Murder Under The Kissing Bough: (Auguste Didier Mystery 6) Read Free Page B

‘Duck,’ he said tersely.
    ‘Plum,’ said Auguste, equally tersely.
    ‘Prune,’ conceded Fancelli, as a gesture of compromise.
    ‘
Non
,’ said Auguste.
    Antonio Fancelli unfolded his arms, removed his apron and donned his porkpie hat. ‘I go,’ he announced.
    ‘It is Christmas Eve,’ said Auguste, standing his ground. He was well used to recalcitrant staff.
    ‘No plum,’ said Fancelli.
    ‘Plum
and
duck,’ said Auguste. ‘With Armagnac.’
    Fancelli stood indecisively for a moment. Then: ‘It is so,’ he declared reluctantly.
    Henceforth Fancelli was allowed to rule his kitchen,but Auguste was permitted an honorary tour once every two hours, a privilege he had managed not to abuse. Fancelli watched him warily on each occasion, singing snatches of the works of Signor Verdi or Herr Mozart irritatingly well throughout.
    At twelve o’clock on Christmas Eve, Auguste pronounced himself ready and summoned his staff together. He beamed at them happily, caught by a sudden headiness at the arrival of Christmas. It was going to be a wonderful time. Here in this cocoon of warmth and welcome, his greatest dream – or nearly his greatest – would flicker into reality.
    ‘
Eh bien, mes enfants
,’ he announced. ‘Follow me, for the ceremony of the hanging of the kissing bough.’ He led the way into the huge drawing room, his staff crowding behind him. Greenery and tinsel adorned every picture, every nook and cranny. A large, decorated Christmas tree stood in one corner, with a present carefully chosen for each one of the fourteen guests, plus one for each member of staff and sundry accompanying maids and valets. Auguste looked at the glittering tree approvingly. It was not the French way of Christmas – imagine this in his native Provence – but for an English Christmas, it was
magnifique
.
    Taking the kissing bough from the footman, he climbed the ladder to suspend the bough from the ceiling, to denote the beginning of Christmas. He glanced down at the smiling upturned faces of his staff. This was a proud moment indeed. What a symbol. Two hoops at right-angles made a sphere of holly, mistletoe and other greenery, and from it were suspended small candles, gifts and tinsel, the latter catching the light as the bough twisted and turned in the slight draught from the fire. Mistletoe – that most ancient of mystical plants, the destroyer, the healer and, some said, the peacemaker of quarrels. Perhaps it would heal thebreach between himself and Egbert, he thought wistfully.
    ‘The holly and the ivy,’ carolled one irrepressible member of staff enthusiastically, while another rushed to the piano, only yesterday tuned by Messrs Steinway after years of disuse.
    ‘For all the trees that are in the wood. . .’
    Auguste felt his eyes misting over. Why had he worried? This was Christmas; he could imagine he was running his very own hotel. He could forget the fogs of November in the joys of December. Yes, suddenly, excitingly, he was looking forward to Christmas.
    ‘
Mes amis
,’ he beamed, ‘now we await only our guests. . .’
    Major Frederick Dalmaine of the Queen’s Own Royal West Kent Regiment climbed slowly down from the express at London’s Paddington railway station, somewhat annoyed that he had actually to seek a porter. Everyone else seemed to have porters gravitating to their side, yet what he thought of as his innate authority appeared to have deserted him. He hoped that his slowness of gait would immediately suggest a wounded combatant of the South African War. It was in fact true, and he had no objection to everyone knowing it.
    He was more than somewhat aggrieved. His brother, with whom he normally spent Christmas, was very much elsewhere. (His letter, received on arrival at his Southampton home, still burned a hole in his pocket. What the devil was he to do about that?) His brother being abroad, he had naturally counted on spending the festive season with his sister Evelyn and her family, only to be