Murder in Pug's Parlour (20 page)

‘Me?’ Auguste blinked at him, bereft of speech at the barefaced accusation.

Rose looked at him dourly. ‘Why not? You seem very enthusiastic about this blackmail; you gave the sergeant the book.’

Steel against steel. For the first time, Auguste felt a tinge of fear. He was well enough aware that it would suit everybody, except the servants, if the crime could be blamed on them, and preferably on the foreigner, and this man, he felt, might even be able to do it. He had the brain, unlike the others. He subdued his panic, glanced at Walter and set his reason in motion. He answered quietly. ‘I tell you this man Greeves was a blackmailer. Mr Marshall will confirm that his widow lives in great comfort. But what I cannot tell you, Inspector, is where his proof was kept. Mr Marshall says where did Greeves keep his evidence? I do not know, but I tell you this, Inspector Rose, if it exists and I believe it must, it will not be in a tree in the grounds, underneath floorboards, tucked under a mattress, no. He was a cunning man, a bold man, and it will be hidden in a safe place, but an obvious place, so that he could laugh at his victims. He was like that. He would laugh; not outwardly but inside himself.’

Inspector Rose nodded slowly, seeming to be satisfied at Anguste’s answer.

‘We have given it a lot of thought,’ said Walter, ‘Mr Didier and I. He would want his evidence near, not at his wife’s house, but where, we have no idea.’

‘Oh, I’ve an idea all right,’ said Rose. ‘Yes, I’ve a fair idea.’

It was almost seven by the time Rose was ready. By this time His Grace was nowhere to be found. Ten minutes elapsed before he was tracked down to the billiard-room whither he
had repaired with Walter Marshall. Marshall made as if to go as Rose made known his wishes but His Grace asked him to stay.

‘Won’t be long, will you, Rose? Deuced good game, want to finish it, what? Give you five minutes, finish the game and then I’ll have to change for dinner.’

If Rose was disconcerted he did not display it. If His Grace was prepared to have a third party present at the discussion of his private affairs he was either a fool – or a very clever man.

But whatever, if anything, the Duke had feared, did not materialise. Rose did not ask him again about Honoria Hartham. He seemed much more interested in Archibald Greeves.

‘Was he what you might call a nice man, Your Grace?’

His Grace’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Nice? He was my steward. Don’t ask me if he was nice or not. Popular enough. Knew how to behave. Let him stay to drinks sometimes. Some sense of breeding.’

A glance shot at Rose should have warned him that he too was being judged on this score and failing.

‘A clever man, would you say, Your Grace?’

‘Did the accounts all right. Nothing wrong that I could see.’

Walter Marshall, sitting in the corner, glanced from one to the other. He tried to judge where Rose was leading, but it was difficult to assess. ‘A rich man, would you say?’

The Duke blinked. ‘Rich? Paid him well enough. Got a few valuables though. Asked me to look after them for him. Waiting to give them to this lawyer chap the widow is sending.’

‘Ah!’ breathed Rose. A smile of quiet satisfaction crossed his lips fleetingly.

The Duke looked surprised. ‘Show you tomorrow if you like.’

‘Now, please, Your Grace.’

His Grace frowned, ostentatiously took out his pocket
watch and regarded it. Then he glanced at Rose and gave in. ‘In the safe, morning-room.’

Walter Marshall, keenly interested, followed.

His Grace swung out a rather bad oil painting of the eighth Duke to reveal a wall safe. Out of it he took a large packet.

They opened it up.

‘That’s my wife’s handwriting, dammit,’ said the Duke, staring.

But Rose was quicker than he. ‘I’ll take these, Your Grace.’

‘Yes, but wait a minute,’ said His Grace, puzzled. His brow was furrowed with the strain of thought. Laetitia’s handwriting?

Now His Grace was quite definitely upset. Dinner had to be put back half an hour. It was a gloomy gathering. Lord Arthur Petersfield, the Marquise, Walter Marshall and the Prince all seemed resigned to spending the rest of their lives at Stockbery Towers. Tempting as the thought would have been when they were first invited for the three-week shooting party, now that they were not free to return to the lure of London for the odd day or two, its delight was rapidly losing its allure. But the police had been adamant. Walter, who had managed to get leave of absence from Lord Medhurst, who was fortunately engaged in Newcastle on party business, was the most sanguine of the guests; Lord Arthur was impatient to leave the delights of Stockbery Towers for the fleshpots of London now that his goal had been achieved; the Marquise wished to return to her own country and the comforts of her own bed, despite the amenities she had brought with her. The Prince, his life complicated by a superfluity of women, thought longingly of his embassy behind its iron gates.

Supper was equally sombre in the servants’ hall. An atmosphere of uncertainty reigned over it. No one had told them anything. Even PC Perkins was no longer a source of information. Would the hand of the law fall on them and sweep them off? Were they even now sitting side by side with a double murderer? Eating his cooking? They pecked at their food, and one of the best barons of beef that the Home Farm could produce, and a soufflé specially concocted by Auguste to soothe their minds, passed for nothing.

Equally glum, Inspector Rose sat down to his solitary supper. His presence had caused great concern for the protocol of Stockbery Towers. Was he servant or guest? Should he dine with the family or with the servants? Mrs Hankey had come up with the solution. The old schoolroom was quickly converted to a working-room and dining-room, the old nursery for sleeping quarters. And there sat Egbert Rose, gloomily inspecting a rocking horse with a faded blue saddle that mocked him from the shadows.

‘Just a plain bit of fish,’ he had told Auguste, on being questioned as to what he would like for his supper. ‘Nothing too rich, mind,’ he said warningly. It was the cry of his life. Not that Mrs Rose produced rich food, but such were the unfortunate results of her repasts that Egbert laboured under the delusion that she did.

Auguste had returned to the kitchen, seeing this as a direct insult to his cooking, not the desperate cry of a man tortured too long by inefficient cuisine. ‘Nothing too rich,’ he muttered in disdain, as he laboured. The results he took up himself and set the tray with dignity in front of Egbert Rose.

Before him lay shining cutlery and napkins, a rose in a silver vase, provided by Ethel, and an array of gleaming silver dishes.

Inside them was nothing that was instantly recognisable to Inspector Rose as anything, let alone fish.

‘It looks rich,’ he said forebodingly.

Auguste stood in front of him, arms akimbo. ‘Monsieur, it is
not rich.
’ He held his eye firmly, until Rose’s fell, and reluctantly the inspector began to spoon some food on to his plate. Not till he had taken the first mouthful, did Auguste feel free to depart.

When an hour later Edward Jackson went to collect the dirty dishes, the inspector was sitting in front of the nursery fire, an unusually restful expression on his face, hands across his stomach.

The silver salvers were all but empty.

‘He ate it all, Monsieur Didier,’ whined Edward. ‘There ain’t enough left for me.’

‘Edward, if you still desire the
sole au chablis
, you must wait till the leftovers come down from the main hall,’ said Auguste firmly.

‘Yes, Mr Auguste. ‘Course, I could slip on me footman’s get-up and go up there and get some now,’ said Edward daringly. ‘If I wait for the Freds to come down I’ll be starving to death. Go on, Mr Didier, let me. They’ll never recognise me, I’ll just be a footman, like I was at the party – it’d be a laugh.’

‘Edward,’ said Auguste warningly, ‘if Mr Greeves were still alive, you’d never dare do it. You do as you wish, but I do not know anything, do you hear,
anything
, if you are caught. You can plead your case with Mr Hobbs yourself. I wash my hands of you.’

Edward Jackson, resplendent in full dress livery, walked somewhat warily into the dining-room. Fortunately, for his confidence was not as great as he had made out to Auguste, it was empty – of everything in fact, since all signs of the sumptuous repast which had taken place had vanished. From the drawing-room came sounds of soft, cooing conversation, from the billiards-room the sharp cracks of cue on ball, and the murmur of brandy-thickened voices. Edward considered. Not all the food had been brought back to the kitchens – the cold plates must still be in the servery, in case some were speedily required to prevent the sudden starvation of any of the guests. Perhaps there’d still be some of that sole-shabblee there as well in a chafing dish. With this cheering thought, Jackson turned down the corridor towards the servery entrance. The corridor, however, was no longer empty. Coming from the ballroom was a familiar figure.

Edward Jackson grinned. ‘Wotcher,’ he carolled cheerily, perkily.

The recipient of the greeting did not respond, but turned away.

Edward, taken aback, turned to matters of more immediate moment. In the servery lay the forlorn remains of Auguste’s genius. The company had apparently appreciated the
sole au chablis
as much as had the inspector for
none remained, but enough galantine, chicken in aspic, and Yorkshire pie were left to fill the hungriest belly. The galantine was a particularly fine one, and Edward Jackson was intent on appreciating it to the full. So intent was he that he was not aware of the door of the servery quietly opening behind him, and was taken completely by surprise as the heavy bronze lamp crashed down on his head.

There was something troubling him. Was it the ingredients for the kidneys for tomorrow’s devilled kidneys, something omitted? His late-night checking of the luncheon preparations? No, it was less tangible than that. . . It was something to do with Edward. And livery. That was it. Mrs Hartham had been murdered, and Edward had been at the ball in livery. Now Edward had gone to the main house once again in livery – and Auguste had not seen him since. With a sudden rush of panic Auguste began rapidly to dress once more, and rushed downstairs. The kitchen was still active with the routines of late evening. William Tucker was still up with two yawning girls, and two Freds were waiting for Hobbs’ signal to clear food from the main house.

‘Edward, Mr Didier?’ asked Gladys. ‘No, why do you want Edward?’ She was aggrieved, for she had a sneaking suspicion that her god did not rate her own abilities highly. But Auguste had not waited.

He tried the servants’ hall – empty. Pug’s Parlour was in darkness. With a growing sense of alarm he checked the cubbyhole of a room that Edward Jackson shared with Percy Parsons. Percy lay snoring stertorously, mouth open as wide as the Moffat lamps he so industriously tended. Of Edward there was no sign.

Regardless of his hastily donned attire, Auguste rushed towards the baize door. Thus it was he found Edward Jackson lying on the floor of the servery, surrounded with
blood and the splattered remains of the galantine.

An enormous rage grew inside Auguste that anyone could do this to Edward, who was little more than a child, coupled with a heavy feeling of guilt that he had condoned this stupid prank. Trembling, he lifted the boy’s arm and was relieved to find it warm; once his own fear had subsided he managed to detect a gentle pulse.

Within ten minutes Mrs Hankey was again in command, and the donkey cart once more setting out on the now familiar journey to Dr Parkes.

Egbert Rose, roused from the most peaceful postprandial slumbers for many a day, picked up the bronze lamp, turning it over and over in his hands, thoughtfully. What a story it could tell. There was someone new at the Yard working on a theory that people left fingerprints every time they touched something, and that soon you’d be able to indentify your villain by them. Maybe, but not yet. With a sigh he put the lamp down on the sideboard and turned to Auguste.

‘This is a sorry business. Only a lad. It seems, Mr Didier, that you have quite a habit of being around when anything goes on. Bob’s your uncle, as they say, here we are again. Quite a coincidence.’ His tones were jocular, but his eyes watchful.

‘Monsieur
I’Inspecteur
, if I had hit this poor child over the head with a lamp, would I be the one to come to tell everybody. “
C’est moi
, this is what I have done”?’

‘Now you mustn’t take me too seriously, Mr Didier,’ said Rose mildly. ‘Just making an observation.’

‘I came to seek Edward because I was worried about him.’

‘Oh? Another bit of the old detective work, eh? Now why might he be in danger, did you think?’

‘I was worried because
I
sent him up here. To look for
food – he wished for some of the sole that I gave you for dinner, monsieur. That’s why he is in the footman’s livery. Normally he would not be allowed above stairs, but on Saturday he was at the ball as a footman because they needed extra hands, and that gave him the idea. Put on the livery again and no one would think it strange to see the figure disappearing into the dining-room. And I let him do it.’

‘So he was at the ball that night, was he?’ said Rose with rising interest. ‘Night Mrs Hartham got herself murdered. Now that’s interesting, Mr Didier. Considering as how Mrs Hartham was seen talking to a footman just before the ball ended.’

‘But what could Mrs Hartham have to say to Edward Jackson?’

‘He took a message to someone.’

‘A lover?’

Rose’s eyebrows rose fractionally. ‘Lover?’ he said. ‘The lady was married.’ He knew that only too well. He had spent two hours with a furious Mr Hartham, who had arrived in a temper and a hired brougham as intent apparently on seeking out the perpetrator of the blot and the scandal on the name of Hartham as to mourn for Honoria’s death, however ornate the black-edged handkerchief.

‘Ah,’ said Auguste, embarrassed, ‘but the sandwiches . . .’

‘That you helped prepare,’ Rose reminded him.