Murder Under The Kissing Bough: (Auguste Didier Mystery 6) (12 page)

‘Might we take a stroll round Portman Square, Mr Bowman? I would be so grateful for your company.’ Gladys’s kid-gloved hand stole inexorably round the crook of his arm.

‘Never fear, dear lady, they’ll arrest you over my dead body.’ Alfred Bowman perceived his joke was not well received, and a guffaw was hastily turned into a cough. The gardens, though well-kept, were barren at this time of year, life represented only by one or two intrepid guests from the hotel like themselves, whom Gladys appeared to eye with alarm.

‘Now,’ began Bowman genially, ‘how can I help you, dear lady? I can see you are troubled.’

‘I knew her, you see,’ Gladys burst out.

‘Who?’ asked Bowman cautiously.

‘The girl. Nancy. The one who was murdered. I didn’t know who it was dead till last night, and since I found out I’ve worried and worried. Oh, Mr Bowman, do you think I ought to tell the police? Will they think I did it?’

‘Of course not,’ replied Bowman offhandedly and far from reassuringly. ‘How did you know her, my dear Gladys, if I might so address you?’

‘They said a
maid
had been murdered, you see. And Nancy wasn’t a maid. Well, not really. I recognised her on Christmas Eve – she was so startled to see me here, that’s when she dropped that chestnut purée. Oh dear, I don’t suppose the Baroness will be very grateful to me either. She comes from Much Wallop, you see.’

‘Pardon?’

‘The village where I live. She’s the ward of an acquaintance of mine. Went to the
bad
, you know.’

‘You mean, she became an unfortunate?’ Bowman just held himself back from his usual word for the oldest profession.

A shocked silence. Then, ‘No. But nearly as bad. She went to work for a
newspaper
.’

‘Your just knowing her isn’t going to worry the Inspector, dear lady. Shall I come with you to see him? Ten to one they’ve discovered already who the girl was.’

‘But it’s worse than that, Mr Bowman,’ Gladys cried, determined to tell all. Or nearly. ‘You see, when she brought my tea in on Christmas morning, she told me what she was doing here. And, oh, Mr Bowman, what do you think? She said she was working on a story for her magazine.’

‘What story?’ Sharply.

‘She writes a household hints column, so I did just wonder. . .’

‘Yes, dear lady?’

Gladys grew a trifle pink. ‘She said something odd. I asked her if she couldn’t make a little visit at New Year to Much Wallop, for her guardian would so like to see her. But she said no, it was urgent, for there was something she had to stop happening. It was still going on, she said. I wondered,’ Gladys added diffidently, ‘if she had something like the adulteration of honey in mind,’ looking at Mr Bowman for his views. But he had no views to offer on honey.

‘I suggest,’ he said heartily, ‘that you tell the Inspector at the earliest opportunity everything you’ve told me. Especially about the household hints. It might give them a lead.’

Thérèse von Bechlein, too, was walking in Portman Square, with Marie-Paul. There they came upon Thomas and Eva Harbottle, the latter being subjected to
the complete Baedeker guide pouring forth from the lips of her husband. ‘That,’ he pointed to the northern corner of the square, ‘was the home of Monsieur Otto, the French ambassador who at the time of peace being concluded between England and France in 1802 hung lights to spell the word “Concord” outside it. The crowd outside construed it as “Conquered” and took great exception.’

‘Was that not rather foolish of your countrymen, Thomas?’ enquired his bride not entirely innocently.

He turned pink. ‘Nonsense, my dear. It was but the misreading of the moment.’

‘Unfortunately, Mr Harbottle,’ interjected Thérèse, overhearing, ‘Monsieur Otto’s subsequent attempt “
Amitié
” was also misread as “Enmity”. You see how hard we French endeavour to please you English in vain.’

‘As you say, Baroness,’ retorted Mr Harbottle. ‘Unfortunately, every country has its mob. Even France.’

‘
Oh la, la
, Marie-Paul, we have aroused the sleeping lion. My apologies, Mr Harbottle.’

He bowed, but as the Baroness walked away, she remarked to her companion, ‘Not a lion, but a sleeping tiger, that one, Marie-Paul.’

‘The Englishman?’

‘Ah
non
. His wife, I meant.’

‘Can’t keep out of a good murder, can you, Auguste?’

Maisie’s head appeared round the door of his cubbyhole, surmounted by a large pink feathered hat and muffled in white fur.

‘Dear Maisie.’ He leapt up and embraced her; chastely, with merely two kisses. ‘It follows me, as you well know.’

‘
Cherchez l’homme
, say I,’ pulling off her gloves.

‘Which
homme
had you in mind?’ asked Auguste drily.

‘Her young man,’ said Maisie cheerfully. ‘He’s the obvious suspect. Ten to one they had a quarrel when they met that morning, he stabbed her and there you are.’

‘And then she arose and served seven trays of tea?’ he enquired.

‘He lied about the time,’ she said shortly.

‘And how did the body walk inside the hotel again unnoticed?’ enquired Auguste patiently.

‘Elementary, Watson,’ said Maisie, twinkling now. ‘I reckon he hid it in the cellars where he was sleeping, then popped it up into the chest during the night. At
eight
thirty there wouldn’t be too much risk when he stabbed her. The servants would be in the kitchens, not the cellars.’

‘This body was not yet released from rigor mortis. You think he could “pop” it up a staircase into the drawing room just like that?’

‘I can’t solve everything for you, Auguste. I have to leave something to you,’ she said impatiently, then soberly: ‘Poor girl. Like the others. Remember?’

A glance between them, and six years fell away once more. They were back in the Galaxy Theatre, that place of enchantment, now being swept away under the beginnings of a new roadway, the Aldwych. Soon the theatre would open again elsewhere, yet the old building had gone with its years of happy memories. True, of the time he and Maisie had been there, not all the memories were happy.

‘We both remember,’ he said quietly.

She sighed. ‘That’s why I want to help find who murdered this girl.’

‘Then, Maisie, tell me. How, when did the staff come to you? Where and when did your guests hear of this
party? It is, Egbert and I know, of great significance.’

‘We advertised in
The Times
for guests, of course.’

‘When?’

‘I think October.’

‘So we can rule out all those who live so far away that the news could not have reached them in time.’

‘Oh no,’ Maisie said, highly pleased. ‘You’re losing your touch. Perhaps they have relatives in this country, who arranged it for them.’

‘True,’ he agreed regretfully. ‘And the staff were all hired in early December?’

‘Yes, at about the same time I approached you.’

‘You came to me first?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Naturally, I
thought
of you first,’ said Maisie smoothly, ‘but it never occurred to me that you would be free. Not until one of your former pupils applied for a job, and mentioned it.’

‘Why, as a pupil of Auguste Didier, did he not get a position?’ he demanded indignantly, diverted for the moment from the thread of his enquiries.

‘Because I’d already appointed Fancelli,’ retorted Maisie. ‘And nothing but the best posts, naturally, would suit your pupils, Auguste.’

‘Ah.’ Auguste was mollified.

Egbert Rose had arranged to see the guests one by one and Maisie was deputed to search her offices for all correspondence likely to be of interest. Highly incensed at being banished, she went off, head in air.

Rose had elected to see the Marquise first, but to his surprise it was Gladys Guessings who swept in first, hat askew, nose pink, to explain her mission.

‘Why didn’t you tell us earlier you knew the young lady?’ he asked resignedly. ‘It would have saved a great deal of work tracing her relations.’

‘Oh!’ Her face was anxious. ‘Has her poor guardian
been told? I didn’t know, you see. I just thought of her as poor Nancy Watkins gone to the bad.’

‘To the
London Watchman
, in fact,’ observed Rose drily.

‘Yes. She was working on honey, I believe,’ Gladys announced in a hushed voice.

‘Honey?’ Rose asked blankly.

‘It’s very wicked, you know, what goes on in our food.’ She leant across the table confidentially. ‘They adulterate it. I’ve read about it. And other foods. All sorts of things in there that shouldn’t be.
And
our water. Food was put on earth to be clean, Inspector Rose.’ The bobble on her hat emphasised its agreement with her. ‘What is mankind doing to it? That’s what we need to know. I think Nancy was quite right, although she’d gone to the bad.’

‘To the bad, madame?’ asked Auguste, just entering. ‘You mean she . . .’ Visions of white slavers, the Haymarket, the brothels of Soho, flooded through his mind.

‘Oh no. Why must you gentlemen always be thinking of
that
?’ Gladys blushed half in annoyance, half in embarrassment.

‘He’s French, ma’am,’ Rose retorted gravely, shooting a sidelong look at a highly annoyed Auguste. ‘Did she talk to you after she had recognised you?’

‘Oh yes, we had quite a chat when she brought the tea in in the morning, and she asked me not to tell anyone why she was there. I suppose it’s all right now though,’ she added sadly. ‘She said she was after an important story, you see. That it was all happening again. About the food.’

‘I think the story she was after might have been bigger than that, ma’am.’

‘Oh no, it was definitely food. Particularly puddings.’

‘Puddings?’ repeated Rose blankly.

‘Yes, I remember that clearly because she mentioned my favourite. My father brought the recipe home from his club one day for Mother, but I fear,’ she giggled, ‘I used to eat the greater part. It was called Emma Pryde’s Pall Mall Pudding. That’s Emma Pryde, the famous cook, you know,’ she added.

‘
Oui
, madame, I know,’ Auguste said, well aware of Emma’s specialities. Pall Mall Pudding was not a recipe he was acquainted with, but with its inventor – ah, that was a different matter.

‘So when Nancy mentioned Pall Mall, I told her at once I understood,’ Gladys added proudly.

‘She mentioned Pall Mall – you’re sure of that?’ Rose asked sharply.

‘She did so like to be mysterious, but she knew my little weakness and so naturally confided. It’s about ginger, isn’t it? And honey and so on. And the pudding. “Oh yes,” she said, “you’re right, Miss Guessings. My story is about the Pall Mall Pudding with a dangerous mix.” I can hear her now. Saying those very words. I’ve read about it, you see, ginger being a little weakness of mine. They sweep up sand and dirt from the warehouse floors and put them in the ground ginger, you know. And sometimes they add Plaster of Paris and gypsum too. I do hope,’ she rushed on, ‘Scotland Yard are investigating.’

‘We’ve got a Food and Drugs Act for that, ma’am,’ said Rose patiently. ‘Now—’

‘And honey – that’s mainly sugar – starch. And jams, they’re all made of turnips.’

‘Not my jams, Miss Guessings,’ said Auguste firmly. ‘Mine are made from the purest ingredients.’

She eyed him doubtfully. ‘Even ground ginger? What can a gentleman know about puddings? Oh, I forgot, you’re a cook, aren’t you?’

‘Madame, I am
the
cook, the
maître chef
. And you
may be assured no pudding or food for which I am responsible, as I am here, is adulterated with Plaster of Paris.’

Colonel Carruthers marched in as if a Wellington advancing to his Waterloo. He almost saluted, but instead sat down with a harrumph.

‘Gather you want to see me. Nothing I can tell you. Never notice girls. Why can’t you have men servants here?’ he shot at Auguste. ‘Girls should keep out of sight, that’s my view.’

‘Did you notice the murdered girl, sir, either at table on Christmas Eve or on Christmas morning?’ Rose showed the Colonel a photograph, and he turned pale.

Then recovering, ‘No. She could have been serving me dinner and tea for the last twenty years and I still wouldn’t recognise her face. Why?’ he shot out as if on parade at Oudenarde.

‘The girl was a journalist, sir, involved in investigating a crime.’

‘Crime?’

‘We think perhaps a series of art thefts in London,’ lied Rose blandly.

‘Convenient,’ snorted Carruthers. ‘So that’s why we’re being marched off to Hertford House this afternoon.’ He scowled at Auguste. ‘You behind all this, are you?’

‘
Non, monsieur
, I am not a robber. I am a cook by profession.’

‘So you’re the one responsible for that blasted mess you dare call kedgeree?’

‘Not this one, sir. It is the chef’s.’

‘In overall command, aren’t you?’ barked Carruthers. ‘In my day you’d have done the decent thing. You’d have been found dead with a Martini-Henry beside you.’

‘I think, Inspector, as a visitor from Germany, it is hardly likely that I would choose to spend Christmas murdering a girl I’d never set eyes on before.’