Murder Under The Kissing Bough: (Auguste Didier Mystery 6) (4 page)

Miss Gladys Guessings, too, was feeling greatly daring. Tired of the kindly invitations dutifully tendered by nieces and sisters-in-law, she had struck out for independence.

‘No thank you, May,’ she informed this year’s reluctant volunteer. ‘I have another engagement.’

May’s face brightened. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Aunt Gladys,’ she told her happily. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To London,’ replied Gladys truthfully, without specifying the ignominious fact of its being a hotel. There was a note of reverence in her voice at the pronouncement of ‘London’, this being a far-off place that had grown in her imagination as a fairy land over the years, despite the evidence of two brief visits to the contrary, and her tone was sufficient to stop May from enquiring further.

This suited Gladys, who was thereby able to fuel speculation that she had a gentleman admirer. Really, how ridiculous, Gladys thought, going pink. The very thought made her feel like a housemaid. Though indeed she might well find congenial masculine company at Cranton’s. After all, she was not too old at forty-five to find an elderly widower who required sensible companionship and who would know nothing of her life at Much Wallop. She could begin a new life. Yes, she decided brightly, she would enjoy Christmas at Cranton’s.

The elegant carriage hired by Thérèse, Baroness von Bechlein, jolted its way towards Cranton’s Hotel. ‘Marie-Paul,’ Thérèse said to her quiet companion, breaking a long silence, ‘this English Christmas party, do you think we shall enjoy it?’

A small smile crossed the lips of Mademoiselle Marie-Paul Gonnet. ‘Undoubtedly, madame.’

Thérèse’s strong, humorous face held a glint of reassurance. ‘I hear this cook is good,’ she murmured. ‘Auguste Didier.’

‘Then we will surely enjoy it,’ said Marie-Paul stoutly.

‘I have always wanted to spend Christmas in England,’ Thérèse said absently.

‘What shall you say about your husband?’ asked Marie-Paul.

‘Absent,’ replied Thérèse, after a moment’s consideration. ‘I think that’s best, don’t you? At my age, one is permitted an absent husband.’

‘Madame is always young,’ her companion assured her fervently.

Alfred Bowman relaxed in his private carriage, regarding his stomach with some affection, as it lay peacefully
and expectantly under his golden watch chain. His stomach reminded him of the status he had achieved in life, a status honoured by the Prince of Wales himself who wasn’t too proud to recognise what industrialists achieved, he’d say that for him. Alfred grinned. Bertie – if these rumours about the Queen’s health were true – would be getting ready to jump right into her shoes. Poor devil. Bowman almost had it in him to feel sorry for him.

Alfred Bowman, a self-made man and proud of it: this was the message he liked people to receive. He had worked damned hard and was still doing so. No wife now, children settled. He could please himself what he did. And this Christmas he fully intended to do so. He was a man with a mission in life. Nevertheless, he was going to see that his stomach got the feast it deserved this Christmas. All twelve days of it. Wasn’t that how this caper had been advertised? ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas at Cranton’s Hotel.’ All the joys of London at Christmastime – and a first-class cook in charge. He’d heard of Auguste Didier. A frown crossed his face. Heard of him in more ways than one. Never mind, perhaps he’d have his mind on the cooking.

Mr and Mrs Thomas Harbottle sat silently in the hansom as it jolted towards Portman Square.

‘Do you think I shall enjoy an English Christmas?’ Eva asked, only a trace of Germanic accent remaining in her voice, although they had been married such a brief time. Small, plump and brown-haired, she looked like a little wren in her new brown serge travelling dress and coat, Thomas had told her affectionately. Eva took a serious view of life, which entirely suited Thomas. Bankers, even junior ones, had a duty to be serious.

‘We will.’ Thomas patted his wife’s hand confidently, more confidently than he felt. ‘It’s our first Christmas
together, no matter what happens afterwards.’

‘But—’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said more sharply.

He cleared his throat in the uncomfortable silence that suddenly fell. ‘I wonder if you are aware,’ he said hurriedly, ‘that London’s only one-legged Mayor took office in 1796.’ Thomas, as his bride was about to discover, prided himself on his knowledge of English history.

Eva Harbottle did not reply. She had no interest at all in England’s past. It was the present that concerned her.

Among the other guests making their way to Cranton’s to complete the party was one who had not been invited. He had his mind on matters other than the purely festive. Daniel Nash, eager reporter, intended taking up temporary abode in one of the unused basement rooms, from which position he could the more easily pursue both his inquiries and, secondly, his romantic aspirations.

Egbert Rose stared out on the Thames from his office window. He was not happy. This was partly because it was almost Christmas, and he had had to face the unwelcome choice of either Edith’s assault on Christmas luncheon by producing what originally started life as a turkey or accepting the hospitality of her sister Ermyntrude, whose cooking, if better, was definitely uninspired, and whose children were worse. He sighed. He had always understood that one of the pleasures of life away from home was watching other people’s children without the responsibility. This was not always the case, he had found. Watching, perhaps. Being cooped up at close quarters for some time, however, was definitely not an attractive proposition.

‘Christmas isn’t Christmas without children, Egbert,’ Edith had said reproachfully when he tried to voice this reservation.

In this case, no loss, was his private instant reaction, amended to, ‘You’re right, my love,’ for Edith’s sake. ‘Of course we’ll go to Ermyntrude’s again.’ So tonight would see them jostling their way to Bayswater amid late shoppers and office workers all making determinedly for home, buried in bundles of packages of all sorts and awkward shapes.

‘Bah, humbug,’ Rose said viciously to himself, thinking that Scrooge might well have had a point after all.

The other reason he was unhappy was because of Auguste Didier. Rose was uneasily conscious that due to various other matters on hand he had not been as sympathetic as he might have been to Auguste’s wild plea for help over the matter of a disappearing body. Although he had convinced himself that Auguste had been suffering from an overdose of Armstrong’s Black Drops, the memory of his sad and indignant face still made him feel uneasy. However, friends were friends and the Factory was the Factory. Although Auguste had been extremely helpful, to put it at its least, to the Yard on several occasions in the past in clearing up murders, this did not mean that Rose was unable to divide the two in his mind.

On this occasion the policeman in him had definitely won. Even as he had made this plain, he had felt a traitor as he saw Twitch’s look of triumph, although he was quite sure he was right. Having thus convinced himself, he once again applied himself to a last look at the lists of those entering the country. Time was running out. . .

Auguste on the other hand was feeling much happier, murder having fled his mind. So this was what it was
like to have one’s own hotel. A glorious warm feeling of power, of knowledge that the welfare of a group of people was in your hands. Why, this might be better than being a chef alone, even a master chef, for all too often one’s finest creations, prepared with love, with anguish, with inspirational artistry, would simply disappear without comment. A timbale with grouse purée, or a capon stuffed with the finest truffles of. Kent could go for nothing if a domestic dispute raged between the diners above them.

As a manager, however, one received elegant and charming guests, all bent on enjoyment, one watched tea served in an elegant drawing room, saw the delights of
fanchonettes
and Coburg cake truly appreciated, instead of having to stand over hot ovens, or rush frantically around reproaching recalcitrant assistants. Ah yes, ah yes, this was the life for him.

True, his eye had become a trifle glazed when it fell on the cucumber sandwiches. Had Fancelli no idea of how to present a sandwich? He could see the hint of a crust remaining. However, he restrained himself from comment in the interests of good relations – but with a reservation to watch for detail on his honorary tour before dinner.

He feigned a nonchalance he did not feel as he entered the kitchens one hour before dinner. He treated Fancelli to a charming smile. ‘Is all well?’ he enquired, apparently offhandedly, his eyes darting suspiciously from beef to
bavarois
, from oysters to ortolans.

Fancelli was not deceived. ‘Yis,’ he said firmly, guarding his creations like Cerberus his domain, but even his plump body could not conceal the entire range of supper for fourteen guests.

‘I see you mince your mirepoix,’ began Auguste, attempting to be tactful.

‘Yis,’ replied Antonio, stiffening warily, prepared for battle.

‘Interesting, interesting,’ said Auguste hastily. ‘And so time-saving,’ he could not resist adding.

There might one day be a confrontation between himself and Signor Fancelli, but today was not the day. He reminded himself firmly how fortunate he was. This was the first English Christmas he would see at such close quarters. Normally he would be hard at work like Fancelli in the kitchen; now he could enjoy just a little of the other delights of the festival.

Perhaps he should suggest Fancelli should attend one of his courses? Even if he had been brought up in England, his parents were Italian. There would be much he could learn from French cuisine, with its superior attention to detail and its centuries-old tradition.

‘Monsieur Didier?’ Auguste jumped, caught in a head-turning contemplation of Fancelli’s turtle soup sitting in its Royal Derby tureen on a side table. The great master Carême had laid down that a soup should herald what was to follow it, like a portico a palace. All that could follow this turtle soup would be the lightest of light sole, yet he knew from the menu that the palace to follow this soup was far from fitting such a doorway. By turtle soup he had naturally intended a consommé, he brooded darkly. Perhaps an Italian chef had been a mistake on Maisie’s part. They had no instinctive grasp of what was required of an English menu.

‘You are French, are you not? I am Hungarian, but my husband is French. I do so
like
French men.’ Bella’s lovely face, surrounded by her blazing red curls, gazed innocently at Auguste, who was sitting at one end of the table. Fashionable golden tinsel gauze, in an equally fashionable décolleté gown, made her a glittering
figure, not to mention a provocative one.

‘We are honoured, madame. And from one of such beauty as yours, the compliment is indeed valued.’

There was a giggle, not from Bella but from one of the startlingly identical twins, upon whom Auguste turned a stern eye. They had only been in the hotel thirty minutes before the stag antlers in the entrance hall, despite hanging nearly twenty feet from the ground, were seen to be wearing the latest mode in Paris hats. Authorship of this crime was in no doubt. On their arrival only one sister had greeted Auguste, imperiously demanding personal escort to her room. On his return, the other, identically dressed in dark red gabardine, marched in at the entrance, demanding the same service. Doubting the evidence of his eyes, he had rendered it, returning to the entrance hall to see, as he thought, yet another young Miss Pembrey in dark red gabardine entering from the street, demanding escort. On the fifth such arrival, he paused to collect his thoughts, and then escorted the lady to her room. Five footmen and five maids followed them, each accompanied by a tray of tea.

‘I wonder if you are aware,’ Thomas Harbottle began, conscious that he had a social duty to address his neighbour, Rosanna Pembrey, ‘that Mrs Montague, inaugurator of the famous Blue-Stocking Club, lived in Montague House?’

‘I prefer white myself,’ answered Rosanna simply, out of her depth since blue stockings were indeed out of her ken.

Harbottle, unable to make anything of this reply, swallowed hastily and addressed Dalmaine. ‘I see you are a military man, sir.’

Dalmaine glared, conscious of Rosanna’s eye on him. ‘The Queen’s Own, Royal West Kents, sir.’ A pause. ‘We’re out
there
, you know.’

Harbottle stiffened. This was a subject he did not wish to pursue. ‘Indeed? My father is General Harbottle, late of the Fourteenth Foot, the Bedfordshires.’

‘Mitchell,’ trumpeted Colonel Carruthers, whose slight deafness was remarkably easily cured on subjects of interest.

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ Harbottle asked uneasily, wondering if the entire Christmas would consist of such Mad Hatter dinners and tea-parties.

Carruthers glared. ‘Part of Mitchell’s Fourth Brigade. Waterloo, man, Waterloo.’

‘I regret he did not take part in that battle, sir. He was not born until 1840. Waterloo took place in 1815,’ Harbottle informed him nervously.

Carruthers did not tolerate fools gladly. ‘Think I don’t know when Waterloo was? Greatest victory in the history of the British Army.’

Frederick Dalmaine turned to him. ‘A battle Wellington was lucky to have won, sir. I have made a study—’

‘Lucky?’ Carruthers’s eyes bulged. ‘
Lucky, sir?
’

Seeing the look on his face, Maisie hastily intervened. ‘You are quite comfortable in your room, I trust, Colonel?’