Murder Under The Kissing Bough: (Auguste Didier Mystery 6) (14 page)

Danny blenched. ‘Why would I have killed her?’ he asked vehemently. ‘Why?’

‘Same reason any young man kills a girl,’ Rose informed him.

‘Your passions may get aroused in cellars at seven thirty in the morning, Inspector, but—’

‘What the Inspector means, Danny,’ Auguste hurriedly interrupted, seeing Rose’s usually impassive face begin to show more than a few signs of dislike of Danny Nash, ‘is that it seems strange that you should be so devoted to protecting a colleague that you give up Christmas to sleep in a cellar.’

Danny opened his mouth, then shut it again, his face slowly turning brick red.

‘I’ve good news for you, Mr Nash,’ said Rose grimly. ‘You can move out of your cellar – and into the hotel. Where my men can keep an eye on you. A close eye.’

‘Now we’re permitted in here again,’ said Bella, following Auguste into the drawing room where he had superintended the hasty dusting of the room, ‘I can take advantage of you,’ advancing on him meaningfully.

‘Not here, madame!’ he cried aghast. ‘Just think, if we were to be discovered on the sofa
en déshabillé
, your husband—’

‘Why, Auguste, I only meant a tiny kiss under the
mistletoe.’ Laughter bubbled up as her hands stole round his neck. ‘What did you think I meant?’

The kissing bough twirled and turned above them in the slight draught through the windows, as her lips met his, and for once luncheon was not top of the manager’s list of priorities.

‘If an art theft is supposed to be the reason for that girl getting murdered, are you sure,’ enquired Sir John somewhat querulously, ‘that we are safe here with merely one constable?’ He gazed suspiciously around the Wallace Collection newly open to the public as though the Watteau before him might be snatched before his very eyes.

‘Quite safe,’ Auguste assured him, wondering in fact how he could keep an eye on his brood in such a vast place, even though they were the only visitors. Hertford House had been opened especially for them today. Already he thought he had counted fifteen, not fourteen heads, but Miss Pembrey had assured him the fifteenth was her maid.

‘I wonder if you are aware, Eva,’ announced her husband loudly, ‘that Simon Bolivar stayed in a house near here in 1810?’

Eva for once reacted. ‘He fought for his country,’ she said fiercely. ‘He was a hero.’

‘Quite,’ said Thomas uneasily, steering her to a peaceful contemplation of Caillot’s Cupid and Psyche.

‘Stolen by that man,’ Carruthers was remarking at the moment some way away in the armoury, a portion of the museum ignored by all but himself and that damned Napoleon-lover, Dalmaine.

Dalmaine stared at the equestrian suit in black and gold ascribed to the Elector Joseph of Bavaria and removed from his arsenal by Napoleon.

‘Good general, though. Didn’t make as many mistakes
as Wellington, I maintain,’ said Dalmaine stoutly, moving on to powder flasks.

‘Justify that, sir!’ Carruthers glared.

‘Failure to supply more ammunition at La Haye Sainte,’ said Dalmaine promptly.

‘Good God, man, the C-in-C can’t be held responsible for everything? Can he, sir?’ whirling on Auguste who arrived at this critical moment.

‘Indeed not, sir,’ replied Auguste smoothly and ignobly. ‘No more than a manager for his cook’s kedgeree. . .’

Some miles away to the east, Egbert Rose climbed from a hansom in less salubrious surroundings. Behind him the Thames flowed on, grey and uninviting, hugging its secrets to itself. Ahead were several small lanes leading down to the waterfront. A group of ill-clad children broke off their hopscotch to watch him as he turned up the collar of his overcoat and decided which way to go. They knew a crusher when they saw one. If they had been older, they would have known even more about this one, for he was no stranger to Stepney. From the lighted windows of two public houses, seamen paused in the drinking of porter to watch, some in idle curiosity, others less idle, and at least two who abandoned their drink and slunk off into the network of alleys, rats back to their holes to spread the news.

Aware of their scrutiny, Rose struck off up one alley through another, and another. He turned into the dark, damp covered passageway between two rows of small terraced houses, and glancing back when he was at the end, turned quickly left, and then in at a back doorway, through the yard into a house. The man vigorously mending boots hardly paused to look up, as Rose re-emerged into the street, no bowler hat now, but cap and shabby jacket, clutching a bundle. He let himself
out, walked quickly for two hundred yards or so and into another house.

He thrust open the door, and clouds of steam enveloped him, making him cough with the smell of Sunlight soap, of mangles, of damp washing. It was better than the smells that usually reached him in this part of the world.

In the steam he could dimly make out a shape.

‘What d’yer want?’

An enormous figure, sixteen-stone, copper dolly-wielding, a laundress who in this area of dirt and filth produced the cleanest clothes Rose ever saw in the whole of his travels.

‘Afternoon, Ma.’

The figure loomed more closely, emerging from the fog, wiping her hands, peering at the visitor.

‘Oh. It’s you.’

Ma Bisley was at home.

Say what you like, but Norfolk was a long way away, and much too flat. Rose gazed out of the window of the Royal Train at dull green fields and barren fields. Trouble was with the country it was all the same. Nothing to oil the brain. Give him houses, shops, people, public houses, theatres even, anywhere that things happened. It might suit some folks to live in the country, but he couldn’t see it for him – or for Edith. Highbury Fields were country enough for them. Mr Pinpole the butcher and the Maypole and Liptons were just down the road, and Mr Waskett the greengrocer was just a few steps further, and always very civil to Edith. Life was uncomplicated in Highbury, and that was something, after a day at the Factory, he could do with.

It had been a pity not to be able to tell Edith this morning he was going to see Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, to report progress – or lack of it. The fact that he had put on his best waistcoat had not escaped her, he was sure of that. After it was all over, he could look forward to telling her. ‘Oh Egbert,’ he could hear her saying, ‘What was Her Royal Highness wearing?’ So far the journey had proved a disappointment. He had felt somehow cheated to discover that travelling on the Royal Train merely meant a halt on Sandringham estate, not that he would be cushioned in regal splendour.

His spirits rose to see the line of royal carriages and
baggage wagons at Wolferton railway station. It wasn’t every day he rode in a carriage with the Prince of Wales’s crest on it. Rather to his surprise, he seemed to be taking precedence over the undoubtedly far more aristocratic Saturday-to-Monday guests arriving by the same train, until he reflected that His Royal Highness was no doubt eager to pack business out of the way at the earliest opportunity.

It was a nice enough drive, if you liked this kind of thing, long road bordered with grass and trees, birds singing, squirrels scurrying about – bit of contrast to Ma Bisley’s place. He grinned. He liked Ma. They understood each other. Ma was the Piccadilly Circus of all roads of information; if it didn’t come to Ma Bisley’s ears, it weren’t a villainy worth knowing about.

The carriage turned a curve in the road and there were the massive gates of Sandringham, with crowns, feathers and shields all over them, only one policeman on duty. He showed his pass; the policeman was unimpressed. After all, he had the security of the throne to ensure, that of the nation rated second in his book of precedence. Rose grinned as the carriage proceeded up the avenue, then under a covered way to a door somewhat less imposing than the principal front entrance to which he observed subsequent carriages were heading.

Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, advanced towards the waiting room as he might towards his dentist – a disagreeable but necessary visit before he might enjoy luncheon. And receive his Saturday-to-Monday guests of course. Shooting this afternoon, perhaps, while the ladies disported themselves in the bowling alley. And this evening – he encouraged his mind to wander over the delights of the evening to come – not so delightful as they might have been in London without the Princess’s
presence, but nevertheless jolly. At his time of life there was quite a lot to be said for a game of billiards and a good smoke. Then his arrival at the waiting room reminded him disagreeably that life might not be there much longer unless he took this matter seriously.

He regarded Inspector Egbert Rose thoughtfully. ‘Progress?’ he asked in his guttural voice.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said Rose guardedly.

The heir to the throne of the British Empire walked to the window and stared out over acres of peaceful England. ‘Madmen I can understand,’ he said at last. ‘A plot, conspiracy – no.’

‘England has enemies, sir.’

‘Germany?’ rumbled the royal voice. ‘The Kaiser would never dare.’

‘It doesn’t have to stem from His Majesty himself, sir,’ Rose pointed out. ‘South Africa though, that’s what we fear.’

His Royal Highness considered this. ‘Then it’s Field Marshal Roberts they’re after.’

‘Why at Paddington then, and not at Cowes where the Field Marshal is landing to meet the Queen?’

‘Wouldn’t dare. Might harm Her Majesty. Wouldn’t do them any good,’ said her son simply. ‘It would have a better result if they killed me.’

‘Sir, it is just possible that the attack will be made not at Paddington, but in the Marlborough Club or at the Carlton. Do you have plans to go there, sir?’

Royalty seemed extremely unwilling to answer, but finally intimated that if he could not drop into his club without being surrounded by half the British army and police force guarding him, a club that he had founded for this very purpose, then life was not worth living anyway. Somewhat grudgingly, however, he admitted to having plans to go to the Carlton with a private party
in the middle of January, and yes, he did usually dine in the Marlborough Room.

Something in Rose’s stomach, which could not be blamed on last night’s cold mutton chop, stirred uncomfortably.

‘And Cranton’s, sir – do you have any connection in Cranton’s?’

‘
Cranton’s
?’ The Prince was startled. ‘Why?’ he asked cautiously.

‘We think the plot has something to do with Cranton’s.’

‘I remember it,’ His Highness answered slowly and noncommittally. ‘I heard it was being opened again by—’ He said no more. One of the irksome duties of his position was to vet for his mother, the comings and goings of all his relations, whom they intended to marry, where they intended to live, what they had for dinner. He brought himself back to the matter in hand. ‘If you’re right, the conspirators would stay at the Carlton, not Cranton’s.’

‘Wouldn’t that draw too much attention to the villains’ presence?’

‘They can’t just pop up in the middle of a cake and shoot me,’ the Prince pointed out. ‘They would have to plan some method of being there.’

‘Yes, sir, but the reason Cranton’s is involved is that a young lady who was, we think, investigating a rumour about this affair, has been murdered there.’

‘Murder?’ This was definitely unwelcome news. A shiver ran through the Prince at the thought of murder. He did his best to avoid it and it seemed to hurl itself directly into his path. That settled it. He’d keep well away from Cranton’s. Then an amusing thought struck him.

‘That French cook fellow hasn’t got himself mixed up in this, has he?’

‘As a matter of fact, he has, sir.’

‘I’m sorry, Auguste.’ Maisie’s normally cheerful face was rueful. ‘I’m afraid George has put his foot down.’

‘How did his foot hear of it in St Moritz?’ asked Auguste crossly.

‘Now, now, Auguste. There’s newspapers, you know. George doesn’t want me involved.’

Auguste knew all too well that there were newspapers. The news had not taken long to reach them that one of their own had been murdered. True, it was a lady reporter, but the issue was all the more emotional for that. It had been with more than usual difficulty that they had been persuaded by Twitch to refrain from broadcasting the fact to the far corners of the earth. Sulkily, Fleet Street recorded that a housemaid had been found dead in the old Cranton’s Hotel. The death was entirely unconnected with a series of major art thefts being planned, it was believed, with foreign connections. The police were watching for suspected criminals entering or leaving the country.

Fleet Street took its revenge by haunting Cranton’s entrance. The doormen shooed them away like pigeons periodically when their numbers grew, and like pigeons they returned. One or two took to trailing guests, and Auguste was on tenterhooks lest his guests object to the attention they were receiving. Furthermore it had not escaped his notice that Danny Nash was keeping remarkably quiet, coming in late at night, and disappearing at breakfast time.

‘But if you are not here, Maisie, how am I to do everything?’ Auguste despaired. ‘How can I escort the guests on their visits, be host
and
hostess, oversee Fancelli, how can I
Manage
?’

‘Good practice,’ replied Maisie reassuringly, ‘for when you’re a hotelier.’

‘I am not sure,’ Auguste remarked gloomily, ‘that I wish now to be one. It seems to me that being a chef has rewards enough.’

‘Don’t worry. You won’t get a murder with every hotel.’

‘And that is another matter. Inspector Rose asks me to help solve the murder—’

‘There now, me old duck, you’ll be admirably placed for sniffing out clues,’ said Maisie, relieved. ‘And as for hostessing, I’ve asked Bella to help you. She’d be delighted, she told me.’

Auguste digested this news with mixed feelings. Delightful though Bella was, the opportunities for têtes-à-têtes would undoubtedly increase with such proximity. He looked round his domain when Maisie had gone. He was a regent in temporary possession of a kingdom. Around him were the signs of Christmas, the decorations, the festive twinkling coloured paper lanterns. And there through the open doorway of the drawing room he could see the kissing bough, a symbol going back into the dark ages that told of sinister rituals of the druids that had little to do with a festival of goodwill to all men. And death had come again beneath its innocent-looking berries and greenery. An unsolved death as yet. Suddenly he was angry with fate for throwing him this opportunity and then mocking it with murder. He would solve the crime, and quickly. He had not been thinking as had been his wont in former times. Perhaps he needed the stimulation of cooking to make him detect correctly. But on this occasion, he remembered with frustration, Signor Fancelli was in the kitchens, not himself.

As if on cue, the hated voice rose in unnatural bass from its underworld kingdom. ‘What has swept you from the sunshine of your native land?’ Filled with a
rage he could not identify, Auguste ran downstairs. Not in his hotel. And not an aria about
Provence
. That was
his
home, not that of this fat parvenu Italian. Fancelli beamed on his arrival, albeit a smile of contented possessiveness, a usurper unafraid of his Hamlet. Auguste did not return the beam.

‘No singing, signor, I beg.’ He said sternly.

‘Ah. You no like. I forget.’ Fancelli beamed again.

‘And I no like this either.’ Auguste marched grimly to the ovens where a haunch of venison awaited its entrance.

‘What wrong?’ Fancelli asked warily. ‘Turtle soup and venison, the Gog and Magog of English cooking, so Soyer say,’ he brought out with pride.

‘Perhaps.’ Auguste’s tones were clipped. He did not need to be reminded of the glories of the great Alexis Soyer today or any day. ‘But this, if I am not mistaken, is
roebuck
venison.’

‘So?’

‘The English eat only fallow deer from English parks. And where, Signor Fancelli, is the fat? It is not worth roasting without,’ Auguste hissed reprovingly, keeping his voice quiet so that underlings would not hear this dispute.

‘Signor Didier, if you think you cook venison better than Fancelli, then you—’ Fancelli stopped short, as if reconsidering this gauntlet before he flung it. Auguste, by the look of his face, would be all too ready to pick it up.

‘If you believe this is edible, then you may serve it to your staff. My guests will not eat it. Preferable they eat an omelette Didier to this,’ he flicked it disdainfully, ‘boot leather.’

‘I do this, Signor Didier, but beware. Fancelli is not to be insulted.’ The smile reappeared on his face, and he hummed happily – to himself – Signor Verdi’s
Grand Victory March from
Aida
.

Auguste returned to his office and tried to study the menus for the next day.
Chartreuse de perdreaux
, almond pudding, duck simmered in claret, oyster quenelles, stewed lampreys – the names swam before him, for once not conjuring up to his mind delightful aromas and memories, but remaining there stolidly before him, uninspired and uninspiring. He remembered how in the past he solved murder by considering it as the ingredients of a
plat
. In the kitchens below now, however, there was no order. It was chaos. Like in this murder itself. So many people could have done it that patient logic was necessary, but how could this be achieved if all were not well below?

He forced himself to try to think calmly, to assemble the ingredients for this recipe that had ended in the murder of a girl. To take a simple receipt such as the making of an Indian curry: first the assembling of the implements – here we had an oak chest, a stiletto dagger. Let us consider the instrument – Italian, and there was only one Italian on the premises.

Try as he could, Auguste could not see Fancelli murdering the girl. He had not the intelligence to plan this crime. Besides, Fancelli, so Egbert had informed him rather more pragmatically, had been in sight of all the other kitchen staff at the time. Regretfully Fancelli was tentatively ruled out. Who else? Anyone who came prepared for murder, logic told him.
Prepared?
Yet how could this be unless Nancy’s murderer knew she would be there. Was this possible? Yes. If he, Auguste, had heard those words in the fog, the murderer might have done also and arranged to come here. And that presumed that he, being present, was indeed the murderer of the girl in the fog, and not Nancy herself. The murderer had two choices after realising the presence of an unseen stranger (himself, Auguste): to chase after
Nancy, or to stay to remove the body. He chose the latter.

Yes, that fitted. But so also did the thesis that the murderer was prepared because he intended to kill the Prince of Wales. Yet with a stiletto? How could he – or she – hope to get close enough?