Free Murder At The Music Hall: (Auguste Didier Mystery 8) by Amy Myers Page A

an oblique reference to the cross. Well, Philippa married the King of Portugal, and gave the cross to young Henry on her deathbed. He took it with him on his voyage to recapture Ceuta from the Muslims and that victory set Portugal off on its era of sea-going greatness and empire building. When Henry died, there was a battle royal, literally, as to who should have the cross, since Henry never married. The English crown was now in the hands of the Lancastrians, who said it should revert to them, the Portuguese claimed they should have it.
    ‘We won of course, but every so often Portugal gets hot under the collar, and decides it represents their national honour. Unfortunately, there are powerful forces here who think just the same. It is made worse by the fact Portugal has got precious little left of Henry’s, because everything disappeared in an earthquake a century or two later. The controversy has blown up again since Dom Carlos of Portugal is coming on an official visit here in two months’ time and His Majesty King Bertie’s going to return the compliment next April. There’s going to be a lot of bad feeling if there’s no news of that cross by November.’
    ‘Not so much as if we refused to return it.’ Auguste’s head seemed to have a steak mallet thrashing inside and he longed only for bed. ‘Besides, surely it is likely that the Portuguese have stolen it themselves?’
    ‘Not as simple as that.’ Egbert embarked on an explanation of the background. Accommodating him by listening seemed the quickest way to achieve his objective – home – so Auguste struggled hard. He fastened on what seemed to him the salient point.
    ‘There is a murdered body, a missing cross, a ship that left early and a programme from this music hall. But you have no evidence any of these ingredients are linked to any of the others.’
    Rose looked at him balefully. ‘I can smell a connection as clearly as I smell bad herrings.’ He chortled at Auguste’s affronted look. ‘You down here gathering a few tips on what to cook for His Majesty, then?’
    Auguste stared at him coldly. ‘Egbert, I have an excellent suggestion. If you are so convinced of the link, and you feel drawn to such a subtle disguise, I suggestyou retain your present garb and remain here to investigate, in the position of—’ He paused temptingly.
    ‘What?’
    ‘My mutton-chop broiler.’
    A split second for Egbert to take this in. ‘I don’t cook,’ he said flatly.
    ‘Then I cannot detect.’
    ‘Nobody asked you to.’
    ‘You will, Egbert, you will.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I fear another murder.’

Chapter Three
    Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps the fresh morning air would clarify the butter, distinguish fantasy from fact, and there was no menacing threat lurking in the shadows. Perhaps Egbert’s quest to track down the missing cross would lead him far away from the Old King Cole. Perhaps he, Auguste, could be left quietly to enjoy the pleasures of the Shadwell riverside fish market at dawn. True, this was not one of those autumn mornings about which Keats had waxed so lyrical, but the air was full of early promise. Dockers and other workers hurried to their various destinations with a purposefulness lacking as days wore on, delivery boys were already cycling by with loaded baskets, and wayside vendors of toffee and watercress were zealously taking up their positions. In the market he was happy, surrounded by the wonders of the deep. Or, in this case, the Thames. Auguste eyed the silvery bodies of eels, no doubt fished from the river with forks by the urchins scooting around the fringes of this workplace. They seemed a vastly different species from the colourless grey flab that adorned the menu of the Old King Cole. Everywhere he looked lay the glories of river and sea.Ah, what wonders of gastronomy he could show Lizzie if duty did not call. No doubt at this very moment she was plunging those ladies’ legs into their pickling marinade, whereas a
matelote
. .