The Best British Mysteries III

Murder, the Missing Heir and the Boiled Egg by Amy Myers

Auguste Didier stared gloomily at the eggs awaiting his pleasure for boiling. He had none to offer, although he admitted that his ill-humour had nothing to do with them. Still in its shell, one egg looked much like another, but today they provided an unfortunate reminder that he must choose which of two young gentlemen was the bad egg. They could not both be the missing heir to Lord Luckens.

Not that his lordship was dead. On the contrary, when last week he had brazenly staggered into the kitchens of Plum’s Club for Gentlemen, over which Auguste presided as maitre chef, he was very much alive. The staggering was not so much due to age or the excellent club wine cellars as to his gait which suggested his life was spent perpetually astride a horse, and his feet a mere aberration of nature to be ignored.

‘Ha!’

The grey moustache had bristled, and keen eyes shot a triumphant look, as though Auguste were a fox planning a speedy exit from this world. ‘You the detective fellow?’

‘The chef fellow, your lordship,’ Auguste murmured patiently, casting a despairing glance at his hollandaise sauce, which had been delighted at this opportunity to curdle. His detective work had come about by chance, and was not an art in which he could lay claim to perfection, as were his culinary skills.

Lord Luckens ignored his remark. ‘Splendid. Here’s what I need you to do. I want you to cook a dinner for me at Luckens Place. Know the old ruin, do you? You can cook what you like.’

Auguste relaxed. He must have misheard mention of detection work, for this assignment presented no such problem. Indeed, the idea was an attractive one, for he had heard that Luckens Place in Sussex, far from being an old ruin, was a magnificent Elizabethan mansion with its own ornate banqueting house in the grounds, and a splendid towered gatehouse with a bedroom where Good Queen Bess herself was said to have slept. He might even cook an Elizabethan dinner, and suggest they follow the old custom of walking to the banqueting house for sweetmeats and desserts. He warmed to Lord Luckens immediately.

‘You cook it,’ Lord Luckens boomed on, ‘and then supervise the dinner in the Great Chamber, where it’s to be served.’

‘You wish me to act as butler too?’ Professional etiquette rose up in protest.

‘No, no.’ An impatient hand flailed at this stupidity. ‘Just stand there like a blasted maitre d’.’

Auguste gaped at him, wondering just what his lordship’s butler would have to say about this irregular suggestion.

‘It’s like this. I’m getting on in life. Time to think of wills,’ Lord Luckens trumpeted. ‘Only had one son, George, and he flounced out in 1867, thirty years ago, when he was twenty-one. Never bothered to keep in touch, never made the fortune he reckoned on. I had one of those Pinkertons’ detective fellows track him down a few years back, and they told me George died in Leadville, Colorado, in ‘79.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’ Auguste received a glare in thanks for his concern.

‘Never understood the fellow. Took after his mother. Bookish. Not the sort to marry. Understand me?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Seems I was wrong.’ Apparently this did not often occur, since Lord Luckens admitted it with great reluctance. ‘Pinkertons found out he left a widow, but she moved away and vanished. I’d no interest in her, so I called off the hounds. My solicitor fellow in London, Jenkins, said where there were widows there might also be sons, so he advertised. Every good-for-nothing in the States claimed to be my son, but old Jenkins is a wily old bird, and he’s whittled them down to two. He’s crawled over the evidence, and is convinced it’s one of them, but he can’t blasted well decide which. One’s a silver miner in Leadville, the other’s a New York businessman, and both are flourishing birth certificates saying their father’s George Luckens. They can’t be brothers. Born within four months of each other, and even George with his saintly ideas couldn’t achieve that. Thought you might like a crack at it, eh?’

‘Me?’ Auguste’s heart sank, even as his mind began to fill with the delights of experimenting with suckets, leaches, possets and marigold tarts.

He had not surrendered easily, however. ‘Who would inherit, sir, if no claimant can be found to satisfy you and your solicitors?’

‘Knew you’d ask that,’ Lord Luckens replied darkly. ‘I had a brother once, Horatio. Couldn’t stand the fellow. He couldn’t stand me either. Died years ago, but he left a blasted son, as priggish and self-righteous as his blasted father. And a bachelor in his fifties. Another of those blasted nancies. Sort of fellow who given his way would see this country go to the dogs. Not content with sitting in the Commons, he’s all for sitting in the Lords and putting a spoke in the wheel there too. With my title. He’s got wind of this dinner and is insisting on his right to attend. Lady Luckens said it’s fair enough and will save trouble later. Suppose she’s right, damn it. His name’s Jonathan Luckens – heard of him?’

Auguste most certainly had. You could hardly live in England and not have heard of him. A member of Keir Hardie’s burgeoning Labour party, he seemed unlikely to be enthusiastic about inheriting a title, yet Auguste could well understand why he and Lord Luckens did not see eye to eye. He was, if Auguste remembered correctly, a vehement supporter of the rights of women to vote, which was not a policy Lord Luckens would be likely to endorse. Despite his reluctance, the case began to intrigue him – and besides, he’d always wanted to cook an Elizabethan banquet…

Auguste fidgeted nervously in the Great Chamber, under the frosty eye of the butler, who obviously suspected Auguste’s presence as chef was a ruse to disguise the fact he was being assessed to replace him. He must be nearly eighty, so this would not be surprising, but Auguste could do without heavy disapproval at his elbow this evening.

At any moment the double doors would be thrown open by the footmen, and the guests enter. He glanced round at the awaiting banquet, or such of it as had already made its appearance. The spit-roasted carp stuffed with dried fruit and spices would appear shortly, the goose and sorrel sauce, a pie of Paris, two large chickens to masquerade as peacocks, complete with fanned-out tail feathers, the samphire salad, lemon salad; his mind flitted over merely some of the wonders he had prepared all for the sake of a handful of diners whose concentration would be on fraud not food.

The doors opened at last to reveal the six diners. On Lord Luckens’ arm was a severe-looking lady in her middle years, dressed in grey, with only a cameo brooch as adornment. She, Auguste had gathered from the butler, was Miss Twistleden, Lady Luckens’ companion. At the rear of the short procession of six was Lady Luckens, a sweet-faced, grey-haired old lady. She was clinging to the arm of Jonathan Luckens, whom Auguste recognised from sketches in the Illustrated London News. Thin, and gimlet-eyed, his immaculately trimmed beard quivering at the ready for any chance to demolish his rivals, he looked to Auguste a formidable opponent. He wouldn’t care to be in the false claimant’s shoes (or boots), or, come to that, in the true claimant’s either. Sandwiched between these two couples must be the two claimants, Red and William, both allegedly surnamed Luckens. They were not arm in arm. Far from it.

‘Pa!’

There was an immediate and simultaneous howl from both of them as their eyes fell on the portrait of George Luckens aged twenty-two, which was hung on the far wall facing them as they entered the Great Chamber.

‘Gee, that’s how I remember the old son of a gun,’ one of them shouted. No doubt who he was, Auguste decided: the Colorado claimant. Red Luckens, towering over his companion, was dressed more like one of Buffalo Bill’s cowboy riders than for an English evening dinner party. Only the hat was missing to complete his ensemble of high boots, sturdy brown trousers and jacket, yellow shirt and huge buckle belt. The holster slung at his side was empty, to Auguste’s relief.

Auguste had met many Americans in the course of his employment, Americans in Paris, Americans in London, Americans in the depth of the English countryside, rich Americans and poor Americans, and they had ranged, as do most nations, from the highly civilised, down through the ranks of the vulgar wealthy and back up again to the straightforwardly unassuming. Never, however, had he seen (or heard) two American gentlemen of such disparity as these two.

Red’s rival claimant William Luckens was hardly less ostentatious than Red, in that although clad in conventional evening dress, he wore the new tuxedo dinner jacket so popular in the United States and still so incorrect here. He might be shorter than Red but his pugnacious chin and sturdy build suggested he would meet punch for punch.

‘That’s how Red Luckens remembers the old guy. Like me, he was a humble but happy silver miner. Yes sirree, Grandpappy.’ Red, seated at the table, gazed in rapt devotion at the portrait.

Auguste shuddered. Such an endearment was hardly furthering Claimant No. l’s cause with Lord Luckens.

‘That’s my pa.’ William had a New York accent, and a quieter voice. ‘It sure chokes me up seeing the old fellow up there.’ His unctuous soulful glance at Lord Luckens was even harder to stomach than Red’s brashness.

‘What splendid memories both you gentlemen have,’ Jonathan sneered, ‘considering you were only seven when my cousin George died.’

‘Sure do, Cousin Jonathan,’ Red replied cheerfully. ‘Why, I remember him kissing my ma as though it were yesterday.’

‘Tell me about her,’ Lord Luckens said grimly.

‘Why, she was the purtiest little thing, a dancer she was.’

William interrupted angrily. ‘My mother, your daughter-in-law, sir, was a lady. Pa met her in Colorado. A schoolteacher. Dancer, my foot. Whoever your parents were, cowboy, your ma most likely came from the whorehouse.’

‘Say that again!’ Red leapt up from the table, overturning his chair in the process, and towering over William who continued eating his carp imperturbably, to Auguste’s full approval.

‘You don’t look like George,’ Lady Luckens observed plaintively to both of them. She had the vacant stare of the elderly who have chosen to let the world pass by them, but this might be deceptive, Auguste thought.

‘No,’ barked Miss Twistleden, defensive of her mistress.

‘I agree, Aunt Viola,’ Jonathan said superciliously. ‘Nor like Uncle Alfred here. But then that’s hardly surprising, since it’s quite clear neither of you is my esteemed uncle’s grandson.’

‘Quite clear, eh, blast your eyes, Jonathan?’ Lord Luckens growled. ‘Not to me. Any some proof of that statement, have you?’

‘No, but it will emerge soon enough.’

‘I take after ma, ma’am.’ Red casually threw a chicken bone over his shoulder, to the horror of the butler and Auguste alike. What would the courteous host do in such circumstances, he wondered. Proceed to throw his own over his shoulder, or ignore the faux pas? Lord Luckens didn’t appear to notice and it was left to William to place his delicately and with much show on the dish provided for the purpose.

‘See here, mister,’ Red continued earnestly to Jonathan, ‘I’ve a photograph here of my old man not long before he died. We moved to Leadville, Colorado in ‘77 from California, and here’s the proof of that.’ He produced a dog-eared faded photograph of a group of miners outside Billy Nye’s Saloon. ‘I was just five years old when this was taken.’

‘Why, that’s no proof at all. You can’t tell one face from another,’ William cried in triumph, seizing it from him. ‘Now, just you look at this carte de visite I got here. Signed on the back: Yr affectionate George.’ He tossed it onto the table and Jonathan and Red immediately made a grab for it. Red won.

‘Mind letting me see a pic of my own son, Red?’ Lord Luckens growled.

‘That stuffed shirt’s not my pa! He was a silver miner,’ roared Red, reluctantly handing it over.

‘Who struck it rich just before he died, enabling my mother to bring me to New York to start a new life,’ William capped him triumphantly.

‘Oh yeah?’ Red sneered. ‘What do you say, Grandpappy?’

Grandpappy wasn’t saying anything, but his glare should have been sufficient an answer for most people.

‘I know what I say’ Jonathan smirked. ‘If that’s all the proof you’ve got, I rather think I’d win in any contest at law.’

‘Oh, they’ve got better proof than this, Jonathan. I explained that to you.’ Lord Luckens recovered his good humour. ‘Too much to be faulted. That’s why we’re here. Two impeccable birth certificates, duly registered in their birth town and in the State registries, one for a child to Mollie Luckens, nee Huggett, dancer, on 20 April ‘72 in San Francisco, one to Amelia Luckens, schoolteacher, nee Bruart, on 13 August ‘72 in Denver, Colorado.’

‘I guess that makes me elder brother and the future Lord Luckens, if it comes to our splitting it, Will,’ Red spluttered into his wine.

‘I’ll expose you for the bunco-artist you are, long before it comes to that,’ snarled William. ‘You’re no good even as a professional fraud.’

‘I’ll expose the pair of you even sooner. We in the Labour party believe in justice for all,’ Jonathan sneered. ‘The courts will make short work of both you incompetent bunglers.’

‘Not me, my friend,’ William rejoined. ‘Concentrate on Mr Wyatt Earp here.’

‘I prefer to concentrate on this excellent beef. Most interesting flavour to it.’ Jonathan momentarily won Auguste’s approval.

‘Call this beef stew?’ growled Red, elegantly holding a piece of meat up with two fingers.

Auguste in fact called it a beef hare, a dish whose spicings of onion, clove and nutmeg appealed to him.

‘Any Leadville chef would get booted out of town for this,’ Red continued in disgust.

Auguste made an instant decision never to visit Leadville, but refrained from active interference in the conversation in the interests of earning his fee. So far his betting was even on the two rivals, and if there was any tripping up to be done Jonathan Luckens was more than capable of doing it.

‘In New York, fortunately, we can appreciate the finer blessings of life.’ One point to William!

‘Including money, I’ve no doubt,’ Jonathan quipped. ‘Although both of you have quite an interest in that, don’t you?’

‘Pa,’ Red looked soulfully up at the painting, ‘I’m here to get acquainted with my old Grandpappy while there’s still time.’ Minus one to him.

Auguste had been so entranced by the battle, he realised he had forgotten to worry about whether the potatoes were cooked as the Elizabethan court would have enjoyed this newly discovered delicacy.

Old Grandpappy growled something Auguste failed to catch, but William and Jonathan both looked pleased. What he did hear was Lord Luckens’ next order: ‘Show them the letters, William.’

William needed no urging, and produced a small bundle of letters tied with tape. He extracted one, and leaned forward to pass it to Jonathan, but Red was too quick for him and tore it from his hands.

‘Can you even read it?’ William asked politely.

‘Sure can, when old Red smells a rotten fish. When was this written, yesterday?’ he snorted, waving it in the air.

‘Read it out, Red,’ Lord Luckens commanded.

Red obliged, albeit slowly. ‘My darling Amelia, Denver is just dandy. Wait till you see it. Our claim is sold, and we’ll be rich, just like I promised you. You’ll be strolling along the New York streets before the fall. I’ll be back in Leadville to sort things out, and then we’ll be clip-clopping our way to happiness. Your loving George.’

‘My little George.’ Lady Luckens looked pleased. ‘He always had a poetical streak in him. How sad he never reached New York.’

‘Sad,’ echoed Miss Twistleden.

‘No, ma’am,’ Red hooted with glee, ‘but he never reached it because he never intended to go at all. He remained in Leadville, married to my ma, Mollie, until he got run down by that darned wagon.’

‘Then how could he have written this letter?’ Miss Twistleden was emboldened to ask.

‘Ma’am, he didn’t. Our William here wrote it and the rest.’

‘For once I agree with you, Red,’ Jonathan sniggered. ‘It’s a most interesting letter in many ways.’ He picked it up from the table where Red had let it fall, and looked at it with an air of faint amusement.

‘Forgive me,’ Lord Luckens said heavily, ‘but I should, I suppose, recognise my own son’s writing?’

‘You’d be only too eager to do so, I’m sure,’ Jonathan agreed sweetly.

Lord Luckens looked at him sharply. ‘My solicitor’s checked it out with a handwriting authority.’

‘Then why this charade?’ Jonathan asked politely. ‘Unless -’

‘Yes, mister, I got letters too,’ Red drawled. ‘Not so many, ‘cos Pa and Ma were never separated more than the once, when he comes to Leadville from San Francisco in ‘77, and she followed a month later. Pa wasn’t one for writing much – guess he’d have written you more, Grandpappy, if he had been. Look at this.’ He tossed a scrap of yellowing paper onto the table, narrowly avoiding his beer glass (a refinement demanded of the butler, to Auguste’s combined horror and amusement).

Jonathan picked it up: ‘Moll, miss you, sweetheart. Come to me March. George,’ he read out.

‘How thoughtful.’ Lady Luckens’ eyes filled with tears at which her husband growled:

‘Time to move, Viola.’

‘What the heck for?’ Red demanded. ‘This your quaint English custom of getting rid of the ladies?’

‘No, sir,’ Jonathan chortled. ‘An even quainter custom of repairing to the banqueting house for our dessert.’

‘In Chuck’s Diner you get the food brought to you.’ Red snapped his fingers at Auguste and the butler. ‘Maybe you fellows could learn a thing or two.’

‘Perhaps you could learn even more, Red,’ William said disdainfully. ‘Good manners, perhaps?’

The banqueting house at Luckens Place was a separate building about two hundred yards from the main house, with one large room, a serving area, and a retiring room. Luckens ancestors stared down in beneficent envy of their descendants’ banquets of elaborate sweetmeats and jellies. Auguste had contented himself for this small gathering with orangeflower and rosewater creams, lettuce suckets, two leaches, candied marigolds, and apricots, raspberry cakes, some preserves and a moulded and iced marchpane centrepiece of the Luckens arms.

He cast an anxious eye over his work. At least here with a more informal atmosphere he could pass among the guests and keep an eye both on his culinary work and on the two claimants. He was puzzled about the latter, who at the moment seemed to have forgotten their differences, as they demolished his Elizabethan delights with great gusto. No doubt their animated tête-à-tête was comparing them favourably with home fare.

‘Blasted titbits,’ Lord Luckens commented on a plate of kissing comfits, presented to him by Auguste. ‘Nothing like a savoury to end a meal.’

Auguste agreed. It was revolting, in his view, to kill the pleasant afterglow of a meal with strong anchovies or cooked cheese, or kidneys.

‘Ever tried hominy grits?’ Red asked, strolling up to them, with one hand busy feeding a slice of the Luckens arms into his mouth. ‘I’ll sure miss it when I get to come here for good.’

‘Don’t concern yourself, Red.’ William was following hard on his heels. ‘You’ll be on grits for the rest of your life.’

‘Don’t be too sure of that, pal.’ Red helped himself to a candied marigold, then elegantly spat it out into his empty glass, which he handed to Auguste.

‘I think you both can be sure of it,’ Jonathan remarked complacently. ‘I shall be the next Lord Luckens.’

‘How about waiting till I’m dead?’ his present lordship shouted furiously at his guests.

Lady Luckens’ brow was clouded as she added her own contribution to the conversation. ‘I am a great admirer of our dear Queen, especially in her Jubilee year, but I feel she has enough palaces already. And there’s Osborne, of course.’

‘Don’t follow you, Grandmammy.’ Red looked puzzled.

‘I believe my aunt refers to the fact that I myself have no heirs and if no others can be traced the estate is likely to revert to the Crown after my death,’ Jonathan explained kindly.

‘Over my dead body,’ William declared.

‘Dear Victoria,’ Lady Luckens said brightly. ‘How she loves the Isle of Wight. We took our honeymoon there, do you remember, Alfred? We walked to Alum Bay, visited Carisbrooke Castle – ah, the peace. I don’t wonder our dear Queen loves it so.’

‘Grandma, I can assure you the Queen will not be the recipient of this estate ever. I myself am married, with a son,’ William said earnestly. ‘Little Jefferson is your great-grandson.’

‘Bunkum,’ Red yelled. ‘I’m your grandson, and I can tell you Red Luckens is gonna sire a whole wagonload of kids. No nancies here.’ He smirked at Jonathan. ‘No wife, no heirs, eh?’

‘But after meeting you two gentlemen this evening, I am quite sure – forgive me, Uncle – who will be wearing the coronet next,’ Jonathan retorted quietly. ‘I should like a word with you both later.’

‘And I’d like a word with you now, Didier.’ Lord Luckens stomped over to him, and drew a reluctant Auguste aside from the marvels of his banquet. ‘That blasted nephew of mine seems to have made his mind up. Have you found out which one’s my grandson yet?’

Auguste hedged. ‘I’m still assembling ingredients, sir.’

‘Eh?’ Lord Luckens had no time for metaphor. ‘I’ve told Red and William we’ll sleep on it. That all right with you?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Auguste was only too grateful. Such suspicions as he had as to whom was the impostor were vague, swimming around like unwelcome lumps in a béchamel sauce. A night’s sleep would smooth out his thinking, leaving the paste smooth.

‘I’ve told Jonathan what you’re here for. Know what he replied?’ Lord Luckens guffawed. ‘I hope his detection is better than his cooking, he said. The beef was surprisingly good, but he’d seldom tasted a worse pie. Don’t worry yourself, Didier. Everyone makes mistakes.’

Auguste Didier seethed. He never did.

Auguste woke up suddenly to find firstly that it was still the middle of the night, and secondly that he would not be able to sleep again without paying attention to the demands of nature. He had been pleasantly surprised to find his room was on the guest floor, and not in the servants’ quarters, but he was not so impressed with the chamber pot under his bed. Lord Luckens did not go in for modern inventions like bathrooms, or apparently indoor privies. Somewhere, he decided, one must surely exist, and he went out to prowl in search of it.

So far as Auguste could tell, there had been little opportunity for Jonathan to beard his elected impostor during the remaining time the gathering had stayed in the banqueting house, and he presumed that Jonathan too had decided to postpone any confrontation until morning. As he walked along the corridor, Auguste was uncomfortably aware of his squeaking footsteps, and the guest rooms were so far from the Queen’s Chamber where Jonathan was sleeping that Auguste wondered whether Red and William had been assigned these rooms deliberately, so that the floorboards would give warning of visitors. There was no sound from either of their rooms, however.

Reaching a closed door across the corridor without succeeding in his quest, Auguste realised he had reached one of the towers flanking the Queen’s Chamber. Perhaps even now Jonathan was having his ‘word’. Who could tell behind these thick walls? Between Auguste and the chamber lay a six-foot tower room, and any sound would be muffled.

He took the staircase down to the entrance hall, and here at the foot of the tower his search was rewarded. Nevertheless, a vague anxiety hovered inside him, as, primary mission accomplished in what must surely be the original scorned water closet invented by Sir John Harington for Queen Elizabeth, Auguste returned to bed.

He awoke hours later to the sounds of disturbance outside his room which reached a crescendo as pounding footsteps passed his door. Perhaps, he told himself hopefully, the housemaid had dropped the water ewer. He snuggled down once more under the inviting blankets, for there was no sign of a housemaid’s ministrations to light a fire in the grate, where last night’s ashes still presented a melancholy picture.

Then his door flew open, and his host, fully-dressed, stood on the threshold, gibbering: ‘Didier, blasted man’s dead.’

‘Dead? Who?’ Auguste sat up in bed. ‘How?’ Auguste’s first thought that adulterated food might well come out of Lord Luckens’ kitchen was dismissed. Yesterday it had been supervised by him.

‘Shot.’

Auguste stared at him. ‘But who?’

‘My blasted sodomite nephew or that’s what he calls himself. I told him he was no part of the Luckens family; lets the side down. He can get up to what he likes in his bed, but women with the vote indeed. Next thing we know there’ll be women in parliament.’

Lord Luckens brooded on this potential catastrophe for a moment before returning to his present one. ‘Might have killed himself, of course,’ he said hopefully. ‘Just like him, to choose my house.’ He ruminated, then sighed. ‘Unlikely, I grant you. Which one of those two did it? Which one’s the fraud, Didier? This is going to mean having police barging around, and I want to know what’s what before they get here.’

Auguste leapt from his bed to find his dressing robe. ‘Where was Mr Luckens found?’

‘In his bedroom. Where else? If that’s your standard of detection -’

Auguste did not wait for him to finish his tirade, but followed by his lordship, hurried to the Queen’s Chamber. News had spread quickly, for William and Red were already there, standing one each side of the body.

‘Move aside, if you please, gentlemen,’ Auguste said, steeling himself for the ordeal and glad that he had not yet had breakfast.

Jonathan Luckens, still fully dressed in his evening clothes, lay on his back on the rug by his bed, sightless eyes staring upwards, shot through the temple. One hand hung limply down and on the rug at his side was the gun, a Smith and Wesson. Auguste confirmed the obvious, then turned to his lordship.

‘You were right, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s murder. There are no powder burns round the wound or on the hand, as there would be if he had shot himself. In my opinion, he was shot from some feet away.’

‘Murder?’ William squeaked in horror.

Red seemed equally appalled. ‘See here,’ he began.

‘Did any of you hear anything?’ Auguste asked.

‘Thick walls,’ Lord Luckens said complacently, taking the credit for his ancestors’ masonry.

‘A risk though.’ Auguste frowned. ‘Suppose someone had heard; there’s only one passage, and the murderer would have been trapped.’

‘Window’s open,’ Lord Luckens snorted. ‘Plenty of footholds on the ivy.’

Auguste went to look. ‘It is certainly possible, but -’ He broke off, collecting his thoughts as he looked round the room. There seemed nothing unusual, until he opened a bedside drawer. Inside was a pistol.

‘What the devil’s that doing there?’ Lord Luckens glared. ‘I don’t leave guns around for my guests to play with. It’s mine all right, but he must have taken it from the gunroom. With good reason, I’d say.’

‘Messieurs,’ Auguste said quietly, not commenting on the ‘good reason’, ‘I suggest that we all retire from this room and that it is locked until the police arrive.’

William and Red were only too happy to agree, and after some demur Lord Luckens escorted them to the morning room. Heavily panelled in dark wood with only narrow windows and sombre furnishings, this gloomy chamber did little to dispel their sombreness. Even Red was subdued.

‘Who do you reckon did it?’ William asked quietly.

‘A hobo?’ Red offered feebly. ‘What you folks call a tramp?’

Lord Luckens snorted. ‘Not blasted likely. Jonathan had discovered which of you is the false claimant to the estate, and he was about to expose you. Took the gun to defend himself when he tackled you. Instead you walked in and shot him. Quite obvious, isn’t it? A child of ten could see that.’

‘Not so obvious,’ William retorted, though not so fiercely as usual. ‘Why should he expose one of us? If one of us is knocked from the running, the other one is thereby proven as the true heir. Of course, my hot-headed friend here could well have lost his temper with Jonathan last night.’

Red did not reply immediately and, when he did, like William his heart did not seem to be in his protestations. ‘Listen, pal, if I wanted to kill a man, I’d do it honestly. With the fists I was given to fight with, man to man. How would I get a firearm in this country anyway? This here holster came over empty and it’s stayed empty.’

‘Smith and Wessons are American,’ William snapped back.

‘Sure, and it’s the right of every American citizen, including you, bucko, to carry one.’

‘In defence of others, I believe,’ Auguste intervened, ‘not in defence of his entitlement to a title and money. I have one question to ask both of you before I make my report to the police, and it’s this: which of you did Jonathan Luckens ask to see first last night? There wasn’t an opportunity in the banqueting house, so it must have been here, in his room.’

‘Not me,’ William came in promptly.

‘Nor me,’ Red said earnestly.

‘Suppose they both went,’ Lord Luckens growled. ‘Thought of that?’

‘We didn’t, Grandpappy,’ Red assured him. ‘Why, speaking for myself, I slept like a babby all night.’

‘Says you,’ William snarled.

Auguste was puzzled. This was all very odd. After the police had been notified, he left them to return to the kitchen, for he needed room to think and breakfast. Both were possible since the servants taking theirs in the servants’ hall. What should he have? All he could face was a drink of soothing chocolate. Then his eye fell on the humble egg. An egg!

One could always rely on an egg. Unassuming, nutritious, the self-sacrificing base of the most perfect dishes in the world. Who thought of the egg while a bavarois was in one’s mouth? Who thought of the egg while a sauce hollandaise eased itself into one’s stomach? Yes, he would boil himself an egg, plain and unadorned, perhaps with soldiers, as in the English fashion, crustless buttered bread cut into strips.

Eagerly, Auguste placed the egg in the boiling water, turned the ornamental egg timer, from Alum Bay no doubt, upside down for the coloured sands to run through, and prepared lovingly to watch the cooking of his breakfast.

Coloured sands? Alum Bay? Queen Victoria? Egg timer? He stared at it hypnotised, as first the solution of the case of the missing heir and then that of the murder of Jonathan Luckens clarified in his mind like heated butter. It was as plain as a boiled egg..

‘Well?’ Lord Luckens demanded, after Auguste had requested a private interview.

‘Which of them did it?’

‘I prefer to tell you which is the impostor.’

‘Same thing.’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘Have it your own blasted way then. Just tell me.’

‘Red Luckens is a fraud. I am convinced he has never been near a silver mine in his life, for hominy grits is a southern dish and Colorado is not in the south of the United States. Also, he is, like a neatly trimmed poached egg, too good to be naturally true.’

‘So William’s my grandson then,’ Lord Luckens said glumly. ‘Pity. Red has more spunk in him. Still, it’s better than the estate going to Queen Victoria, God bless her. And Red killed Jonathan. Might have guessed it.’

‘No, sir.’

‘So it was William shot him,’ Lord Luckens said immediately. ‘He knew Jonathan had got it the wrong way round, and wasn’t going to risk his precious inheritance vanishing.’

‘No, sir. William as well as Red is an impostor. That letter must surely have been forged, for he wrote, “Wait till you see Denver”, as though it would be his wife’s first visit. In fact, William purports to have been born there, so that is impossible. I was puzzled by their apparently amicable private conversation at the banquet, and suspect they were discussing their spoils.’

‘You’re raving, Didier. How can both of them be impostors? There wouldn’t be any spoils to discuss.’

‘I refer to the spoils they have or will shortly receive from you, Lord Luckens.’

‘What the devil do you mean?’ he shouted, red in the face with anger.

‘I looked at this case the wrong way up. It took an egg timer to understand that I needed to stand it on its head and let the sand trickle through. When I did so it was quite obvious that neither of these gentlemen could be your missing heir. That in any case was always a possibility, but the egg timer caused me to realise that it was you who had planned the whole thing, hired their services, forged the so-called evidence and falsely claimed to them and probably your solicitor that Pinkertons had checked out the birth certificates in the States.’

‘Think I’m out of my mind, do you? I’d have to adopt one of them to keep Jonathan out of it. Why the devil should I adopt a stranger?’

‘Because you hated your brother and then his son so much.’

‘Enough to adopt an out-of-work actor and a smooth-talking rogue? That’s who they are and that I can prove. How could I have known one of them was going to shoot the fellow to make sure of his inheritance?’

‘You couldn’t. You hated your nephew so much, you’d prefer the Queen to have the estate. With Jonathan dead you would later find proof that neither Red nor William is your missing heir. There is in fact no missing heir. It was a plot to rid yourself of Jonathan by murder. You shot him, Lord Luckens, in the expectation one of them would be blamed.’

To Auguste’s surprise, Lord Luckens did not treat him to an outburst of abuse. Instead, he gave a bark of laughter.

‘You’re clever for a Frenchie, Didier. Not clever enough, though. If I were a murderer, I’d be unmasked the minute those two rabbits blabbed to the police. No, I’ll tell you what really happened. I hired them all right. The mistake I made was to make it a gamble for them. Whichever you unmasked as the impostor would get nothing but his expenses; the one you decided was my grandson would get £5,000. Tidy sum, eh? Worth killing for. Hadn’t foreseen that. Whichever Jonathan picked on as the impostor had good reason to stop him talking. With two such prime suspects, the police aren’t going to suspect me just because I didn’t like the fellow, no matter what beans they spilled about my hiring them.’

‘Would the police not believe it a little strange that you were willing to pay so much money merely for the pleasure of seeing your nephew’s ambitions temporarily thwarted? You could hardly explain that you knew in advance of hiring Red and William that Jonathan would no longer be alive when you disclosed the truth about them.’

Lord Luckens gave a gargoyle grin of pure evil. ‘They’ll understand why I hired them, Didier. I’m a poor old man of eighty, and can’t hang around for ever. Devoted to Lady Luckens, tears in her eyes, not too bright in the head, loving husband wants to make her happy. What better than that her beloved grandson’s returned to her? Worth any price, that. Might even adopt one of them – which do you fancy, Didier? Money no object to make her ladyship happy. They’ll believe me, not a blasted chef.’

‘They will when they hear what I have to say.’

His lordship snorted. ‘You stick to cooking, Didier. Blasted sugared lettuce stalks.’

With some effort Auguste ignored the insult to his suckets. ‘I asked myself why Jonathan should have armed himself with a pistol to defend himself and then left it in a drawer when a night-time visitor arrived. If he were expecting Red or William, or if the visit were unannounced, the pistol would be within easy reach; if he knew the caller was you, however, he would hardly have felt fear for his life. I believe that you told him you were coming, giving the excuse that at such a time and in such a place you could not be overheard if Jonathan were to tell you whom he suspected of being the impostor. Or perhaps he suspected them both. You, Lord Luckens, were the only person who need not fear the gunshot being overheard. What’s more natural than that the host, who sleeps nearby and who has placed his guests’ bedrooms far away from the Queen’s Chamber, should be first on the scene to find the cause of the alarm?’

‘Poppycock,’ Lord Luckens snorted, with less conviction.

‘I think not. Had you hired only one impostor, you might well have succeeded. Your mistake, Lord Luckens, was to over-egg the pudding by hiring two, to try to make your story more convincing.’

Through the window Auguste could see the police arriving.

‘You were the bad egg,’ he continued. ‘Your mistake was that you asked me, a master chef, to cook it.’