Murder in Pug's Parlour (15 page)

‘The police think so,’ murmured Auguste. ‘Yet I had no reason to kill him. But you did, didn’t you, Mr Hobbs? Every reason. So it’s important you help find who really did it.’

There was a silence. Then: ‘Tell the police about Rosie, did you?’

‘No,’ said Auguste.

‘It wasn’t her fault,’ said Hobbs, staring at some point far beyond Auguste. ‘She was a good girl up to the time he got hold of her. Ruined her.’

‘
La pauvre.
’

‘And so she drowned herself – best thing really.’

Auguste shivered. The best thing? He began to look at Hobbs in quite a new light.

Saturday began early for the staff of Stockbery Towers and in particular for Auguste Didier, chef. Tonight there was another ball. When Stockbery Towers had a ball, Merrie England was reborn. This one had been arranged at short notice and tempers in the kitchens were higher than the heat thrown out by the ranges and ovens, already at full blast to cope with the number of expected guests. It was only a small ball; merely sixty people to be entertained. The refrigerators shook with ices; the cool larders burgeoned with raised pies, galantines and cooked hams. At eight o’clock the delivery men were coming in a continuous trail to the kitchen door. Already Auguste was moving as nimbly as Jacques le Jongleur, juggling tasks dexterously and fielding disaster before it occurred. The garnishes were prepared, all organised for the last-minute adding to the aspic jelly: the truffles, the plovers’ eggs, the quail eggs, the
entremets
, the jellies, the charlottes – Auguste ticked them off methodically in his mind’s eye on the system he had taught himself. The apprentice learns from his master, he learns his way, his methods, he learns the basic craft, the tricks, the finesse. But a maître is born, not created. After he leaves the master, he is on his own, and upon his own genius he imposes his own discipline. Auguste made a face at the boar’s head, staring at him unblinkingly from amidst its aspic garnish. Not a real
sanglier
, of course. This was not
La France.
But it would do. A head of a bacon hog, cut deep and carefully boned, the bristles singed off, and inside his own special forcemeat of tongue, bacon and truffles, moistened with a mirepoix of wine. For ten days it had been marinating in its brine before cooking, intended for a grand picnic but snatched two days before its time for this ball. He would ask
Gladys to produce some chrysanthemums from the gardens to finish the decoration; last time he had applied gum paste in the Continental fashion and there had almost been a disaster, with the heat of the room. A boar’s head that apparently wept tears of sorrow. Even a maître can err.

In the steward’s room meanwhile a reluctant Edward Jackson was being coaxed into a footman’s livery.

‘We need all the help we can get up there,’ said Hobbs firmly. ‘Just keep an eye on me, and I’ll tell you what to do.’

‘But I ain’t never been up with the swells before,’ wailed Edward as he was forced into stockings and breeches; he only fell silent as the wig was placed upon his head. Traditional to the last, the Duke insisted that full dress livery meant just that. For formal occasions their own hair brushed with violet powder was not enough for his footmen. Wigs were to be worn.

Edward peered at himself in the mirror.

Two cherubic cheeks peeped out from under an all-but snowy white wig giving his over-mature young face an innocence that was largely foreign to him.

‘Lucky we had this spare livery,’ remarked Hobbs complacently. ‘Off you go and give Mr Chambers a hand, young Edward, and remember don’t speak to no one if you can help it. Don’t you open your cockney little mouth more than you have to. You’ll look like all the others unless you speak.’

The boy obstinately remained, gazing in disgust at his reflection in the servants’ hall mirror. ‘I look just like a Fred,’ he muttered beneath his breath. ‘I don’t wanna go, Mr ’Obbs.’

Hobbs’ voice rose menacingly. ‘Out, Edward. Up there this instant.’

God had spoken. It wasn’t Greeves, true, but another
God seemed to have taken his place. Edward cast him one scared look and ran.

Walter returned in the governess-cart from a day’s outing just in time to change for dinner, in thoughtful mood. It had not taken long to find the establishment of Mrs Greeves, fifteen miles away. It was a Queen Anne villa of generous proportions. She was known as the Widow Greeves, visited once a week by her brother. Walter thought carefully about Greeves and his character and the idea simmering at the back of his mind firmed up. Tomorrow he would act on it. He would see the Duke.

But much was to happen before that Sunday morning dawned.

Behind the baize door a seething mass of frustration was prevented from explosion only by the limitations inposed by the duties of the evening ahead. Nevertheless certain events took place.

Frederick Chambers kissed May Fawcett and received a slapped face for his pains. May Fawcett then informed Mrs Hankey, who had surprised them, that she was a jealous old biddy. Mrs Hankey forthwith burst into tears, simultaneously informing Miss Fawcett she was dismissed. Miss Fawcett pointed out only Mr Hobbs and Her Grace could dismiss her. Ernest Hobbs appealed to their better natures. He was disregarded. Ethel sided with May Fawcett, Mrs Hankey informed her she was dismissed. Mr Cricket for once in his life played the hero and defended the rights of Miss Ethel Gubbins; Mrs Hankey threw a sugar loaf at Mr Cricket. It missed and caught Auguste entering Pug’s Parlour to place the evening dessert in the pantry a glancing blow in the left shoulder, causing him to drop a large blueberry pie upside down on the floor. French imprecations flew through the air.

‘You are mad, you English. Mesdames, messieurs.
The ball.
Remember, if you please.’

Carriages drew up and disgorged rustling, silken-cloaked ladies, their fragile arms held possessively by top-silk-hatted gentlemen. Equipages softly and silently vanished away, while their owners ascended the six white steps of Stockbery Towers, so painstakingly blancoed daily by Ethel’s minions, and on this day twice so manicured. Bevies of beauties swept through the porticos, a kaleidoscope of rich-coloured gowns peeping beneath their cloaks, waiting to be shaken out and fussily arranged in the privacy of the Duchess’ suite, lace fichus carefully swirled to display what they were intended to conceal; it was necessary to ascertain immediately who was present, to mark prey for the evening, to ensure that only those people whom one wished were given the opportunity to fill their names on your card and that only
the
person should be allowed the supper dance.

Only a dozen servants in full dress livery, six imported from the village, betrayed the fact that there was another world within Stockbery Towers, wherein a vast army slaved with dedication and, in some cases, satisfaction, to ensure that the Duke and Duchess of Stockbery’s ball should be a success and reflect due credit on their coroneted heads. One platoon of this army applied itself assiduously to the last touches to the buffet. For the titillation of jaded palates they laboured over the finest products of Auguste’s art.

‘The secret, Joseph,’ said Auguste didactically, for he believed in communicating his wisdom whenever possible, ‘is that they all look the same.’

He stopped still in the middle of applying a shrimp to the herb mayonnaise on the
darne de saumon.
Thus it was that a
mere crustacean was responsible for his realisation of how Archibald Greeves had been murdered.

Down at Kent County Police Headquarters in Maidstone Sergeant Bladon and Inspector Naseby were working late, with two cold mutton pies from Master Tucker’s pie shop awaiting their pleasure. What Mrs Bladon would have to say about this would never be recorded; the sergeant, however, was half gratified that his views were of such importance that it warranted his staying late, and half annoyed that he would be missing the company of one Joseph Hopson, and more particularly his plump jolly wife Nancy, invited by Mrs Bladon to share their repast that evening. But be that as it may, the Stockbery case took precedence. For the umpteenth time Inspector Naseby and Sergeant Bladon were trying to figure out just how the Honourable Mrs Honoria Hartham had managed to poison the brandy to give to the Duke.

The players were making their opening gambits now; the band had been playing some while. Lord Arthur strode towards the Lady Jane. To claim her for the first dance showed a certain panache he felt, a masterly handling of the situation to which the Lady Jane did not seem averse. She was discouraged, it was true, because she had not been able to avoid Mr Marshall who had blandly written himself in for the supper dance, showing a blatant disregard for her feelings since any gentleman should have realised from her manner that this was not what she had desired.

‘Jane,’ said Lord Arthur, as they whirled around to the strains of the music. ‘I have something very particular I wish to talk to you about. Shall we take a turn in the orangery?’

Her heart jumped. She closed her eyes. This, then, was it. The moment that all women waited for. When a man –
the
man – would say . . . She looked at his dark handsome face so close to hers, and thought how unbelievably happy she was.

His Grace was very far from being unbelievably happy. He’d been forbidden access to Honoria’s arms the night before on the grounds that she had to look her best at the ball, and, dammit, if she wasn’t trying to keep him at arm’s length tonight, too. Asked her for the supper dance only to be informed that the Prince was taking her in. Damned Prussian. Prince indeed! Everybody who could say Schleswig Holstein boasted of being some kind of prince nowadays.

‘Why, George, what a positively miserable expression. Anyone would think you weren’t glad to see me.’

Honoria had appeared at last. She was at her most provocative and His Grace had no more chance than a particularly slow-moving fly of avoiding this Venus-trap.

‘Hardly been near me all day,’ was all he could manage in the way of a protest.

‘But I wanted to, George, oh how I wanted to. You don’t know how jealous I am seeing you with all those lovely women at the shoot. And knowing that we must be careful.’

‘I’m tired of being careful, Honoria. Dammit, I want you – and by God, no damn foreigner’s going to have you.’

Honoria looked skittish. There was a time when that look had raised fires in him; now it infuriated him even though it occurred to him that she looked a little silly. For some reason this made him even angrier. Whatever Laetitia was, he thought, looking at his Duchess, she wasn’t silly, and by God, no woman like Honoria was going to make a fool of the twelfth Duke of Stockbery.

No, Laetitia certainly was not silly. She was thinking hard. She was scrutinising her best friend, meditating as to what
awful revenge she could wreak upon her. At the moment, boiling that pretty body in oil seemed a fate too good for her.

Her Grace, her attention distracted by the welcome sight of her daughter being led in the direction of the orangery by Lord Arthur, had not been pleased to discover a few moments later that the Prince was to escort Honoria to supper; his protestations of the need for discretion this time failed to convince.

‘My reputation, I feel, my dear Franz, can stand the occasional assault.’ Then, feeling this was a little tart, she managed a light laugh.

‘
Liebling
, we will meet later. Much later. When you and I can be alone.’

He caressed her with his dark eyes, but for the first time it seemed to Laetitia that it was perhaps just a little mechanical. Nevertheless she was jealous. Honoria was forgetting her place.

‘You take much for granted, Your Highness,’ she replied a little coolly. ‘Perhaps this evening I do not wish to be alone with you. The cuckoo clock may not sing tonight.’ Her own private signal.

‘Dearest,’ the Prince’s eyes clouded, ‘have I offended you? Of course you must be alone if you wish, stricken though I shall be.’

This was not what Laetitia had intended. She pouted, and tossed her curls. ‘If you don’t
want
to be with me tonight . . .’

‘But,
Liebchen
, you wished to be alone . . .’

‘If Honoria Hartham is so attractive . . .’

These women. These English women. So demanding. He hated warring women.

‘Dearest, for tonight perhaps, you are tired after the ball . . .’ He kissed her and and, with great relief, fled.

The Duchess, her woman’s wiles quite deserting her, tried to restrain her temper.

Jane smiled a beatific smile of assent to Lord Arthur, and indeed led the way to the long orangery that ran the length of the library behind the house. This had been another conceit of the eleventh Duke, who had insisted on its being built incongruously on the back of the house, thus causing the architect of Stockbery Towers to die prematurely of shock and outrage. It was an approved spot for dalliance, the statuary of naked gods and goddesses being classified as art and not as erotic encouragement.

It appeared that the Lady Jane had a speck of dust on her lovely face that entailed close examination by Lord Arthur for its removal. Once that was accomplished, he seemed to find it difficult to distance himself.

‘You will marry me, won’t you, Jane? You must. I want you to be my wife. All my life I’ve been waiting for someone like you . . .’

Having heard the words she had been imagining all day, instead of replying as any well-brought-up young lady had been trained to do, Jane merely managed a gulp and said, ‘Yes please.’

‘You wonderful filly. Can I kiss you, Jane?’

An inarticulate murmur gave him to understand that no objection would be raised, and his lips were placed respectfully on hers. She closed her eyes to savour every moment, and was rather surprised to find she had not fainted – perhaps it was not essential. She tried hard to feel like Evelina when Lord Orville fell to his knees before her, but could only be aware of Lord Arthur’s moustache tickling her upper lip. Still, it was all very satisfactory and no doubt she would get better at it in time.

It was at this inopportune moment that Walter Marshall
came storming through the door to claim Jane for the supper dance. His face was angry, his eyes blazing and he bore little resemblance to the cool young politician whose reticence was such an asset to his career.