besieged Kumasi. I think they were quite right,’ she burst out.
Auguste saw her husband take her hand. In comfort? Not quite that. There seemed to be—
‘And where’s the precious Golden Stool now?’ boomed Bowman.
There was a sudden stillness, despite the people crowding in. Eyes turned to Sir John, who said nothing.
The Marquis smiled blandly, thin-lipped. ‘You have embarrassed your compatriot, Mr Bowman. There is a rumour, you see, that the Stool’s whereabouts are known, that it might even have been stolen.’
‘That’s enough, de Castillon,’ said Sir John coolly.
‘Which is awkward for the British Government.’ De Castillon seemed unperturbed at British disapprobation. ‘The Ashantis are subdued, true, but for how long if the Stool is missing?’
‘It doesn’t seem right for the British to stay in Africa,’ ventured Gladys, waving away a glass ofpunch. ‘Perhaps the Africans should rule themselves, with just a—’
‘My dear lady!’ exploded Sir John.
‘Madam!’ said Dalmaine, his gammy leg suddenly gammier as he limped up to her. ‘Heroes are risking their lives for Africa.’
‘Why?’ demanded Eva Harbottle. ‘Has Africa requested it of them?’
‘You’re not English, madam, or you’d know why,’ barked Carruthers. ‘You Germans don’t understand foreign policy.’
‘This lady is my wife. We think as one,’ put in Thomas Harbottle bravely but unwisely.
‘Then, sir, you are no true Englishman,’ shouted Carruthers.
‘The lady is quite correct,’ remarked the Marquis superciliously. ‘The British do nothing but harm in their colonies.’
Sir John turned purple. ‘How about Martinique, Algeria? You French fancy yourselves around half the world.’
‘That is different, monsieur. We regard them as part of France.’
‘I don’t like the French,’ remarked Gladys conversationally.
‘Quite right, my dear lady,’ said Bowman instantly. ‘Poodles to us bulldogs, eh?’ Guffaw.
Auguste’s hands trembled round his glass.
‘Ah bah!’ remarked Thérèse von Bechlein huskily. ‘A toast. Peace on earth and goodwill to all men!’
The boar’s head, in all its glory, decked with rosemary twigs and a garland round its ears, was ready. The procession was forming. First Auguste, then two flute players, then Fancelli and Mrs Pomfret, and the rest of the staff in livery. Flaming torches were carried,Auguste anxiously watching lest one get too near the glaze. The rest of the meal would be served as soon as the head was placed on the sideboards with the other cold meats and fowl. He had inspected the dining room. Polished crystal glass shone, gas lights (for Cranton’s would not speedily be equipped with electricity) glowed low and gently hissed, through the windows the pale December sunshine shone into a room decorated with greenery and garlands.
Only one matter marred Auguste’s happiness. There was still no sign of the murderess. In the stress of Christmas preparations he had almost managed to persuade himself that Egbert was correct. His imagination had been working far too hard, like he himself. Yet his uneasiness grew. He
must
speak to Maisie, but preoccupied with her guests, there had been no opportunity. The girl must have fled, and he could not get hold of Egbert until tomorrow or the following day at the earliest. He did not relish the thought of telling Egbert his suspicions, but even less did he like the idea of leaving a message with Twitch. ‘The body gone and now the murderess too, eh?’ he could almost hear him chortle. ‘Very unfortunate you are, Mr Didier, very unfortunate.’
The flutes began to pipe. It was time to raise the boar’s head and start the candlelit procession. Auguste took a deep breath and began to sing. There had been fierce competition between himself and Fancelli, an argument he only won by pointing out yet once more that he was the manager. The chatter in the dining room was hushed as lights were dimmed and the guests
Auguste saw her husband take her hand. In comfort? Not quite that. There seemed to be—
‘And where’s the precious Golden Stool now?’ boomed Bowman.
There was a sudden stillness, despite the people crowding in. Eyes turned to Sir John, who said nothing.
The Marquis smiled blandly, thin-lipped. ‘You have embarrassed your compatriot, Mr Bowman. There is a rumour, you see, that the Stool’s whereabouts are known, that it might even have been stolen.’
‘That’s enough, de Castillon,’ said Sir John coolly.
‘Which is awkward for the British Government.’ De Castillon seemed unperturbed at British disapprobation. ‘The Ashantis are subdued, true, but for how long if the Stool is missing?’
‘It doesn’t seem right for the British to stay in Africa,’ ventured Gladys, waving away a glass ofpunch. ‘Perhaps the Africans should rule themselves, with just a—’
‘My dear lady!’ exploded Sir John.
‘Madam!’ said Dalmaine, his gammy leg suddenly gammier as he limped up to her. ‘Heroes are risking their lives for Africa.’
‘Why?’ demanded Eva Harbottle. ‘Has Africa requested it of them?’
‘You’re not English, madam, or you’d know why,’ barked Carruthers. ‘You Germans don’t understand foreign policy.’
‘This lady is my wife. We think as one,’ put in Thomas Harbottle bravely but unwisely.
‘Then, sir, you are no true Englishman,’ shouted Carruthers.
‘The lady is quite correct,’ remarked the Marquis superciliously. ‘The British do nothing but harm in their colonies.’
Sir John turned purple. ‘How about Martinique, Algeria? You French fancy yourselves around half the world.’
‘That is different, monsieur. We regard them as part of France.’
‘I don’t like the French,’ remarked Gladys conversationally.
‘Quite right, my dear lady,’ said Bowman instantly. ‘Poodles to us bulldogs, eh?’ Guffaw.
Auguste’s hands trembled round his glass.
‘Ah bah!’ remarked Thérèse von Bechlein huskily. ‘A toast. Peace on earth and goodwill to all men!’
The boar’s head, in all its glory, decked with rosemary twigs and a garland round its ears, was ready. The procession was forming. First Auguste, then two flute players, then Fancelli and Mrs Pomfret, and the rest of the staff in livery. Flaming torches were carried,Auguste anxiously watching lest one get too near the glaze. The rest of the meal would be served as soon as the head was placed on the sideboards with the other cold meats and fowl. He had inspected the dining room. Polished crystal glass shone, gas lights (for Cranton’s would not speedily be equipped with electricity) glowed low and gently hissed, through the windows the pale December sunshine shone into a room decorated with greenery and garlands.
Only one matter marred Auguste’s happiness. There was still no sign of the murderess. In the stress of Christmas preparations he had almost managed to persuade himself that Egbert was correct. His imagination had been working far too hard, like he himself. Yet his uneasiness grew. He
must
speak to Maisie, but preoccupied with her guests, there had been no opportunity. The girl must have fled, and he could not get hold of Egbert until tomorrow or the following day at the earliest. He did not relish the thought of telling Egbert his suspicions, but even less did he like the idea of leaving a message with Twitch. ‘The body gone and now the murderess too, eh?’ he could almost hear him chortle. ‘Very unfortunate you are, Mr Didier, very unfortunate.’
The flutes began to pipe. It was time to raise the boar’s head and start the candlelit procession. Auguste took a deep breath and began to sing. There had been fierce competition between himself and Fancelli, an argument he only won by pointing out yet once more that he was the manager. The chatter in the dining room was hushed as lights were dimmed and the guests
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