Free Murder in Pug's Parlour by Amy Myers Page A

before it got there,’ said Bladon.
    ‘Not unless we have a wholesale murderer, Sergeant. No one could guarantee it would reach Greeves,’ put in Chambers dolorously.
    ‘Only the person who serves it,’ Cricket pointed out.
    Edward Jackson, tried to look as though he were not there, as all eyes turned to him.
    ‘I’ll bear that in mind, lad,’ said Bladon heavily. ‘What happens next?’
    ‘We come to my room, Sergeant, leaving Mr Greeves, as was, to his savoury and brandy, and we has our tea here.’
    ‘Seems a lot of walking about just for a meal,’ grunted Bladon, writing furiously.
    ‘It’s always been done this way,’ said Ethel simply and conclusively.
    ‘Now, who serves this roast up?’
    ‘One of the odd-jobmen,’ answered Auguste. ‘Whichever is around.’
    ‘And would you have noticed if he tipped a dose of something into Greeves’ food?’
    ‘I do not see how it could be arranged, Sergeant,’ said Auguste somewhat impatiently. ‘No one, least of all the man who served the meal, could add poison on purpose and be sure it reached its right destination. The plates are filled at one of the tables and passed down. The risk would be too great.’
    The upper servants stirred uncomfortably. Auguste seemed to be bringing it unnecessarily near home.
    ‘Nor could any of us add anything to the steward’s food,’ Auguste continued. ‘One cannot take the risk of taking out a bottle, emptying something on to another’s dish without being seen.’ Auguste hesitated. Should he speak now? Or ask to see the sergeant later? It now seemed so obvious how it was done. He decided against, and continued: ‘Only Edward had the opportunity and—’
    Edward was looking at him with eyes of alarm.
    ‘And,’ Auguste went on firmly, ‘it is not possible that a mere child would know about aconitia. He is too young tobuy it, no druggist would sell it to a child, too young to know how to extract it from a plant. He is a Londoner,
petit Edouard
, not a country lad.’
    ‘That’s as maybe,’ said Bladon, shortly, fixing him with a suspicious look. These Frenchmen! A lot of hotheads running about with sabres and moustaches. Not in the Garden of England, or he’d have something to say about it.
    ‘Like Mr Greeves, did you, lad?’ he said, rounding on Jackson.
    ‘Weren’t bad,’ muttered the boy.
    Mrs Hankey snorted. Greeves’ bullying of Jackson was common knowledge.
    ‘Now tell us, lad, what went on after you was alone with him.’
    ‘I gives him his savoury.’
    ‘His what?’
    ‘His little titbit he liked at the end of his meal,’ said Mrs Hankey.
    What Sergeant Bladon liked at the end of his meal was a good plateful of Kentish cherry pudding, washed down with a glass of sweet ale, so talk of savouries did not impress him.
    ‘A nice Scotch woodcock,’ she went on fondly.
    ‘A bird?’ Bladon was puzzled.
    ‘A savoury of anchovy, toast and cream, to which His Grace is particularly partial,’ explained Auguste. ‘And what His Grace likes, one tended to find Mr Greeves also liked.’
    The sergeant glared at him ungratefully. ‘And you cooked this—?’
    ‘I did,’ said Edward in a strangled voice.
    ‘I see,’ said Bladon meaningfully. ‘And then what?’
    ‘Then I gives him the coffee.’
    ‘And you was alone, lad, with him. All alone,’ said the sergeant lovingly.
    Edward was too frightened to reply this time.
    ‘But, Sergeant—’ interrupted Auguste.
    ‘Quiet, Mr – er – Didier. I’ll get to you later.’
    ‘But—’
    ‘Anyone besides you, lad,’ said the sergeant, ignoring the further exasperated interruption, ‘go into this pantry?’
    A miserable shake of the head. ‘Don’t fink so.’
    The rest of the upper servants watched Edward’s ordeal with mixed feelings; while the spotlight was on Edward, it was not on them; on the other hand, as a lower servant, they felt it their duty to protect him. In public anyway.
Noblesse oblige.
    It was Ethel who spoke out. ‘I hardly