Murder Under The Kissing Bough: (Auguste Didier Mystery 6) (20 page)

‘Maisie, Fancelli is no true chef,’ Auguste pleaded.
‘No true chef would leave his guests unprovided for. He left them, Maisie, without making provision for luncheon.’ He overlooked the fact that in the excitement of the moment he also had overlooked it.

‘And what am I to do for a chef now?’ she demanded belligerently.

‘I will be your chef,’ Auguste announced grandly.

‘Splendid. And who will be manager then, while you’re souffléing around the kitchen?’

‘I will do that too. And the Baroness has kindly offered to assist. She has experience of hotels, it seems, from before her marriage.’

Maisie snorted. ‘Fine thing, me organising holidays for gentlefolk who land up having to run them themselves. What a reputation that will give me!’

‘It will indeed if I am to be the chef,’ Auguste pointed out mildly.

‘Chef? I thought you were the great detective. You’re going to be busy one way and another this afternoon.’

He looked wildly round. It was a gross dereliction of duty, for he had found a letter from Egbert in his office instructing him to make full use of the afternoon – and why. But how could he leave the kitchens? That, too, was duty.

‘Could you not. .?’

‘Yes?’ she asked dangerously.

‘Escort our guests to the Tower of London and observe, listen?’

‘What for? Want a potted history of the Tower straight from the Beefeater’s mouth?’

‘Non. This is
très sérieux
, Maisie. Listen to what the guests talk of amongst themselves. And in particular, any mention of Brussels.’

‘Sprouts?’

‘Now you try to provoke me,’ he said crossly. ‘I tell
you, Maisie, much depends on this. A murderer must be found, and an assassin, and the Inspector is beginning to think this plot may be connected with Sipido’s failed attempt in April.’

A short pause. ‘Anything to oblige, Auguste. What would you like me to do if I find him?’ she enquired. ‘Chop his head off on Tower Hill?’

‘I wonder if you are aware,’ announced Thomas Harbottle impartially to the party, emboldened by the flamboyance of today’s choice of waistcoat, ‘that if there are no ravens at the Tower, the fortress is doomed?’

Whether the rest of the party did or not, the Yeoman Warder assigned to it most certainly did and was not going to have his authority undermined by a pipsqueak like this. He puffed out his magnificent chest. They weren’t called Beefeaters for nothing; the roast beef of old England had given him not only a heart of oak but a chest to match.

‘This ’ere dungeon,’ he boomed in a voice that had once terrified recruits on army parade – grounds in farflung parts of Her Majesty’s Empire, ‘is known as “Little Ease”, where the arch-villain Guy Fawkes was imprisoned.’

Curiosity having been satisfied by one journey on the Underground Railway, it had been deemed desirable to hire carriages for the journey to the Tower. Maisie had led her flock across the drawbridge (less the Miss Pembreys who waived eight hundred years of history in favour of an examination of the delightful novelty of the new Tower Bridge) into the Tower precincts, waving her Governor’s Pass to be admitted to regions where visitors were not normally allowed. This gave them the honour of seeing empty rooms in the White Tower in which Sir Walter Raleigh had been imprisoned
and the even more dubious honour, in Maisie’s view, of descending to the dungeons. The ladies, except for the Baroness, were not impressed.

‘Guy Fawkes – did he not try to blow up Parliament?’ whispered Eva Harbottle to her husband at Maisie’s side as the party left in twos and threes.

‘Yes,’ answered Thomas shortly.

Hello, thought Maisie, why no historical diatribe on the subject?

‘What happened to him?’ Eva pressed on, uncharacteristically.

‘He was tortured and killed.’

‘’E’d be given a medal today,’ guffawed Bowman, turning round. ‘One way to get rid of old Salisbury, eh?’

‘But blowing up Parliament meant blowing up the King too, Alfred,’ said Gladys, quite shocked.

‘Those days are over, thank goodness,’ put in Maisie brightly, provocatively. ‘No one would want to blow up Her Majesty – or kill poor old Bertie.’

A sudden stillness – because of her disrespectful reference to the heir to the throne, or for some other reason?

‘The Boers would,’ pointed out the Marquis coolly.

‘I’d like to see any get near enough to try. A Boer wouldn’t get past Dover,’ said Carruthers.

‘Wouldn’t they?’ chortled Bowman. ‘There’s one right here. Your lady wife’s a Boer, isn’t she, Harbottle?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ cried Eva, white in the face, simultaneously with her husband’s ‘Eva’s German.’

‘She wasn’t when I saw her in Brussels at the Hôtel Midi. I just realised why I knew you. Eva Kruger was her name then. Related to the great man, are you?’

‘It must have been someone else,’ said Harbottle
stonily. ‘You have never been to Brussels, have you, Eva?’

‘Never,’ said Eva listlessly. ‘Never.’

‘I wonder if you are aware that the uncut ruby,’ announced Harbottle loudly, almost defiantly, as the party gathered round the iron cage protecting the crown jewels in the Wakefield Tower and gazed at the Queen’s State crown, ‘is said to have been worn by Henry V on his helmet at the Battle of Agincourt. The large sapphire below is said to have belonged to Edward the Confessor.’

‘Why did a priest own it?’ asked Marie-Paul.

‘He was a king, madam,’ the Beefeater informed her loudly. ‘One of our great English kings.’

‘Then where is his crown?’

‘It ain’t here, madam,’ the Beefeater was forced to admit. ‘All the royal jewels and crowns were sold orf after we cut off Charles I’s head.’

‘Is this not assassination?’ demanded Eva sulkily.

The Beefeater looked nonplussed.

‘Not when it’s legal, madam,’ Sir John stepped in.

‘But it was not legal while the King lived,’ argued Eva, ‘so you say if an assassination is successful it is legal, and if it fails like poor Mr Fawkes’s, it is not legal and you kill them.’

Sir John turned purple. Harbottle took his wife firmly by the arm. ‘Come, dearest, let us view the Sword of Mercy.’

Colonel Carruthers was staring long and hard at the St Edward’s Crown. ‘One of my ancestors stole that, you know,’ he announced to the assembly suddenly. ‘Blood, his name was. Blood.’

The Beefeater edged closer, as did Maisie. This was a sidelight and a half on the Colonel. He coughed, aware of the interest he was causing. He looked round
testily for Dalmaine. He had new arguments to present on the Iron Duke’s choice of Waterloo as a battlefield and the damn fellow was nowhere to be found.

Dalmaine had in fact tired of jewels and was wondering where Rosanna might be. He had left the Wakefield Tower in search of her and found not the object of his desire, but de Castillon, who felt uncomfortable in this English fortress. Why did they still keep it fortified? Surely they no longer expected his government to invade? Or did they? In his view, France had more to worry about than its old enemy England. Even so, a little less stability in England would be no bad thing. The old Queen could not last much longer, and for the French to stir up anti-British sentiment was hardly necessary at the moment. The Boers were doing it for them. He greeted Dalmaine with some pleasure. He did not wish to return empty-handed from this holiday.

‘How do you find this climate after Africa, Major Dalmaine?’

‘Not to my liking, sir. Miss the sunshine.’

‘But there is much rain also, is there not?’

‘Not in the Transvaal, sir,’ Dalmaine stared.

‘But on the Gold Coast,’ said de Castillon silkily.

‘I don’t know about West Africa,’ replied Dalmaine quickly.

‘My apologies, Major Dalmaine. Of course it was your brother involved in the Ashanti War of ninety-six, was it not? And did I not hear he went out again this year as a volunteer? No doubt now the Ashantis are subdued once more, he will be returned home. I wonder what may be in his trunk? How my government would like to know where the Stool might be found. Assuredly peace can never come to the Gold Coast while it is absent, and the French see their role as peacemakers. Ah,’ he broke off, ‘Lady Gincrack, how delightful to see you. Dalmaine and I were just discussing
the unity of Africa under the wise guardianship of England and France. And Brussels too, of course, Dalmaine,’ he added offhandedly. ‘Don’t forget the Congo. And now tell me, what is this we are looking at, pray?’

‘Traitor’s Gate,’ answered Dalmaine unemotionally.

‘My dear,’ said Gladys, ‘what a splendid party this is.’ She gazed happily at the Queen’s consort ring and imagined it adorning her own finger. ‘Apart from poor dear Nancy, of course,’ she added hastily.

‘Where can Mr Bowman have got to?’ asked Bella innocently.

‘He went to talk to that young couple, the Harbottles,’ said Gladys, trying to hide her disappointment that he had torn himself from her side even for a moment.

‘He seems most attached to you,’ said Bella politely.

Gladys flushed with pleasure. ‘I believe he is,’ she confided. ‘I really think he is.’ She pondered on life in Much Wallop and the greater glories that might lie ahead if she left it. There were still a few days left. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that tonight, New Year’s Eve, Alfred would propose. Her happiness would be complete. If only Nancy hadn’t come along to complicate matters. How could she have expected to meet someone from Much Wallop in Cranton’s? Poor Nancy. Gladys was genuinely sorry for her death, but there was no doubt it had removed a difficulty. Now no one knew about Much Wallop, least of all Mr Bowman.

‘I read that it was here the murder took place,’ Bella was saying conversationally, as Maisie returned to collect her flock.

Gladys jumped. ‘Murder?’ she repeated fearfully.

‘Yes,’ said Maisie. ‘Henry VI.’

Outside, a plump man in a bowler hat and dark
overcoat walked swiftly out of the Tower and disappeared into the anonymity of London. Even had the party from Cranton’s been accustomed to taking notice of cooks, they would hardly have recognised Fancelli without his cook’s hat and apron.

‘Drums captured at Blenheim,’ Maisie read out.

‘Fascinating,’ said Thérèse stoutly.

‘A great British victory.’

‘Perhaps the enemy’s books read differently,’ said Thérèse drily.

‘History’s an odd thing,’ agreed Maisie. ‘It all depends which side you’re on. Look at Joan of Arc. Heroine where you were born. And we burn her at the stake. And look at Sipido,’ she added innocently, ‘who tried to kill the Prince of Wales at the Gare de Midi in Brussels.’

‘De Nord,’ corrected Thérèse absently.

‘Oh, you know Brussels do you?’

The Baroness raised her eyebrows. ‘
Naturellement
,’ she said coldly. ‘My husband is a diplomat, after all. The poor boy’s deed is obviously known to us.’

‘Oh, look at that,’ said Maisie, anxiously pointing at the block on which Lord Lovat lost his head for treason. ‘They’d have put Sipido on that if this were 1747.’

‘Barbarians,’ muttered Thérèse.

‘Dear lady,’ boomed Alfred Bowman, appearing suddenly behind Gladys as she gazed disconsolately at an English longbow recovered from the wreck of the
Mary Rose
, ‘where
have
you been hiding?’

‘Nowhere,’ replied Gladys rather crossly. On the contrary, she had been hunting and had given up the search. One might almost think Alfred had lost interest in her. Surely it could not be so.

As if in affirmation of her confidence, he slipped a
possessive arm through hers. ‘Take a look at these breechloaders, Gladys. Don’t see many of those today. Or your Brown Besses. No, we’ve moved on a bit. The lads in South Africa are better equipped. Fine guns Krupp produces.’

‘Aren’t they what the Boers have?’ said Gladys, frowning.

Alfred did not seem to hear her. Her arm had been returned to her and he was busy admiring a damascened suit of armour of the seventeenth century.

‘Marlborough,’ declared Gladys loudly as they reached the foot of the staircase leaving the White Tower where Maisie was waiting.

Bowman jumped. ‘What?’ he said quite rudely.

‘Marlborough,’ repeated Gladys crossly. Really, Alfred didn’t seem to be listening at all. If this was what marriage was like . . . ‘I said, there are some pieces of the old State barge, with the arms of the Duke of Marlborough.’

‘Oudenarde, Ramillies, Waterloo,’ muttered Bowman. ‘Good for Belgium, eh? It’s getting its own back now.’

‘Ah, there you are,’ said Carruthers gruffly, striding up to Dalmaine, trying not to appear too eager.

Dalmaine was surveying a showcase of early nineteenth-century helmets and swords. Colonel Carruthers surveyed it with him. ‘Great days!’ he said at last. ‘Great days!’

‘I’m prepared to admit,’ Dalmaine offered magnanimously in a spirit to accord with their new-found comradeship, ‘that Napoleon was remiss in not following up the Prussian retreat.’

Carruthers glowed. ‘And that the Duke’s strategy was flawless?’ he pressed eagerly.