat.

  ‘Not by next Saturday,’ said Auguste firmly. They eyed him more carefully.

  ‘Meanwhile,’ said Auguste, seeing he was gaining ground, ‘I require dory, crayfish, cod, flounders, hake, sole, crab—’