Murder in Pug's Parlour (25 page)

He sifted through his huge pile of notes once more, but without hope. Notes could only take you so far. You needed notes, and nose, and something extra. He knew what it was his nose told him; it tied up with the notes all right, but there was still a missing factor. It tied up with none of the motives so far revealed, and he had enough of them, goodness knows. What was it his old chief used to say? ‘Murder’s either the work of a maniac, son, or it’s logical.’ There was no maniac at work here, he’d swear to that. So, right, let’s take it steady now. A good hour before Didier would bring his supper in. Some thinking would sharpen his appetite. Then he could let the results swill round his insides till they were digested, and turned into good solid conclusions.

But for once his mind refused to obey him. Instead the thoughts swirled round in chaotic order. Then he brought to mind what Mrs Rose so often said to him: ‘Egbert, take a
hold of yourself.’ He dutifully obeyed his absent spouse. Slowly the kaleidoscope began to settle. But the pattern it formed he did not like at all. Three motives: two men.

He was still savouring this unpalatable thought as Auguste Didier came through the door with a trolley of food collected from the dumb waiter. The aroma drifted over to him. So did the cold atmosphere emanating from Auguste. He had repulsed three attempts by Auguste to see him after the inquest.

‘Ah, Mr Didier, not upset, are you, by the inquest verdict?’ he asked blandly, ignoring the waves of ill-suppressed rage. ‘I’m glad you’ve come. I was just thinking a little chat with you and Mr Marshall might be most rewarding, now I’ve cleared you two gentleman from
my
enquiries,’ he added provokingly, ‘but –’ as Auguste eagerly stepped forward – ‘I’m sure you must be the first to agree I’ve just got to give my full attention to this – now what is it?’ he enquired, eyes riveted on the trolley.

‘
Confit de canard
,’ muttered Auguste, torn between the undoubted truth of this statement, and his personal agony. Art and the
confit
won.

‘Come along in about an hour say,’ said Rose kindly, knife and fork already poised.

Auguste compressed his lips and turned to go. However, one small revenge was his. ‘
Attention
, Inspector, it is
very
rich.’

When he returned with Walter an hour later, the warning did not seem to have deterred Egbert Rose from doing full justice to what was before him. Brushing aside his compliments – they were after all only to be expected – Auguste plunged straight into his grievance: ‘But you knew, Inspector, that the Prince was not telling the truth at the inquest, and yet you do not intervene. No, once again it is the French cook to blame, no one speaks to me, I am a
foreigner. I am a Frenchman. All Frenchmen are evil men. But am I to blame because Bonaparte wanted to invade this country? Am I to blame that William the Conqueror did? No, but I am convenient; I cannot defend myself, I am among strangers—’

‘Now Mr Didier, don’t take it to heart,’ said Rose soothingly. ‘We didn’t want the gentleman insisting on his diplomatic rights, did we? We’ve got to give the pheasant time to hang, eh?’

Auguste fumed. These English. Yes, they believed in letting their pheasant hang. Hang, and hang again. Till it was overripe and unfit for eating.

‘Do I take it, Inspector, that you have decided Prince Franz is your man?’ asked Walter slowly.

‘Trouble with this case,’ said Rose, ‘begging your pardon, Mr Didier, too many cooks, too much broth. But when you boil it down there have been two murders, and so far as the guests know, three – I told His Grace that Jackson died this afternoon. In fact he’s tucked up in bed in his aunt’s home in Maidstone. At the moment we three, and the valiant Auntie Elsie, are the only ones that know Jackson’s alive.’

‘But for how long can you pretend this?’ asked Walter.

‘Won’t be long now,’ said Rose soberly. ‘I think things are warming up nicely. Assuming Mr Didier’s right about this livery theory, to my way of thinking we can discount the ladies, and His Grace, and you too, Marshall.’

‘Thank you,’ murmured Walter.

‘Leaving us with Lord Arthur Petersfield, Monsieur Pradel and Prince Franz. All three of whom were probably being blackmailed by Greeves. We’ve got an awful lot of gambling debts from Petersfield. Don’t seem much of a motive to me, but you assure me, Mr Marshall, that in his circles it would be quite enough. The law doesn’t look too
kindly on baccarat at present, nor does the Prince of Wales. He can’t afford to turn the old Nelson eye. Petersfield stood to lose quite a lot: reputation; position in the Prince of Wales set. He would have to resign from his regiment, leave the country and—’

‘And Jane,’ whispered Walter to himself.

‘Quite, sir.’ Rose had sharp ears. ‘As regards the Rivers plan, Prince Franz is our man, for we know Greeves was blackmailing him, and the copy of the plan was in the safe, probably handed over to Greeves by the Prince’s valet at Stockbery House – no doubt in return for a large bribe – when they were there in August for the ball. If the theft is laid at the Prince’s door officially he could say goodbye to his job here, for the Kaiser could not ignore one of his diplomats being openly discovered spying. That’s worth a murder or two to an ambitious man.’

‘But, Inspector,’ said Auguste, frowning, ‘I understand the murder of Mr Greeves for these motives, but why the attacks on Mrs Hartham and Edward Jackson?’

‘You’re forgetting, Mr Didier,’ said Rose smugly, ‘that, according to young Edward, Mrs Hartham was talking at the ball about revealing secrets. With at least three in her audience. Maybe our villain thought it might be his.’

‘True, Inspector,’ replied Auguste with dignity. ‘I
had
overlooked that point.’ Rose should see that he could accord honour when it was due. ‘But Edward?’

‘That puzzled me,’ admitted Rose. ‘Maybe there’s something young Edward hasn’t told us. Or maybe our man heard Mrs Hartham was chattering about his secret in front of Jackson thinking a footman wasn’t a person and didn’t count. Then when I arrived he panicked. Or it could be the attack on young Jackson was because someone recognised him from Cleveland Street, but then we’re looking for two
murderers because that villain would have no reason to rid himself of Greeves and Mrs Hartham. Edward says he doesn’t recognise anyone here. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t, but he wouldn’t keep quiet if that someone was the person who tried to kill him.’

‘Suppose that person was completely separate – someone who was staying in the house that Saturday night and recognised Jackson, but who was not here before and who took advantage of the cover afforded by the other two murders?’ Walter said.

‘Unlikely,’ said Rose, considering, ‘but possible.’

‘After all,’ said Auguste, ‘our three contenders do not seem to have interests towards little boys – the Prince is most attractive to ladies, I gather. Monsieur Francois also, and – er – Lord Arthur Petersfield.’

‘I have heard rumours,’ began Walter unwillingly, but let his voice drop.

‘Versatile some of those customers at Cleveland Street,’ recalled Rose. ‘Some of them straight nancy-boys, others respectable as you like.’

‘But it is too much of a coincidence,’ objected Auguste. ‘Greeves began this. And his murder was planned.’

‘You’re thinking like a mutton cutlet, Mr Didier. Not straight,’ pointed out Rose, with some glee. ‘If someone was being blackmailed because of young Edward, how did Greeves know about it in the first place?’

‘Perhaps Greeves knew of Cleveland Street,’ suggested Walter hastily, seeing the look of chagrin on Auguste’s face. ‘Though not of Edward himself.’

‘Rum coincidence,’ said Rose.

‘Or perhaps,’ said Auguste loftily, ‘the murderer had seen Edward before, on a previous visit.
No
,’ he caught himself immediately, ‘
pas possible
! He would not then have been taken by surprise at the ball.’

‘Suppose young Edward saw our villain earlier and told Greeves,’ put in Rose mildly.

‘When we came down at New Year, perhaps,’ said Walter.

‘But yes, at the Servants’ Ball.’ Auguste was excited. ‘
Mon cher Inspecteur
, I congratulate you.’

‘Too kind, Monsieur Didier,’ murmured Rose, as Auguste swept on.

‘Suppose Edward saw this person, and his expression of surprise was noticed by Greeves, who twisted the information out of the boy after the guests had departed? Surrounded by a hundred or so servants’ faces at the ball, the murderer would not necessarily have seen Edward, even if Edward had spotted him. Then Greeves could have started blackmailing the murderer the next time he saw him. At Chivers in June, or in London at the Stockbery House ball in August.’

‘So Greeves goes up to our villain and says, “I know you’re a pansy and here’s Edward Jackson to prove it”, does he? Then,’ said Rose, darting in as swift as a dipper’s hand, ‘why does he kill Greeves first and not Jackson?’

A second’s pause, then: ‘Because,
mon cher Inspecteur
,’ Auguste replied with dignity, ‘Greeves did not
tell
the murderer what his evidence consisted of. Merely that he knew about Cleveland Street. The charge alone would be sufficient. Our man plans murder, he obtains the poison – and yet,’ mused Auguste, ‘though it is easy to hit someone over the head, it is not so easy to obtain pure aconitia.’

‘Unless you’re a cook,’ pointed out Rose meditatively, ‘with access to a garden.’

‘
Inspector
! This ceases to be—’

‘Only my little joke. No, it’s easy enough to get hold of the stuff. Dr Lamson just went into the chemist, said he’d
left his prescription book at home, and gave the name of a real doctor in the medical directory; when the chemist checked the book it tallied, and Bob’s your uncle . . . ’Course they’ve tightened things up since then, but it could still be worked. Now,’ he ruminated, ‘let’s suppose the motive isn’t Cleveland Street. Suppose it’s the Rivers papers and our prince. Aconitia’s very popular on the other side of the Channel, I’m told, as a medicine; he could work out some stunt pretending to be a German doctor. He had time to plan it all out. The papers were stolen in June. Greeves probably obtained a copy of the drawing at the time of the Stockbery House ball in August. Easy enough for our villain to pay up till October, then bring down the aconitia with him. That could apply to the Prince, Pradel or Petersfield. They worked the livery trick, popped the poison into the sandwiches outside Mrs Hartham’s door—’

‘How did they know which one she would take?’ observed Auguste.

‘Only a midnight visitor could know that,’ said Walter slowly. ‘And it was hardly likely to have been Petersfield – he was after bigger fish that evening. Nor Francois.’

‘Herzenburg,’ said Rose, ‘Prince Franz of Herzenberg. No doubt then.’

‘There is always doubt,’ said Auguste, frowning. A maître should never be sure till the final taste. His brain may tell him that he has put the right ingredients, the right quantities into a receipt, but a maître can have an uneasy feeling that the receipt will not work . . . It has nothing to do with reason.

Saturday dawned golden and clear. Looking out of her window, after May had drawn back the curtains to reveal the world, the Duchess congratulated herself on the success
of her word with God. It was without doubt going to be a good day, a day when she might flirt a little with the Prince, making him hope she might return to him. She would not of course. He bored her now. Already she was planning future house parties, future conquests. She had heard of a certain actor she might invite . . . now that the profession had become respectable. She would introduce him to Society.

Leisurely she sipped her coffee. After she had breakfasted, she rang the bell for May.

‘My bath, Fawcett,’ she commanded sweetly.

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

May Fawcett disappeared into Her Grace’s bathroom. Bathrooms were still a rarity; had it not been for the insistence of the eleventh Duke’s wife, none would have been built at all at Stockbery Towers and the family, as the guests, would have had to make do with hip baths in front of the fire. As for the servants’ quarters, it was considered not a seemly subject even to discuss the question of servants’ cleanliness. Her Grace vanished into the warm scented depths of the huge porcelain bath and contemplated her day ahead, while May Fawcett laid the paraphernalia of Her Grace’s toilette in the dressing-room.

Down below in the servants’ wing, the day had begun somewhat earlier. Normally beginning at six, today even the upper servants were on the scene without insisting on their prerogative of the extra half-hour.

Hobbs was supervising, somewhat nervously, for it was his first ‘simple picnic’, the exit of chairs and tables, the wine emerging from the cellars in Messrs Farrow and Jackson’s wine bins, the arrival of the marquee, the chivvying of footmen. Ethel was up betimes, intent on getting all the daily household work done in time that she might accompany Mr Didier, as he had promised Hobbs he
would condescend to attend in person. With the help of the still-room maid she was preparing breakfast for the servants. Auguste Didier, a frown on his face, was once more surveying his kingdom.

One oak scrubbed table was allotted to the preparation of breakfast for the family. Ethel was supervising the dispatch of trays to the ladies, and the preparation of the huge silver salver chafing dishes that would be laid along the sideboards waiting for the gentlemen to descend.

Auguste Didier had even more important concerns. He had dismissed from his mind all thought of murder, and concentrated on the luncheon. Hampers were laid out symmetrically as on a chessboard. One of the Freds was dispatched to the ice chamber at the far end of the long walk in the south gardens; Gladys was detailed to get everything out of the refrigerators; Annie to coordinate sauces with the entrées; he, Didier, was the all-seeing eye, as each item was carefully lifted into its hamper. There had not been a minute to lose when the Duke confirmed that the big shoot would still take place on the Saturday. Straightaway the aspic had to be put on the stove for preparation, the stocks prepared, the pies raised. His Grace never appreciated the problems of the kitchen. Mr Tong, the butcher, had had to be disturbed at nine o’clock in the evening for more calves’ feet, the Home Farm’s supply having been used at the ball. He had not minded. Few would, considering the business he got from Stockbery Towers.