Maxim Jakubowski - The Best British Mysteries III

‘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.’