Murder In The Motor Stable: (Auguste Didier Mystery 9) (10 page)

‘Quite. A horse would be whinnying by now, or at least emitting a warm living atmosphere. A motorcar is silent metal, and you have the nerve to insult this by calling it a
stable
.’

‘He’s not here.’ Leo stuck to the salient point. A brilliant notion struck him. ‘Do you by chance have a motorcar, madam?’

‘How dare you, young man.’ Hortensia Millward was insulted.

‘In that case you can accompany Miss Dazey home in hers, and her chauffeur can drive you home from there.’

‘But—’

‘I could tell Mrs Didier you’ve been here . . .’

Exhausted with his efforts, Leo nevertheless stayed awake for the rest of the night. Inside her stable Dolly Dobbs slumbered peacefully and safely until the morning.

Auguste quietly whistled the aria of his native Provence from
La Traviata
; he was a relatively happy man. This was his favourite stage of preparation for a banquet, the morning of the previous day. Wednesday spread out before him like a luxurious canvas on which to paint his masterpieces. He knew all too well that as the day wore on, tension and perhaps passions might be roused, exacerbated by the heat of the ovens, for His Majesty would expect his banquet to include at least five hot dishes, even though it would be held
en plein air
in the grounds of Martyr House. Rain? It would not dare. St Swithin himself on his saint’s day last Friday had declined to send rain, thus, in accordance with the old belief, coming down firmly in favour of His Majesty’s banquet being unsullied by such a disaster. Plum pudding was disaster enough in itself. His Majesty – and His Majesty’s figure – always demanded its presence on the menu for shooting-party luncheons, and Lady Tunstall had intimated to Auguste that he would expect it to feature in a July ‘picnic’ as well.

Auguste thought wistfully of a picnic alone with Tatiana, Egbert and Edith, but for that they must wait until the club closed for August. He wanted, he realised with dismay, to be away from Milton House; even tomorrow would bring fresh air into the stale larder of his mind. He felt stultified here,
unable to give of his best, and he put it down to the bluebottle of discomfort which still buzzed around the club, especially as he remembered the unwelcome news Tatiana had sprung on him about this afternoon. Hester Hart, it seemed, was determined to cause trouble.

Pierre shared his discontent. He never approved of whistling in the kitchen, Auguste had noticed, and he promptly stopped in the interests of the banquet. Too late, perhaps.

‘What is this?’ he asked, aghast, as he peered over Pierre’s shoulder.

‘Daube of beef, maître. For tonight.’ Pierre scowled, his face streaming with perspiration.

‘In
July
?’

Pierre shrugged. ‘These English aristos will eat spotted dick in August and demand strawberries in January. Why not give them what they want? Take their shekels, my son, praising Allah, is my philosophy.’

‘Mr Kipling,’ Auguste retorted, ‘is not a cook. I fear you need more justification than that for daube of beef. What else is on the menu this evening?’

Pierre looked sullen. ‘Lobster salad, roast saddle of mutton—’

‘Dull,’ Auguste pointed out.

‘But safe, maître. Tomorrow will be a long and onerous day for the ladies. Most will not dine here this evening, but quietly at home. Tonight those that dine here should have plain food, in order to appreciate the glories of tomorrow when they will eat the glories of a maître.’

‘You are indeed a philosopher, Pierre.’ Auguste was gratified. ‘But why do you say onerous day? Because of the run to Canterbury, or meeting His Majesty?’

‘Neither. Because of this motorcar, the Dolly Dobbs.
Something unpleasant may happen. Why else is it being guarded by night?’

‘A precaution, Pierre.’ And a very necessary one, in his view. The Dolly Dobbs had aroused passions, some understandable, others less so – such as the curious reaction of its inventor when Thomas Bailey was mentioned, and the Duchess’s sudden acceptance of the situation that Hester was to drive it.

‘This is not a happy place to work now,’ Pierre announced sombrely. ‘This pig Luigi has something to do with it. Of that I am sure.’ He brought his knife down on a chicken with great enthusiasm. ‘He is a spy.’

Auguste laughed. ‘For whom? For Italy?’

‘No, no, I am serious. For ladies, who pay him for information. Where easier to gather it than in a restaurant with his position?’

‘What kind of information?’ Auguste asked, startled.

Pierre shrugged. ‘Whose husband dines with whom? What so-and-so thinks of so-and-so. Yesterday he was boasting of how he kept Lady Bullinger informed of Miss Hart’s movements, and similarly told Miss Hart of Lady Bullinger’s plans.’

‘Do you have any proof?’

‘Why should I need it? I am not a policeman.’

‘No. And we must remember this is a kitchen,’ Auguste said firmly. ‘My wife tells me that afternoon tea will be required in the lounge this afternoon as well as the restaurant. She has told you?’ He hoped Tatiana had diplomatically suggested someone else should make the pastries today. Lumps of heavy fat and sugary honey would not help the coming ordeal.

Pierre heaved a sigh. ‘Yes. Cucumber sandwiches and cakes
are being made, ices prepared. Though it is difficult with the ices that are needed for tomorrow. What is the reason for this special tea?’ It was not like Pierre to make sugar mountains out of such grains of annoyance in a chef’s life.

‘Miss Hart has decided to give a talk on her travels in Syria.’

‘
Merde
.’ Pierre’s face darkened. ‘
More
sandwiches. And I shall have to be present to serve it, since that pig Luigi will be in the restaurant.’

‘The ladies will need all the reassurance and comfort your sandwiches and tea can provide, if Saturday’s experience is anything to go by,’ Auguste said diplomatically.

‘My best pastries,’ Pierrre announced.

Auguste’s heart sank.

Fascinated, Auguste watched as Hester Hart swept like Queen Zenobia of Palmyra herself through the ranks of her enemies in the lounge to take up a dominant position at the far end of the room, and Tatiana rose to join her. What was it about this woman, he wondered, that although she was apparently set on antagonising the whole club, she was still managing to get her own way? Even Tatiana, usually a diplomatist, had failed to deter Hester from her plans today. Tatiana had thought no one would attend; he had disagreed, and was right – the room was full. Even Agatha sat elegantly at the very front, with Maud next to her. There was Phyllis Lockwood too. One committee member only was missing.

‘Where is Isabel?’ he had asked Tatiana before Hester’s arrival.

‘On her way from Kent. She’ll be here for the run tomorrow.’

‘But then she won’t be there to receive Bertie!’ Auguste was dumbfounded.

‘The Dowager is doing the honours. Once upon a time she was his mistress, so gossip goes, when he was a very young Prince of Wales.’

Given the choice between a hostess aged sixty-five, former mistress or not, and one mature beauty aged thirty-five or so, Auguste had a shrewd idea which His Majesty would prefer. He hoped Isabel’s charm would be up to the King’s displeasure, but remembering one of his own encounters with the lady, whose unfathomable eyes had suddenly become all too fathomable when they were left alone together, he supposed it could be. It was a risk, however, and he wondered very much why Isabel was running it. He had put her down as a lady to whom social position was all, and whose brains in this respect could be counted on to overrule the heart.

Hester Hart was a good speaker, Auguste conceded, her tall, spare figure, dark eyes and impassioned movements bringing a little of the deserts of Syria into the midst of the
crème
of London society. There was no doubt that whatever private failings she might have, she had accomplished much. Lady travellers were a much unheralded group, as she was only too eager to point out, driven, she claimed, like outcasts from their own society to appreciate other wider horizons. Like Palmyra.

‘Palmyra was one of the outposts of the Roman Empire,’ she enthused, ‘and for centuries before that the centre of caravan trading routes from the mysterious east to the Anti-Lebanon, Jerusalem, Jebel Lubnan, Antioch, Petra, and the Dead Sea. The ruins of its glorious colourful past create a present of its own . . . Damascus, capital of the desert, breathes in the desert air. I visited bazaars and harems, ate with Bedouin and Pashas . . .’

All the same, Auguste noted with amusement, relieved that there was nothing too contentious in her speech, the questions afterwards from her audience centred not on philosophy but on practical matters.

‘What do you wear on a camel? Are you truly alone on your travels? I can’t go to Bond Street unaccompanied!’ Agatha trilled. ‘Aren’t you
afraid
?’ She glanced round as if to reassure herself that she was in a truly feminine society. Obviously she did not count Pierre, himself and three footmen presiding quietly over the arrangements for tea at the back of the lounge. Auguste was amused.

‘Naturally I travel with a caravan,’ Hester replied loftily. ‘And there are muleteers, and my dragomen of course. But they are hardly relevant.’

‘But in the
desert
,’ Phyllis asked, shocked, longing to know what the sanitary arrangements were like.

‘One hires the labour one needs,’ Hester said shortly. ‘It is of no importance.’

‘And the harems?’ barked Lady Bullinger. ‘Approve of them, do you?’

‘They are most interesting ladies, so knowledgeable on some subjects.’ Hester looked round maliciously. ‘The art of sexual lovemaking, for instance.’

There was a stunned silence.

‘You
talked
about it?’ Phyllis squealed. A delicious shiver ran through the audience.

‘One can hardly discuss British politics in a harem.’

‘But you are a maiden lady,’ Lady Bullinger barked at her future god-daughter-in-law. ‘Hardly a fitting subject.’

‘This is going to be the century of the woman. We may like men but we don’t need them.’

‘Not even Roderick?’ Phyllis’s voice rang sweetly out.

Not such a rabbit, was Auguste’s instant thought, as another delicious shiver ran through the assembled ladies, delighted to see Hester put in a difficult position.

Not for long. ‘My fiancé has a co-driver for life, not a rear seat passenger.’

‘So you do need a co-driver,’ Agatha asked innocently, ‘for all you travel alone? Or is Roderick a sort of dragoman to you?’

‘He is not!’ Hester shouted.

‘Then why ask the poor man to guard that car all night? Why not do it yourself? I feel sure Queen Zenobia would have done.’

‘I am
driving
tomorrow,’ Hester pointed out curtly. ‘I have a responsibility to the Dolly Dobbs, dear Agatha.’

‘Is that how you managed things in the desert? Asking others to do what one does not care to do oneself? You will find that matters are conducted differently in London society.’

‘So I discovered years ago.’ Hester Hart’s eyes glittered. ‘Have you all forgotten? If so, you will not have long to wait before you are all reminded.’ She smiled, but it was not a sweet smile. ‘And you will find, my friends, that I remember exactly how things are conducted in London society, partly because I recorded it day by day in my diaires. I know them by heart. Shall I recite some passages now, or will you wait for my memoirs?’

‘Shall we have tea, ladies?’ Tatiana, desperate, rose to her feet. She forgot to thank the speaker but no one noticed in the sudden enthusiasm to collect cucumber sandwiches.

Tea? Iced water might be more appropriate, Auguste thought, for these raised temperatures. Those were the darts of the picador to madden the bull. The ladies had been baiting Hester. Would a matador appear to deal the final blow?

Only Luigi appeared, however. He had apparently decided the restaurant could do without him, and that Pierre, being incompetent, needed his guidance. It was true that under his magic touch, combined with Earl Grey tea, flushed cheeks and angry voices calmed into the semblance of normality. As normal as a box of lucifer matches requiring only a touch to set them alight.

‘I wish you were driving with me on the Bollée, Auguste.’ Tatiana, shimmering in cream silk, was in the last stages of her garnish in preparation for dinner at the club.

‘There is a very dull menu tonight. Mrs Jolly could make a most delightful—’ He rapidly changed the subject.

‘No, Auguste. Tonight we must dine at the club.’

‘But what could happen this evening? Hester won’t even be there. She said she was dining at home, to prepare for tomorrow.’

‘I would still like to be there.’

Auguste surrendered and stopped feeling treacherous about his relief at travelling with the banquet on the royal train tomorrow. His duty in support of his wife would be performed this evening. As they walked in through the iron gates of Milton House, however, he realised it was going to be a more onerous duty than he had imagined.

‘Look!’ Tatiana seized Auguste’s arm.

Stepping down from the Fiat’s driving seat in front of the club was Roderick Smythe. This was hardly surprising. What shook them was to see his companion, who was looking distinctly smug. The tip of Phyllis Lockwood’s tiny shoes showed beneath the flimsy blue evening dress, which could be glimpsed under her dainty motoring dust coat as Roderick carefully helped her down from the passenger seat. A very
large flowery hat was cunningly placed to reveal as much as possible of her golden hair and pretty face.

Unfortunately for Roderick, as Auguste now shuddered to see, Hester had exercised her woman’s privilege of changing her mind about dining at home and was glaring out from the restaurant window. Then her face disappeared. With one accord, Auguste and Tatiana followed Roderick and Phyllis who were, unaware of their imminent fate, already walking into the club restaurant, divested of their travelling coats. Tatiana was too late to warn them.