Murder in Pug's Parlour (28 page)

‘Calling reinforcements, sir. Petersfield’s gone, and he’s got the boy.’

The Duke gaped. ‘Petersfield?’

‘Your murderer, sir. He’s got Jackson; he’s given himself away, like we thought, but he’s got the boy and he’ll do away with him, like enough. And we won’t have a thing on him.’

There was a shriek from one of the ladies. The Duchess had fainted. Oblivious to his spouse’s distress, the Duke battled with the thought for a moment; then years of army discipline came to his aid and he glared at Rose: ‘By God, if you’re wrong . . .’

‘I’m not wrong.’

‘Where are the police?’

‘Other side of the lake, sir.’

‘Right. Gentlemen!’ Centuries of expectation of instant obedience brooked no denial. ‘Form a line. Can’t have got far. In Hoo Wood most likely. Nearest to here, furthest from beaters.’

Loaders appearing for their two-fifteen call were surprised to have guns snatched from their hands by their lords and masters, surging out of the luncheon tent with an enthusiasm unequalled even in the annals of the Stockbery game records.

‘What the devil’s going on?’

Thirty men turned round to find Lord Arthur Petersfield facing them, a surprised look on his usually imperturbable face. Sheepishly, they drifted back into the luncheon tent.

‘Where’s the boy, Petersfield?’ said Rose. ‘What have you done with the boy?’

Behind him, Auguste gasped in sudden alarm.

‘Boy?’ said Petersfield blankly.

‘Jackson.’

‘Jackson?’

‘Jackson.’

‘Forgive me, Inspector,’ said Petersfield, ‘if I’m wrong, but isn’t Jackson the name of the boy who died the other night? Who was here just now handing me a glass of His Grace’s most excellent sherry?’

‘You know right enough he is.’

‘And how am I involved with this young gentleman?’

‘Because he was here and now he ain’t. And you’ve got him. What have you done with him? Strangled him?’

Petersfield blinked. ‘Strangled, Inspector? This ceases to be amusing. Do I take it you are accusing me of having murdered this young lad, either now or a week ago?’

‘Yes, sir, I am,’ said Rose solidly.

Petersfield’s face grew red, suffused with anger. ‘By God, I’ll have your blood for this, Rose,’ he said viciously. He looked round the faces of his accusers, now not quite so certain.

‘Very likely, sir. But before that just inform me where you have been. Are you saying you were alone in the woods just now?’

Petersfield hesitated and a slow smile crossed his face. ‘No, Inspector, I’m not saying any such thing.’

‘And, if it wasn’t Jackson, someone’ll bear witness to that?’

‘Certainly, Inspector,’ said a cold voice. Lady Jane’s face was flushed.

‘You, miss?
You
were with His Lordship here? What were you doing in the woods, may I ask, with him?’

Lady Jane’s face grew pink and she looked haughtily at the inspector.

‘I was kissing her, Inspector,’ said Petersfield. ‘Do you require to know how often – or where?’

There was a cry of rage. The politically pacifist, objectively minded, quietly spoken Walter Marshall leapt forward and with one blow from his right fist made
contact with Petersfield’s jaw, propelling him backwards into the cold buffet. The trestle tables, not built to withstand the rage of a jealous man, collapsed in the middle, the far ends swinging up like Tower Bridge in reverse. A lemon syllabub hit Her Grace, newly recovered from her faint, full in the face; the Marquise received a
croquante
of walnuts in her lap and the sauce Melba now adorned her hat; and Lord Arthur staggered to his feet his face covered with aspic of turkey, one pea of the garnish balancing on his nose.

Auguste covered his face amid the screams of the ladies and the righteous indignation of the men, and then tried to protect the ruins of his best
banquet en plein air
In vain the Lady Jane picked up from the floor the one
plat
that had survived the carnage intact – a
bavarois
– and balanced it thoughtfully in her hand, looking balefully from Marshall to Lord Arthur. Walter waited for the blow. Her glance passed from one to the other, resting on Walter who stood submissively in front of her. The Lady Jane giggled, turned round and with one swift movement plunged the
bavarois
into the lugubrious face of Egbert Rose.

It was a just revenge.

The other females, starting with the most praiseworthy motives of coming to the aid of their own sex apparently under attack, completed the wreck, as they slipped, slithered and finally deposited satin-bustled backsides in the ruined remains of Auguste’s art. Menfolk coming to the aid of their distressed women soon found themselves as liberally adorned as the gentler sex, as frantic besauced and bejellied hands grabbed at their lapels for assistance.

‘Lor’ love a duck, what’s bin going on?’ A shrill cockney voice squealed in amazement. In the midst of the carnage, Edward Jackson had strolled back into the tent.

The Duchess was the first to speak. ‘Is this the boy?’ she
said, in awful tones, pointing at Edward, and fixing Rose with a stern eye.

Jackson, the cynosure of all eyes, turned to his one ally and announced plaintively: ‘I only went for a piss, Mister Didier.’

Once again the Duke showed the powers of leadership that his family had had bred into them for centuries. The ladies were dispatched to the house and ordered to bedeck themselves in their choicest teagowns, the visitors being assured of the comforts of hot baths and alternative raiment where necessary. Only the Marquise and Jane elected to stay, the Marquise because the mere advent of a
croquante
of walnuts and a sauce Melba did not disturb her in the slightest, and Jane because she had somehow remained immune from the ravages of the occasion.

The men were quickly gathered for a shoot, in the hope that their minds – even with luck Petersfield’s – might be distracted from the unfortunate happenings of the luncheon period. Just as they set off, the police arrived: Sergeant Bladon, Naseby and several lesser fry. They were amazed to find the staff of Stockbery Towers clambering around the floor of the marquee picking up broken china, and wiping custard from the walls.

‘An orgy,’ remarked Bladon with satisfaction. His best fears were confirmed about the goings-on in the luncheon tents at the big shoots. ‘Drunken revelries.’ His eyes surveyed the empty champagne and claret bottles. He looked round for Rose but he was in discussion with that Froggie again.

‘Inspector, we have been wrong – this was a red herring what you heard from Lord Brasserby. The smell, the taste – all wrong.’

‘Are you saying it really isn’t Petersfield?’

‘No, Forget the plans. Mrs Hartham’s message, Cleveland Street, Oscar Wilde. The Prince, the
Prince
!’

Rose stared at Auguste, his face suddenly pale. ‘Cripes’ was all he said at first, simply. Then, in sudden fear, ‘Where’s the boy?’

Jackson had gone again.

With one accord they rushed outside. Hobbs was still sadly loading broken china and effects into the carts.

‘Jackson?’ he said. ‘Why, he went to the shoot. They wanted extra beaters, they said. Went off early afore the rest of the party.’

‘Which wood?’

‘Why, up at Cranesback,’ said Hobbs, puzzled.

Auguste tore off his cook’s hat and apron, dropping them on the ground as he turned to run, closely followed by Rose and more slowly Bladon, panting heavily.

Even as they came up to Crook Field and the lines came in view, they heard the Duke’s horn. It was the sign for the beaters to move, slowly, slowly, towards the birds, the gun fodder. And Edward Jackson, conspicuous because of his lack of smock, would be in the direct line of fire. An accidental shot, no one would know which gun, and—

‘He’d never dare,’ said Auguste, but without conviction.

‘Without that boy, I’ve no case,’ grunted Rose.

One minute, two minutes, Rose was scrambling over the last stile, closely followed by Auguste.

The firing line was on the alert, guns ready.

The first birds were already put up by the time Rose burst through the line, shouting, ‘Stop the drive!’

The Duke was apoplectic. Two guns went off, their aim thrown wide by the suddenness of Rose’s appearance, one killing a cow peacefully grazing in the adjoining field.

‘By God, I’ll have your skin for this, Rose,’ the Duke promised grimly. ‘Hold your fire, gentlemen.’ Two hoots on
the horn followed for the beaters to stay put. The pheasants, however, did not recognise the signal for what it was and craftily took advantage of the situation to sneak out of the clump to safer territory, a few daringly taking to the air followed by wistful eyes and itching fingers on the firing line.

The front line gathered indignantly round Rose, dogs yelping, the Duke muttering.

‘Well, Inspector, what have I done this time?’ asked Petersfield sarcastically.

‘Not you, My Lord,’ said Auguste, quietly. ‘The boy. He’s one of the beaters.’

‘What of it?’ demanded the Duke, bristling. ‘And, my God, what’s my cook doing wandering about in the middle of a shoot? World’s gone crazy. See here, Didier, none of your French ways here—’

‘Sir,’ said Auguste, turning to explain. He did not get so far. ‘
Ma foi
, Inspector, where is he? The Prince – where is he?’ He seized the Duke’s arm. ‘Sir, the Prince—’

The Duke was more aware that this damned Frog he’d imported was clutching the ducal arm than of the purport of his words. ‘He was here a minute ago. Damned cheek,’ he snarled.

‘But it is he, Your Grace. Your murderer.’

The Duke blinked. ‘Now see here, Didier. Bad enough having Scotland Yard gone crazy, now me own cook—’

Rose interposed: ‘There’s no time to lose, Your Grace. He’s in the wood now. He’s only got to separate Jackson from the other beaters . . .’

The Duke regarded them stonily for a moment. Then: ‘By God, I never liked that man,’ he roared and, as on the field of battle, gave his orders. ‘Gentlemen, wheel round, semicircle, flank the wood. We’ll beat the bastard out.’

One could have sworn the Duke was enjoying it.

Once again his guests, some still under the impression this
was a new-style house-party game, obediently formed a flanking line and wheeled up to Cranesback Wood. Thirty men encircled it. Rose’s police reinforcements, panting to the site, were ordered to the rear. There were guns enough; no need to risk unarmed police.

When all were in position, the Duke put his horn to his lips, a latter-day Childe Roland. Three blasts for the beaters’ recall. Slowly the cream smocks broke cover, emerging from the woods, their owners in wary hesitation as they saw the shooting line close to them, guns cocked. A new kind of drive perhaps? Themselves the prey? The Duke was a rum ’un . . .

The Duke nodded when all were out.

‘Let the boy go, and come out.’

There was no reply to Rose’s shout. ‘I’m going in,’ said Auguste suddenly.

Rose put out a hand to stop him. ‘He’s armed, Didier.’

Auguste removed the restraining arm. ‘I let that boy go into danger once before. If I can stop it this time I will.’

Rose pursed his lips and simply said, ‘I’m coming with you.’

They plunged into the wood, their path punctuated by the odd bird that flew up under their feet in alarm.

They stopped and listened. Not a sound. Then a sudden bird flew up not twenty feet from them.

‘There, my friend,’ breathed Auguste.

They ducked behind some bushes.

‘Let the boy go,’ called Rose again.

This time there was a reply and a laugh. ‘Let Edward go?
Nein, nein.
He comes with me. He is my friend, my very good friend.’

There was a whimper by his side.

‘Inspector, I am leaving now. I will go out of the end of the wood towards the house. You will call your men off, yes, or
this boy dies.’ There was a pause, and another whimper.

‘Now, stand up, Inspector, so I can see you. And your companion.’

Slowly they stood up. The Prince, clasping Jackson in his arms, gun cocked and ready, was a mere ten feet away. He was dishevelled, his face tense and set. Slowly he walked towards them, feeling his way carefully along the path, dragging the boy with him, gun in front.

Jackson’s face was white and strained. He was babbling as they passed. ‘But he’s my friend. He won’t hurt me. It was a mistake last time. He told me. He’s sorry. He loves me, he does. He hasn’t done nothing. It wasn’t him.’

Slowly the Prince passed them and they could do nothing but watch. ‘Call your men off, Rose, no shots in the back, if you please.’

With a shout from Rose the men lowered their guns, reluctantly scattering, and the Prince began to back across the open fields, Jackson half finding his way for him, half looking back to safety. The path was clear to the house. Clear of all save one.

The Marquise had come to watch the rare afternoon sport with the only weapon at her disposal. Climbing delicately over a stile, holding up her trained walking dress with one hand, she unerringly aimed one of Auguste’s capon pies (with truffles) at the back of the Prince’s head.

‘Sedan,’ she hissed.

Feeling the jerk, Edward swung to one side, and upset the Prince’s balance. Knocked sideways, they fell together down the steep slopes above the Duke’s lake. The Prince’s grasp slipped from Jackson. It was a deep lake; it was meant for fishing. And Edward Jackson could not swim. The Prince might yet have swum to the other shore and safety. He did not. He seized the panicking boy and thrust him out on to the bank. But he chose the wrong place. The gun had
slipped down the bank after its owner. The boy, landing on top of it, dislodged it and discharged its pellets into the Prince’s belly, staining the water of Stockbery Lake red.

The Prince was not quite dead when Rose and Auguste reached him. With the only smile that Auguste had ever seen on his lips he murmured, ‘I shall claim diplomatic immunity,
Herr lnspektor
,’ and died.

The only mourner was Edward Jackson.

‘So we were right,’ said Rose to Auguste as the police went about their business and the Duke, reluctantly abandoning thoughts of re-starting the shoot, shepherded his guests back to the house. ‘Right in the first place. And Edward thought the fellow loved him. Misplaced loyalty.’