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.’