by Myers, Amy
‘I’m looking for a maid,’ he blurted out, his usual savoir-faire deserting him.
Bella shrugged. ‘You will be disappointed with an old married woman such as me. Maid no longer, I fear.’ Laughter bubbled out of her, as Auguste blushed red.
If this was one of the advantages of being on (almost) equal terms with Society, Auguste thought furiously to himself, he was not at all sure he wanted to be. He bowed with what dignity he could muster, and escaped as soon as he could. There was no sign of the girl.
The library, he thought wildly – she must be dusting the library. A murderess, on his staff. He felt aggrieved, longing to share his outrage with Maisie, but she would not be here until twelve.
With a curious foreboding, he saw the girl was not in the library either. Had she fled? Had she realised he had heard her voice? Was that why she had dropped the purée? And was that purée of the correct consistency, i.e. the Didier-approved consistency? Thoughts tumbling in his mind, ridiculously, he stood uncertainly in the library wondering where to go next.
‘Ah, Didier, I want a word with you.’
Too late for escape. Colonel Carruthers had entered and shut the door firmly behind him.
‘Happy Christmas, Colonel.’ Auguste mustered a smile, hoping he had not been confused with Major Dalmaine. His knowledge of the details of Waterloo was somewhat sketchy, since as Maman and Papa held opposing views on the subject, they avoided giving their son instruction in the matter.
‘Not much of a happy Christmas without kedgeree.’
‘Without what?’
‘Kedgeree,’ Carruthers repeated impatiently.
‘We thought it a little heavy to precede Christmas luncheon.’
‘I always have kedgeree for breakfast,’ the Colonel pointed out.
‘Tomorrow,’ promised Auguste, quickly edging round and out, straight into Miss Guessings who was loitering in the corridor, hoping Mr Bowman might appear on the staircase and head for the library.
‘Can I help you?’ Auguste asked, startled.
Gladys turned pink. ‘I wish to complain,’ she blurted out. ‘There are no antimacassars on the armchairs in my room. My dear mother would be shocked.’
‘I will have a word with the housekeeper,’ murmured Auguste, trying to keep a straight face. ‘Most reprehensible.’ Whom, he refrained from asking, did she expect to entertain in her room who would wear macassar oil?
Not in the library, nor the drawing room. The smoking room perhaps. Auguste darted for the staircase again, only to meet Thérèse von Bechlein and Mademoiselle Gonnet returning from a walk.
‘You seem in a hurry, Mr Didier,’ Thérèse commented serenely.
He tried to calm himself and smile. ‘On Christmas morning, the boar’s head awaits me, madame.’
She smiled. ‘Ah monsieur, you are the famous chef, n’est ce pas? And detective. Mon mari the Baron, m’a informé de votre succès en quatre-vingt-neuf – ah non, plus tard, nonante-et-un, à Stockbery Towers. C’était magnifique, monsieur.’
Auguste bowed politely. Delightful though it was to converse in French, he did not wish to think of past murders when one much more recent was so uncomfortably weighing on his mind, as heavy as an inexpert mincemeat. Fancelli – he must go to see how he fared. No, first he must find the girl.
In the smoking room a maid was tending the fire. This must be her. He advanced, reminding himself that this was a murderess. ‘Mademoiselle—’ he broke off as she turned round. That was not the face. Those bovine features had not the same intelligence as shone from the eyes of that girl last night. He swallowed. ‘Be sure to empty the ashtrays each half-hour,’ he said weakly.
She stared. ‘Yessir.’
‘Didier,’ Alfred Bowman’s voice boomed from the recesses of a winged leather armchair. ‘There’s a cracked bowl in my room.’
Auguste gulped. So this was being a manager. He was irresistibly reminded of the Punch joke of the fly in the soup, and succumbed to temptation. ‘Hush, sir, they’ll all want one,’ he said conspiratorially.
‘Eh?’
‘A joke, sir,’ muttered Auguste, defeated by the blank expression.
Geniality returned. Bowman guffawed. After all, jokes were supposed to be his stock in trade. He stood up and slapped Auguste on the back. ‘Not serious. Doing a good job here. Quite a decent kidney at breakfast, I’ll say that for you.’
‘You are most kind,’ said Auguste through gritted teeth, taking a definite dislike to bonhomie. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’
He made a parade of taking out his watch – and was glad he had done so. It was high time he was in the kitchen adorning the boar’s head. The girl, murderess or no, would have to wait. Unless she had indeed fled, she would undoubtedly be present for the Christmas tree ceremony, he assured himself uneasily, and he would get to the bottom of the mystery then.
The kitchens were even hotter now, the pace gathering intensity with the heat. With both ovens and Micklethwaite coal ranges at full tilt, the heat was extreme indeed, and he noted approvingly that Fancelli had given permission for jackets to be removed. As far as he could judge, Fancelli had matters well in hand. Or had he? He looked a little closer. True, there were signs of much activity. John the undercook appeared to have vegetables and roasts under control, and also the underchefs. But Fancelli himself – he on whom success or failure hinged – why was he chopping tomatoes? He was not a vegetable chef. Why were the puddings not yet to be seen? And, yes, his earlier suspicions had been correct, the gravy was going to owe more to Mr Liebig’s products than to the giblets. The giblets had been thrown out. And this was a chef?
‘What,’ he demanded of Fancelli, ‘is this?’ He picked up the tin of gravy powder with disdainful finger and thumb.
‘Is Christmas morning,’ said Fancelli menacingly, halfway through throwing tomatoes into a stew pan. ‘I is too busy.’
‘You is not too busy,’ hissed Auguste, forgetting his English in his fury. ‘And where is the celery sauce?’
‘Tomato sauce,’ said Fancelli, ‘is better.’
Auguste’s voice rose, regardless of the interest of the rest of the kitchen. ‘We do as the English do, not as the Romans.’
‘I am chef,’ Fancelli danced up and down.
Auguste counted to three. It was Christmas luncheon. ‘I will do the celery sauce,’ he announced. ‘You do the gravy.’
Fancelli slowly nodded, rather to Auguste’s surprise. Peace was restored. Or was it a temporary armistice?
Taking off his morning coat, Auguste rapidly donned his chefs overall and speedily dispensed with the trifling matter of celery sauce. After all, the moment was approaching. The moment of the boar’s head. Snapping his fingers at the vegetable peeler to accompany him, he went to the larder where it had rested overnight after glazing. He flung open the door – and there it was. Eyeless, tuskless, noseless, undecorated, but a boar’s head to surpass all boar’s heads. For three days, the empty head and the meat carefully sculpted from it in fillets had marinated in wine and spices. Such spices! Christmas spices. Mace, cloves, laurel. Then two days ago the head had been filled first with a forcemeat à la Didier, then with the boar’s meat, interlarded with fillets of partridge, chicken, rabbit, with slivers of rare Kentish truffles between them, and slowly cooked. Yesterday that all-important finish, the glaze, provided by the jelly made from boiling the uneatable pieces such as bones and gristle and ears, was prepared. Now there remained only the finishing touches, for he had entrusted the mustard to John to make. Rather doubtfully, it was true, but he was reasonably confident of his ability.
Auguste popped olives mounted on the whites of boiled eggs for eyes, added tusks of macaroni and almonds, put the traditional apple in its mouth, and carefully decorated it with glaze, lemons and parsley. Half an hour later the task was complete, and he regarded his work with pride. Christmas had truly begun, the season of peace and goodwill to all men.
The aforesaid season did not get off to a good start in the drawing room
. Some guests were at church, some had gone for a walk round nearby streets and lanes, some were in the library or the smoking room. Gradually, however, they all began to drift towards the drawing room for twelve o’clock when a punch bowl was expected to make its appearance, and the ceremony of the Christmas tree would commence.
Colonel Carruthers was the first. No damned walks for him. He had left the smoking room, explaining loudly that in his young day housemaids left a chap alone to smoke, and didn’t they have any proper servants in this damn hotel? At Raffles, all you had to do was snap your fingers at the wallahs and they jumped to it. Precious little jumping round here! Now he was ensconced in an armchair, bitterly noting the absence of The Times. Christmas was too much of a good thing. This whole damned idea had been a mistake. His view was confirmed when he saw Dalmaine come limping into the hotel. The presence of another army man was not pleasing. Carruthers was used to the authority of being the sole soldier around and a faint scar from an assegai wound could not compete with a gammy leg from the South African War.
Dalmaine was sulky, to say the least. He had offered his escort to the eldest Miss Pembrey for a brief walk round the Portman Square Gardens only to have it promptly refused with no reason given. He had made his way into the library, where he seemed to have a choice of companionship between Miss Gladys Guessings and Mademoiselle Gonnet. He had promptly chosen the latter, but conversation in the gardens had been distinctly limited. Certainly, no maidenly hearts appeared to be set on fire, and he was glad to be back.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he greeted Carruthers unenthusiastically. He had at once determined Carruthers to be ex-army, somewhat to his displeasure. Colonels were not his favourite army rank. Even retired ones. Mind you, the old fellow did seem to have a proper interest in Waterloo. ‘Mind if I join you by the fire?’ Dalmaine continued with a self-conscious laugh, after only a grunt in reply. ‘The old leg won’t hold me up too long.’ Carruthers again did not comment, to Dalmaine’s disappointment. He tried again. ‘Beastly show out there. Glad we’re through it now. Good old Roberts, eh?’
Carruthers lowered the Illustrated London News, bearing in mind that this young jackanapes had extraordinary ideas about the Great Duke. ‘Over? Stuff and nonsense. Only just beginning, you’ll see,’ and raised it again.
‘Sir!’ Dalmaine was genuinely shocked and somewhat indignant. He was, after all, there, so to speak, and thus knew as much about it as Roberts himself in his view.
Carruthers deliberately laid the magazine aside and glared. ‘Why would they have left Kitchener there if they thought it was over?’
‘To impress them,’ said Dalmaine defiantly. ‘If you’d fought with Kitchener at Omdurman, you’d know—’
‘Dervishes,’ snorted Carruthers dismissively. ‘You ought to have faced a few Zulus, young man. Then you’d have known what fighting is. Ever heard of the horns and chest formation? Gad, they understand battle. We held ’em though. Rorke’s Drift, Inyezane. . .’
‘What about Isandhlwana?’ said Dalmaine, then regretted it, as the Colonel blanched at the mention of this unforgivable word. After all, it was a disgrace to the British Army, when all was said and done, and he and the old chap were both part of it.
‘You there?’ retorted Carruthers.
‘No, sir,’ replied Dalmaine, wishing he’d never mentioned it. ‘I was not. Major Frederick Dalmaine of the Queen’s Own Royal West Kents, at your service.’
Carruthers’s moment had come. Slowly he heaved himself to his feet and majestically drew himself to full soldierly attention.
‘Carruthers of the Buffs, sir. The East Kents. Late of the Third Foot. I tell you, sir, if I’d been warned I’d be breaking bread with one of the Queen’s Own, the whole damned cavalry wouldn’t have got me to Cranton’s for Christmas.’
Major Dalmaine saw his chance and took it. ‘I must say, sir, that’s a highly unpatriotic statement at a time of national military crisis. We are laying our life’s blood down to bring civilisation and peace to Africa—’
‘Poppycock, sir. I say poppycock—’
‘But I would say, sir,’ Sir John Harnet had entered the room followed by his counterpart from the French Colonial Office, the Marquis de Castillon, and saw an opportunity for subtle British propaganda here, ‘that Major Dalmaine has truth on his side. Now that the Transvaal has been annexed and Kruger gone off with his tail between his legs, and now that the Ashanti business is over—’
‘What Ashanti business?’ asked Bella, sweeping in in a delightfully immodest dress for the time of day. All the other ladies had elected to wear ornate day wear, and the sight of Bella’s bosom insufficiently covered by lace raised a gamut of emotions from jealousy to shock.
‘The Governor had been besieged in Kumasi; this year we had to send troops in and Hodgson decided to go on the offensive, break out of Kumasi, and make for the coast. Small matter – not so much a war as a native skirmish,’ said Sir John hastily.
Dalmaine and Carruthers glanced at each other and stiffened. Suddenly they stood shoulder by shoulder at this outrage. How dared one of those Colonial Office johnnies presume to know when a war was a war?
‘I doubt, sir, if faced by a hundred screaming Ashantis fully armed with Dane guns and powder and given to human sacrifice, you would term it a native skirmish,’ Carruthers commented sarcastically.
‘Hear, hear,’ supported Dalmaine.
‘Human sacrifice?’ asked Bella. ‘How very exciting. Is it one of Mr Didier’s recipes?’
Following the Harbottles, Auguste entered in time to shoot her an indignant glare.
The Marquis, however, as usual ignored or did not recognise his wife’s frivolities. Like Sir John, he could see his opportunity.
‘L’affaire de la Chaise d’Or, my dear. They are talking about the Ashantis and the Golden Stool.’
‘It sounds very pretty,’ said Bella.
‘More than pretty, madame,’ said Eva Harbottle indignantly. ‘It is very important to the Ashantis. It is to them their symbol of kingship. When the British subdued them four years ago, they captured their king and so the Ashantis hid the Golden Stool, for they recognised no other authority. The Governor decided to look for it, and the Ashantis did not like this, so they besieged Kumasi. I think they were quite right,’ she burst out.
Auguste saw her husband take her hand. In comfort? Not quite that. There seemed to be—
‘And where’s the precious Golden Stool now?’ boomed Bowman.
There was a sudden stillness, despite the people crowding in. Eyes turned to Sir John, who said nothing.
The Marquis smiled blandly, thin-lipped. ‘You have embarrassed your compatriot, Mr Bowman. There is a rumour, you see, that the Stool’s whereabouts are known, that it might even have been stolen.’
‘That’s enough, de Castillon,’ said Sir John coolly.
‘Which is awkward for the British Government.’ De Castillon seemed unperturbed at British disapprobation. ‘The Ashantis are subdued, true, but for how long if the Stool is missing?’
‘It doesn’t seem right for the British to stay in Africa,’ ventured Gladys, waving away a glass of punch. ‘Perhaps the Africans should rule themselves, with just a—’
‘My dear lady!’ exploded Sir John.
‘Madam!’ said Dalmaine, his gammy leg suddenly gammier as he limped up to her. ‘Heroes are risking their lives for Africa.’
‘Why?’ demanded Eva Harbottle. ‘Has Africa requested it of them?’
‘You’re not English, madam, or you’d know why,’ barked Carruthers. ‘You Germans don’t understand foreign policy.’
‘This lady is my wife. We think as one,’ put in Thomas Harbottle bravely but unwisely.
‘Then, sir, you are no true Englishman,’ shouted Carruthers.
‘The lady is quite correct,’ remarked the Marquis superciliously. ‘The British do nothing but harm in their colonies.’
Sir John turned purple. ‘How about Martinique, Algeria? You French fancy yourse
lves around half the world.’
‘That is different, monsieur. We regard them as part of France.’
‘I don’t like the French,’ remarked Gladys conversationally.
‘Quite right, my dear lady,’ said Bowman instantly. ‘Poodles to us bulldogs, eh?’ Guffaw.
Auguste’s hands trembled round his glass.
‘Ah bah!’ remarked Thérèse von Bechlein huskily. ‘A toast. Peace on earth and goodwill to all men!’
The boar’s head, in all its glory, decked with rosemary twigs and a garland round its ears, was ready. The procession was forming. First Auguste, then two flute players, then Fancelli and Mrs Pomfret, and the rest of the staff in livery. Flaming torches were carried, Auguste anxiously watching lest one get too near the glaze. The rest of the meal would be served as soon as the head was placed on the sideboards with the other cold meats and fowl. He had inspected the dining room. Polished crystal glass shone, gas lights (for Cranton’s would not speedily be equipped with electricity) glowed low and gently hissed, through the windows the pale December sunshine shone into a room decorated with greenery and garlands.
Only one matter marred Auguste’s happiness. There was still no sign of the murderess. In the stress of Christmas preparations he had almost managed to persuade himself that Egbert was correct. His imagination had been working far too hard, like he himself. Yet his uneasiness grew. He must speak to Maisie, but preoccupied with her guests, there had been no opportunity. The girl must have fled, and he could not get hold of Egbert until tomorrow or the following day at the earliest. He did not relish the thought of telling Egbert his suspicions, but even less did he like the idea of leaving a message with Twitch. ‘The body gone and now the murderess too, eh?’ he could almost hear him chortle. ‘Very unfortunate you are, Mr Didier, very unfortunate.’
