by Myers, Amy
‘No,’ said Rose. ‘And the men have come up with precious little from the search of the bedrooms. No helpful bloodstained clothes. And the top floor is kept locked, you say?’
‘On the eastern side, and I myself have the only key. On the other are lumber rooms and staff bedrooms, although most of the staff are lodged nearby.’
Rose’s face grew long. Any moment now he was going to break the news to Auguste that he wasn’t going to be here to look after this case. Twitch was. He looked up as he heard footsteps. It wasn’t Twitch. It was a proud-looking police constable who was unceremoniously escorting a burly young man in a cap.
‘Found him down in one of those cellars, sir. He’s been sleeping there, I reckon. Here’s our man, sir.’
The young man tore himself free and planted his hands on the desk belligerently. ‘Rot. I’m waiting for Nancy Watkins. Why are you all here? Is anything wrong?’
Rose looked at him sharply. ‘Why should it be? And who’s Nancy Watkins and what’s she to you? And what are you doing in the cellars?’ He motioned to the constable to take notes.
‘I had an arrangement to meet her downstairs at seven thirty this morning. She didn’t come. She’s one of the maids here.’
‘Seems an odd sort of time for a maid to arrange to meet her young man?’
‘She isn’t really a maid. And I’m not her young man.’ Anxiety gave an edge to his tone. ‘She writes a column for London Watchman, and I’m on their staff too. Danny Nash. She was here about an important news story she was after for the magazine.’
‘What story?’ Rose was suddenly very interested. It was a long shot, but—
Danny shook his head. ‘She wouldn’t tell me. She kept things very close, you see. And it was her first big story. Normally she does Household Hints. But she did say she had to be careful because it might be dangerous. That’s why I said I’d camp here in the cellars and she was to slip out to see me each day.’ There was another reason for his presence too, but he’d keep that to himself. ‘Yesterday she came, but not today.’ He looked from Rose to Auguste, picking up their silence. ‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Something’s happened to her.’
Rose got up from his chair. ‘Bad,’ he said gruffly. ‘She’s dead.’
‘Dead.’ The young man stared at them aghast. ‘Murdered?’
‘You think that was likely?’ Rose shot at him.
‘I believe she did,’ he said soberly. ‘I see that now, otherwise she wouldn’t even have agreed to my camping here. She would do it all herself. Women need a man in a job like ours.’ He banged a fist on the table. ‘I’ll help you,’ he said vehemently. ‘I’ll find out who killed her.’ He paused. ‘She did say she’d give me one clue, but I couldn’t make anything of it without some more to go on. It was Marlborough.’
‘What about Marlborough?’ said Rose sharply.
‘Nothing more – just that. She liked being mysterious,’ said Danny, in despair at the ways of women.
The editor of the London Watchman led his unwelcome visitors into his study, irritated at being caught in carpet slippers and playing at toy theatres on the floor. Boxing Day was no time to have to think of work. There he was given the unwelcome news of the death of one of his staff and the fact that another was by no means clear of suspicion.
‘Nancy? Murdered? But we’re the Watchman,’ he babbled. ‘Surely it can’t have anything to do with us? That sort of thing doesn’t happen nowadays, does it? It must be a gentleman friend of hers,’ he diagnosed with relief. ‘Or a lunatic! I liked Nancy,’ he added sadly. ‘Nice young lady. Orphan, you know. Made her own way in life. Didn’t land up on the streets like so many others. She did well. Must have been a crime passionnel.’
‘Perhaps, sir, but if so it was committed by someone in the hotel; no one came in or out during the night, so the porter said.’ Not the front entrance, anyway, Rose was thinking to himself. ‘What was the story she was working on?’
The editor gave an exclamation of combined relief and annoyance. ‘She wouldn’t tell me! She wrote a column of household hints, and I told her she didn’t have time to go gallivanting after stories. But she would have it. She’d do it over Christmas, she said.’
‘She told you nothing else?’ Rose stared gloomily round the untidy cubbyhole, wondering how editorial words of such weight and wisdom could emanate from here each month and disgorge themselves into the highly regarded Watchman. Then he remembered that his own office at the Factory bore a great resemblance to this cubbyhole – to the outside eye – and warmed to Mr Jonus Martin.
‘Told me, no. I did get, um, a little extra curious one day, and wanted to know just when I would be getting an article. She said it was more important than just an article: it was a matter of preventing something very important from happening in the public interest. But there would definitely be an article too? I asked. After all, I am an editor.’ He looked defensive. ‘“Oh yes,” she said, “the definite article is all-important.” And then laughed as if it were funny. Women are odd creatures.’ He pondered this for a moment as though it might form the basis of an article for his next issue. Very odd, he concluded. Then he recalled that Nancy Watkins was odd no longer. ‘I’m sorry to hear about Nancy,’ he said sincerely. ‘The Watchman will do anything it can to catch the fellow.’
‘I’ve bad news for you, Auguste. I’m going to have to leave you with Twitch on this one,’ Rose told him after they arrived back at Cranton’s, as he finished his last tour of the drawing room to ensure that nobody had broken in from the outside. Even the chest was in place, having been checked and yielded no further information. Wait till they got this fingerprinting idea in operation. It was taking them long enough, that was for sure.
Auguste stared at him unbelievingly. ‘Why?’ he burst out indignantly.
‘I’ve something more important on hand. I came today to start things off, but I’ve got to get back to the Yard.’
‘More important matters than murder?’ Auguste demanded.
‘Yes. Preventing one,’ said Rose grimly. He hesitated. ‘Between you and me, the murder of the Prince of Wales. A threat of an assassination attempt. We got wind of it in November and are no closer yet, except that it’s most likely to take place on the third of January.’ And he explained the background.
‘Does the Prince know?’ asked Auguste quietly. Now he saw Rose’s dilemma, saw the reason for his lack of sympathy over his own plight, and forgave him. Almost.
‘He knows all right. Mind you, threats are two a penny. Most of them are cranks, nothing serious. But this one,’ Rose paused, ‘it’s different. There’s already been one body found murdered in connection with it. An agent of the French Sûreté. Diplomacy is topsy-turvy on the Continent. Because of the Boxer trouble in China, Kaiser Wilhelm feels indebted to us for a change, so he slights his chum Kruger, ex-President of the Transvaal. You can imagine how the Boers liked that. And with rumours flying around about the Queen’s health, what better time to make an attempt? Especially with all the victory celebrations for Roberts’s return. The Prince of Wales is to meet him at Paddington on the third, in just over a week’s time.’
‘He will go through with this reception?’ Auguste was horror-stricken.
‘You know what he said to me? “Anarchists are bad shots.” I reminded him that the chap who shot the King of Italy in July didn’t do too badly and the Shah only escaped because the Grand Vizier acted quickly. But no. Refuses to alter his plans. I’ll have the place swarming with men, of course.’
Auguste digested this news. He had twice saved the Prince of Wales from becoming involved in the aftermath of murder. To prevent his own was a far different matter.
‘I’ll meet you tonight with the results of the PM on Nancy Watkins, but otherwise I’ll have to leave you to Twitch’s tender mercies.’
As if on cue, Sergeant Stitch marched in like Hannibal intent on taking Rome. Far from contrition, he seemed to ooze triumph as he addressed Auguste. ‘There’s no doubt,’ he s
aid, delighted, ‘bodies do seem to follow you, Mr Didier. Someone will be putting two and two together one day, won’t they?’
‘And with your detective powers, Sergeant Stitch,’ Auguste retorted, ‘no doubt they will still make two of it.’
‘Now, now, Auguste,’ murmured Rose indulgently. ‘You’re colleagues, remember.’
Was there ever such tension and excitement as the moment before the rise of the curtain at a theatre, especially at a pantomime, the orchestra playing a crescendo, childish voices whispering, shushing, crying? Even Auguste was excited, as though a child again. Not that pantomime was a French pastime, particularly not in Cannes. But he loved it still, especially the magic of Drury Lane and the inestimable Dan Leno.
Some of the guests had not taken up their tickets for Sleeping Beauty and the Beast, preferring to remain at the hotel partaking of a supper with which Fancelli had excelled himself, though this was not saying a great deal in Auguste’s opinion. Thus there had been spare seats which he had offered as a gesture of reconciliation to Egbert and his family. Rose had hesitated, refused on his own account, but accepted on his family’s. Edith, Oswald, Ermyntrude and their brood thus joined Lady Gincrack’s select party in the stalls.
Auguste watched the pantomime entranced, as the set moved to a street where two closed palanquins moved slowly across the stage, by courtesy of their occupants’ feet protruding below. From within came the unmistakable voice of Dan Leno’s comic genius. True, he could not understand quite the humour of his quick patter, but his very voice was funny, a true clown. And then there was the spectacle of the harlequinade, more decorative and beautiful at Drury Lane than anywhere else. Perhaps these floating ladies and wondrous translucent colours were the results of modern marvels backstage, but the illusion was enough. He was himself Harlequin. Would he ever see his Columbine again, let alone possess her? He firmly removed his mind from Tatiana, suddenly aware that Bella’s thigh was pleasantly near his own, indeed much nearer than it had any right to be. He concentrated quickly on the Beast’s Palace.
Marble columns, rather like the kitchens of the Reform Club when Soyer moved in there in the 1840s. The Reform Club had had many such master chefs – Francatelli, Rosa Lewis, Emma Pryde, all had passed through those eminent Pall Mall doors. Pall Mall was the southern boundary of clubland, containing not only the Reform and the Guards Clubs, but the Marlborough Club and – he stopped. Marlborough? Nonsense. That was a club. A man was safe in his club. He remembered affectionately his days at Plum’s. No, not always safe, he reminded himself uneasily; Plum’s was not always so. Not even a prince would be safe at a club, even one founded by himself, because no one would expect—
He stood up suddenly, jerking Edith’s box of chocolates from her hand by mistake and stammering apologies as he made his way to the exit. He could not wait for Egbert to meet them at the end of the performance. He must tell him now.
Rose looked up from his desk impatiently, but his irritation soon changed to interest. ‘Pall Mall?’ he repeated, seeing again that scrap of paper, the blurred ink. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘Pall Mall, not Paddington. Not Padd, but Pall.’
He couldn’t afford to ignore Paddington though. But nor could he afford to ignore the link with the word Marlborough. And if the Marlborough, then somehow it was all linked to Cranton’s Hotel. He made his mind up quickly. He scowled at Auguste in his old familiar fashion and the last remnants of the rift vanished. ‘I reckon you thought this up just because you don’t want to be left to Twitch’s tender mercies,’ he grunted. ‘Now you’re here, look at this.’
He pushed the post-mortem report across the desk to Auguste, who scanned it quickly, then read it again more slowly. He looked up questioningly.
Rose nodded. ‘That’s right. The dagger was taken out. Then replaced in the wound later. And she’d been dead well over a few hours. Rigor mortis was wearing off. They reckon she was killed over twenty-four hours before you found her.’
Auguste wrestled with this problem. ‘But—’
‘The four Ws,’ interrupted Rose. ‘Where? Certainly not in the drawing room or chest. When? Might be possible to determine according to her duty list. Who? An open question at the moment. And why—’
‘Why was she murdered? But this we can guess.’
‘No. Why was the body put in the chest? And why was the dagger replaced? To make us think it happened on Boxing Day, I suppose.’
‘And what better place to hide a weapon, mon ami?’ asked Auguste simply.
Chapter Four
Slowly London bestirred herself, rumbled into life, uneasily aware that by rights Christmas was over and that in normal years Wordsworth’s Stern Daughter of the Voice of God, Duty, would issue instructions to bury it quickly and efficiently in the interests of Queen, Empire and Industry. However, 1900 was not a normal year, for in a few days another great event would be celebrated. This new year celebration would carry an extra frisson, an occasion for reflection, for self-congratulation and for confident expectation. This new year would usher in the twentieth century, and only a minority doubted that it was a century that would see yet more laurel boughs of victory set on the forehead of mankind’s conquest of the elements. And the old Widow of Windsor would march at its head to lead her people into the new dawn. Buoyed up with encouraging reports that the Queen’s health remained excellent, and that rumours of her deteriorating strength were not merely greatly exaggerated but completely unfounded, London waited breathlessly to greet firstly the new century, then its returning hero, Field Marshal Lord Roberts, and in due course its Queen returning from Osborne House.
It was the second of these events that was giving Inspector Egbert Rose severe anxiety as he awoke this Thursday morning. Duty was not merely shouting in his ear; she seemed to be sitting on his stomach and pounding it up and down. For this he blamed Auguste. It was all very well to insist he accompany the party to the new Carlton Hotel for a little late supper after the pantomime, but did he have to recommend Mr Escoffier’s personally prepared dindonneau aux perles noires followed by suprêmes de foie gras au Champagne, not to mention his famous pêches melba? Furthermore, as he had staggered from the private room, his cup as well as his stomach was full when Auguste soberly pointed out the name of the private suite opposite to the one in which they had been dining: the Marlborough. They had looked at each other in unspoken agreement. This they would consider in the morning.
Now that morning had arrived – and far too early for Rose’s head. After palely refusing all Edith’s blandishments of a nice fried egg, he arrived at Cranton’s at 7 a.m. to find a distraught Auguste, drawn between a desire to superintend the arrival of breakfast and the safeguarding of his office from the increasing number of policemen who seemed to have designs on it. He lost on both counts. Fancelli ignored his tactful comments on what was expected of English breakfast and Rose promptly commandeered his office.
Auguste had only had an office of his own for four days, and now he was to lose it because of a murder which was undoubtedly linked to another murder which he had reported only to be laughed at. He smarted with injustice. Really, life was most unfair. He was forced to content himself with the cubby hole adjoining the library, despite the fact that it was not as near the kitchens as he could have wished.
‘Marlborough,’ said Rose glumly, considering widening horizons unenthusiastically.
‘Marlborough House, the Prince’s own residence in Pall Mall.’
‘Marlborough Club at No. 52 Pall Mall, and now this. The Carlton – in Pall Mall. What’s the odds that HRH is a frequent visitor to Monsieur Ritz’s new establishment?’
‘I do not offer odds,’ said Auguste slowly. ‘I remember only that His Royal Highness once stated that “Where Ritz goes, we shall follow”. For where Ritz goes, Monsieur Escoffier also follows, with his poularde Derby and countless other dishes to appeal to the Prince’s taste. I have no doubt he is a frequent visitor.’
‘Right. I’ll get Twitch down to the club to snif
f around a bit. And to the Carlton. Meanwhile, we’ll take the routine side again here.’ Rose paused. ‘You’ll be helping me, Auguste.’ There was a slight query in his voice.
‘As,’ replied Auguste with dignity, ‘Sergeant Stitch will undoubtedly arrest me for murder unless I do—’
‘Don’t think I’m capable of it, eh?’ commented Rose abstractedly.
‘This is my first hotel,’ said Auguste vehemently, ‘although only for twelve days. My own honour demands that I help bring the perpetrators of this crime to justice.’
‘With not much time to find them in,’ Rose pointed out grimly. ‘We’d better make a start. We know the girl was alive at seven thirty on Christmas morning because young Nash spoke to her. And we’ll need another word with that young man too. It’s likely she disappeared sometime between then and the time you were looking for her.’
‘Yes, about ten o’clock.’
Somehow it made murder all the worse for its having happened when it did, Auguste reflected. The morning Christ had been born to make the world a more loving place.
‘Right.’ Rose took a deep breath. ‘Bring on the chorus girls.’
Mrs Pomfret was shown in first, bridling under the stern eye of Twitch, and an unlikely candidate for the chorus line. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ she informed both police and manager, twitching her bombasine skirt nervously. Her trustworthiness thus established, she took the seat Rose waved her to, chatelaine’s keys rattling at her waist.
‘Nancy was a good worker,’ she replied doubtfully to Rose’s first question. ‘I only met the girl on Sunday, didn’t I, but I prides myself I’m a judge of character. I didn’t expect her to end up in a chest,’ she added, torn between horror and indignation that this could happen to someone under her command.
‘Remember exactly when you saw Nancy on Christmas morning?’
