by Myers, Amy
Maisie’s cleaners had not bothered with unneeded rooms. The dust of ten years adorned the cheap shabby wardrobe, the bedframe, an old chest, battered corded trunk, the single chair. All testimony to a room that had once been home for someone, thought Auguste.
Twitch had no time for sentimentality, eager to point out his finds. ‘See this, sir? Now we know where Fancelli spent last night, don’t we? A razor and strop. Shavo shaving cream, soap and bowl. Had this all planned, ’e did.’
‘Nothing else, though,’ observed August. ‘No spare clothes. And how did he get in through the locked door?’
‘There’s his spare pair of braces,’ Twitch pointed out defiantly. ‘And it’s easy enough to pick a lock.’ He wasn’t going to have the Frenchie doing him out of his hour of glory.
‘Probably has the rest of his belongings tucked away somewhere. Left luggage store, perhaps,’ he suggested grandly.
Rose was examining the mattress. ‘Someone’s slept on this all right. No dust. Well done, Sergeant Stitch.’
‘Now we’ve found Fancelli’s hiding place, we know his partner’s right here – among his guests.’ Twitch gave Auguste a smug and far from loving look, as though the guests had been personally selected by him.
‘He’s right,’ said Rose. ‘You best stay with them, Auguste, on all their visits. I suppose we can’t keep them locked up here,’ he added a little wistfully, ‘but at least you can make sure none of them slips away. Sergeant Stitch and I will get back to the Factory.’
He might almost as well have added, ‘Where the real work’s done,’ thought Auguste despondently, as he trailed down to luncheon. So much for Didier, the great detective. Always before, food had played a part in inspiring him to the heights of detection. Now he had been miraculously restored to his beloved kitchen, only to be snatched away again. He was bereft of all that made his mind work best – Egbert and food both gone. True, he should still be able to reason, but he needed the constant stimulation of the art of cuisine. Without it, he was as arid and dull as a pheasant without its casserole, a boiled fish without its sauce, a pudding without its crust. So convinced was he of his diagnosis that when he remembered that there had been no gun in the room Fancelli had been using, he dismissed it as unimportant. Which was a pity.
Auguste’s announcement had somewhat dampened the frisson that the proposed afternoon’s tour round the great private mansions of Hyde Park and St James’s had previously caused. The prospect of viewing the valuable possessions of the richest in the land was definitely overshadowed by the news that one of their party was, according to the police, about to despatch the richest himself for ever. Nevertheless, the visit was well attended, with Thérèse joining the group after Auguste had told her, putting duty before dinner, that arrangements were well in hand. She had not in fact enquired after dinner, seeming far more interested in hearing graphically with many embellishments from the twins that they too were under suspicion of murder and would-be assassination.
‘Bah!’ she remarked in derision, casting a scornful look at the two police constables who stolidly accompanied them, making a brave pretence that they were as fascinated by Rubens’s design for the coronation of Maria de Medici as their flock at least should be. Having privately applied to the Duke of Sutherland for admission to Stafford House, they were again the only party there, which was perhaps as well. Some of its members had matters on their minds more pressing than the charms of its Tintorettos.
‘Who would want to murder the Prince?’ asked Eva of Thomas in a high voice, intended to reach her neighbours.
‘The Boers,’ answered Gladys in hushed tones. Then, ‘Oh, I forget, you are one, aren’t you?’ she added brightly. Then she went brick red: ‘Not that anyone would think that you—’
‘Eva is a very, very distant relation of ex-President Kruger,’ answered Thomas hastily. ‘And now she has the honour to be a Harbottle, I take it you don’t feel the Harbottles have turned traitor?’
‘Why not?’ asked Bowman cheerfully, casting a passing glance at ‘Lord Stafford on his way to the Scaffold’. ‘The best heads in Britian used to land up in baskets. Or butts of wine. The British admire a chap with a spot of individuality.’
‘I take it,’ Harbottle’s slight figure tried to bring centuries of British hauteur to this nouveau riche parvenu, ‘you are not implying I am a traitor to Her Majesty, that I have plans to assassinate the Prince?’
The words fell into a sudden silence in the group as they turned to look at him. Harbottle flushed red: ‘I wonder if you are aware,’ he announced loudly, ‘that this Correggio is said to have hung as an inn sign near Rome on the Via Flaminia?’
‘Bella, I am disturbed.’ The Marquis’s announcement had all the weight of King Ahasuerus ordaining life or death for Esther. He cast an austere eye on the Earl of Ellesmere’s fine collection of paintings in Bridgwater House. Paris, the eye seemed to suggest, could do better. The party had left Stafford House, leaving only as a record of their visit a false moustache attached (temporarily) to a naked Venus (fortunately it was only a ‘School of’) by two of the Honourable Misses Pembrey. Auguste did not notice. Major Dalmaine did, and wondered briefly whether, however desirable Rosanna might be, marriage into the Pembrey family would be entirely a wise move.
Bella was regarding through quite unnecessary lorgnettes that displayed her graceful white gloved hands to perfection, Titian’s ‘Venus of the Shell’, fortunately as yet unadorned with moustaches. Her husband was compelled to make his point clearer.
‘This foolish Inspector has got it into his head that this ridiculous notion of an attempt on the Prince of Wales is linked to Cranton’s. Murder is objectionable enough when it disturbs one’s Christmas, but assassination is too much when there are two diplomats of high importance in the party. It is, I consider, libellous.’
‘Slanderous, actually,’ his wife cheerfully corrected him. ‘And just think, Gaston,’ she gave him a rare and beatific smile, ‘what stories you’ll have to tell those stuffy old ministres when we return home. You will be a figure of importance, Gaston.’
‘This is true,’ he said, weighing her words with surprise.
‘That’s unless you’re implicated,’ she added laughing. ‘Are you?’
The Marquis stiffened, his eyes going to Dalmaine who was bent on following Rosanna’s progress round the gallery like Apollo stalking Daphne. ‘Really, madame,’ he replied formally to his wife, ‘you go too far.’
Rosanna was quite aware of Frederick Dalmaine’s pursuit. She had even slowed down a little so that it might be successful. She was more than a little annoyed with Danny who she had high suspicions was more enthusiastic about his career than about herself. She had commanded his presence outside Stafford House, in the hope that she would be able to absent herself from the rest of the afternoon ‘by error’, and he had not appeared. She was thus consigned to yet more Titians and Rembrandts, with all the more interesting-looking private rooms banned to them. Frederick Dalmaine was somewhat surprised at the warmth of her smile when at last she allowed him to catch up with her.
‘I am so glad to see you, Fred—Major Dalmaine,’ she dimpled prettily. ‘I get so bored with these naval actions,’ she dismissed Van de Velde with an airy wave of the hand. ‘I do think the army is much more interesting. So active. So dangerous,’ glancing quickly and effectively at his leg. She could never remember quite which one it was.
He flushed with pleasure. ‘All in a day’s work,’ he announced fatuously, patting the relevant limb.
‘I want you to tell me about Africa again. Everything. And those Ashantis that your brother fought.’
Dalmaine turned bright red. ‘How the deuce did you know about that?’
Rosanna looked nonplussed. Had it perhaps been Danny who had mentioned George Dalmaine? No matter. She had intended to please Frederick and please him she would. ‘It must have been the Inspector or Mr Didier mentioned it,’ she told him brightly, and proceeded to chatter on the delights of the soc
ial season. She was used to rapt attention but on this occasion failed to discover the difference between rapt and simulated.
Auguste was having a barren afternoon, and it was not made the more fruitful by his coming across Carruthers.
‘No good under fire. Look at Quatre Bras.’
Auguste was at a loss, and seeing this, the Colonel said impatiently: ‘The Dutch, man. Damned room’s full of Dutch paintings.’
‘But we are not at war—’
‘Not at war? It was damned Frenchies like you Wellington went over to thrash. Waterloo, man. The Dutch-Belgian brigade. Supposed to be our allies. Might as well have been on your side, scared of a few Frenchies on horses.’ He snorted, looking Auguste up and down. ‘Surprised they let you into the country,’ he informed his host, and marched stiffly away to inspect an ‘Alpine Scene with Waterfall’.
After the exigencies of the afternoon, a nearby hostelry provided a refuge from the Cranton’s party. It also, Rose thought cunningly, distanced Auguste from the preoccupation of worrying about how John might be faring with the provision of dinner. Looking rather wistfully at the fire, they retired to a more private corner, though there were few enough patrons on an early January night.
Rose watched Auguste drink a brandy and soda without enthusiasm, as he drank his own ale. No finesse, no subtlety in their drinks, the English. Their food, yes, it spelled infinite potential, but the drinks? Non. True, in the country he had tasted excellent fruit wines but how in London could one drink parsnip wine with coq au vin?
‘You have to face it, Auguste,’ Rose said at last. ‘It’s either Bowman or the Baroness we’re after.’
‘Bowman is the obvious choice,’ said Auguste desperately. He pushed away the thought of a fellow chef (in which category he had not included Fancelli) being a murderer.
‘Motive?’
‘I have an idea about this,’ said Auguste eagerly. ‘Bowman is a dealer in iron, he travels to the Low Countries frequently. Too often for someone who merely deals in iron gates, for instance. Maisie observed at the Tower of London, as I did at the Wallace Collection, that he spends much time studying the collections of firearms. Suppose he is a dealer in guns, providing the Boers with their modern weapons, an intermediary between Krupp and the Boer government? At the moment they could not afford still to be seen supplying armaments to the Transvaal. Would Mr Bowman not have a motive for wishing the war to continue? Would he not wish to encourage guerrilla warfare among the Boer farmers resisting British rule? And what better way than assassinating the Prince of Wales so that it is assumed to be a plot by Kruger?’
‘It’s possible, Auguste.’ High praise indeed from Rose, whose face fell into its thinking lines. Then: ‘Evidence?’
Auguste searched rapidly for ingredients, and laid them metaphorically on the table before Rose as they emerged from the storeroom of his mind.
‘Un: the probability is that, as you say, the murder was committed by one of those on the second floor, of which only the Baroness and Bowman had tea. Deux: the murder was possibly done by a woman, but more probably by a man. Trois: the body was most certainly lifted by a man, for it would be too heavy for a woman once the girl was dead. It might have been Fancelli, but more likely, because of the fear of detection, it was a guest. Quatre: as the girl must have been killed in a guest’s room, and Fancelli could not have come to assist until night-time, only Bowman, as a man, could have had the strength to lift the body to hide it until the hotel was quiet for the night. Cinq . . .’ Auguste paused.
‘Cinq, you don’t like him and you do like the Baroness. You’ll never make the CID, Auguste,’ Rose informed him kindly. ‘We have to suspect everyone, from the chimney sweep and chefs to our own mothers. I’ll do the Baroness, then. Motive: her husband is German, at the Kaiser’s court. Could be young Willie Kaiser having a go at underground politics, but unlikely. Royals don’t go encouraging assassination. It could be a private argument between Kruger’s supporters and the Baron. He goes off to Hungary to avoid suspicion, she comes here to arrange the dirty work.’
‘Evidence?’ asked Auguste mutinously.
‘One: her room is conveniently placed, as you say. Two: she is strong for a woman. Three: she is an organiser. Four: no specific reason for her as a Frenchwoman to choose to spend Christmas here. What’s the matter?’ he asked sharply at a slight exclamation from Auguste.
‘Mon ami, I should confess I have reason to doubt . . .’ Auguste looked unhappy.
‘What?’ Rose asked inexorably.
‘That the Baroness is French, as she claims. I believe,’ he continued unhappily, ‘that she is Belgian.’
‘Reasons?’ Rose asked sharply.
‘She uses the word nonante not quatre-vingt-dix for your ninety. This is the Belgian form. Either she is Belgian or has spent much time there. I believe, having observed her method of cooking, that it is the former. Chicon gratiné is much beloved in Belgium. And furthermore,’ he added reluctantly, ‘Maisie informs me that she referred to the “enemy’s” view on Blenheim as though she herself were not French. But why,’ he rushed on, ‘if she knows Belgium well, did she come here to meet Fancelli? Why not come over with him just before the third of January?’
‘We don’t know what arrangements they have to make here,’ said Rose deflatingly.
‘And why bring a companion?’ Auguste pressed on belligerently. ‘Is Marie-Paul also in the plot? Perhaps she is the murderess? Perhaps she lied about ordering no tea? Mon ami, that is the answer.’ He sat back, beaming happily.
‘No tea tray,’ Rose said dismissively.
‘Why did she need one? She could have attacked Nancy after she left the Baroness’s room, and she has strong hands,’ Auguste pointed out eagerly.
Rose considered, then shook his head. ‘Don’t see our Miss Gonnet being strong enough to carry this out on her own, and if she were in league with Fancelli, how could she hope to get away with it unless the Baroness were involved too? The Baroness might go to her companion’s adjoining room at any time; she couldn’t be sure of being alone for the murder, but the companion would not go to her mistress unless summoned. She’s been with the Baroness a fair time too; she didn’t just take this job in order to bump off Bertie.’ He coughed and looked round hastily in case anyone had overheard this lese-majesty from a senior detective of Scotland Yard. ‘It’s either the Baroness, both together,’ he declared, ‘or Bowm—What is it, Twitch?’ he broke off impatiently, letting the nickname slip, which normally only happened under great provocation.
Sergeant Stitch had come through the door, and half the patrons of the pub hurriedly finished their beer and left at this unmistakable sign of the law.
‘Thought you’d like to see this, sir.’ He ignored Auguste. This was Yard business.
‘It’d better be important.’
Rose glanced at the lengthy telegraphed message, whistled, and handed it to Auguste without a word.
The Prince of Wales settled back into his favourite armchair at Marlborough House and picked up the Sporting Times. There were, he supposed, compensations for being dragged back from decent shooting at Sandringham. Even if it did mean back to the grind of daily engagements in tight uniforms. He was reminded that one such engagement coming up on Thursday had a distinctly unpleasant variety to the routine planned. Tomorrow Mama would be meeting ‘Bobs’ at Cowes, and the next day it was his turn. He frowned. Not that he believed all this talk of a second Sipido. All the same, he’d make quite sure that Alexandra didn’t come. Nor young George. Just in case. Not that there was a word of truth in the rumour.
It hadn’t been a bad Christmas. Mama had been unusually quiet. For years he used to dread the sight of the telegraph room at Sandringham which always seemed to be clattering with messages from Osborne. Give him the days even before that when you could at least see the telegraph boy pedalling furiously up the path and have time to make yourself scarce. When they put the telephone instrument in, he’d had more than a few anxious moments, but f
ortunately Mama was a creature of habit. Dashing off a few furious words came more naturally than shouting through a round piece of metal. Why had she been so quiet? A sudden anxiety. Was there anything to Beattie’s worries? No. The old girl would live for ever. They’d had these scares before and she’d always come through. Nothing would keep her from meeting her beloved Field Marshal tomorrow. Nevertheless he supposed he’d better go down to see her shortly. He viewed the prospect of visiting the Isle of Wight and its shrine to his late father, Osborne, without enthusiasm. It wasn’t even the yachting season. Still, at least it meant that his beloved cousin, Kaiser Willie, wouldn’t be there.
Breakfast at Cranton’s was again unusually well-attended, now that news had got out of the improved menu under John, with the delights of smoked salmon and eggs, herring roes, truffled eggs, and kidneys. The pleasures of coddled eggs taken in solitary rooms paled beside this morning’s menu. Auguste, at his post, flinched as Rose and Twitch entered, with two police constables guarding the door. For once he was entirely with the Colonel.
‘I say,’ shouted Carruthers, ‘can’t a fellow eat his kedgeree in peace?’ Only the presence of ladies made his outburst so mild.
‘My apologies, sir. I’m afraid it’s necessary,’ Twitch told him smugly.
‘If we might have a word, madam.’ Rose stopped at the Baroness’s table.
‘Certainly,’ she told him.
‘In private, madam.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘I am glad I can be of assistance, Inspector,’ she said coolly, rising to follow him. ‘Does Mr Didier require further assistance in the kitchens?’
‘No, madam,’ Rose told her woodenly, once outside. ‘I’m here to arrest you in connection with the murder of Nancy Watkins.’
The Baroness said nothing. Her hands gripped her dorothy bag tightly.
