Murder Under The Kissing Bough: (Auguste Didier Mystery 6) (18 page)

‘They would have taken it from the lift back into the room of course,’ said Auguste irritably, hurt at these flaws being picked in his perfect theory, ‘once the room had been cleaned, and . . . and. . .’

‘Why not put it back in the lift at night?’ Rose pressed on inexorably.

Auguste glared. There had to be an answer. There was no other solution, and so he must be right. Then the answer helpfully supplied itself. ‘Because by that time,
mon brave
, the lift was back in the kitchens, perhaps set with teacups for the morning. Moreover, these lifts are not silent, Egbert. They could not raise it without arousing the curiosity of the night porter.’

Rose considered this. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘but whichever way you look at it, the body is in the chest, and no reason for being there that I can see. But I agree. It must have taken some handling. Brains and brawn again – in the form of one person or two.’

‘Two, I am sure,’ said Auguste simply. ‘Like bubble and squeak.’

‘Or fish and chips,’ grunted Rose as they walked down towards the kitchens. ‘Unusual to hear you talk so plain, Auguste.’

‘
Non
,’ said Auguste indignantly. ‘It is a delightful dish. It all depends on the cook. Of course I would add
un peu d’ail—
’

From below came a mournful wail. The composer was not recognisable, but today it resembled the doleful chorus of the Hebrew Slaves more than
La Donna è Mobile
.

Auguste paused on the stairs, like a Dante wondering whether he really wished to enter Hell. Not only
were the six assistant cooks running around like Mr Carroll’s caucus race, without beginning or end, but Fancelli himself seemed to have joined them.

Every table was full. Occasionally scullerymaids made darting attacks to remove dirty dishes, but as fast as a space was made, a cook with a cry of triumph would plomp down chopping board, knife and ingredients, and begin another task of beating food into submission. Auguste agonised with the truffles. Like beautiful women, they required delicate handling, each according to its shape, nationality and individuality. Before his very eyes they were being hacked like logs, deflowered of their innocence and fragrance by monsters.

‘Signor Fancelli!’

A white-coated figure looked up at Retribution on the stairs, scorned it, and continued feverishly to pound what might be quenelles. Or suet dumplings. Impossible to tell under those flailing fists.

‘Signor Fancelli.’ This time a note of steel in Auguste’s voice persuaded Fancelli that attention was in order.

‘Signor Fancelli,’ Auguste enquired dangerously, ‘what is amiss here? These seem rather late preparations for luncheon.’

‘Is for tonight,’ Fancelli explained.

Auguste ran his eye over the table. Preparations for
ballotines
of turkey,
cannelons
of beef,
foie gras
, galantines, cutlets in aspic,
coquilles
of mutton, mousse of pheasant. He could not comprehend, absorb the terrible truth. He looked again. No, he had not been deceived by his eyes. It was all
cold
. He turned to Signor Fancelli and spoke with strangled voice:

‘You do not cook tonight?’

‘Is my evening off.’

‘Evening off?’ Auguste struggled for composure.
‘There
is
no evening off in a twelve-day assignment.’

‘Lady Gincrack say yis. Is Sunday. I go to church.’

‘In the morning,’ Auguste said in a voice that did not seem to be his own.

‘Evening,’ announced Fancelli.

‘Cranton’s does not serve cold meats for Sunday dinner. This is not a seaside temperance hotel,’ Auguste almost snarled. ‘You will be here—’

‘Lady Gincrack say yis, and I work for Lady Gincrack.’

So, this was being a manager. What was the world coming to when cooks defied you? No true cook could leave his clients with cold food. If this was to be the way of the twentieth century, Auguste did not approve.

‘You will provide
soup
. And a
réchauffé
dish. As we agreed.’

‘Soup. No
réchauffé
.’

‘Devilled turkey. Or
I
come to cook.’

Latin eye met Latin eye. ‘Fowl devil,’ Fancelli said sulkily and ambiguously. ‘Then I
go
.’

‘Staff,’ said Auguste despairingly to Egbert Rose, an amused spectator.

‘I have the same trouble with Twitch,’ he replied. ‘They don’t make ’em like they used to.’

‘I wonder, Egbert,’ Auguste began, then as Rose looked at him enquiringly, continued haltingly, ‘whether I am entirely suited to be a manager.’

‘You’ll learn,’ Rose replied encouragingly. ‘It’s all a matter of making clear who’s the brains and who’s the brawn.’

‘The brace of pheasant,’ said Auguste thoughtfully. ‘You like this idea, don’t you, Egbert?’

‘Very good of you, Auguste. Plucked of course, if you please. Edith usually gets Mr Pinpole to do it.’

‘I did not mean a real brace, Egbert, though I am of course delighted to give you as many as you wish for
dear Edith. But for once I did not think of food.
Pardon
. I think instead of our murderers. One the liaison with the foreign government, and one the man who does the deed.’

‘Miss Guessings and Mr Bowman? The Baroness von Bechlein and – but who? Miss Gonnet is too thin to lift a cabbage, let alone a body.’

‘She has strong hands, Egbert,’ said Auguste, vivid memories of the companion peeling back the skin of an orange. Delicate fingers, but powerful.

‘You need more than hands, and stabbing ain’t exactly a woman’s crime, or assassination.’

‘No, if the Baroness is our quarry she must have had the help of one of the staff, the footman or—’ He broke off.

‘Or the kitchen staff,’ Rose supplied.

‘No cook would . . .’ began Auguste heatedly, until he remembered several gentlemen of his past acquaintance engaged in culinary activities who would have slaughtered their fellow beings as cheerfully as wringing the neck of a chicken. ‘I was going to suggest young Mr Nash. He is strong enough even to have carried the task out alone.’

‘I’ve glad you’ve remembered him, Auguste,’ Rose said grimly.

‘There are also the Harbottles – or our army gentlemen. We have plenty of pheasants in our larder,’ said Auguste wryly.

‘And only four days left to pluck ’em in.’

Somehow, somewhere, there had been collusion between kitchens and guests. Such a thing should not happen in a well-ordered establishment. It was a sign that things were not correct at Cranton’s. News of the dinner to come that evening percolated to its intending partakers, and was not received well by some. Thus it
was that Auguste arrived at the dinner table to find empty spaces. It was a direct slight to his competence, a load he was forced to bear.

The Colonel had decided to pay a long overdue visit to his club, and had invited Dalmaine to join him to discuss the influence of Blücher’s forces, and whether or not they had been misdirected by the Great Man as to where precisely his forces were. The invitation had been rejected. The de Castillons and the Harbottles too were absent. The Pembrey girls, with Dalmaine in attentive attendance, were, however, gracing the table, as were the Baroness, Miss Gonnet, Mr Bowman and Miss Guessings. But the shame of the empty spaces obsessed Auguste. How could this happen at a dinner for which he was responsible? Never, never would he desert his post as had Fancelli, who could not even claim the title of chef let alone
maître chef
after such enormity.

Tomorrow he would have further words with this gentleman, for tomorrow was the all-important New Year’s Eve. The last banquet of the nineteenth century should be a banquet to remember. If only he, Auguste Didier, were in command instead of Fancelli . . . Meanwhile, his conscience as a manager reminded him that this evening must first be rescued from catastrophe.

When they gathered in the drawing room for their Sunday musical evening, he would offer them a Locomotive Cup to cheer the proceedings. He was proud of his version of Francatelli’s somewhat rich drink and on this cold evening it would indeed add warmth. A snap of his fingers (there were some pleasures in being a manager), a few whispered words and several pints of Burgundy were coaxed into warm fusion with honey, Curaçao and cloves.

The absent diners returned to find a harmonious
scene in the drawing room. Steaming bowls of red liquid stood in chafing dishes on a side table. Glasses in hands showed various levels of consumption. The kissing bough swayed above their heads, as logs flickered and sputtered on the hearth. A deep dish displayed evidence of a game of Snapdragon having been completed; the noise level was high. At the piano Rosanna was playing, while Thomas Harbottle rendered ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’.

‘Oh Thomas,’ breathed Eva, tears rolling down pink cheeks. ‘That was
beautiful
.’

‘How well you sing,’ agreed his pianist.

Frederick Dalmaine almost pushed, or so it seemed to Auguste’s dazed eyes, Harbottle from his path in order to render ‘Come into the Garden, Maud’.

Auguste felt an unaccountable lifting of the spirits, a sudden desire to join with the singer, a desire apparently shared by the rest of the room enthusiastically shouting the chorus. He noticed his glass was empty, and went to refill it, performing the same function for all the other empty glasses – of which there were many – in the room. He noticed the twins standing by the piano, innocence shining from their faces, and felt a new and glowing warmth towards them. Indeed, a warmth towards everyone – especially Bella who had never looked lovelier.

‘Ah Auguste,’ she said, her face near his, ‘what a splendid time is Christmas.’

‘You who would feast us paupers, what of my
murdered wife
?’ bawled Colonel Carruthers, who for some unaccountable reason had felt the need to recite all twenty-one verses of ‘Christmas Day in the Workhouse’.

Auguste rose with dignity. ‘Do not fear, Colonel, I will discover this murderer,’ announced his very slightly slurred voice.

There was something strange about this statement, he thought, as, his legs feeling somewhat unsteady, he resumed his seat. No one else seemed to think so, for he received a round of applause. No, it was the drink there was something strange about. He glanced up sharply, saw the innocent gaze of the twins upon him – and realised the worst. He made his way as steadily as he could manage to the steaming bowls. The twins hastily took Rosanna’s place at the piano, as Auguste’s glazed eyes noticed three gin bottles behind the Christmas tree. Empty.

In his condition this seemed to have been an excellent idea and he nodded approvingly. Eva Harbottle was giggling with Gladys, who was clasping Alfred Bowman’s hand possessively, and waving away Auguste’s offerings. She had her very own liquor-free punch. Indeed she had, adulterated with half a bottle of gin. Auguste filled Bowman’s glass just as Bowman decided it would be a good idea to impress Gladys. He clambered to his feet, and shakily began regaling the company with ‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do’.

‘Oh Alfred, I will, I will!’ cried Gladys, standing up to rush to her apparently betrothed, and immediately collapsing. Auguste rushed to her, but Marie-Paul had already hauled her upright, removed her to the Chesterfield and deposited her again to stare foolishly at Bowman while he bawled out: ‘That daring young man on the flying trapeze, he flies through the air with the greatest of ease,’ imitating a bird and standing on one leg.

‘That’s how they’ll do it, I expect,’ observed Ethel brightly, standing by her twin who had picked up the melody on the piano. ‘Don’t you think so, Evelyn?’

A crash on the piano.

‘What do you mean, Holmes?’ Evelyn retorted gruffly, coming to a triumphant finale.

‘When they try to assassinate the Prince of Wales on Thursday, he’ll be heavily guarded, so I think a daring young man will do it by flying trapeze.’

A quiet stillness. A sudden chill in that close warm atmosphere. Then the Baroness’s throaty laugh broke the sudden silence. ‘What imagination you have, my dear. Assassination indeed.’

‘Stuff and nonsense,’ declared Bowman. ‘Balloon, that’s how he’ll get there.’

Auguste fought his muddled head. What was happening? How alcohol distracted and confused. Surely no one save he and Egbert had known of the assassination threat? And yet no one had queried it. No one had shown surprise. Was it merely alcohol, or guilt? His mind fought, and lost. Around him the party swirled on as dancers to the piano played faster and faster. Bella was in his arms, dancing under the kissing bough. Then he seemed to be swearing undying love to the Baroness. To the
Baroness
? Surely Rosanna. Or was it Mademoiselle Gonnet, whose eyes were alight with sudden mischief, as her hands crept round his neck, and she held him close. His senses were on fire. Oh happy Christmas. He murmured in her ear endearments of their native France, for Alsace was French in its heart, despite its German rulers. Streams of love poured from his lips, words he would have spoken to another had he been able. But now to Mademoiselle Gonnet, for once full of grace and femininity. Only her shocked ‘Monsieur Didier’ made him aware that he had been guilty of suggesting a nocturnal assignation.

‘A thousand pardons,’ he murmured happily, drawing her closer.