Free Murder in Pug's Parlour by Amy Myers

realised the error of his ways.’ She fixed him with a sorrowful look. ‘Others had their eyes on him, Sergeant Bladon, and more than eyes.’
    ‘You wicked old queenie,’ shrieked May Fawcett. It was doubtful if Mrs Hankey knew the word save in relation to her monarch, but its intent was unmistakable. The battle began to rage. Sergeant Bladon, totally incapable of recording this interesting exchange, sat nonplussed in its midst.
    ‘Miss May Fawcett – er – lady’s-maid to Her Grace,’ supplied Auguste helpfully. The sergeant began to write this down; then decided old-fashioned methods might achieve more.
    ‘That’s enough,’ he bawled. ‘I won’t have a pack of women making a mockery of The Law.’
    Hobbs, Chambers and Cricket perked up. It was a longtime since anybody had classed Mrs Hankey as a member of a pack of women.
    The battle stopped instantly, with a few indignant sniffs from Mrs Hankey, and an angry-faced May Fawcett twitching slightly.
    ‘Now then,’ said Bladon, adopting a tone of confidentiality, ‘there’s no denying Mr Greeves could have poisoned his own food. But generally we have a note saying To Whom It May Concern. Last letters to loved ones, that sort of thing. And there weren’t none. Then there’s the means. There weren’t no sign of a bottle, anything like that around. I have to inform you officially we are treating the death as murder.’
    Again there was an anticlimactic silence.
    ‘Murder,’ repeated Bladon unnecessarily. ‘And that being the case, I need statements as to where you all were and what you were doing at the relevant time. That is, this poison being quick doing its job, in the hour before the deceased met his end.’
    The upper servants looked at each other, puzzled.
    ‘Us, Inspector?’ queried Chambers doubtfully. ‘We were all together, of course. Us and the visitors.’
    ‘At dinner,’ supplied Ethel helpfully.
    Mrs Hankey assumed control. ‘Mr Greeves was took bad at ten minutes past one, Sergeant. All of us, and the visitors’ valets and maids, even him—’ she cast a scathing look at the cowering Jackson – ‘had been together since five minutes to twelve for dinner. ’Cept when he went to the pantry to get dessert.’
    ‘And you had your dinner where?’
    ‘We – that is the upper servants – meet in Pug’s Parlour.’
    ‘Where?’ asked Bladon, puzzled.
    ‘The name given to the steward’s room,’ explainedHobbs, as the incumbent elect. ‘Whoever the most senior servant is, in this case the steward, his room is referred to as Pug’s Parlour, and there the Upper Ten – us top servants that is – foregather and eat part of their meals.’
    ‘At twelve o’clock sharp we walk together to the servants’ hall where we join the lower servants for our entrée – the roast, Sergeant Bladon,’ Mrs Hankey added helpfully, for one uninitiated in the ways of gentlefolk.
    ‘And this entry was what?’ asked the sergeant.
    ‘Roast lamb, purée of spinach and sorrel, roast potatoes with
une garniture de champignons
, mushrooms,’ recited Auguste automatically. He had an infallible memory for all menus, in particular those of his creation. He could recount even what had been served in those far-off days in Nice as an apprentice under the Maître Escoffier; what he had served in Paris, when Tatiana . . . The
oeufs brouillés awe truffes
for that special luncheon. Ah, she . . .
    ‘And then we left the servants’ hall at twelve-thirty to return to poor Mr Greeves’ room for our pudding – er – dessert.’ Mrs Hankey quickly resumed her starring role.
    ‘Blackberry fool,’ supplied Auguste.
    ‘And that’s waiting in – er – Pug’s Parlour while you’re all in the servants’ hall?’ asked Bladon, wishing that McNaughten of the Yard could hear this flawless questioning.
    ‘It is brought up from the kitchen before dinner begins and left in the adjoining pantry where Edward then serves it.’
    ‘So, it could have been poisoned