Murder Under The Kissing Bough: (Auguste Didier Mystery 6) (29 page)

He politely disengaged her. He
had
hurt himself. His face and hands were bleeding, his body was bruised. Nevertheless Fancelli was safely in the expert grip of the young police constable, who now that the danger was past was being assisted by several stalwart passers-by. His flourish on the police whistle had gone unanswered.

‘Let us take a hansom,’ said Auguste faintly. ‘I will pay for it,’ he added, as the constable looked disconcerted. Hansoms weren’t in the range of his salary. Auguste, however, was aching all over. A sitz bath seemed an exquisite idea. But before such pleasure came duty – and he wished to see the
maître
again. To warn him of what might yet be in store for the Prince of Wales.

‘He’s not saying anything,’ grunted Rose three hours later to a weary Auguste, slumped in his uncomfortable office chair. ‘Keeps saying he doesn’t understand English.’

‘He understood it very well in Cranton’s.’

‘Furthermore he insists that the only reason he’s at the Carlton is that you dismissed him and he needed a job. The underchef hired him.’

‘I did not think the
Maître
would have been so foolish,’ announced Auguste.

‘I told him we’d got his accomplice in prison – just to
test him out – and he got very alarmed indeed. Shifty geezer.’

‘He is,’ agreed Auguste fervently.

‘Then I mentioned Bowman being dead. That was news to him. Very pale he looked at that. Do you know, Auguste, I reckon you’re right, it was Bowman after all. Remember he referred to Fancelli as ‘the cook’, when all we said was that he worked at Cranton’s? Your Madame Lepont is in the clear, and her companion. The Surété checked. Marie-Paul Gonnet, born Colmar 1868. Of course, Fancelli denies coming back to the hotel again after you dismissed him, but then he would. What’s more, we’re getting in information now from Brussels. Bowman did deal in arms. And for the Boers. So it looks to me very like the Prince of Wales may be able to sleep easy now, one way and another. Very grateful I am to you, Auguste. It hasn’t been easy, I know. But now I hope we’ve seen the end of it.’

Auguste opened his sleepy eyes and tried to focus on the matter in hand. After much effort he did so: ‘But Egbert, if Fancelli did not, then who
did
murder Bowman?’

Auguste almost tumbled down from the hansom cab, greeted as if in a dream the policeman on duty, the night porter, and the stray cat who had adopted Cranton’s by night. Painfully he pulled himself up the front steps and through to his private rooms. At least, they should have been private.

In his tiny study-cum-lounge he started tearing off his clothes, his normal precision and orderliness forgotten. All he could think about was bed, the bliss of a comfortable bed in which the hot water jar might still conceivably be warm. After an ultimately successful battle with suspenders and socks, he fell thankfully at
the last milepost and tumbled into what should have been paradise – on any other night but this. What he had assumed was a large hot water jar appeared to be a woman, a fragrant-smelling, soft and embraceable woman. With red hair.

‘Auguste,’ she murmured happily, ‘how nice.’

One small cry of anguish escaped him before his battered body tried politely to cope with this emergency.

Tried, but ignominiously failed.

‘I am delighted you have seen the error of your ways.’ Madame Lepont swept through the doors of Cranton’s Hotel on the morning of 5 January.

‘Not all error, ma’am,’ Rose pointed out. ‘There’s still the matter of the false identity.’

‘My little ruse to investigate the running of a luxury hotel,’ she smiled. ‘Poor Marie-Paul. She did so enjoy being the companion of a baroness. You are very cruel, Inspector.’ She paused. ‘As for myself, I shall not complain. You had reason, I suppose. And the reason for my release?’

‘The murder of Mr Alfred Bowman, ma’am.’

Shock flashed through her eyes. ‘Another murder, Mr Didier? You provide your guests with very unexpected fare. Might I ask who has been arrested for this murder, and why he was murdered?’

‘No arrests yet, ma’am.’

‘But even Mr Didier cannot accuse me of it, I imagine,’ she said lightly. ‘I am, I confess, disappointed in you, Mr Didier. I had thought us friends, and to conspire to arrest me is hardly an amicable action.’

‘I shall make it up to you this evening, madame,’ Auguste told her fervently. ‘For the grand banquet this evening, I shall create a
timbale Thérèse
. The Maître Escoffier sometimes claims he creates all his best dishes
for women. And his former apprentice shall do the same. It will be an honour to name this dish for you.’

‘I accept your peace offering, monsieur,’ she said gravely. ‘On condition you grant me the recipe in order that it may have pride of place in my own hotel.’

‘Splendid,’ said Albert Edward cordially to Inspector Rose. He meant it. One assassin probably dead, the other under lock and key, having now confessed, poor fellow. Couldn’t be better. He waved aside all advice of caution in case this conclusion was premature. Rose took the hint and retired, wondering if this operation should be undertaken backwards as he was before his future monarch. Compromising on a half-shuffle sideways, he almost tripped up when royalty addressed him again.

‘By the way,’ asked the Prince of Wales, ‘who caught the fellow?’

‘Monsieur Auguste Didier.’

‘That cook fellow?’ Albert Edward was astounded. That fellow got everywhere. Name popped up all over the place. He thought of the letter in his writing desk still unanswered. He supposed he’d better agree. If Mama had no objection, that is.

Auguste looked round his regained kingdom and shuddered. John had clearly not been trained at the Didier School of Cuisine, judging by the disorder that had now crept into the kitchen. Creativity and inspiration must be ruled by order to be given full rein. What use to create a superb
pièce montée
if one ran out of almond paste? If the meringue were not yet baked? Tonight, Twelfth Night, was the last banquet. Tomorrow night the greenery and decorations would have vanished, and had not Inspector Rose requested their presence for another evening, so would the guests.

John in the midst of his own created chaos created his own order. On the blackboard he had duly listed the dishes still requiring his attention, but omitted those already prepared. Thus, Auguste frowned, one was unable to gain the whole picture, to carry in one’s mind those last-minute garnishes still to be added. Perhaps he would have a word with John – after the banquet.

John saw him gazing at him and smiled happily, putting a thumb through a pie crust with a careless jerky movement, and covering it with an exquisitely executed pastry rose.

He must concentrate on the new dish to be created for Thérèse, Auguste remembered. Perhaps a
timbale Thérèse de caneton aux truffes
? Perhaps too rich.
Non
! This was after all the Twelfth Night banquet, signifying a glorious end to festivity. A strange festivity it had been. Tonight, however, he would do his best as host to give an evening of entertainment such as they would remember. Cranton’s at Christmas would not be synonymous solely with murder. True, after the banquet, the entertainment was being organised by Maisie, but with the help of the twins. Rose had asked to be present, and was by no means pleased to be informed by Evelyn that he too must contribute. Auguste himself had reluctantly put aside his original intention of reading from the philosophical works of Monsieur Brillat-Savarin in favour of the gentleman who had committed the unforgivable at Monte Carlo.

‘Ah, Auguste.’ Maisie swept in. ‘I hear you landed on your backside. Hurt yourself? What’s this?’ she swept on, sticking her finger in a bowl without too much concern for his backside.

‘That is ginger syllabub,’ said Auguste, ‘for the Pall Mall Pudding
à la Guessings
, and I would prefer it to appear without the shape of your fingers in it, Maisie,’ he added mildly.

‘I’m your employer,’ she told him serenely, ‘I can do what I like.’

‘Not after tomorrow,’ Auguste told her with regret at how this opportunity had slipped by ungrasped.

‘Come on now, Auguste,’ she said sturdily. ‘It’s not your fault you’ve had three murders on your plate instead of stuffed oysters.’

‘Three murders that I have not solved,’ he pointed out bitterly. ‘Maisie,
three
of them. What has happened to me, that I cannot see the solution?’

‘You always used to say that the food would show you the way,’ she said more cheerfully than she felt. Murder after all was no great inducement to join a ‘Lady Gincrack’s Tour for Gentlefolk’.

‘But in this disorder?’ he began until he saw John’s reproachful face.

‘Go back to the beginning, you always used to say,’ she told him. ‘Go back to the recipe and the ingredients.’

‘The recipe is a plot to assassinate the Prince.’

‘Or the girl in the fog.’

‘True. We still have no explanation for poor Mary White. Where did she come from? She gave Nancy information about Cranton’s. But how did she hear it?’

‘From her master and mistress?’ said Maisie valiantly, picking out an almond spike from the Hedgehog Pudding.

‘We assumed she was a housemaid because of her print—Maisie,
please
,’ he broke off anguished, as another spike followed the first.

Maisie hastily replaced her hands in her lap, and looked attentive.

‘Now as to ingredients, clues, we have “Marlborough”, we have—’

‘The reference to the definite article, and—’

‘We have Pall –
the
Pall Mall Pudding!’ he shrieked.
‘My custard.’ He flew to the gas oven and removed the dish from its water jacket. Truly, some god of cuisine looked after him today. Well done, but not yet ruined. The delicate taste of honey, subtly blended with spice, would still shine through the custard. He set it to cool before moving it carefully onto its shortbread base. Then and then only could he add the syllabub, and the final garnish of fresh and crystallised fruit. Miss Guessings would remember this evening for ever.

‘Pall Mall Pudding. Oh, Mr Didier.’ Gladys so far forgot herself as to clasp her hands in excitement. The most delightful banquet and this to top it all. It was too much. She had reason to be gleeful, arguing that such favour shown by Mr Didier proved she was not under suspicion of Another’s death. Everyone had professed enthusiasm for Auguste’s creations; Dame Nellie herself was not more enthusiastic at the creation of her
pêches melba
by
le maître
Escoffier than were Madame Lepont and Miss Guessings at the honour done them, thought Auguste happily.

‘It is Madame Emma Pryde’s recipe, Miss Guessings. Naturally, it has been adapted by Auguste Didier specially for you,’ as Gladys enthusiastically partook of his offering.

‘What have you got in there, Auguste?’ enquired Maisie gulping. ‘Neat whisky?’

‘
Mais non
,’ said Auguste, hurt at the very idea that such crudeness could enter his creation. ‘It is for Miss Guessings. Ginger wine, brandy—’

A shriek from Gladys. ‘Mr Didier, you’ve done it on purpose, you know my secret,’ and she relapsed into hysterics.

So startled was he, he was incapable of movement for a moment, then proceeded to act with commendable efficiency born of years of experience of such
emergencies. It was not usual, it was true, for a hotelier to slap a paying guest round the face, but it was on occasion necessary – and effective. Edith Rose, dressed in her Christmas best, glided into position as second-in-command, bearing Gladys back to her room, leaving a bemused company to pick up their spoons and resume their attack on the Pall Mall Pudding.

Edith returned half an hour later, and took her place once more at the table, by which time the puddings had been replaced by savouries. She decorously concluded her meal, oblivious of all curious looks. Eventually she satisfied them. ‘Mr Didier,’ she began severely, ‘had put alcohol in the pudding.’

‘It is usual,’ said Auguste defensively.

‘Miss Guessings is a member of the Band of Hope,’ said Edith, her look in the cause of feminine solidarity daring her husband to enquire further. But when the ladies withdrew to the drawing room, Rose followed her out.

‘Edith,’ he said meaningfully, preventing her escape into this temporary feminine sanctum, ‘what’s so secret about the Band of Hope?’

‘Apparently, Egbert,’ she replied with dignity, ‘and I tell you this in case you suspect that dear lady of involvement in deeper doings, she has been known to break her vows and take a small sherry before luncheon on occasion. Nancy Watkins mocked her about it, it appears.’

Rose gave a guffaw. ‘Fond of her tipple, is she?’

‘Really, Egbert,’ said his wife, shocked. ‘Language, if you please.’

Auguste’s rendering of ‘The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo’ had been received well; he was gratified to remember just how well he could sing. True, his forte was to sing
de l’amour
and, better still,
to
a beloved. But music hall songs were amusing, and he
had, Maisie informed him gravely, a natural flair for comedy. He looked at her suspiciously, but her face appeared guileless. Only one more performer now remained. A most reluctant one, but one prepared to do his duty by Twelfth Night.

Inspector Egbert Rose cleared his throat, donned spectacles and took up the leatherbound copy of Charles Dickens’
Christmas Stories
that had graced their bookshelves ever since Edith’s uncle Cyril, who had been awarded it as a school prize, passed on.