Murder in Pug's Parlour (26 page)

Eight-thirty. The pace was quickening now.

‘The spit, Mr Tucker—’ William rushed in to adjust the guinea fowl.

‘Oh, Mr Didier, I been and dropped a junket—’

‘Mr Didier, this mayonnaise ’as gone funny.’

Auguste rushed hither and thither: rescuing the plovers’
eggs from where they had been hidden behind a large boar’s head in aspic; checked the syllabub; reactivated the mayonnaise; added the touch of sloe gin to the
coq au vin
; tenderly removed the coverings from the terrine of partridge and truffles; inspected with critical eye the chicken pie with port; and checked Mrs Hankey’s cranberry jelly for the spit-roasted turkeys. He approved the desserts produced with a flourish: his speciality, the Nesselrode pudding made from chestnuts all picked on the estate; the
croquante
of walnuts; the
crème awe amandes pralinées.
And the cheeses. Auguste drew a breath, as he admired the cheeses disappearing beneath their vast china canopy. He came from a country of over three hundred cheeses, and yet the sight of the English cheeseboard never failed to move him. They seemed to him a stately progress of the sturdy English lords of old: My Lord Stilton, My Lord Leicester, My Lord of Cheshire, and his own favourite, My Lord Wensleydale. French cheeses were wonderful, but they were dainty by the side of these oaks: Monsieur Camembert; Madame Brie;
les petits chèvres.

On the other side of the green baize door preparations were also being made, but not with the same speed or desperation as in the servants’ hall. Lady Jane was pondering whether to wear her dark blue merino costume with the matching blue velvet hat and blue silk blouse that had been so much admired by Walter Marshall, or the dark brown severely cut Paris tailored walking dress that Arthur said matched her eyes so wonderfully.

‘Which shall I wear, Mary?’ she cried imperiously to one of Ethel’s underlings.

Mary had no hesitation. ‘Oh, the dark brown, Your Ladyship. Without a doubt. It’s so
distungwee.
’ She had been conversing with the Marquise’s maid.

Lady Jane was annoyed. ‘You don’t know what you’re
talking about, Mary? I shall wear the blue.’

With a sigh Mary hung Lord Arthur’s choice back in the vast wardrobe. Lady Jane began to look forward to the day with a sudden pang of excitement . . .

In the bachelors’ wing, unaware that his judgement was being favoured by his lady, Walter Marshall hesitated between the Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, or a country suit. With some reluctance he donned his sporting gear. Not that he intended to shoot. It was all a ridiculous charade, but even he could hardly ignore the Duke’s – ‘Counting on you to be there, Marshall. Lend a hand, even if you won’t take a gun, what?’

Walter shrugged and accepted it. He had an inkling that there would be more hunting than that of flying birds today. Rose had a look in his eye that smacked of the bloodhound taking the scent. He’d taken breakfast with him, Rose making his first appearance in the ducal dining territory, and Walter had taken this as confirmation that the hunt was nearing its end. The sooner it was over the better, but all the same he had his doubts as to the day ahead. There might be trouble, and if so he didn’t want Jane around . . .

Lord Arthur Petersfield hummed complacently as he donned his shooting coat. He always had been a good shot, ready to take chances, where others hesitated. The Guards’ training. He too sensed the day ahead would be unusual. And tonight he would ask the Duke for Jane’s hand. A decent enough interval had elapsed since Honoria’s death. Just get the day over first. He was always one to face up to a challenge . . .

Franz von Herzenberg stared at his reflection in the mirror. Strange, three years in England, and still when he donned English clothes, made in Savile Row, he did not look English. Who would want to after all? He was
German. He had the honour of the Fatherland to maintain in the field. The English were hypocrites, pretending they did not care who had the biggest bag, when all the time they cared very much indeed. At the end of today
he
would have the biggest bag. At the end of the day . . . It required some effort to complete the intricacies of his toilette.

The Marquise de Lavalleé wrapped herself warmly in her cloak. All very well for these younger women who could dash to and fro doing this and that, but for her it was to be hours of sitting still in the fresh October air. There was a knock at the door. Her maid went to open it.

‘
Entrez
, Francois. I am ready you see, prepared for the feast.’

‘Madame, it is too cold. Do not go, I beg you.’ His eyes met hers squarely. ‘I feel you should not go today.’

She sighed. ‘
Non, François. Vous avez raison.
But still I shall go. We shall see the end of the play together, yes?’

He bowed and then, as the maid went into the dressing-room to fetch her hat, stepped forward and fastened the button at the neck of the cloak, murmuring possessively, ‘Together, madame.’

His Grace had no doubts over weather, or over the advisability of so many passions being brought together on a shooting field. His Grace was looking forward to the day, simply because His Grace liked shooting, and the prospect of a golden October day with the best drives of the season ahead of them was pleasing. All other thoughts were far from his mind. Even that of Rose. The sight of Rose, in what he fondly thought was a country suit, hastily acquired in Maidstone for the occasion, only aroused a slight impatience that the fellow didn’t know how things were done. That such an improperly dressed fellow might nevertheless have it in his power to ruin the best shooting day of the year never entered his head.

Rose himself, little dreaming what emotions he was arousing in the ducal party, or perhaps fully aware of it, was closeted in the schoolroom with Auguste and Edward Jackson, smuggled in from Maidstone now greatly recovered, though the Towers was officially mourning his death.

‘Got it, Mr Rose, sir,’ he chirped. He was sitting on his bed, only a small bandage now round his head, and this almost hidden by a large cap.

‘And above all, you are to stay with Mr Didier. Not leave his sight, you understand, lad?’

‘Rightio.’

Auguste remained worried. ‘But it is a risk, Inspector, is it not? A risk with a boy’s life. Even though we watch him all the time.’

Egbert Rose looked sober. ‘I’m aware of that, Mr Didier,’ he said stiffly. ‘But unless we flush our trickster out, this lad is going to be in fear of his life all the rest of his born days. You still want to do it, Edward? Remember I explained this is for your country. Someone who means to harm England. You want to catch him?’

The boy nodded enthusiastically.

‘It’s not like your hero Sherlock Holmes,’ said Auguste quietly. ‘This is real, you understand, Edward? You must be by me all the time,
all
the time, you understand?’

Edward nodded. ‘I want to get home to see me auntie again,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘Anyway, this cove’s promised me a trip to London if I do it.’

Auguste fixed Rose with a steely look.

Rose blushed. ‘I’ll be watching, Mr Didier, and you’ll be watching. Nothing can go wrong. You’ve my word on that.’

Constable Perkins put his head round the door. ‘Beg pardon, sir, Mr Marshall wants to see you urgent in the library.’

Rose frowned. ‘Right, I’ll be along.’ It was not an interruption he welcomed.

He found Walter pacing the floor of the library agitatedly, a stranger with him. He turned quickly as Rose entered. ‘Inspector,’ he said, ‘thank goodness. I was afraid you’d left for the shoot. Lord Brasserby, this is Inspector Rose.’

A reluctant handshake portrayed that Brasserby would much rather be preparing for the shoot than talking to Scotland Yard, but that he was prepared to do his duty for England.

‘Marshall here tells me you’re thinking Franz von Herzenberg had something to do with this spot of bother. That he took the Rivers papers and was being blackmailed by this butler fellow.’

Rose looked none too pleased.

‘I told your other chappie only one chap could have done it,’ said Brasserby impatiently. ‘Assumed we were both thinking the same way. Couldn’t be Prince Franz.’

‘Why not?’ Rose rapped out.

Brasserby blinked. He was not used to being rapped at.

‘As Marshall tells me, your idea goes something like this. Herzenberg is a von Holstein man, Holstein ordered him to obtain plans of Britain’s future navy so that he can build up Germany’s navy for an eventual war. Right?’

‘Something like that,’ said Rose cautiously. He was not pleased. The initiative seemed to have left his hands.

Brasserby shook his head. ‘Got it all wrong. Firstly, the Prince is a Kaiser man, and the Kaiser’s the one with the bee in his bonnet about the British navy. Jealous, you know. And the Kaiser and von Holstein are at daggers drawn.’

‘So the Prince stole the plan for the Kaiser, not for von Holstein. What does it matter whom for?’

‘No,’ said Brasserby. ‘Franz wouldn’t dare. You don’t know von Holstein. He has black files on all his underlings, ready for use, just in case. He doesn’t allow the Kaiser’s men to work for him – and prosper. He allows one in from time to time, but keeps a careful eye on them. Franz would not dare spy for the Kaiser without von Holstein’s approval.’

‘So,’ said Rose impatiently, ‘even if this von Holstein and the Kaiser don’t like each other, why couldn’t von Holstein be equally keen to get the plans?’

‘Because,’ said Brasserby, ‘just at the moment von Holstein is doing everything in his power to keep England sweet; whatever his long-term plans are he doesn’t want to move a step to antagonise England at present. He’s holding the Kaiser back.’

‘So what you’re saying,’ said Walter, his feelings mixed, ‘is that it couldn’t possibly have been Franz who stole your plans.’

‘Of course not,’ said Brasserby with scorn. ‘Only one fellow could have done it. Petersfield. Blast him. Lord Arthur Petersfield. It’s my view von Elburg is behind it all, Franz’s superior. Now he is a Kaiser man, but von Holstein can’t touch him. Even so he couldn’t risk getting the plans himself. He set up Petersfield to do it. Got some hold over him—’

‘Gambling,’ said Rose gloomily.

‘That it? Arranges for rumours of a break-in at the Foreign Office and hey presto. One good thing though –’ Brasserby paused and smiled – ‘A word in your ear . . .’

At ten-thirty on the front steps of Stockbery Towers a large party of persons convened, the house party plus another thirty guns from the county. The younger and more robust men and the loaders strode off towards the first coverts;
ladies and the more elderly gentlemen piled into carts. Round by the servants’ quarters, their own party was mustering, carts piled high with staff and hampers.

Last of all to leave were Rose and Auguste, the latter now aware of the new development. After all but they had gone they were joined by a pale but excited Edward.

‘Nice day for a shoot, eh, Mr Didier?’ said Rose cheerily.

Auguste cast a look at him. ‘The hunt is on, I think?’

‘Oh yes, indeed,’ said Rose. ‘The beaters are out, the birds will fly, eh, Mr Didier?’

It was a text-book battlefield. Both sides ranged neatly, opposing each other, ready for the signal that would set the war in motion. Not that it was any kind of equal contest, thought Walter wryly. The beaters, representing the yet unseen pheasants, were lined up in Shorne Wood, their cream-twill smocks gleaming intermittently between the trees. Opposing them the guns, in some places double-banked on this day of the big shoot, loaders behind them at the ready, their masters’ honour their own.

The keepers had been up since dawn, coaxing and driving the birds into the clumps. Shorne Wood, famous throughout England for its pheasants, would take two drives this morning; it was a large wood, carefully cultivated into coverts, and its conditions were ideal. For two days now there had been no noise on the estate; all farm machinery had been silent, the tracks passing the wood closed to traffic; even Hollingham Mill had been paid to be silent, lest the noise disturb the birds. The miller made no objection; he earned twice as much from the Duke this way as from his daily grind, not to mention the additional money he picked up from beating. Farm workers, even footmen, became beaters for the day, enjoying the break from routine, and either ignorant of or ignoring the fact they themselves were in the running to be winged or even worse, with the unknown quantity of some of the guest guns. ‘What was a peasant or
two in the interests of the day’s sport?’ was the attitude of some of the more die-hard landowners of Europe. The Duke, however, was not of that ilk. When a beater had been wounded a year back by one of his guests, he had not only been fully compensated but had received the honour of a ducal visit, a situation he made the most of, thus doubling his official compensation.

There was a tension hovering, for all the world like a medieval field of battle waiting the order to change. Women had no place in this world, though some stalwarts stood behind their menfolk. The Duchess set an example; her solidarity was especially noteworthy nowadays, as though she were gaining good points in store against her next lover. Behind Lord Arthur’s loader stood Lady Jane, bravely, palely doing her prospective wifely duty. She hated the noise of guns, and had it not been that she knew Walter’s eyes were probably on her, nothing on earth would have kept her standing there. The rest of the women were some way back, squatting uncomfortably on shooting sticks. The Marquise was today comfortably installed, to the indignation of the staff, by the luncheon tent; this was some way away since it had to be estimated where the drive would have reached by lunchtime; however she could hear distant shooting and yet be comfortable. She had no great wish to see Francois shooting. He was not a good shot, and only took a gun because the Duke had insisted, in the blind belief that the fellow enjoyed it and was only reticent in taking a gun because of his lowly position.

The hunting horn was raised to the Duke’s lips, the clarion call given and the drive began. The keepers first, driving the birds out carefully, not too quickly, in ones and twos, concentrating them, directing their path of flight, the beaters and stops, as the far escort, wheeling round in a flanking movement ready to circle in.