Upstairs Edith would be hunched up under the warm bedclothes pretending to sleep but agog to know what was happening. He mentally weighed Yorkshire against the displeasure of King Edward VII as conveyed through the upper hierarchy of the Yard. ‘Yes.’
At nine o’clock Auguste staggered down the ornate curved staircase after a mere two hours’ sleep. When he had returned to their room, Tatiana, it had appeared, was asleep. This morning when he awoke – if awoke was the word – she was already dressing with the help of one of the Tabor housemaids. He could not avoid the unworthy suspicion that the girl had been summoned as a deterrent to any discussion of the night’s events.
‘Good morning,
daragoy
,’ she called.
At the sound of her familiar greeting, doubts vanished and he went across to kiss her.
‘Egbert is coming,’ he told her in relief. Tatiana liked Egbert and Edith. Edith had been full ofapprehension at the thought of a real princess visiting her home, especially as to what refreshment might be offered. Auguste had assured her that Tatiana was a great devotee of the recipes of Mrs Marshall, as was he himself; guilt at his duplicity had been assuaged by Edith’s look of pleasure. Tatiana had entered the house, promptly seen in it the epitome of all Mr Marx would approve, even the china Toby jugs, and suffered Edith’s cooking in the interests of a new-found-land. They got on splendidly thereafter.
So why the sudden chill in Tatiana’s face at the mention of Egbert’s imminent arrival?
Slowly Auguste went downstairs for breakfast. From the ecstasy of newly wedded bliss, he seemed to have been pitchforked into nightmare. Where was the safe world of yesterday, if even Egbert’s arrival was overcast by mystery?
To his great surprise, nearly all the party save, of course, His Majesty, was present at breakfast including the Dowager. News of the night’s events must have spread. Even Beatrice Janes was present, and thus it was highly possible that His Majesty already knew what had happened – or very shortly would.
The ramifications of this were firmly relegated to the back of his mind as he decided that his
estomac
could not contemplate them simultaneously with an assault by kidney or kedgeree (particularly not Mr Breckles’ less than authentic version). A
café noir
on the other hand might well galvanise his mind into action. There was a silence as he entered. Then:
‘Good morning, Mr Didier. I hear you are turning detective again,’ Miriam greeted him gaily. ‘I hope your tales to us on Friday evening did not inspire last night’s events.’
‘Really, Mother,’ Priscilla said reprovingly. ‘I have explained to you it is a case of suicide, not murder.’ Itwas a brave attempt at re-establishing control after a night not so much broken as shattered.
‘I heard Mr Didier was very clever when the Galaxy chorus girls were getting strangled one after the other. He got on ever so well with them, you see,’ volunteered Gertie brightly, reaching for an apple and remembering she had forgotten the way Cyril had told her to peel it.
Auguste was no proof against such flattery, particularly from Gertie, and bowed his head in appreciation towards her, only to find Tatiana had entered and was gazing at him in obvious amusement. Her smile died as he rose to his feet to greet her.
‘Oh, Princess,’ cried Beatrice excitedly, anxious to hear what the horse’s mouth had to say after what had obviously, Auguste now realised, been the subject of much discussion before he entered. ‘Alexander tells us you wanted a
smoke
when you discovered that poor man last night.’ If a princess could take a smoke, the twentieth century looked promising for women.
‘Yes,’ replied Tatiana gravely. ‘Life is a voyage of discovery, do you not agree, Mrs Janes?’
‘Oh, quite,’ Beatrice readily did so, though her own voyages rarely took her beyond Bond Street. ‘And do you approve, Mr Didier?’ she added
At nine o’clock Auguste staggered down the ornate curved staircase after a mere two hours’ sleep. When he had returned to their room, Tatiana, it had appeared, was asleep. This morning when he awoke – if awoke was the word – she was already dressing with the help of one of the Tabor housemaids. He could not avoid the unworthy suspicion that the girl had been summoned as a deterrent to any discussion of the night’s events.
‘Good morning,
daragoy
,’ she called.
At the sound of her familiar greeting, doubts vanished and he went across to kiss her.
‘Egbert is coming,’ he told her in relief. Tatiana liked Egbert and Edith. Edith had been full ofapprehension at the thought of a real princess visiting her home, especially as to what refreshment might be offered. Auguste had assured her that Tatiana was a great devotee of the recipes of Mrs Marshall, as was he himself; guilt at his duplicity had been assuaged by Edith’s look of pleasure. Tatiana had entered the house, promptly seen in it the epitome of all Mr Marx would approve, even the china Toby jugs, and suffered Edith’s cooking in the interests of a new-found-land. They got on splendidly thereafter.
So why the sudden chill in Tatiana’s face at the mention of Egbert’s imminent arrival?
Slowly Auguste went downstairs for breakfast. From the ecstasy of newly wedded bliss, he seemed to have been pitchforked into nightmare. Where was the safe world of yesterday, if even Egbert’s arrival was overcast by mystery?
To his great surprise, nearly all the party save, of course, His Majesty, was present at breakfast including the Dowager. News of the night’s events must have spread. Even Beatrice Janes was present, and thus it was highly possible that His Majesty already knew what had happened – or very shortly would.
The ramifications of this were firmly relegated to the back of his mind as he decided that his
estomac
could not contemplate them simultaneously with an assault by kidney or kedgeree (particularly not Mr Breckles’ less than authentic version). A
café noir
on the other hand might well galvanise his mind into action. There was a silence as he entered. Then:
‘Good morning, Mr Didier. I hear you are turning detective again,’ Miriam greeted him gaily. ‘I hope your tales to us on Friday evening did not inspire last night’s events.’
‘Really, Mother,’ Priscilla said reprovingly. ‘I have explained to you it is a case of suicide, not murder.’ Itwas a brave attempt at re-establishing control after a night not so much broken as shattered.
‘I heard Mr Didier was very clever when the Galaxy chorus girls were getting strangled one after the other. He got on ever so well with them, you see,’ volunteered Gertie brightly, reaching for an apple and remembering she had forgotten the way Cyril had told her to peel it.
Auguste was no proof against such flattery, particularly from Gertie, and bowed his head in appreciation towards her, only to find Tatiana had entered and was gazing at him in obvious amusement. Her smile died as he rose to his feet to greet her.
‘Oh, Princess,’ cried Beatrice excitedly, anxious to hear what the horse’s mouth had to say after what had obviously, Auguste now realised, been the subject of much discussion before he entered. ‘Alexander tells us you wanted a
smoke
when you discovered that poor man last night.’ If a princess could take a smoke, the twentieth century looked promising for women.
‘Yes,’ replied Tatiana gravely. ‘Life is a voyage of discovery, do you not agree, Mrs Janes?’
‘Oh, quite,’ Beatrice readily did so, though her own voyages rarely took her beyond Bond Street. ‘And do you approve, Mr Didier?’ she added
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