by Myers, Amy
Thérèse was the first hare for the hunt. Or should have been. In the event, she passed the honour on to her pale-faced companion, with a somewhat cruel: ‘You, Marie-Paul, shall be the hare. At my age it is more pleasant to play the hound. Is it not, Mr Didier?’
Outraged at being thus classified in her age bracket – she must be nearly sixty – Auguste replied somewhat stiffly, then obediently shut his eyes at the twins’ insistence so that the hare could disappear.
In her dull burgundy-coloured evening gown, Marie-Paul was not easy to find. Having searched the corridors, even the attics in vain – bedrooms and his own small suite at the back of the ground floor were out of bounds – Auguste descended to the cellars. After all, where else would a true daughter of France hide? Except the kitchens – and Fancelli had already expressed his outrage at intrusions into that domain. The only hares that had entered his kitchen were destined for tomorrow’s game pies, he assured the intruders grimly.
Auguste crept down the cellar steps, candle in hand. It seemed unlikely that the nervous Mademoiselle Gonnet would have ventured here, but he would be sure. The candle threw mysterious shadows onto walls and wine racks. The smell of cold mustiness assailed him. Nothing here, he thought in relief. Only ghosts. Ghosts of ages past. Perhaps of the early days of these houses, for Cranton’s had originally been four houses, one of which was said to have been lived in by a Georgian prince. Perhaps his ghost haunted the cellars still, in search of his favourite claret.
Auguste shivered. He must go. Then he stopped. He was not alone. He could sense something, someone. Where? Who? Surely not that timid, sad Mademoiselle Gonnet? Cautiously he tried to open the door next to the wine cellar. One of the larders, wasn’t it? It would not budge. He had this terrible fear that on the other side might be a ghost – or a girl. A murderess. He could do nothing, he must go. He saw one of the twins coming from the opposite direction.
‘Oh, Mr Didier, I’m so glad to see you. It’s so creepy, isn’t it? Can I come with you?’
‘But of course, my child.’ What was he saying? Child? She was an adult woman, an attractive girl – or would be once she had stopped her childish giggles. She was not giggling now.
‘I don’t like it,’ she said nervously as they came up into the entrance hall again. ‘All these dark passageways and . . . and those ghost stories. Let’s go back into the drawing room.’
‘You are afraid of finding Lord Lovell’s bride?’ Auguste asked gently enough as he followed her in. Who was he to scoff?
Ethel stopped so abruptly that he cannoned into her. ‘Oh,’ she said faintly, pointing at the huge oak chest that stood by a window at the side of the room. Near it, high above, hung the kissing bough, candles flickering in the low light, glittering and colourful.
Ethel caught her breath. ‘You don’t think Mademoiselle Gonnet could have hidden there?’
‘Surely not,’ said Auguste feebly, emotions tearing at him. The lovely Ginevra’s body mouldering away, a skeleton . . . Or suppose—His masculine pride took over. ‘We will look to make sure, mademoiselle.’
‘You are brave, Mr Auguste,’ Ethel said admiringly, keeping well behind him as he advanced to the chest. He took hold of the rounded convex lid, and tried in vain to keep himself from trembling. It was ridiculous even to look. The Baroness, perhaps, but her companion would never choose this place. He lifted the lid slightly – and dropped it again, suppressing the cry which came to his lips. Inside he had seen a hint, not of burgundy, but of white.
‘Mr Didier! What’s the matter?’ Ethel asked.
He turned to her, face drained of colour. ‘Stand back,’ he ordered, and flung open the lid. This time the cry could not be repressed.
The woman’s hands were folded in prayer across her chest. Her gown was of the purest white, a lace veil lay over her face.
The corpse sat up slowly. ‘I am the ghost of young Lovell’s bride,’ it declared brightly.
‘Oh, how could you, Evelyn,’ said Ethel delightedly. ‘You did give poor Mr Didier a scare.’
Chapter Three
Auguste opened an eye and shut it again quickly. Then duty whispered in one ear, and her sister conscience confiscated the other. It was Boxing Day, they informed him; the exciting Twelve Days of Christmas, for which he had sole responsibility for the enjoyment of fourteen paying guests in his very first hotel, had barely begun. To superintend breakfast should be his sole desire at present. Somewhere deep inside him another voice was reminding him that there were far more unpleasant matters than breakfast to investigate. A murder in the fog, and the disappearance of the murderess, for instance. Perhaps just a few more minutes of oblivion. . .
Duty was, however, victorious and within thirty minutes Auguste was taking his place in the breakfast room, narrowly beating the first of the guests to brave a downstairs appearance as opposed to taking a tray in their room. His eagle eye quickly moved over the delicacies in their chafing dishes, and noticed the waiter’s defensive face. Auguste for the first time was aware of a gulf between the staff and himself, something lost, something gained.
Carruthers was the first, upright in tweed lounge suit. ‘Morning,’ he greeted Auguste gruffly before opening the breakfast campaign. ‘See you’ve done the decent thing and put some kedgeree on,’ he grunted. ‘Not like the ones we had at Chitral. But it’ll do.’
‘Not for me.’ Dalmaine had followed him in. ‘I’m not used to these rich dishes out there,’ he announced offhandedly.
Carruthers glared. ‘Eat acorns, do you?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘Like in the Peninsula?’
Dalmaine maintained a dignified silence, taking his seat at the opposite end of the long table, and ostentatiously arranging his napkin. He had no sooner done so than the Baroness and her companion entered and he was forced to rise again. He bowed in as soldierly a manner as was possible behind a plate of mundane porridge.
‘I trust you slept well, gentlemen.’ Thérèse ignored the tempting offerings on the side tables and contented herself with muffins.
‘Like a baby, ma’am,’ barked Carruthers, ‘thank you.’
‘The beds are too soft here,’ commented Dalmaine immediately with a light laugh. ‘Used to a hard pallet.’ He was hoping Rosanna would enter in the wake of her twin sisters, but she evidently did not share their stamina.
Animosity crinkled the length of the table as if through an electric wire.
One by one the gentlemen of the party joined the table. Eva, Gladys and Bella had elected to refrain from exposing their morning complexions to public scrutiny, but Rosanna at last bestowed her sweet smile upon the assembled company with no adverse criticism of her pink and white beauty. Thérèse, whose wrinkles were deepset, giving character to her face, and the twins had no reason to fear early exposure, and Marie-Paul clearly had no option. A certain resentful obstinacy was clear in every muscle of her thin figure as she glared wistfully at the steaming hot dishes on the side tables. Thérèse handed her another muffin.
Auguste was well aware of his duties to keep conversation flowing. Not quite as important at breakfast as other meals, but nevertheless this was a Christmas party. ‘I think it will keep fine today. That is good, is it not?’ It was a brave if uninspired effort.
Only the Marquis de Castillon considered it worthy of reply. ‘Indeed, monsieur, far better than your English fogs.’
Auguste stiffened. This was hardly a reply he welcomed.
‘Out in Zululand,’ said Carruthers loudly, ‘it was so hot at Christmas even the ice was warm.’ It was a joke that fell flat.
‘Our parents are in Africa,’ remarked Rosanna, fully conscious of Dalmaine’s admiring gaze upon her.
‘A strife-torn land,’ he murmured. ‘Where are your parents?’
‘Cape Town, I think,’ said Rosanna doubtfully.
‘Johannesburg,’ announced Evelyn.
‘No, it’s not,’ said Ethel brightly. ‘I think it’s Lagos. Or is it Kumasi?’
‘Somewhere near there, anyway,’ Evelyn info
rmed them, reaching for buttered toast and helping herself to a large portion of lemon cheese.
‘Durban!’ cut in Sir John crossly. ‘Kumasi indeed.’
A small smile played on the lips of the Marquis. ‘Such a troubled area, Sir John. Will the Ashantis ever accept British rule? We French seem to have better fortune with our colonies.’
‘And look how—’ Sir John broke off, remembering their diplomatic status. ‘A muffin, Mr Bowman?’
‘No, thank you, sir. I’ve done very well. Very well indeed. Beats me how you Frenchies keep going without a good solid breakfast inside you. Nearly starved to death when I was in Paris.’
Auguste deferred politely. ‘There is much to be said for a heavy breakfast for those with heavy work to do, monsieur.’
‘When I was in Brussels I ate cheese,’ put in Harbottle, nervously remembering they were all supposed to be one happy party. ‘For breakfast,’ he added unhappily, in case there was any doubt. ‘I am in banking,’ in a burst of confidence, looking round defiantly as if expecting it to be pointed out that this was no occupation for gentlemen. It had been pointed out often enough by his father. ‘I travel on business.’
‘Seen the “Manekin Pis” have you?’ rumbled Bowman.
‘There are ladies present,’ said Harbottle nervously. Small children immortalised in stone while urinating were not a fit subject for mixed company.
‘It’s art,’ pointed out Bowman, guffawing.
‘What a man,’ said Carruthers, following a line of thought of his own. ‘Duchess of Richmond’s Ball one day, Waterloo begins the next.’
‘And thus the Duke was not at the front where he should have been,’ pointed out Dalmaine, pouncing on the opportunity. ‘Had he been so, he would not have had to wait until the afternoon to hear of Napoleon’s attack on the Prussians. An error.’
‘Sign of greatness,’ snarled Carruthers. ‘Hold your horses till you see the whites of their eyes.’
Thérèse with pleasant determination decided to break into this unseasonable discussion.
‘For myself, I prefer always my native Paris to Brussels. And you too, Mr Didier.’
Auguste glanced at her curiously. ‘I come from Provence. But Paris I know very well. You must miss it at the Kaiser’s court.’
‘You visit Paris often, monsieur?’ Marie-Paul ventured quickly.
‘Non,’ said Auguste. How could he explain that Tatiana lived in Paris, that to be there so near would not be possible. Impossible even to think of cuisine if Tatiana was in the same city. Feeling this sounded blunt, he continued, ‘And you, mademoiselle, you are not from Paris, I think?’
A glance at the Baroness as if requesting permission to speak, then a colourless, ‘Non, monsieur, I am from Alsace, and my mother was Austrian.’
‘The land of waltzing, and songs, and fair women,’ Auguste said gallantly.
‘Alsace, too, is German now,’ remarked the Baroness complacently.
Marie-Paul’s eyes flashed. ‘I am French, madame.’
‘Oh, la, la the worm turns, mon chat égratigne,’ Thérèse said lightly, but slightly mockingly, to her companion, who had relapsed into her normal silence after this show of individuality.
‘But Austria, Mr Didier,’ Bella de Castillon, superbly and simply gowned by Worth, had swept into the room in a waft of perfume and fur, ‘is not the only land, I trust, to contain such marvels.’
‘Ah, non, madame,’ murmured Auguste, distracted by her entrance and avoiding her eye.
It must surely have been his imagination that during the night the handle on his door turned, and in had floated an entrancing vision clad in pale blue satin and lace. Cowardly – but pardonably since the lady’s husband might, after all, notice her absence from the adjoining room – he had pretended to be asleep, and the vision after murmuring a few words that still made him blush wafted away. Tonight he would lock his door. His regard for the sanctity of marriage could only be taken so far, and after all, if the Marquis did not prevent his wife wandering at night, he had only himself to blame. Nevertheless, Auguste felt distinctly uncomfortable this morning, faced with the reality of his dream. Fantasy? Bella shot a sweet smile at him. ‘Did you sleep well, Mr Didier?’
‘Extremely soundly,’ he replied fervently. ‘How kind of you to enquire.’
‘Are you in banking, Bowman?’ Sir John asked abruptly. He had been ruminating.
‘No, sir.’ Loud laugh. ‘I’m in iron. Gates and railings, Sir John, that’s me. Cast and wrought.’
‘Indeed.’ Sir John shot a faint look of disgust at this palpable evidence of trade.
Fourteen people, thought Auguste, glancing round the specimens here gathered. All here to weld together as best they may for the duration of twelve days. Then they would part again, probably never to meet unless by chance. This was a pause in their ordinary concerns, before taking up the burdens of everyday life again, just like the porters from the fardel rest in Piccadilly. Here, however, Auguste was entirely wrong, for several of his guests were not in fact escaping from the affairs of everyday life, but actively pursuing them.
‘It is about that murder in the fog, mon ami,’ Auguste said nervously. The note in Egbert’s voice as they exchanged cautious Christmas pleasantries on the telephone did not bode well for relaying even news of such value as he had. There was a silence.
‘I have found the murderess. I recognised the voice.’
‘Where?’ The tone was noncommittal.
‘Here – at Cranton’s. Ah non, not here. She has run away,’ said Auguste unhappily.
Another silence. Then the words he had feared to hear: ‘Two disappearing bodies, eh Auguste? You don’t have much luck, do you?’
Rose had had a bad morning. Everyone from the Commissioner and the Chief Constable down to the bootblack, he thought grumpily, wanted to know what he was doing about the threat to His Royal Highness. The answer was quite a lot, but unfortunately the results were nil. All ports were watched – but for whom? All known agitators, Fenian anarchists, objectors to everything from the South African War to Aunt Jemima’s hat had been interrogated fruitlessly. Nothing. And now Auguste was offering him yet another vain pursuit.
‘Tell you what, Auguste,’ Rose told him sourly, ‘when you find even one of your ladies, just let me know.’
Smarting from injustice, Auguste stomped out of his hotel office to be greeted by the jolly strains of the Drinking Song from Traviata. He sniffed. Could he not smell curry? What was worse, he could almost swear it was curry powder. There was something about its lack of subtlety that—Full of rage, he set off down the stairs to the kitchens. True, he had promised Fancelli to remain away from the kitchens this morning, but this was something he could not be expected to ignore.
Fancelli looked up from his inspection of la soupe as Auguste entered, correctly divined his mood, and continued to sing Mr Verdi’s rousing song. But an obstinate expression settled on his Latin face; eyes prepared to flash at the slightest provocation. In other circumstances, for lesser crimes, Auguste might have backed down.
‘Might I have a word with you, Signor Fancelli? Alone.’
It transpired that the only place where solitude was guaranteed at least temporarily was a larder and here surrounded by pies and pickles and by undoubted evidence that it was not only curry powder that had been used, but his rival’s curry powder. Mrs Marshall’s! Auguste came quickly to the point.
‘Yes, Monsieur Didier, I use curry powder for the réchauffé turkey. It is good curry powder.’ Fancelli folded his arms. ‘Is prevalent in the Madras presidency.’
‘I am acquainted with the wording of Mrs Marshall’s advertisements and with her curry powder,’ Auguste stated firmly. ‘All I would say, signor, is would you add Mrs Marshall’s gelatine to a zabaglione? Would you colour a ragu with Mrs Marshall’s redfood colouring? Would you add Mrs Marshall’s coralline pepper to a risotto alla Fagiano?’
‘Eef,’ Fancelli retorted heavily, ‘my honour as a chef tells me thees
ees good, I do it.’
‘Thees is not good,’ Auguste said firmly, waving a hand towards the kitchen. ‘We are not a backstreet dining rooms, we are –’ he drew himself up – ‘Cranton’s. We make our spices, our powders ourselves.’
‘You will fetch me fresh ginger, Mr Didier, coriander seed, the fruit of the cardamon—’ Fancelli was getting excited.
Auguste waved him aside. ‘Without proper ingredients, no maître chef would condescend to prepare a dish at all.’
‘Eh. You say I am no good chef?’ Fancelli was torn between tears and anger.
Auguste perceived he had gone too far. True, he was justified, but in the interests of smooth co-operation, not to mention luncheon, more tact might be required.
‘Your galantine, on the other hand, Signor Fancelli, looks superb. And I am somewhat of a specialist in galantine. The balance of colour is of the greatest importance. The black of the truffles should not overbalance the occasional touch of red and green.’ He paused. ‘The old English plant the galingale. Have you ever followed the fourteenth-century recipe from the Forms of Curry, Signor Fancelli?’
The look Fancelli gave him indicated he had not, but that as a gesture had been made he was prepared to be conciliatory. He led the way from the larder in flamboyant style, as Auguste surreptitiously donned a spare apron and hat. He might be forced to intervene.
‘Il mio pudding! And a granite. Sorbets. Ice creams.’
‘But where is the pudding?’ asked Auguste with awful premonition.
‘Si, pudding.’
‘No, English pudding.’
Fancelli eyed him warily. ‘Yesterday I do English pudding. Today, I do my pudding. Torciglione.’
Auguste looked at the unappetising long thin objects coiled on a pastry board ready for baking. He gulped. ‘Delicious, I am sure,’ he said, ‘but not English. Pond pudding, chocolate pudding, lemon pudding, le spotted dick, but there must be a pudding!’
One Latin eye met another. Fancelli’s fell first. ‘Fruit jellies,’ he offered feebly. ‘Charlotte—’
‘English,’ said Auguste succinctly.
