Free Murder in The Smokehouse: (Auguste Didier Mystery 7) by Amy Myers

was not Mr Breckles’ forte, Auguste decided.This
blanquette
resembled English blancmange in its blandness, instead of achieving a subtle blending of flavours. Yet Breckles possessed all the characteristics of a good chef. Auguste considered this conundrum. Perhaps he would request the honour of being allowed further access to his host’s kitchens. After all, he thought glumly, the remainder of their stay could well be longer than intended. Gone were his expectations of being home in time for Cook’s Day Off on Tuesday. Queen Anne’s Gate seemed a depressingly long way away. Yes, he would certainly seek to widen Mr Breckles’ range. And, after all, if the corpse did prove to have been murdered, where better to seek accurate information on Tabor Hall’s inmates than in its servants’ hall?
    He jumped as his host addressed him. ‘The poor fellow was obviously here to visit another house and picked the wrong one.’
    ‘Could he have been here to visit one of your servants or anyone living on the estate?’ Auguste asked.
    ‘He was a gentleman, Mr Didier,’ Priscilla pointed out, her tone suggesting no gentleman would have asked such a question.
    George looked up from his
blanquette
. ‘I say, that’s it, by Jove! He must have been visiting someone else. The lodgekeeper, or the gamekeeper.’
    ‘Nonsense,’ his mother pointed out. ‘The tailcoat was far too good.’
    Her daughter-in-law overruled her. ‘I believe George is correct. I trust you will direct your enquiries in that direction, Mr Didier.’
    ‘Mother has a point,’ Cyril said suddenly. ‘The cut of those trousers wasn’t half bad. Trifle old-fashioned, but then he wasn’t exactly a chick, was he? Someone’s hand-me-downs, maybe,’ he finished lamely, as there was a silence. The invitation to remember the terriblesight of the corpse resulted in several sets of cutlery being hastily laid on plates.
    ‘Please don’t start talking about that poor man again,’ Victoria begged. ‘This has been the most horrid party ever. Alexander and I have our engagement celebrated in deep mourning, and now we have the death to follow it.’
    Beatrice giggled, and Priscilla made a rare mistake. ‘I see nothing amusing in my daughter’s ill-timed remarks, Mrs Janes.’
    The merry giggle was cut short, as Beatrice took in that she, intimate friend of His Majesty, was being reproved. Large tears formed in her eyes, and without a word she rose to her feet. ‘We shall leave,’ her husband hastily informed the company, picking up the unspoken message. ‘We are not welcome here.’ With a regretful eye on the Stilton, he held back his wife’s chair for her to make a sweeping exit.
    Tatiana took pity on Priscilla’s dilemma. Public retreat was impossible for her, yet social ruin stared her in the face: not only had the King left early, but now his favourite was threatening to follow suit. ‘Please do stay, Mrs Janes. I was so relying on you to explain to me about London society – and the latest fashions. As you are one of the leaders of London society, I had hoped for guidance.’
    Auguste, not for the first time, admired his wife’s social quickwittedness. Tatiana had no interest in fashions whatsoever.
    Beatrice paused, turned, and graciously resumed her seat. Tatiana was after all a relation (of some sort) to His Majesty.
And
a princess, even if a somewhat unusual one, who chose to go to smokehouses in the middle of the night.
    Tatiana, true to her word, bore Beatrice away afterluncheon, her arm firmly clasped in hers. They made an incongruous couple, Auguste thought: Tatiana tall, slender and firm of stride; Beatrice short, plump and definitely a trotter. He began to walk into the library to while away the time until Egbert should arrive.
    ‘Ah, Didier!’ Auguste’s heart sank. Was he still to be allowed no peace for reflection? ‘Fancy a game of billiards?’ His host approached him eagerly.
    ‘In fact, I—’
    ‘Good, good,’ George said