Murder In The Motor Stable: (Auguste Didier Mystery 9) (22 page)

‘And when she was not travelling, where did she go?’

Pierre considered. ‘Sometimes she would return to England, sometimes stay in Paris, I believe. I was not with her then, of course. I returned to my father’s restaurant in Marseille, or took temporary positions in other restaurants in France, or Algeria, and sometimes Turkey. That is how I gained so much experience. As you will know, monsieur, in countries where food is highly esteemed, the peasant or the seaman is as exacting in his demands as the nobleman.’

How true. The best judge of an
omelette aux truffes
Auguste had ever met lived in a charcoal burner’s hut in the Alpes-Maritimes.

‘Now tell me, monsieur, have you found this murderer yet?’

‘A
daube
is not cooked in thirty minutes, Pierre.’

‘But he, perhaps she, may escape. Leave London. Leave
England
.’

‘Then we will know who it is, and track him or her down,’ Auguste told him patiently. ‘And meanwhile you can help.’

‘Me?’ Pierre’s face lit up. ‘Anything to trap the dog who did this.’

Auguste produced the copy of the
Rubáiyát
which had been found in Hester Hart’s dorothy bag. ‘Have you any idea what this was doing in her bag? Was it a favourite of hers, a present from someone?’

Pierre took it and examined it. ‘No, I do not think so. She was very fond of poetry and frequently carried it with her; she may have bought this, or had it given to her. It looks quite new.’ He opened it, and read. ‘“But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine/And many a Garden by the water blows.” A very nice poem,’ he said approvingly. He handed it back to Auguste, and as he did so the page fell out.

Auguste bent to pick it up, glanced at it and replaced it. ‘I
like it too, Pierre. You should read it.’

‘If Miss Hart liked it, I shall.’

‘Did Miss Hart carry a gun while she was with you?’

‘Always.’

‘Did she use it?’

‘To threaten brigands frequently, and once to shoot an intruder in her tent. The captain of the caravan. It was a difficult time, we were lucky to escape from his companions.’

‘Did she carry it with her here?’

‘I cannot be sure, of course, but knowing her I would think she did.’

‘Then why would it not have been in her bag in the motor stable?’

‘That seems strange. I do not understand. But then Miss Hart had her own way of doing things.’

‘It’s the last time I go with the house,’ Hannah Smirch declared, limping painfully into Hester Hart’s former study and dining room.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Auguste asked the question for both of them, as Egbert immediately began to look through the desk. Not, he explained later to Auguste, in case Twitch had overlooked anything but to get the smell of the evidence himself. Twitch, in Egbert’s opinion, never overlooked anything except the Thames from his office window, and even the Thames thought twice about it with Twitch’s eye on it.

‘With the house,’ Hannah repeated. ‘It’s rented, and Peters, that’s the man, and I go with it. Not any more, I don’t. It’s not right. Tenants getting themselves murdered. The landlord should be more careful. I can’t be getting all upset with all these people marching in and out. Police indeed.’

‘We won’t be long, Mrs Smirch,’ Auguste said pacifyingly, before Egbert could reply. He was well used to a long succession of Hannah Smirches in the course of his profession.

‘You’ll be wanting muffins,’ she continued gloomily. ‘That’s all you police think of. I’ve got better things to do than run around all day serving you muffins and tea.’

‘Before you start them,’ Egbert weighed in, ‘I want to know what happened to the chestful of diaries that Miss Hart kept here.’

‘You’re about the fourth person to ask me that today, and I’ll tell you the same as I told them. She had it here up to a week or so ago. Now I don’t know where it’s gone. And before you ask, nor does Peters.’

‘What other people?’ Egbert asked sharply. ‘Police?’

‘With a feathered hat like that stuck on her head? Said she was Miss Hart’s cousin but didn’t give a name.’

‘Cousin? Describe her, if you please.’

With a martyred look that would have done justice to St Catherine, Hannah Smirch obliged with an excellent description of Isabel, Countess of Tunstall.

‘Who else?’

Maud Bullinger had not been so coy about her name, John Millward had apparently masqueraded as a lawyer but was identifiable not only by the description of his person but by the fact that he was the only one to arrive in an old-fashioned hansom horse cab.

‘How could the chest have been removed without either you or Peters seeing it go, Mrs Smirch?’

‘Must have gone on my afternoon off.’ Her look implied that any reasonable employer would give her Sunday off too, so she wouldn’t be troubled with all these police. ‘Madam didn’t say anything to me about it, or to Peters, though most
likely it come out through my kitchen while he was asleep in his room. Lazy good-for-nothing. Catch Madam hauling it down the front steps. A stickler she was for “How Things Are Done, Mrs Smirch.”’ She mimicked Hester’s high, strained voice.

‘She was a great traveller, social conventions would not trouble her, surely,’ Auguste observed.

‘Wouldn’t they?’ Hannah replied darkly. ‘Except when it come to
him
, of course.’ She eyed them, obviously hoping they would insist on hearing more.

Auguste obliged.

‘I’m not one to speak ill of the dead, mind, even if she did complain about my muffins, but sometimes
he
stayed over.’ She gave them a look heavy with meaning. ‘Mr Smythe. Madam said to make the guest room up, but I can tell a rumpled sheet when I see one.’ She nodded to herself, confirming her own worst suspicions.

‘She was planning to marry him, wasn’t she?’ Auguste asked innocently.

‘Not afore time. A den of sinful iniquity this house has been.’

‘Has he been here since Miss Hart died?’

‘No. I wouldn’t let him across the threshold. I didn’t like him, no more I did that foreigner chappie.’

‘Pierre Calille?’

‘That wasn’t the name. Louis Gee something. I had to show him into Madam quite often.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘He always drank wine. He didn’t go round demanding muffins, I’ll say that for him.’

As they left, Auguste nursed a fantasy in which Hannah Smirch might have murdered Hester for criticising her
muffins. After all, if he as a maître chef was entitled to rage against those who did not appreciate his
cailles farcies
, why should Hannah Smirch not rate her wares as highly?

‘The case of the disappearing chest, Tatiana.’ Egbert settled himself on the Chesterfield in the drawing room at Queen Anne’s Gate, indulgently glancing at the amorous activity of the numerous goddesses, nymphs and infant cupids rampaging around the Angelica Kaufmann ceiling above him. Busier than Stockbery Towers, he had remarked to Auguste when he first saw it. He liked this ceiling though; they looked as if they were enjoying themselves, which appeared to be against the rules in English society. The warm golds of the ceiling were reflected in Tatiana’s choice of décor and made this a comfortable place to be on a Sunday working lunchtime.

‘Like Maskelyne and Devant?’

‘I’d welcome their assistance.’ Egbert was beginning to think only a couple of magicians could sort this case out.

‘Mrs Smirch,
ma mie
, the all-too-solid housekeeper, claims the chest has vanished into thin air,’ Auguste told his wife. ‘One day it was there, another it wasn’t.’

‘Is Mrs Smirch entirely reliable?’ Tatiana inquired.

‘Has she had her palm greased with silver, do you mean?’ Egbert considered this. ‘It didn’t look too greasy to me. What do you think, Auguste?’

‘I think it more likely that Hester Hart deliberately chose Mrs Smirch’s afternoon off, and organised Peters’s absence
too, in case they should prove susceptible to silver. Miss Hart was a well-organised woman.’

‘And so is Mrs Jolly,’ Tatiana mentioned. ‘I fear if we don’t appear in the dining room right away, her luncheon might perform the same trick as the chest.’

Auguste leapt up anxiously. Tatiana was not jesting. On one terrible occasion they had had to make do with cold food because the game pie was deemed by Mrs Jolly to be overcooked, and no amount of cajoling could magic it back to their table.

Today, however, Mrs Jolly was obviously prepared to do her best to further the course of British justice, Auguste realised thankfully as he eyed the comforting assortment of cold plates on the sideboard which Mrs Jolly had provided, and the even more comforting smell of roast duck wafting up from the kitchens to their ground-floor dining room. It needed only Mrs Jolly’s olive sauce to make his satisfaction complete. They had a harmonious triangular arrangement. If Auguste proposed a dish, Mrs Jolly amended it, and Tatiana accepted it – with a few interventions of her own, usually eccentricities from her Russian upbringing or culled from reading of Far Eastern delights.

Today all was well. What could be more English? Potted lobster, young celery salad, roast duck, olive sauce, stewed cucumbers, young potatoes, raspberries with whipped strawberry cream, splendid English Stilton cheese, followed by dessert of fresh fruit and a savoury. Auguste still could not entirely reconcile himself to the English habit of concluding a meal with a savoury taste instead of sweet, but in Egbert’s honour Mrs Jolly produced her special Scotch Woodcock savoury and he was content, though feeling somewhat guilty at the thought of Edith ploughing valiantly through Mr Pinpole’s
tough beef alone. It was with regret that he remembered he must return to his desk, not retire to a comfortable deckchair in their Highbury garden.

‘Before you leave, Egbert, I must tell you about the gun.’ Auguste regretted having to spoil the afterglow of such a meal. ‘Pierre confirms that Miss Hart always carried one when he knew her, and presumes she did in London also.’

‘Our villain can’t have known that, or why not use it to kill her?’ Egbert made a superhuman effort to drag himself back into the case.

‘Because of the noise?’ Tatiana suggested.

‘At that time of night there would be so few people around that even if someone came rushing to investigate, there would be time for the villain to escape.’

Auguste was dubious. ‘I’m not sure. The murderer would have to shoot Miss Hart
before
destroying the Dolly Dobbs, and then move the block and tackle along the roof girders to the correct position to swing the block in. It would take some time.’

‘Most of our suspects were familiar with that motor house. They’d know how the block and tackle worked.’

Tatiana said nothing. Looking at his wife, Auguste suffered with her. This was her motoring school which she had carefully built up into the crowning glory of the club this year, over which she had worked so hard, and the members of which were, many of them, her friends. And now this!

‘It would take courage to carry out the destruction of the car,’ Auguste maintained, ‘knowing that the alarm might be raised by the gunshot.’

‘In that case,’ Egbert asked, reasonably enough, ‘where
is
that dratted gun?’

‘Pierre did not know. Nor did he know anything about this
book –’ Auguste produced the
Rubáiyát
– ‘save that Hester Hart liked poetry, so it must have been a recent purchase or gift.’

‘I don’t think many people felt like giving Hester Hart gifts.’

‘Except Roderick Smythe,’ Tatiana pointed out.

‘That’s true, Tatiana. I’ll see what he has to say for himself.’ Egbert eyed the sunshine outside wistfully. ‘Shame to spend an afternoon like this inside, case or no case.’

‘Perhaps a walk in St James’s Park would help your thoughts, Egbert?’ Tatiana asked with a straight face.

Egbert yielded. ‘Do you know, I think it might.’

St James’s Park was crowded. A multitude of large hats that seemed to be adorned with more birds and flowers than the park itself possessed sat in deckchairs listening to the military band playing selections from
The Troubadour
, children were dressed up in their Sunday best, sailor suits, frilly pinafore dresses and black stockings, ducks were fed, an army of sunshades battled their way along the paths, sweethearts strolled daringly arm in arm, and on the bridge over the lake visitors to London gazed towards the Horseguards Parade and the Foreign Office then turned to admire Buckingham Palace. It was a beautiful park. Auguste recalled an old story of how a Queen of England had asked the Prime Minister how much it would cost to buy it back for private royal use. The answer had been: two crowns.

‘Here is the book, Egbert.’ Auguste handed it to him as they stopped to take tea at the refreshment house. ‘Be careful, there is a loose page.’

‘A page of the book or something inserted?’

‘Of the book.’ He leaned over and plucked it out to confirm his memory.

‘It’s unlikely you’d have just one loose page,’ Tatiana pointed out. ‘It is probably bound in small sections, so there must be one missing or another loose.’ She took the book from Egbert. It was an ornate, compact edition, each page artistically decorated with coloured scrolls and vine motifs. ‘You see,’ she cried in triumph, ‘the title page is missing. What at first seems to be the title page is only a preliminary page bearing the title, put in so that it can be attached to the endpapers. In an eight-page section, this loose page would have been printed on the same sheet as the title page.’

‘Maybe that excellent duck has clouded my mind,’ Egbert replied, ‘but what’s so interesting about that?’

‘Because the title page might have been signed by the giver.’

There was a silence, which Auguste broke. ‘Then why did the murderer – if he was by chance the giver – leave the book in the handbag? Why not remove it entirely instead of tearing out the title page?’

Tatiana’s face fell, then brightened again. ‘Perhaps he tore out the title page earlier. Hester would have noticed if the whole book had disappeared.’

Egbert shook his head, dissatisfied. ‘Seems unlikely to me. More probably she bought it herself, and the page got ripped somehow.’

‘Perhaps.’ Auguste was disappointed. ‘After all, if it was Roderick Smythe who gave it to her, why should he remove the dedication, even if he was the murderer? It would be quite natural for him to give a book to his fiancée,’ Auguste said.

‘Unless he’d intended to give the book to Phyllis,’ Tatiana suggested brightly, ‘and changed his mind.’

‘Wine! Wine! Wine! Red Wine!’ Auguste replaced the loose page.

‘Haven’t you had enough?’ Egbert asked.

‘That’s how the poem continues,’ Auguste replied patiently. ‘A hymn to the glories of the Grape of Today, rather than the silence of tomorrow.’

‘Must be a drinker, then, our friend. A wine-lover.’ Egbert stopped. ‘Are you thinking what I am, Auguste?’

‘Yes. Suppose Luigi thought he stood a chance of her hand in marriage, since she was a rich woman.’

‘But that’s ridiculous,’ Tatiana declared. ‘She was going to marry Roderick.’

‘Modesty is not Luigi’s strong point.’

‘But he is a maître d’. I don’t see Hester Hart marrying even a top waiter. Not in London. She was always so socially aspiring.’

‘Luigi may not have seen it that way. Moreover, he claims to be from an aristocratic Italian family.’

‘It’s worth following up,’ Egbert said resignedly, ‘but it may be a red herring. My money’s on the obvious – Roderick Smythe. Or Harold Dobbs,’ he added, as a small girl ran past, a windmill twirling merrily in her hand.

‘I don’t see Harold giving books of poetry to Hester Hart,’ Tatiana objected.

‘Nevertheless, I’m keeping my eye on him. Now about this Luigi. Is he on duty today, Tatiana?’

‘Yes, but at this time in the afternoon he is free. He is unlikely to be at the club on an afternoon like this.’

Nor at home, Auguste thought. It was warm enough to enjoy the sunshine but not so hot as to endanger delicate London complexions, despite the cloudless blue sky. He longed all the more for the seaside. London was dusty, country roads were even dustier, but the seaside, approached by railway train, promised clean, exciting air. Already London was beginning to empty for the summer holidays – holidays in
society’s case from the wearying business of social life. Behind the glittering smiles of appearance, he knew, lay as many anxieties, rivalries and battles as any industrialist or City stockbroker faced. He and Tatiana compromised with the rules, but for those like Hester Hart who vainly clambered to reach the ‘heights’, the climb was hard indeed.

Roderick Smythe was escorting his once more beloved Phyllis through the Royal Botanic Society’s gardens in Regent’s Park, anxious that no rough tussock of grass, such as was found on common ground like that of Hampstead Heath, might impede the progress of her dainty feet; moreover a satisfyingly large number of people bowed to them here, whereas on the heath it was all too likely that he would pass unrecognised.

He was reasonably contented; he had been released from Scotland Yard, and once he had put a certain question to Phyllis he would be the happiest man on earth. ‘Darling, I’ve been an absolute fool. Can you ever forgive me?’

Phyllis smiled sweetly at him, passing several sunshade owners and an interested robin. ‘Yes, Roderick.’

‘By Jove, that’s wonderful. I can’t think what came over me, deserting you like a rotter.’

‘Hester came over you, Roderick. She was not a nice woman. All the same,’ she added quickly, ‘it’s terrible that she’s dead.’

‘Terrible,’ he agreed, though all he was feeling was an overwhelming relief. When the inquest was over, Hester and all the problems surrounding her would be laid to rest. True, there was all that lovely money he’d be missing, but she’d made it clear enough that she wouldn’t be marrying him, and even if she had, he suspected a tight hand would be kept on her cheque book, however generous her hands in other fields.
Bed, after all, took up eight hours of the day including sleep, which meant there were still sixteen of the day to fill. Even allowing for racing and driving motorcars, there were still quite a few hours left, and he was by no means sure that the best use of them for Roderick Smythe would have been on Hester, despite her expertise in the other eight hours. With Phyllis at his side, he realised, life was going to be jolly all day.

‘Phyllis,’ he said earnestly over tea a little later, ‘I can’t drop on one knee here at this table, but if I could I’d be asking whether there was any chance that you could forgive me enough to let me slip the ring back on your dear little finger?’

Phyllis glanced at her lace-gloved hand. The glove remained on.

‘Shall we wait a little, Roderick?’ She poured the tea with a steady hand. ‘Just for the look of the thing, you know.’

‘But you will eventually, won’t you?’ Roderick asked, greatly alarmed at this diversion from what he had planned.

‘Oh,
eventually
I will,’ she agreed sweetly. Or at least, she thought, after an arrest had been made. She had to look after her own interests, and it was Roderick, she bore in mind, who had last seen Hester Hart alive. Hester, she remembered all too clearly, had been awfully rude to them earlier that evening, and Roderick did have rather a temper. She had not forgotten the occasion when he had scolded her for wasting time when all she was doing was putting a little woolly jacket on Mr Henry Irving, her little doggie. No, on the whole, she thought she would wait a little. It was no good spending time and effort posing for picture postcards if one’s name was to appear the following day linked to a murder charge.

Roderick, to whom the message was all too clear, glumly watched his adored Phyllis demolish two éclairs and a
petit four
.

Thirty years ago this was a rookery. Now, although the worst of the slums had been removed, the area still looked drab and overcrowded. Nearby Rochester Row and Horseferry Road boasted buildings such as the Guards Hospital, police court, and Wesleyan training college, but huddled around them were terraces of tall, smoke-blackened brick houses. The London grime showed up even murkier in the July sunshine and yet on the Embankment and in St James’s Park London society serenaded itself. It was an odd contrast, Auguste thought.