Murder in Pug's Parlour (12 page)

A certain tightening of Mrs Hankey’s lips boded ill for Ethel, and the look on Sergeant Bladon’s face even less well for Auguste.

However his inevitable interview did not go along the lines he expected. For a start, neither Naseby nor the Chief Constable was present. A hopeful sign that he was not immediately for the death cell. He had reasoned, protested, explained it was impossible for food to be polluted by him; pleaded he was not an incompetent fool who went to the garden to seek sorrel and came back with wolfsbane, and then suddenly found the intelligence to conceal his guilt by adding poison to the brandy – in a different form of course, since the addition of leaves would be noticed – in order to cover his tracks more thoroughly.

‘Oh we know that, Mr Didier,’ said Bladon cheerily.

‘You know that?’ echoed Auguste faintly.

‘’Course you might have, no denying that. Might have been what you was doing when I caught you that night. That book being a red herring, as they say.’

Auguste closed his eyes in momentary despair. Then opened them quickly when Bladon continued: ‘But we don’t think you did. Leastways for the moment, that is,’ he added cautiously. ‘After all, you pointed out about the brandy and how it might’ve been meant for the Duke. ’Course, we’d’ve found out anyway. So that might have bin cleverness on your part. But that, I doubt. Takes an Englishman to think that clever.’

Auguste compressed his lips. ‘But the inquest . . .?’

‘Ah yes,’ said Bladon heavily. ‘Fortunate that. It gives us a freer hand, you see.’

Auguste eyed him indignantly. ‘
Et moi
? What of my reputation?’

It seemed that the Kent County Police were unmoved by thoughts of Auguste’s reputation. ‘You’ve been very helpful to us, Mr Didier,’ said Bladon kindly. ‘Very helpful.’

‘I am delighted to have been of service,’ he murmured. The sarcasm passed Bladon by. ‘So now it is not the poor
silly cook who had the little accident with the sorrel. It is the blackmailer from the other side of the green baize door. Yes?’

Bladon looked cunning. ‘Not blackmail, no. We can’t necessarily go along with that.’

Auguste stared. ‘But you saw the book, this Greeves, he is blackmailing—’

‘All we saw was a list of figures and initials, Mr Didier. It might have been blackmail, it might not.’

‘You also think someone wanted to poison the Duke then? For what? An affair of the heart?’

Bladon was shocked. In his view His Grace was married to his affair of the heart.

‘There’s other motives for getting rid of Greeves besides blackmail,
and
without bringing His Grace into it,’ said Bladon severely, saying more than he had meant. He turned red. Naseby would have his scalp if he could hear.

‘What?’ asked Auguste. ‘Inspector, these are my colleagues.’

‘Now you know I can’t tell you anything of the sort,’ said Bladon uneasily. ‘I said too much already. I’ll tell you this though. There’s jealousy.’

‘Mrs Hankey?’ asked Auguste. ‘Ah but, Inspector, she would not kill Greeves. He was her one hope for the future.’ Unless, of course, he thought to himself, she had found out about the real Mrs Greeves.

‘I didn’t say Mrs Hankey.’

‘But May wasn’t jealous of Mrs Hankey—’

‘I didn’t say—’

‘Who then?’ Could he mean Chambers? Jealous of Greeves over May Fawcett. But how could Bladon have known? And the problem remained – how could they have done it?

‘Of course,’ said Bladon, annoyed at this dismissal of his
revelation, ‘there still ain’t nothing to show you didn’t put the poison in the bottle of brandy yourself, Mr Didier.’

‘Hrumph,’ commented the Duke, in traditional pose, warming his hands before the drawing-room fire.

‘My husband means to say, Monsieur Didier,’ chimed in the Duchess sweetly, ‘that we have every confidence in you. We are quite, quite sure that this is all a dreadful misunderstanding. That it could not possibly have occurred through any fault of yours.’

‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ said Auguste quietly. He had been shaken. Not so much by the revelations of Sergeant Bladon, but at perhaps what he imagined were odd glances thrown at him by the lower servants when he returned to Stockbery Towers in the afternoon. The upper servants were outwardly punctilious in their loyalty naturally, though he detected a slight gleam of malicious pleasure in Cricket’s eyes. Ill news travels fast. The scullery maid was daughter to Joseph Turner, number nine on the jury, the hallboy was second cousin to Matthew Binden up at Roundtree Farm who was brother-in-law to Terence Makepiece, saddlemaker, number six on the jury.

Publicly, at least, the ranks closed round Auguste, now that the trouble had come. Frenchman or not, he was one of them.

Yet the unity that Auguste perceived was a superficial one. No sooner had the jury returned their verdict than the upper servants’ deep unease broke out once more. United they might be together, but individually their hopes, fears and torments surfaced.

May Fawcett, returning from dressing Her Grace for luncheon, was accosted by Frederick Chambers in the front hall, who drew her into the anteroom.

Chambers looked at her ungenerous, selfish face. However could he have thought her beautiful? He gripped her by the shoulder. ‘You told him, didn’t you? You told him about you and me. Laughed about me with him?’

She freed herself and rubbed her shoulder indignantly. ‘No, I didn’t. And what if I did? There ain’t no you and me anyway. As though I’d consider you!’

‘You liked me all right last Servants’ Ball,’ said Chambers hoarsely.

‘No, I—’ May stopped to consider. Archibald was gone now. And she was twenty-eight years old. ‘Yes,’ she said unwillingly, ‘yes, I did, I s’pose.’

‘You knew he was married, didn’t you?’ said Chambers. ‘You found out, didn’t you?’ He was triumphant.

She looked at him in fear. ‘How did you know?’

‘I heard him telling you, May. Laughing at you. I overheard, you see. Did you do him in, May? I wouldn’t have blamed you.’

She looked at him. He was no great catch, but – she put out a hand towards him and large tears began to form in her eyes . . .

It was Hobbs who suffered from the frustration resulting from her need to appeal to hitherto scorned admirers. She always picked an easy target: ‘I don’t expect Mr Greeves liked being told what you thought of him, Mr Hobbs. Did he get time to go to His Grace, like he threatened? Or did he die first? You had a cold, didn’t you, Mr Hobbs . . . Did you use Dr Parkes’ remedy? Make some up . . .?’

‘What are you doing in here, Mr Chambers? Mrs Hankey wouldn’t like it, would she?’

Cricket had stolen up behind him as he stood in front of the medicine cupboard in Mrs Hankey’s storeroom.

Chambers whirled round, his face red. ‘I was just
looking, Mr Cricket. Just looking to see how easy it would have been for anyone to come in . . .’

‘Oh yes? Not you yourself was it, looking to see whether the police had taken the bottle away? After all, you had good reason to get rid of him, didn’t you?’

It would give John Cricket great pleasure if the murderer of Mr Greeves could be discovered amongst his colleagues. It was unlikely then that his own link between Greeves and the Duke’s side of the house would emerge.

‘Miss Gubbins, I want a word with you.’

Mrs Hankey bore down upon her, a ship in full sail. ‘I just remembered something Mr Greeves said to me. He said he was going to speak to me about you. Something very serious. What was it, Miss Gubbins? He never got a chance to tell me, poor lamb.’ Her voice was heavy with meaning.

Ethel turned pink, then red. ‘I’m sure I don’t know, Mrs Hankey. And if you’re implying . . .’

‘I’m not implying anything, miss. I just want to know who murdered my Archibald. And it seems to me—’

‘It seems to me that you knew him best, Mrs Hankey. You should know who murdered him.’

Mrs Hankey’s mouth fell open at this assault from unexpected quarter. ‘Me? Know who murdered Mr Greeves?’

Oblivious to these fiery developments, and now dismissed from the Gracious presence, Auguste was returning to the kitchens when he was stopped by Walter Marshall.

‘May I ask a moment of your time?’

Auguste followed him into the library, seldom used at Stockbery Towers for its rightful function. The beautifully bound volumes, including a first edition of Lambarde on Kent, remained pristine and acquired value through their mint condition. Lady Jane was the only member of the
family to disturb the tranquillity of their lives and her excursions were more confined to the lighter end of the bookcases containing the novels and bound copies of
The Theatre.

‘We have met before, Mr Didier, have we not?’

Auguste smiled. He had not thought Walter Marshall would remember.

‘At the Savoy last year, monsieur. When I was visiting Monsieur Escoffier.’ Newly arrived to run the kitchens of the new Savoy Hotel, his old maître and dearly beloved mentor Auguste Escoffier had received him. While he was there Walter Marshall had visited the chef’s room, also to renew an acquaintance begun in Nice. It had surprised Auguste at the time for this serious young politician had not struck him as the sort of Englishman who admired French cooking. He had proved to be wrong. Walter Marshall did, and he had liked Auguste. He admired the French willingness to accord honour where it was due, and not to halt at the boundaries of class. He himself found a gate through those boundaries whenever he could; and if there were no gate, he leapt the wall. He was a determined young man.

‘It’s all nonsense of course,’ declared Walter Marshall roundly now. ‘These bumpkins don’t know what they’re talking about.’

After a moment’s surprise at being spoken to as a human being and not as a cog, however vital, in an inferior hierarchy, Auguste shrugged.

‘It is natural,’ he replied. ‘No Englishman, they think, would be so unsporting as to put poison in a man’s victuals; no English lady would even consider such a thing, so it had to be a foreigner. That leaves the Prince Franz, the Marquise, her secretary – and myself. And who is best placed to poison food? Me. The cook.
Voilà.
The case is solved.’

‘But it is simple enough to prove you had nothing to do
with it; or rather, to be accurate, impossible to prove you did—’

Auguste bristled.

‘My dear fellow,’ said Walter, ‘no offence. I see absolutely no reason that you should have wanted to send the steward off to an untimely death even if you were at daggers drawn—’

‘How did you—?’

‘Not too difficult,’ said Walter drily. ‘Archibald Greeves was not above dropping remarks here and there about his colleagues – those that were a threat to his sovereignty. Fortunately the Duke is too – er – unintellectually inclined to notice.

‘It seems to me, Didier,’ Walter Marshall continued, ‘that on today’s showing the local detective force is not likely to come up with the right answer. This is a problem that you and I, irrespective of our respective positions as guest and – er – servant, being the most logically minded people present have to solve.’

Auguste’s chest swelled. His eyes gleamed. He saw the point. Were not the French the most logical nation in the world? Then he put that logic to work. Why should Walter Marshall be so interested in a mere chef’s plight? It could not be pure devotion to the cult of gastronomy, in saving Auguste for the nation.

‘Why?’ he asked simply.

‘You would agree, Didier, that someone in this house murdered Greeves? And that being so, would you not agree there remains a dangerous situation?’

‘You mean,’ Auguste thought carefully, ‘that it may happen again. This time for less cause, if it is presented, since the first time it was not detected. It is possible, yes.’

‘I shall not feel happy,’ said Marshall with difficulty, ‘about leaving this house while those still here might be in danger.’

Auguste noted his deliberately offhand manner.

‘And you, my dear Didier, are the prime suspect at the moment, are you not? It must be to your advantage to help solve this case.’

Auguste shook his head. ‘
Non
, monsieur, I ask you to believe me. The police are not interested in me. They tell me so and indeed were it so in truth, I should be in Maidstone gaol, not free in the kitchens of Stockbery Towers.’

‘Then I ask you to consider, Monsieur Didier, that your pretty little friend who was so concerned at the verdict might be next,’ said Walter firmly.

Estelle? His Estelle? Impossible to think of his pretty Ethel the next victim of a poisoner. Unlikely . . .

‘Very well, Monsieur Marshall.
Ecoutez.’
Realising the advantages of an ally on the far side of the green baize door, Auguste spoke. Fifteen minutes later Walter Marshall was in full possession of the blackmail theory, of the black book so interesting in prospect and apparently so disappointing in reality. He was also in possession of the ‘police’ theory of the Duke as intended victim. But Auguste did not tell Walter Marshall about Edward’s drinking from the brandy bottle. He was not yet confident enough to present such cast-iron evidence that the murderer belonged to his side of the baize door. He would tell him soon perhaps. The flavours were permeating, the marinade was working, instinct told him; soon some solution would occur to him.

‘So you feel one of the guests is responsible?’ said Marshall frowning slightly.

‘It is more likely Greeves was blackmailing them or the family,’ Auguste pointed out daringly.

‘Unless he took his goods in kind,’ replied Walter. ‘After all, he had to get his information from somewhere. The family or guests wouldn’t come right out and tell him.’

‘That would only apply to the family,’ pointed out Auguste.

‘Then the guests are ruled out anyway,’ said Walter.

‘No,’ said Auguste slowly. ‘Not necessarily. The guests at the moment are all regular guests. They have been here before. You all know how things are done. And,’ his eyes quickened, ‘Greeves’ duties took him to London to Stockbery House with His Grace to oversee the accounts. We do not know what opportunities he might have had there. A gentleman’s valet is sometimes his weak point and Greeves would have had ample occasion to talk to them, hand them a
pourboire
in return for information.’