Murder in The Smokehouse: (Auguste Didier Mystery 7) Read Online Free PDF

marry a Parisienne.’
    ‘Only to be compared with an English rose such as you,
madame
.’ Auguste bowed and began to relax at such humanity.
    ‘Mother!’ Priscilla bore down on them in full black sail, or rather silk swathed in crepe. ‘His Majesty approaches.’
    Meekly, the Dowager Lady Tabor, winking at Auguste, followed in the majestic wake of her daughter-in-law.
    A hush fell as His Majesty King Edward VII arrived for dinner, definitely out of sorts. He had come to the conclusion that even Beatrice’s presence did not compensate for Priscilla Tabor. Marmoreal thighs and majestic bosoms were all very well, but even the largest and most majestic lost their appeal when their owner behaved like an over-forceful sheepdog.
    August found himself, to his pleasure, seated next to Gertie, albeit well below the salt. He congratulated himself that so far he, the proletariat, had committed no major solecisms, provided one did not count failing to notice the layout of the house so that when he led Mrs Janes down the stairs for dinner yesterday evening, he had offered that effusive lady the wrongarm and found himself crushed against the wall by her protruding corseted rear.
    Tatiana had been placed sufficiently far from the King not to irritate him by any disconcerting observations on Mr Karl Marx, but near enough not to insult a minor Romanov, as she was. His Majesty sat in state at one end of the table with Beatrice on one side and Priscilla on the other. He did not look particularly happy. Only Victoria and Alexander, allowed to sit next to each other, floated blissfully in their private dream of happiness.
    ‘Madame will take the consommé,’ Auguste instructed the footman firmly, earning a grateful glance from Gertie. At Romano’s she had never been forced to choose, since every infatuated admirer simply ordered the best for her. Speed of supply and dispatch was essential at this end of the table, Auguste knew, as otherwise there was a danger of His Majesty finishing before they had begun. Etiquette demanded that the whole company lay down their knives and forks as soon as the King did. If in a good mood he ate slowly. Today, however, it was clear speedy eating would be necessary, especially as there were ten extra guests invited just for the evening. Auguste began to worry about His Majesty’s menu once more. He had been forced to yield the final garnishing of truffles on the silver plates bearing the King’s favourite
côtelettes de bécassines à la Souvaroff
, cutlets of boned snipe and foie gras with Madeira sauce. It had been an agonising parting.
    The consommé à
la princesse
was a success, he decided cautiously, though some might say there was slightly too much tarragon. He watched the charade as Tabor footmen handed dishes solemnly to the King’s own footmen who waited on him, then handed the dishes back. Almost like mediaeval food-tasters,Auguste thought, pondering the possibilities of poison being inserted into the King’s food, then remembering all too vividly an occasion in his past when it might so easily have been. Hastily he turned his attention to Oliver Carstairs, a tall man in his forties with a lazy charm and interesting face. He had not spoken to him at length last night, and was not sure of his role here. He decided he would find out.
    At much the same time, His Majesty turned thankfully from Priscilla to Beatrice. Now for some entertaining conversation, which by etiquette he must initiate. ‘Fellow should be hung by the thumbs,’ he informed her. ‘He shot one of the Sandringham gold pheasants.’
    The Honourable Cyril recalled his social obligations and stopped studying his pretty little kitten across the table; he belatedly registered the word gold and decided to contribute.
    ‘Market’s getting difficult, so they say, sir.’
    ‘What market?’ the King asked, nonplussed.
    ‘Gold market.’
    ‘Gold will never lose its value,’ pontificated Harold Janes. He was, he wished everyone to