Murder Under The Kissing Bough: (Auguste Didier Mystery 6) (25 page)

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So was this Fancelli. Right?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘There you are then. Lover’s tiff,’ said Carruthers conclusively.

‘And what about the Prince of Wales, sir?’

Carruthers turned purple. ‘If you fellows would stop chasing lifts at straightforward Christmas parties and get back in the outside world, you might stand a chance of finding this fellow, if there is such a plot – which I doubt.’

‘We have one of the murderers, sir,’ said Auguste. ‘Madame Lepont.’

Carruthers eyed Auguste in disgust, then turned to Rose. ‘If you’d apply a bit of English common sense, you’d see why Madame Lepont is where she is. It’s because of him,’ jerking his head at Auguste. ‘You say she’s Belgian?’

‘Yes,’ replied Rose, startled.

‘There you are then. He’s French – always disliked the Belgians. Ten to one, he’s trumped this up. Vengeance, you know,’ he said mysteriously.

‘Vengeance,’ said Rose, glad of a chance of a glimmer of amusement in an increasingly anxious time. ‘You mean Madame Lepont rejected his advances?’

‘That’s correct, sir,’ the Colonel said impatiently, slightly deaf. ‘As I said, revenge for Waterloo, that’s what’s behind this.’

‘Alfred,’ said Gladys, gazing at a mummified Egyptian lady of 1,000 years BC without enthusiasm, ‘do you think I should tell everybody about this murder – that’s if I do go back to Much Wallop, of course,’ she added, greatly daring.

‘Why shouldn’t you go back?’ asked Bowman absently, caught off guard, moving away to a Coptic pall. Museums weren’t his kind of thing, but they gave you a chance to think. And the British Museum was presenting plenty of such opportunities. Or had been, up to now. Thank heavens she hadn’t arrived earlier. It had been hard enough to fade from the police guard’s scrutiny. And if Gladys had seen—

‘I thought I might be moving my abode,’ Gladys said loudly.

‘Go somewhere warm, that’s my advice,’ Bowman offered heartily.

‘Could we?’

‘Eh?’ He began to pay attention.

‘Could we?’ she repeated, slightly pink. ‘Together, that is.’

‘Dear Gladys,’ he replied quickly and easily. ‘I have a factory to run, you know.’

‘I could help you run it,’ she told him, emboldened. He stared at her speechlessly, too late perceiving where this might conceivably lead.

‘I don’t take on female staff,’ he answered, more cruelly than was wise.

‘I did not intend to take paid employment,’ she replied indignantly, too far in to draw back. ‘I had more in mind a closer relationship.’ There was, after all, nothing to lose, and so she plunged on recklessly. ‘We could marry.’

‘It’s not a leap year, dear Gladys,’ he tried to say fondly.

‘I know that,’ she said sharply.

‘Dear lady, would that I could.’ He sighed, thinking frantically.

‘Why couldn’t you?’

This was more than a joke, he thought feverishly, forgetting it was one he had fomented himself. ‘I have a wife,’ he announced baldly.

‘But you said you were a widower,’ Gladys cried piteously.

‘Slight exaggeration. Invalid, you see. Don’t see much of each other.’

‘Oh.’ Gladys was pink, down, but not out. ‘You,’ she said deliberately, ‘are not all you seem to be, Alfred Bowman. And now I know, others will too.’ She hurried away, leaving him staring after her in dismay, giving no thought at all to the mummy of Seshepsebhet.

‘Don’t believe in assassinating myself,’ remarked Carruthers somewhat ambiguously, striding through the remains of one of the Seven Wonders of the World with scant appreciation of the Statue of Mausolus.

‘Nor me,’ agreed Dalmaine bleakly. Rosanna had slipped into the manuscript rooms and strictly forbidden him to follow her. And wherever he looked, he seemed to be surrounded by lumps of stone depicting gods chasing goddesses. It wasn’t like that in real life, he thought gloomily. The best they could hope for was a good smoke with another god while the goddesses tripped around doing as they damn well pleased. Women! In the circumstances, Carruthers seemed a good choice of companion.

‘Never works,’ declared Carruthers judiciously, the old advising the young. ‘Besides, we can’t have foreign women coming here and killing off our royal family. You have anything to do with this?’ he shot at Dalmaine unexpectedly.

‘Me?’ yelped Dalmaine in alarm.

‘I’ve been watching you, young man. You’ve got something up your sleeve all right. Mind you, I know you’re a West Kent but even the Royals choose their company. What’s between you and that Frenchie?’

‘Didier?’ asked Dalmaine without hope.

Carruthers snorted. ‘De Castillon.’

‘You see, always you take what is not your own,’ said Eva fiercely, gazing rapturously at the Elgin marbles.

‘Come now, it was a legal agreement,’ said Thomas soothingly.

‘Like the annexation of the Transvaal?’ asked Eva.

‘Shh!’ said Thomas, glancing round quickly in case they were overheard.

‘The time is over for shushing, Thomas,’ declared Eva forthrightly. ‘Did you not hear the Inspector say that the Boers are rising?’

‘No,’ said Thomas firmly. ‘I heard him say someone is going to try to assassinate the Prince of Wales. And they think it is a Boer plot.’

‘Huh!’ announced Eva fervently. ‘This is but the beginning.’

‘You are British now, beloved,’ soothed her husband hopefully.

‘England!’ She turned on him and laughed. ‘Since I arrived, there has been nothing but murder and policemen and talk of murder. And you tell me of England’s green and pleasant land! Never, never, will I be English.’

‘I wonder if you are aware,’ observed Thomas desperately, ‘that sixty-six years ago the man who smashed the priceless Portland Vase could not be accused of having committed a crime? He could only be accused of breaking the glass case in which it was placed.’

Eva Harbottle ignored this, a slight smile on her face. ‘Tomorrow, Thomas, now that they have found
the person who is planning to kill the Prince. . .’

‘Yes, dearest?’ he asked guardedly.

‘I thought we might go to Paddington to see the royal procession,’ said Eva firmly.

‘What an excellent idea,’ said Thomas unhappily.

Bella sidled up to Auguste. ‘How delightful it is to be surrounded by such specimens of manhood,’ she murmured innocently in the Graeco-Roman rooms.

Auguste, caught in front of a Young Satyr and quoit throwers, with Pan, Hermes and Cupid flanking him, turned red and Bella laughed.

‘So modest, dear Auguste,’ she murmured.

‘I am not modest, madame,’ he cried, wondering where his suavity had gone.

‘In that case, dear Auguste, I will most certainly visit you again.’

He could not tell her no, his body told him to tell her yes, his common sense told him to run as fast as a nymph from a satyr. He played for time. ‘Madame, until this case is over I must remain available for Inspector Rose to call me at any time. My personal feelings must not enter into it. I cannot allow . . .’ He tried to look stricken, and it was not difficult. Part of him was. The scent from her hair wafted around him. ‘I cannot see, madame, why you so desire my company,’ he said plaintively and unusually modestly.

‘Can’t you, Auguste? We all have our secrets, do we not?’ She smiled deliciously, and placed a kiss on her finger.

Her husband was meanwhile preoccupied with weighing up the consequences of Rose’s announcement. If this woman was charged with the murder, the disruption in British political affairs might be almost as severe as if the attempt were carried out, if he played his cards
carefully. The old Queen was indomitable, but a threat to the succession could keep the South African War warm, if not boiling, sufficiently to keep her attention from other parts of the new continent. France could move slowly forward unimpeded. He cleared his throat as he addressed his British counterpart.

‘My dear Sir John, shall we proceed to the Room of Gold Ornaments and Gems? Would it not be amusing if the museum had acquired a certain stool?’

Sir John glared. He might look an old fogey, but looks could hide a shrewd mind. The fellow was fishing. At least – he suddenly had a doubt – he hoped he was. There’d be the devil’s own rumpus if the museum bought that Stool, what with the murmurs over the Elgin marbles. No other collector would want it though. Except – a disagreeable thought struck him – the French. If a Frenchman appeared waving the Stool and promising liberty, fraternity and all that rubbish, it could be a damned difficult situation out on the Gold Coast. Visions of King Prempeh, bursting out of his chains and declaring himself French for ever, danced before his eyes. He mopped his forehead before speaking. His words were carefully chosen.

‘You’re right, de Castillon. They could do with a few more chairs in here. Damned tiring week, walking round museums.’ What did the fellow want to celebrate Christmas in England for? Sir John thought irritably. Pity he couldn’t be clapped inside too, but then if they started looking too closely at diplomats’ lives, there was no telling where it might end up.

The twins were considering earnestly whether to add Rosanna’s hatpin to the museum’s collection of Anglo-Saxon antiquities, but on balance decided against such a move, on the grounds of their having more serious matters to discuss in their roles as private detectives.
Their sister, oblivious that the fate of her hatpin was under discussion, also had more important matters to discuss.

‘Well, when
shall
I see you again, Danny?’

Danny looked confused. ‘Naturally I have to follow up the story – for Nancy’s sake.’

She stamped her foot. ‘You mean a
story
is more important than me?’ reducing the matter to essentials with womanly ease.

‘Yes – well, no, but I have to put the newspaper first. You must see that.’

‘No,’ said Rosanna pettishly. ‘As a matter of fact, I don’t.’ She turned on her heel and flounced out of the manuscript room, where the first person she met was Frederick Dalmaine, whom she had so forthrightly rejected not fifteen minutes since. ‘Ah,’ she said, giving him her prettiest smile, ‘I am
so
glad to meet you, Major. Perhaps we shall be seated together at the theatre this evening? Would that not be delightful?’

Exotic and evocative words danced before his eyes.
Truffles, cailles, chanterelles
. What normally would have been a task absorbingly pleasant to anticipate was now a mocking distraction. For before tomorrow night’s dinner must come tomorrow morning. How could he give due attention to a menu when the future of the world might have changed before its recipients could enjoy its delights? The unpleasant thought of Fancelli at large blotted out even the prospect of pheasant with brandy, truffles and
foie gras
. Perhaps a little rich . . . A delicate timbale of chicken, flavoured with precious
poivres de baie roses
, the delicacy from his own dear Provençal village. Pink pepper, not red. He thought of Mrs Marshall’s coralline pepper almost with affection. Mrs Marshall was a strikingly handsome woman – perhaps she had Hungarian blood in her, so
addicted she seemed to this unsubtle spice. Dear Mrs Marshall. How talented she really was, he was able to think in his less prejudiced moments, and what a good school she ran. It was not to be compared with the Didier School of Cuisine, of course, but nevertheless fulfilled a great need, if the craft of cookery, let alone the art, were not to die out at the unskilled hands of – he tried to push the traitorous thought away, but had not the integrity do so – such valiant souls as his friend Egbert’s wife, dear Edith.

Names, names, names, all conjuring up untold delights of taste and sensation, let alone the pleasures of preparing them. He looked disconsolately at the menu so far:
velouté au curry et au paprika
– that would please Mrs Marshall;
oeufs Mireille, filets de sole
with mussel sauce, saddle of veal with paprika and truffles – impatiently he scored the latter out. What was he thinking of? He had Mrs Marshall and paprika on the brain. He substituted salmis of pheasant and roast wild duck, and added
poires Condé
and a Nesselrode pudding, and flung down his pen. A large blot landed in the middle of the wild duck as a result. Surveying his handiwork, Auguste thought moodily that something failed to satisfy. Something here, besides the ink blob, was out of place. There was one dish that did not fit. Like this afternoon. His thoughts jumped. The same feeling – something had been said that was completely wrong, for which there was no answer. It was flour in a bavarois, a scum in a stockpot, garlic with asparagus. But what it was he could not grasp, and stared at the menu as if by solving the one, the other too might clarify as an egg white a consommé.

Thursday, 3 January, did not begin well. There was a thick fog for a start. Nevertheless it had to be faced, a
conclusion shared by the Prince of Wales, by Auguste Didier, and Inspector Rose. The latter had been at Paddington since 4 a.m. So had Twitch. At Southampton the local police, not to be outdone, were swarming over the railway train that would later that morning be bearing Bobs to London on his triumphant way to Buckingham Palace.

Auguste, at Cranton’s, had different concerns, but they did not include luncheon or dinner. He had given his word to Egbert that, the menus at last being selected, their execution would be left to John. At the moment his concerns were irritated by the arrival of the Honourable Pembrey twins glowing with self-importance.