Auguste hoped that the unfortunate spider had made his escape in time, as he himself should do. He had arranged to meet Egbert at two o’clock in the orangery, which he trusted might be reasonably airy and free of dust.
It was, and was by far the most pleasant place he had so far seen in Hathertree Hall. True, the trees looked bedraggled and in need of care, but its furnishings looked comfortable and almost attractive.
As he walked in, however, he could see that Egbert was not alone. Sitting with him was a thickset man with ruddy complexion and clad in a brown lounge suit and brown boots. He looked out of his depth, and must surely be the heir, Mr. Alfred Wheal, now the earl of Catsfield. Auguste pitied him for being pitchforked into this unexpected situation.
Egbert blandly introduced Auguste as a colleague from the French Sûreté Générale, which Mr. Wheal seemed to accept as a perfectly normal addition to Scotland Yard’s forces.
“I came this morning as quickly as I could,” the new earl said nervously. “By railway train. I’m not used to travel. It’s upset me.”
“Murder is always a shock,” Auguste murmured sympathetically.
Alfred Wheal nodded gratefully. “A terrible thing — and by a fish stew. I could hardly believe it. I like stew.”
He was rambling, but not, Auguste thought, because he too shared the dottiness of this household. And murder in this way was so unlikely that it was hardly surprising it was difficult for the heir to assimilate. He seemed to be blaming the stew itself. In former days the instrument of murder was believed to be as guilty as its user, and even now the law still occasionally adhered to it. Although logic told Auguste that the means of death was immaterial compared with the crime itself, his emotions could not be so controlled. To use food — man’s comforter and friend — as the means of murder was giving this case a personal aspect and it was imperative that the murderer be found.
“When did you last see His Lordship?” Auguste enquired.
“He never liked me and I don’t like travel. Must have been a year ago at least. Well,” Alfred Wheal said heavily, “if there’s nothing more, gentlemen, I should pay my respects to Her Ladyship. And,” he paused, “the lawyers. I suppose there will be a will and so forth. I can’t pretend I’m not interested in that, what with wheat prices slumping again.”
“He will shortly get an even greater shock,” Auguste observed, after he had left them. “The countess told me that the house and title go to Mr. Wheal, but the money has been left to her.”
Egbert whistled. “Makes you feel sorry for the fellow, doesn’t it?”
“Not too sorry,” Auguste said. “You should perhaps look closely into his movements, Egbert. Perhaps he was in this area last evening. He was wearing a brown suit. If he had left home this morning, as he claims, he would surely be paying his respects in black.”
At Egbert’s request, Auguste returned to the servants’ hall in the hope that he might pick up in conversation information that had escaped Scotland Yard. Most of the servants seemed to be there, as presumably their usual duties — meagre though they seemed to be at Hathertree Hall — had been abandoned owing to the police presence. He found Hargreaves in the butler’s traditional sanctum, Pug’s Parlour, where he was engaged in polishing heavily tarnished silver.
“This new earl,” he assured Auguste, “will need licking into shape. He’ll need me, won’t he? He won’t dismiss me.” His hands were shaking, and his eyes were full of a desperate hope.
“He would be very foolish to do so,” Auguste told him reassuringly. Unless, he thought, Hargreaves had murdered the new earl’s predecessor. He braced himself in Egbert’s interests. “I am, as you know, a friend of Mrs. Bacon. I am also with the Sûreté, working with Scotland Yard. Would you tell me what happened yesterday evening?”
He looked nervous. “I did nothing wrong, monsieur. I waited in the dining room as usual until His Lordship entered at seven o’clock. I then pulled the bellrope for James to bring in the fish stew. His Lordship rarely partook of soup, but was a great lover of stews, whether of game or fish or poultry. Even though there was only him to eat it, the silver bowl was always filled to the brim. I can assure you, monsieur, James didn’t kill him, I’d have seen that. Besides, I trained that boy. When James left, I had a quick word with His Lordship before I followed him. I asked whether he still wished to dispense with my services at the end of the week. He told me he did. His future way of life was to be devoted to nature and contemplation like Paul of Thebes.”
“Who was to do the cooking?” Auguste asked with interest. “His Lordship himself?”
A fierce and shocked eye. “Naturally not. Her Ladyship was to do it. Berries and so forth.”
Auguste rapidly moved on. “And when did you leave?”
“Shortly after James, sir.”
“And James would later have returned to take the empty dishes and bring the next course.”
“Only after His Lordship rang.”
“Did he ring last night?”
“If so, I was not aware of it. His Lordship was dead, of course.”
Quite, Auguste thought. So why had James returned to the dining room?
Mrs. Parsons also appeared eager to impress the new owner of Hathertree Hall. She was in her stillroom surveying empty jars as if considering with which delicacies she might fill them to appeal to a farmer. She eyed Auguste with deep suspicion when he announced his mission on behalf of the Sûreté.
“Why should the French police be so interested in Hathertree Hall?” she demanded.
“I am not at liberty to reveal that,” Auguste informed her grandly.
She was clearly not convinced, but at least made no more demur. “I most certainly did not enter the dining room last evening. Why would I?”
“His Lordship was going to dismiss you. Perhaps you might have wanted a quiet word with him.”
“No one had a quiet word with his late Lordship. He was deaf,” she snorted.
“So he might not have heard if someone had come in unexpectedly?”
Trapped, she hesitated. “He always heard that perfectly. He was merely deaf when he chose. But I did not go there last evening. I was in this stillroom and then retired to my own rooms.”
Where no one could vouch for her presence, Auguste thought.
Unlike the housekeeper, footman James was impressed to be visited by the Sûreté and all too eager to tell his side of the story.
“No, I didn’t hear the old geezer ring the bell,” he told Auguste blithely. “I reckoned he’d had time enough to empty the whole blasted bowlful down his gullet, so I went to collect it anyway. And then I saw him. Gave a yell likely to wake the dead. Only it didn’t. I lifted up his head, saw he was a goner, and dropped it back in. That’s how my livery got fishy stew on it.”
“Did you see Mr. Hargreaves or Mrs. Parsons during the evening?”
“No sign of him; saw her, though. She was outside the door as if she was going to go in, then she saw me and scuttled away like the crabby old bitch she is.”
“Could she have come out of the dining room rather than be waiting to go in?”
James shrugged. “Might have been like that.”
“And you were in full livery every evening?”
“His Lordship’s idea — and him going to be a humble hermit,” James sneered. “Every evening I goes to the livery room and puts on those daft breeches, that smelly old wig, powder and all, and prance in like a fairy. I’m hoping this new earl will see sense.”
“If he keeps you all on,” Auguste pointed out.
“He will, all right. We’ll see to that.” James grinned smugly. “After all, could have been him that done it. Barmy Mary reckons she saw him in the grounds last night.”