Murder in Pug's Parlour (3 page)

‘What the devil’s this, Did’yer?’ An imperious finger was pointed at the carefully written list.

‘Crayfish, Your Grace, from the River Len.’

The Duke snorted. ‘Why the devil can’t we have some of that
écrevisses à la provençale
? Something with a bit of taste.’

‘
Faites simple
, Your Grace. Do not complicate matters,’ said Auguste deferentially. ‘That’s what the maître, Monsieur Escoffier always said. In Kent, crayfish. In Provence,
écrevisses
.’

‘Why the devil I ever brought you over, I don’t know,’ grunted the Duke. ‘Haven’t had a decent sauce in weeks.’

The battle of the menu won, Auguste made his way to the housekeeper’s room where a further pot of lemon tea was being consumed and tongues were loosed in earnest.

‘He said he wasn’t satisfied,’ said Hobbs, alarmed. ‘That means—’

‘Foul play,’ breathed Cricket.

‘Nonsense,’ wept Mrs Hankey. ‘How could it have been? It were an accident. Must have bin the Scotch woodcock. His little savoury he was so fond of. That boy, it’s all his fault. He prepared it.’

Auguste shrugged. ‘How could one poison someone with anchovy fillets and cream, Mrs Hankey? Accidentally?’

Much as he might privately consider all savouries as a poison, an assault on the tastebuds at the end of a meal, it was difficult to imagine them as a vehicle for a virulent poison, especially at the hands of a fifteen-year-old boy. As steward’s-room boy it was Jackson’s job to prepare the savoury and coffee in the pantry adjoining the Parlour, but it was difficult to see how poison could have been accidentally added to them.

‘You mark my words,’ said Cricket, though hardly anyone ever did. ‘They’ll find he was an arsenic eater – like that Mr Maybrick. Don’t you worry, Mrs Hankey. I agree. Must have been an accident. The doctor’s wrong. He took a bit too much.’

These words failed to cheer her. ‘Arsenic eater,’ Mrs Hankey said scornfully. ‘What would he want to eat that
for? Unless someone fed it to him of course.’ Her eyes travelled towards May Fawcett. ‘Some people were bent on making his life a misery – knowing he was pledged to me, that is.’

May Fawcett was flushed but uncowed. She venomously spat out: ‘If that’s meant for me, Mrs Hankey, I would point out, if you please, that far from making Mr Greeves’ life a misery, I was the one spot of fun that Archibald had.’

Auguste felt a shiver of apprehension. Every normal day, he and his fellows got on reasonably well, a few sour remarks, nothing special, a united band of upper servants. Then comes a death, a violent one, and suddenly all is changed. It was like a sauce; you add one final ingredient and the chemistry of all the rest is changed. Perhaps ruined . . .

Edith Hankey was staring at May Fawcett as though unable to believe the impertinence of what she had just heard. Finally she burst out: ‘Archibald? You dare to call him Archibald. May Fawcett, how dare you! You never would while he was—’ Her voice wobbled.

Miss Fawcett turned on her with a triumphant, cruel smile. ‘Oh yes, I would. Why not? He was in love with me, see.’

Aha, thought Auguste. Now we shall hear the pheasants fly. The big bang and the birds fly out.

‘May,’ said Chambers sharply.

Auguste’s eyes turned swiftly to him. What was this?
May
, not Miss Fawcett?

Chambers’ intervention was ignored.

Edith Hankey had risen to her feet, to tower in personality if not inches above the girl. ‘You forget your place, my girl. You taken leave of your senses? In love – with you? It was me with what he had an understanding.’

The girl looked at her contemptuously, the crisis having temporarily swept away all thought for the morrow. ‘We was in love. We was going to get married, just as soon as we could get a house on the estate.’

Mrs Hankey’s face was purple. ‘You? You wicked little liar. He was going to marry me, miss.
Me
.’

‘You!’ retorted Miss Fawcett with withering scorn. ‘What would he want you for? A man likes something pretty in his bed, not a ripe old bird like you.’ And with that she burst out crying, while Mrs Hankey was reduced to a quivering jelly of shock and rage.

‘Who cares how he died anyway?’ wept May. ‘He’s dead.’

This realisation subdued Mrs Hankey’s impotent anger and she sat down suddenly, first her chin, then her lips beginning to quiver. Ethel Gubbins rose to her feet and rushed straight to her, casting a scathing look at May.

‘You shouldn’t say such things, Miss Fawcett. You really shouldn’t. We’re all upset . . .’ She put her arm round Mrs Hankey, an action unthinkable in other circumstances. ‘Now you come to my room and lie down, Mrs Hankey. I’ll look after you. A good cry will do you good.’

Another scathing glance, this time delivered at the men, presumably for the uselessness of their sex, and Mrs Hankey was escorted out of her room along the corridor and up to Ethel’s on the first floor. Her footsteps could be heard clicking along the corridor in rhythm with the loud sobs that were now beginning to erupt. The remaining upper servants studiously avoided each other’s eyes. No Greeves. Now no Mrs Hankey. Authority was temporarily mislaid.

Ernest Hobbs, the new power in the land as Greeves’ acting successor, was the first to break the silence. ‘Mr Didier, hrumph, the time.’

Five pairs of eyes went to the small French clock on Mrs Hankey’s mantelpiece. Their owners took in its message simultaneously. Ten minutes to seven.

Five people reached the door almost at the same time. May Fawcett, hastily scrubbing at her face with a handkerchief, was marginally first. ‘Her dress,’ she shrieked. ‘The bath. If that little hussy’s forgotten the water again—’ Her scurrying steps echoed down the corridor, hotly pursued by John Cricket in the pursuit of similar sartorial duties for His Grace.

Auguste Didier was shaken. He had all but forgotten for the first time in his life.

Dinner. It was time for
le Dîner
.

Adjusting his apron and his cap, Auguste paused at the entrance to the vast kitchen to survey his kingdom. He was tall for a Frenchman, five foot nine inches, and slim for a cook. To his staff he was a god and to the females on it a double god, for his dark, warm French eyes breathed an exoticism into their humdrum lives. Today this god would have news of The Murder, for such the lower servants were now convinced it must be. They had not seen him yet, his assistants. They were moving without that air of total dedication, so necessary for perfection. He frowned. The familiar blast of warmth from the ranges and gas stoves hit him, acting as a stimulant, and pushing to the back of his mind all thoughts of murder. There they could marinate, he told himself, like the fish of the Mediterranean with their provençal herbs. His mind must be clear for the important matter – dinner. Only one hour left. The sense of power surged over him again. He was a maître. Had not Auguste Escoffier himself bestowed the accolade on him? And this was his kingdom.

He sniffed. That was good. The smell of the roasts
slowly browning in the range, the fowls on their spits.

‘Gladys,
ma petite
!’

She looked up; instantly the stocky figure in its brown print dress seemed to gain new purpose as she scurried over to the Black Beauty gas stove where sauce-making was about to commence. Some chefs left the sauces completely to their underlings; even the vegetables. Ah, they knew nothing, those ones. The slightest overcooking and – tragedy could strike. Why, a chef he knew in Paris had shot himself when the
brandade
separated, whilst the Comte de Paris was waiting. The thought of sudden death brought Auguste’s mind back disagreeably to Greeves but, ignoring it, he set out on his ‘Cook’s Tour’, as the girls disrespectfully called it. What else could you expect from girls not yet eighteen? They did not appreciate that food was an art – for them it was something to fill their bellies, something they could not get enough of at home. But give them another year with him and then they would know. Yet probably before then they would be married. They were forbidden followers, but they always found a way. And who could blame them? There were few Rosa Lewises amongst them.

‘Ah,
la soupe
.’

He lifted the ladle to his lips. Gladys’ eyes were fixed on him in trepidation. The
potage à la Reine
was light – perhaps a
soupçon
too much cream, but no matter. He smiled at her and her day was made. Annie was not so lucky. The
consommé
– he frowned. It would not be noticeable to any but Auguste, but he could detect a bouillon rushed, brought to the boil too quickly; it was without finesse. It was on his mind to tell her to throw it away, to shame her, but today – yes, today had been difficult, he conceded.

‘But next time,
petite
Annie, you . . .’

The tour continued: roasts inspected, pies approved, a
sauce for an
entremet
, the turbot kettle prepared, the
carpes farcies
ready, the brandy junket setting nicely in the marble-shelved larder. The final stir for the sorbet in the icebox. Her Grace was particularly fond of sorbets, and would often have them served between courses. To Auguste’s mind this was a mistake –
une petite salade
, perhaps, but a sorbet was too extreme. It frightened, not eased the stomach.

Ten minutes to eight: the Freds, as they were known even to the upper servants by now, gathered in the kitchen to take the tureens of soup to the servery. Normally they stood impassively. Tonight was different. They were animated beyond their station.

‘Is it true, Mr Didier, that someone’s cut old Greeves’ gizzard?’

‘Where’s Mrs Hankey, Mr Didier? She ’asn’t really taken poison and fallen senseless over ’is body, ’as she?’ This romantic interpretation on the part of Gladys.

‘
Non
, Gladys, Mrs Hankey is—’

‘I ’eard, ’e did it ’imself—’

‘John, the soup,’ said Auguste firmly as the first tureen was handed over. Nothing, not even a death in the upper servants’ ranks, must disturb the ritual. The Freds returned, their mission this time the roasts. Now Auguste’s apprentice, William Tucker, came into his own. The cold roasts were already displayed along the long oak sideboards, where they would remain all evening, in the remote chance that a guest might still possess an unsatiated appetite after ten courses. The hot roasts were borne up to the servery to stand for their ritual fifteen minutes, steaming and tenderising inside their crusty shells, ready for the Duke’s easier carving.

‘
Attention
, Michael,’ came Auguste’s anxious shout as the newest of the Freds wavered uncertainly, laden salver in hand.

Next the fish, always Auguste’s most troublesome course.
He cast an agonised glance at the St Pierre as it whisked by him in the charge of John, the oldest of the Freds. That rhubarb sauce – was it perhaps a little too bitter for the English palate? The salmon, that could look after itself safely in the huge chafing dishes in the servery, but the soles, perhaps today they had lingered a trifle too long in their
ravigote
sauce?

Finally the last of the courses had been dispatched, tired labourers began to contemplate their own suppers, and the whole mighty kingdom paused. Two hundred feet away nine spoons were lifted to busy chattering mouths, murder safely distanced by the green baize door. Tonight Ernest Hobbs, as acting steward, would be standing behind the Duke’s chair, Auguste reflected: what more could life hold? A man of sixty, bullied and harassed by the smiling villainous Greeves for ten years, was at last now in a position of power. How would it affect him? If he were Hobbs, he’d be openly jubilant. No more petty criticisms over the state of the plate, no endless callings to account after sudden descents to the cellar to check stock. No, Hobbs could have little cause to regret Greeves’ passing. Especially with that business of his daughter. Auguste had not then come to the Towers, but the gossip still persisted.

‘Mr Didier, you’ve been in my still-room,’ came the accusing voice of Mrs Hankey, sweeping into the kitchen to interrupt his thoughts. ‘Now that I won’t have . . .’ Clearly she was determined not to allow any diminution of her rights, despite her publicly displayed weakness. She had risen, unable to sleep, unable to see anything but Archibald’s contorted face.

‘Ah, Madame Hankey, what could I do? The
charlotte
– it needed just a touch – a
je ne sais quoi
.’ Auguste, deliberately at his most French, spread his hands expressively. ‘Why, only
la belle
Madame Hankey’s rosehip jelly would suffice.’

Mollified, though suspicious, Mrs Hankey sniffed. It was
true her rosehip jelly was widely known for its purity of texture. Though that did not excuse an unauthorised raid on her still-room, while her back was turned in such tragic circumstances.

In fact Auguste had had another mission in that still-room. He had seen someone die with symptoms like Greeves’ before and, in the still-room were the jealously guarded medicaments with which Mrs Hankey treated the sick of the household against all minor ills, among them a sixpenny bottle of extract of aconite bought from Harrods, in small drops the basis for Dr Parkes’ recommended cough and cold remedy, but in large doses swift and lethal. The bottle had still been there when he had looked. It was half empty but that told him nothing.

‘Very well, Mr Didier, but don’t let it happen again. The loss of my Archibald,’ Edith Hankey lowered her voice, ‘has been a bitter blow to me, Mr Didier; but I’m still the housekeeper here. I shall Go On.’

Auguste grimaced. Why did the English always have to Go On? She’d have felt much better if she’d simply howled and screamed like a Marseilles fishwife. After this burst of confidentiality, Mrs Hankey resumed her professional dignity. ‘Supper will be in my room, Mr Greeves’ room being – ah – not available.’

‘Ned Perkins says they
are
treating it as a possible murder, Mr Didier,’ one of the Freds commented importantly as he whisked by with a tray of savouries.

‘That will do, John,’ came Mrs Hankey’s glacial voice. ‘This is Mr Greeves you’re speaking of, remember.’