Murder Under The Kissing Bough: (Auguste Didier Mystery 6)

by Myers, Amy

  Tomorrow he would have further words with this gentleman, for tomorrow was the all-important New Year’s Eve. The last banquet of the nineteenth century should be a banquet to remember. If only he, Auguste Didier, were in command instead of Fancelli . . . Meanwhile, his conscience as a manager reminded him that this evening must first be rescued from catastrophe.

  When they gathered in the drawing room for their Sunday musical evening, he would offer them a Locomotive Cup to cheer the proceedings. He was proud of his version of Francatelli’s somewhat rich drink and on this cold evening it would indeed add warmth. A snap of his fingers (there were some pleasures in being a manager), a few whispered words and several pints of Burgundy were coaxed into warm fusion with honey, Curaçao and cloves.

  The absent diners returned to find a harmonious scene in the drawing room. Steaming bowls of red liquid stood in chafing dishes on a side table. Glasses in hands showed various levels of consumption. The kissing bough swayed above their heads, as logs flickered and sputtered on the hearth. A deep dish displayed evidence of a game of Snapdragon having been completed; the noise level was high. At the piano Rosanna was playing, while Thomas Harbottle rendered ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’.

  ‘Oh Thomas,’ breathed Eva, tears rolling down pink cheeks. ‘That was beautiful.’

  ‘How well you sing,’ agreed his pianist.

  Frederick Dalmaine almost pushed, or so it seemed to Auguste’s dazed eyes, Harbottle from his path in order to render ‘Come into the Garden, Maud’.

  Auguste felt an unaccountable lifting of the spirits, a sudden desire to join with the singer, a desire apparently shared by the rest of the room enthusiastically shouting the chorus. He noticed his glass was empty, and went to refill it, performing the same function for all the other empty glasses – of which there were many – in the room. He noticed the twins standing by the piano, innocence shining from their faces, and felt a new and glowing warmth towards them. Indeed, a warmth towards everyone – especially Bella who had never looked lovelier.

  ‘Ah Auguste,’ she said, her face near his, ‘what a splendid time is Christmas.’

  ‘You who would feast us paupers, what of my murdered wife?’ bawled Colonel Carruthers, who for some unaccountable reason had felt the need to recite all twenty-one verses of ‘Christmas Day in the Workhouse’.

  Auguste rose with dignity. ‘Do not fear, Colonel, I will discover this murderer,’ announced his very slightly slurred voice.

  There was something strange about this statement, he thought, as, his legs feeling somewhat unsteady, he resumed his seat. No one else seemed to think so, for he received a round of applause. No, it was the drink there was something strange about. He glanced up sharply, saw the innocent gaze of the twins upon him – and realised the worst. He made his way as steadily as he could manage to the steaming bowls. The twins hastily took Rosanna’s place at the piano, as Auguste’s glazed eyes noticed three gin bottles behind the Christmas tree. Empty.

  In his condition this seemed to have been an excellent idea and he nodded approvingly. Eva Harbottle was giggling with Gladys, who was clasping Alfred Bowman’s hand possessively, and waving away Auguste’s offerings. She had her very own liquor-free punch. Indeed she had, adulterated with half a bottle of gin. Auguste filled Bowman’s glass just as Bowman decided it would be a good idea to impress Gladys. He clambered to his feet, and shakily began regaling the company with ‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do’.

  ‘Oh Alfred, I will, I will!’ cried Gladys, standing up to rush to her apparently betrothed, and immediately collapsing. Auguste rushed to her, but Marie-Paul had already hauled her upright, removed her to the Chesterfield and deposited her again to stare foolishly at Bowman while he bawled out: ‘That daring young man on the flying trapeze, he flies through the air with the greatest of ease,’ imitating a bird and standing on one leg.

  ‘That’s how they’ll do it, I expect,’ observed Ethel brightly, standing by her twin who had picked up the melody on the piano. ‘Don’t you think so, Evelyn?’

  A crash on the piano.

  ‘What do you mean, Holmes?’ Evelyn retorted gruffly, coming to a triumphant finale.

  ‘When they try to assassinate the Prince of Wales on Thursday, he’ll be heavily guarded, so I think a daring young man will do it by flying trapeze.’

  A quiet stillness. A sudden chill in that close warm atmosphere. Then the Baroness’s throaty laugh broke the sudden silence. ‘What imagination you have, my dear. Assassination indeed.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ declared Bowman. ‘Balloon, that’s how he’ll get there.’

  Auguste fought his muddled head. What was happening? How alcohol distracted and confused. Surely no one save he and Egbert had known of the assassination threat? And yet no one had queried it. No one had shown surprise. Was it merely alcohol, or guilt? His mind fought, and lost. Around him the party swirled on as dancers to the piano played faster and faster. Bella was in his arms, dancing under the kissing bough. Then he seemed to be swearing undying love to the Baroness. To the Baroness? Surely Rosanna. Or was it Mademoiselle Gonnet, whose eyes were alight with sudden mischief, as her hands crept round his neck, and she held him close. His senses were on fire. Oh happy Christmas. He murmured in her ear endearments of their native France, for Alsace was French in its heart, despite its German rulers. Streams of love poured from his lips, words he would have spoken to another had he been able. But now to Mademoiselle Gonnet, for once full of grace and femininity. Only her shocked ‘Monsieur Didier’ made him aware that he had been guilty of suggesting a nocturnal assignation.

  ‘A thousand pardons,’ he murmured happily, drawing her closer.

  ‘Only because the Baroness is so close, Auguste,’ came a throaty murmur in his ear. ‘Otherwise, who knows?’

  And the twins played on.

  Egbert Rose was on duty, though at first sight he did not appear so. The evening suit he kept was far more often used on duty than on social activities enjoyed by himself and Edith. But if he walked into Jimmy’s at midnight in bowler hat and overcoat, he’d get less help than a Smithfield man at Billingsgate.

  He glanced towards Vine Street police station as he walked through to Piccadilly. He reckoned they saw pretty nearly as many villains on this beat as ever walked the Ratcliffe Highway. The best and the worst you saw on Piccadilly. And it was the latter he was in search of now. If that girl had been on the streets, he knew who’d be able to help him.

  ‘’Allo, darling.’

  He turned to his accoster and grinned. ‘Me? Sure?’ The hand fell away, the form slunk back to join her sisters jostling for trade on the pavement. He walked into Jimmy’s. Same trade, different levels. As different as Auguste from the cook at Charley’s Café was the world of the demi-monde from the pavement trade. The front of the restaurant was full of men staring into the dining rooms. Rose walked past in search of his quarry.

  ‘Emmy,’ he said quietly.

  She hadn’t noticed him at first, laughing and talking to her three companions. She turned her head, the red taffeta of her gaudy, low-cut gown rustling as she realised who was with her.

  ‘Looks like I’ve trade,’ she told the three other women offhandedly. Obediently they moved to another table.

  ‘Anywhere private we can talk, Emmy?’

  She shrugged, lighting a cigarette. ‘’Ere’s good enough. No one’ll hear. All too busy on the jaw. Ain’t seen you in long time, Egbert.’ She eyed him provocatively. ‘Come for a bit, ’ave yer?’

  ‘Information,’ he replied.

  ‘Yer oughter get off the straight and narrow.’

  ‘Land in the river that way, Emmy, you know that.’

  ‘Begin at Jimmy’s, end up over the Bridge of Sighs, eh? Or out there selling matches. A bright life and a short one, eh?’ Her hands trembled slightly as she held the cigarette. ‘D’yer come ’ere to cart me off to an ’ome, Inspector? Turn me into a nice little ’ousemaid and pack me off to Paris?’

 
; ‘Lassie in the river. Thought you might recognise her.’ Rose had no compunction about showing her the photograph. If she felt emotion, she did not display it. ‘Murdered north of Oxford Street. We think she was a housemaid, but might have been on the streets. No one’s reported her missing.’

  She studied it and shook her head. ‘Difficult to tell. Don’t recognise her. Try the ’omes.’

  ‘Homes?’

  ‘Those training places. Some girls they pick up from the streets, or buy ’em from crowded ’omes. Like they used to do when they wanted young girls for the foreign whorehouses.’

  ‘That’s all stopped.’

  ‘There’s an overseas trade in ’ousemaids, Egbert,’ she addressed him familiarly, ‘mostly to Belgium. And Canada. I’ll put the word out round here, but the girl looks, well, not quite our class, if you know what I mean. Print dresses don’t find much in the way of pickings in Piccadilly.’

  Auguste staggered into his bedroom, tucked well to the rear of the ground floor behind his office. He had barely been able to restrain himself from resorting to hands and knees to get here. Water, he must drink water before he slept or assuredly he would be in no fit state to greet the last day of the old century. Greedily he consumed the whole contents of his water flask and sank gratefully into bed. Half an hour later he awoke with a start, aware of an urgent need. Water might be beneficial for his head, but it reached parts where its immediate result was far from convenient. With a groan, he flung aside the bedclothes and swung his legs to the ground, his head throbbing. Just as he did so the door opened, and he smothered a shout of fear that the ghost of the bride of young Lovell was paying him a visit.

  It was not a ghost. It was Bella, very much desirable flesh and blood, clad in white satin and lace. At least, under other circumstances, she would have been desirable. At this precise moment he had only one desire, and it was not Bella.

  ‘Auguste!’ She wafted towards him with open arms, and as he stood up in agitation, threw her arms round him with gusto, toppling him backwards on the bed. She had a fashionable figure, and fashion was not approving of girlish slenderness, thus Auguste was buried under her smothering warmth and kisses. Her arms slid up and down his body, arousing sensations delightful at other times but not now!

  ‘Madame,’ he cried into a mouthful of satin. ‘Bella, don’t,’ as a particularly well-aimed hand found its target. ‘I have sworn to remain faithful to my love,’ he tried without much hope.

  But the arms slightly relaxed their hold. ‘She wouldn’t know,’ Bella’s voice informed him from above.

  ‘I would,’ he cried eagerly. ‘In my heart.’

  ‘Ah well, I could leave your heart intact,’ Bella murmured beguilingly.

  ‘The two are linked,’ Auguste shouted in desperation. ‘I plead with you, madame. Would you have me betray another?’

  ‘Why not?’ Bella enquired, then laughed, rolled off her prey, sat up and patted her hair back into order. ‘I hope your lady appreciates your sacrifice.’

  ‘No,’ said Auguste simply, ‘for Tatiana is not my lady. Nor ever can be,’ adding hastily lest Bella take this as encouragement to renew the offensive, ‘but yet I cannot love another,’ he perorated, cursing the predicaments in which body and social convention could combine to place one.

  ‘What a waste,’ sighed Bella. ‘And I thought you liked me. I suppose I could always go to visit Gaston,’ she announced without excitement as she floated out.

  A few moments later, urgent needs fulfilled and the chamber pot replaced, Auguste climbed once more thankfully into bed, where he slept out the night, peacefully if regrettably chastely.

  Chapter Seven

  Auguste slowly emerged from his bedroom at seven thirty, not yet able to face the possibility of passing guests, to greet the last day of the old century. True, only a slight headache reminded him of his involuntary excesses of the evening before, but consciousness that he had been made to look foolish at least in his own eyes contributed to the distinct grumpiness that enveloped him this Monday morning. He felt a great desire just to go to his cubbyhole office and let the world pass him by. Conscience directed his footsteps elsewhere. To the dining room where guests would shortly be descending for breakfast.

  A terrible sight met his eyes. Mary was on duty with two footmen, immaculately clad in livery. The garnish, yes, but where was the meat? Where was the usual array of steaming hot dishes, where were the succulent smells that should gently woo the breakfaster into a delightful awareness of the promise of the day to come? What met Auguste’s nose was burnt devilled kidneys and the smell of old tired herrings that had lain uncalled for in their marinade for too long. Worse, where was the heart of breakfast, the breads? In the place usually occupied by freshly baked muffins, crumpets, Sally Lunns, Didier’s breakfast cakes, anchovy toasts, sausage toasts and Scotch woodcock were what looked suspiciously like the bottom rounds of yesterday’s cottage loaves, with their round roofs sitting on their own, doubling as rolls.

  ‘What is this?’ asked Auguste simply.

  Mary quailed. She had the stamp of a true connoisseur, he noted dispassionately. She had an instinctive awareness of the correctness of things.

  ‘Cook’s a little busy this morning, sir,’ she offered in misguided loyalty.

  Auguste stared at her aghast. ‘A little busy,’ he repeated, dumbfounded. ‘Too busy to—’ He broke off. One should never criticise superiors before their underlings, no matter how great the provocation. And Fancelli was undoubtedly the chef in residence. His chest swelled. His muscles grew tense. The time had come for Showdown in the Kitchen Corral.

  Quivering with rage, he ran down the staircase towards that underworld that should have been so entrancing but now was occupied by an alien presence. He spied his quarry, and marched straight to him.

  ‘Signor Fancelli,’ he began silkily, ‘I understand you are a little busy this morning.’

  Fancelli looked up briefly, and went back to his apparently engrossing task of desultorily stuffing a turkey. ‘Yis,’ he informed his superior.

  Auguste examined the object of Fancelli’s attention more closely and was transfixed. His whole consignment of delicately perfumed truffles – fresh truffles, 8 lb of Kentish truffles, supplied by His Grace the Duke as a favour to him – were being carelessly stuffed into one turkey. True, the art of cuisine had been known to demand such sacrifices in the past, but not unless for a centrepiece, a dish for the highest gourmets to appreciate.

  ‘What is it you do?’ he asked, voice rising uncontrollably. ‘These truffles, at the peak of their condition, so delicately perfumed, snouted out by the Duke’s own dogs, they cannot be wasted so when mushrooms would do as well.’

  Fancelli’s reply was muffled and far from cordial as he continued stuffing truffles into the cavity, followed by a noise that suggested he was about to break into song.

  ‘We have no more truffles,’ screamed Auguste. ‘These must be saved for the garnish,’ pulling the dish away.

  Fancelli at last took notice, grabbing the dish back, and flourishing a precious truffle under Auguste’s nose.

  ‘Attention!’ cried Auguste anxiously, the delicate perfume under his nose seeming to be pleading for its release.

  ‘I take care,’ snorted Fancelli. ‘I take care with truffles. They all go in. See!’ plunging one in as though it were a fistful of pug into a wall cavity.

  ‘No, no,’ Auguste plunging in his own hand as soon as Fancelli’s was released, and removing the precious objects.

  A silence fell in the kitchen as the staff began to watch, fascinated.

  Fancelli’s face bulged at this affront to his position; he picked up the truffles and replaced them before, too late, Auguste grabbed the dish to guard them against further assault.

  ‘Signor Didier, you stuff your truffles where you like.’ Fancelli’s preferred choice was menacingly obvious.

  ‘I, Signor Fancelli, am the manager here.’

  ‘And I am the chef.’


  ‘They are my truffles. Remove them from this turkey.’

  Fancelli looked at him. Then he turned to the turkey. With great care he removed the truffles one by one; then he picked up one, weighed it in his hand, and hurled it at the menu blackboard.

  A terrible silence, and at last: ‘You, monsieur, are not worthy of the name of chef. You will leave these kitchens now,’ pronounced Auguste in deadly voice.

  ‘I go,’ snorted Fancelli in a mixture of grandeur and glee. ‘I go and you have no chef for tonight, your New Century’s Eve banquet.’

  Auguste and his staff watched the portly figure don jacket and hat, exit through the tradesmen’s entrance and puff up the steps to the outside world. The strains of La Donna è Mobile could just be heard till they faded into the distance.

  August drew a deep breath in the stillness of his own domain. He looked at the open-mouthed faces watching him for his reactions, for guidance; he looked at the familiar objects of the kitchen, salt jars, chafing dishes, mousetraps, dough bins, salamanders, from which he had been temporarily banished. He looked at the tables, untidy but scrubbed ready for action. He looked at the menu blackboard, at the cook’s knives inviting his use, he looked at the baskets delivered from the market, beautiful cauliflowers glowing white, green firm sprouts, red glossy apples. Oh, the textures, the colours. He smelled the fresh fish awaiting preparation, he saw the exotic fruits awaiting his master touch.

  Scheherazade with all her jewels could not command as much as he before this riot of possibility, this wealth. Auguste drew a deep sigh of happiness. He beamed. He looked at his staff.

  ‘Alors, mes enfants,’ he said, spreading his arms wide in welcome. ‘Come, we have work to do.’