Murder In The Motor Stable: (Auguste Didier Mystery 9) (28 page)

‘It’s whether Mr Smythe would agree I’m more interested in. Have any of you seen him today?’

‘I expected to,’ Phyllis said with a brave smile.

‘I haven’t,’ Maud boomed.

‘Nor I.’

‘Hugh?’ Isabel turned to her cousin. ‘I haven’t, have you?’

‘Yes. Saw him this morning, as a matter of fact. Said he was invited to have a chat with His Majesty after luncheon. I suggest you try the royal box, Inspector.’

‘Try the royal box,’ Egbert repeated in exasperation as they made their way to the grandstand. ‘His Majesty’s going to like that, isn’t he? The most important race of the day, his horse favourite at short odds of six to four, and I barge in and say I want to arrest the man he’s sharing his binoculars with. You stay here with Tatiana. I’ll guard the exit from the royal box and nab him as soon as he leaves. Smythe, not the King,’ he added.

‘Which one is Chatsworth?’ Auguste craned his neck as the flag dropped, momentarily forgetting Smythe. After all, he had a financial interest on Tatiana’s behalf.

‘The black colt,’ Tatiana answered.

‘There are two black horses.’

‘Very well. The one that’s going to
win
!’ Tatiana declared. ‘The other is Saltpetre, second favourite at five to two.’

Saltpetre. Auguste approved. At least it was a sensible name. A most useful ingredient in corning and salting beef. That was the horse he would have backed.

‘There’s a black horse in front.’ Now that the field had reached the straight, he was drawing ahead of his competitor by a length or more.

‘I hope it’s Chatsworth. I put all twenty pounds on him.’

‘
What?
As much as that?’ August was aghast.

‘I know. When I win I can afford to buy a new car.’

Auguste forgot completely about Roderick Smythe now as he grappled with this domestic emergency. He was incapable of words.

‘A cheap one,’ his wife amended hastily.

The crowd was roaring as after two and a half minutes of racing a black colt passed the finishing post by three clear lengths. It was not Chatsworth.

‘There he is!’ Tatiana cried suddenly, pointing to the paddock.

‘Who?’

‘Roderick.’

‘Can you see Egbert?’

‘No. Only Bertie. Roderick’s still with him.’

Auguste groaned, quickly worming his way out of the grandstand and fighting his way through the crowds. There was no sign of Egbert, but Tatiana was faithfully following him.

‘Bertie will never forgive you if you interrupt him here,’ she panted as she hurried to his side.

‘And Egbert will never forgive me if I lose Smythe now.’

‘Very well. But leave it to me,’ she said. ‘I can speak
to
him – you have to wait until spoken to.’

Etiquette hardly seemed to matter when the King might be chatting to a murderer, but Auguste yielded. When they reached the paddock he stopped and let Tatiana precede him past the gatekeeper, adopting a look of what he hoped was enormous sympathy as he straightened up from his bow to His Majesty.

‘I’m so sorry, Bertie, about Chatsworth,’ Tatiana said with genuine sympathy.

‘He didn’t even try to make a race of it,’ His Majesty grunted. ‘Good thing. I’ve got Perchant for the Halnaker Stakes.’

‘I’ll back it,’ she declared.

‘No,’ Auguste unwisely cried.

The King fortunately decided to make a joke of it. ‘You may be a judge of horseflesh on the plate, Didier, but your wife has all the sense when it comes to live horses.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

Satisfied, the King turned away and Auguste relaxed, though not for long when he realised Roderick had vanished. He caught sight of him, pushing through the crowds, his bright informal blazer making him distinctive. Auguste set off in pursuit, desperately hoping that Egbert was similarly engaged and that he would not have to apprehend Smythe himself. He struggled against the tide of spectators making their way to the grandstand and barriers for the Halnaker Stakes. The sun was warm now, beating down in full force, and the thought that he was in pursuit of a murderer took on a dream-like quality, distanced by the glare of the bright sky. He saw Smythe glance behind him and then break into a run, dodging behind the grandstand wall, then he lost sight of him.
He heard a shout from the far side as Egbert ran towards the far wall, blowing his whistle for his supporting constables. Smythe was obviously making for an exit behind the grandstand.

‘Stop him,’ Egbert yelled, apparently to no one in particular.

Whoever it was, out of Auguste’s sight, obliged. By the time Auguste arrived, Smythe was handcuffed. Scrabbling on the ground searching for his newly-won golden sovereigns which he had dropped to answer Egbert’s call was Thomas Bailey, to Auguste’s amazement.

The reason was quite simple. His aunt lived nearby. He always escorted her to Goodwood. This year he had had his reward. He had backed Saltpetre and now had enough money to work on another motorcar. The Brighton Baby had ceased to interest him. The wind, so to speak, had been taken out of its sails by his new brainwave.

Tatiana had gallantly remained at His Majesty’s side during the running of the Halnaker Stakes, and raised her eyebrows despairingly as Auguste returned to find them leaving for the paddock again. Auguste had failed to follow the progress of the race and was therefore unprepared to be shouted at by His Majesty:

‘Bolted. Did you see that? No style at all.’

‘We have caught him now, Your Majesty.’ At least he could impart good news.

His Majesty appeared surprised. ‘Where?’

‘Behind the grandstand.’

His Majesty appeared even more astonished. ‘How the dickens did he get there?’

‘I’m not sure of his exact route. Probably he went through the grandstand.’

‘Near the royal box?’ The King was white with shock.

‘Yes.’ Auguste was slightly puzzled.

‘I could have been killed,’ His Majesty pointed out. ‘Damned careless, wasn’t it?’

‘I don’t think he would kill
you
, Your Majesty.’

‘You can’t expect a horse to make exceptions for royalty,’ Bertie snapped.

‘A horse?’ Auguste felt he had gone wrong somewhere.

‘I told you, Didier, Esclavo bolted when the barrier was lifted and put Perchant off his paces. Only came in fourth. Tatiana’s lost again,’ His Majesty added with relish. ‘What did you think I was talking about?’

‘About a murderer.’

‘A murderer?’ The King’s face slowly changed hue once again.

Egbert had left; Auguste and Tatiana would follow shortly. That is, if he could find her, Auguste thought wearily, having seen Egbert off under the auspices of the local Sussex police.

He tracked his wife down on the lawns of Goodwood House where he saw she was taking tea with a friend. A friend? Immense pleasure seized him as he realised who it was. More than a friend, oh, much more, or had been so once. It was darling Maisie, his sweetheart of Galaxy days, now the matronly but even lovelier wife of an earl, and a good friend to both Tatiana and himself. He kissed her enthusiastically while Tatiana watched somewhat quizzically.

‘I thought you didn’t like horses, Maisie.’

‘I don’t. George is here somewhere, introducing his son and heir to the obligations of being a gent – that is, attending Goodwood. Did I see old Egbert here today?’

‘You did.’

‘On a case?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Come now, tell me. I might be able to help.’ Meanwhile she helped herself to a large éclair. Auguste regarded her fondly. After all, there was no reason why he should not tell her. A large section of Goodwood had seen Roderick Smythe taken away.

‘Roderick Smythe has been arrested in connection with the murder of Hester Hart.’

‘I don’t believe it. Unless our Phyllis put him up to it.’

‘I’m not happy about it.’

‘Let me cheer you up and take you both to dinner at the Carlton tonight.’

‘Tomorrow. Tonight I have to go to Scotland Yard and all you could do to cheer me up is to tell me you know a lady called Henrietta Trotter who would be approximately seventy years old.’

‘Trotter? Ah.’ Maisie laughed. ‘I knew I could help.’

‘You can?’ Tatiana was delighted. ‘Maisie, you are a wonderful lady.’

‘You can take
me
to dinner at the Carlton then. Henrietta died about eight years ago, though. Ever heard of the Nightingale of the North?’

‘Of course.’ Auguste was puzzled. ‘But her name was Alice Whitby.’

‘Stage name, my old duck. She was otherwise known as Henrietta Trotter, my mother’s best friend, and Aunt Alice to me. She conveniently forgot all about the Trotter long before she was married. Not a name suitable either for the stage or for marrying into the minor aristocracy.’

‘Did she have children?’ Aromas of all sorts now began to rise enthusiastically in Auguste’s mind.

‘That stuffed shirt Gerald Francis wouldn’t let her off without providing him with a son and heir. Only the one, so he married again after her death, just in case.’

‘Francis?’ both he and Tatiana said together.

‘Not Hugh Francis?’ Auguste asked, hardly daring even to hope.

‘That’s the blighter’s name. Know him, do you? Been playing in the haystacks for years with Isabel Tunstall. She’s a cousin on his father’s side.’

‘Maisie, I’m going to kiss you again!’ Ah, the memories of that warm, plump cheek decorously extended towards him.

Tatiana laughed.

‘Has Roderick Smythe confessed, Egbert?’

‘No. Arrogant to the last,’ Egbert grunted. ‘Do you have to keep appearing through my doorway like a blessed genie out of a lamp?’

‘I’m sorry, but perhaps Smythe is innocent to the last too, Egbert. I have news for you.’

‘Am I going to like this news?’

‘May I please see those diaries again?’

‘Now I know I’m not.’ Reluctantly Egbert pulled them off the shelf and piled them in front of Auguste, clearing a minute space on the far side of his desk.

‘Here it is: “One day I will get my revenge. I’ll use that story so carefully hushed up at the time about her eloping with the family coachman when she was seventeen.” Egbert, how did Hester Hart learn that story? And who was the one person she could trust – or so she thought – when she left England?’ He paused dramatically.

‘Why do I have the feeling you’re about to tell me?’

‘It had to be someone close to
Isabel
to learn the story in the
first place. And it had to be someone close to
Hester
to tell her the story. It was the man who has proved to be her cousin – and heir – Hugh Francis.’

‘You’re sure of this?’ Egbert asked sharply.

‘Quite sure.
He
was one person she thought she could trust. But could she?’

‘You think he was the one who spread the rumours around the clubs?’

‘The Francis family was never wealthy, and Hugh, so my informant tells me, always needed money.’

‘Then he wouldn’t risk antagonising his wealthy relations,’ Egbert pointed out. Auguste could hear relief in his voice. ‘Doesn’t wash.’

‘It washes very well. A Sunlight Soap of a case. He didn’t know fifteen years ago that he was related to Hester, and neither did she. His mother Henrietta had no more contact with her sister after she ran away to join the stage. I suspect he only found out when his mother died eight years ago, and finding Sir Herbert was a wealthy man and Hester his only child made haste to renew acquaintance with his newfound cousin.’

‘Renew?’ Egbert queried sharply.

‘If he spread those rumours fifteen years ago, he must surely have been seen in public with her occasionally or the mud would not have stuck.’

‘Too many ifs, Auguste. Find me some facts. Like I’ve got on Smythe.’

Stitch returned wearily, bleary-eyed but triumphant. ‘I’ve got her, sir. Henrietta Trotter – married in Hanover Square, you see. I didn’t connect her up at first with our Henrietta. And that’s led me on to what you might call an interesting development.’

Egbert had had a long, frustrating day. ‘It couldn’t be called Hugh Francis, could it, Stitch?’ Twitch’s face fell. ‘Mr Didier told me half an hour ago.’

Auguste’s conscience smote him. ‘But I found my connection through luck, you by sheer hard work, Inspector Stitch. You have provided the evidence on which Inspector Rose will work.’

Twitch remained unmollified. He distrusted Frenchies bearing gifts.

‘Like the postman in Chesterton’s story, because we were so used to seeing him with Lady Tunstall we never paid too much attention to him,’ Egbert observed. He had taken an olive branch round to Queen Anne’s Gate.

‘What will you do?’

Egbert took out his pocket watch. ‘Go home. It’s eleven thirty. He’ll keep. If he’s our man he’s congratulating himself he’s safe.’

‘If?’

‘Sorry, Auguste, my money’s still on Smythe. There’s as much on one as on the other, in fact more on Smythe. You can’t arrest a man for being someone’s cousin. Or for spreading scurrilous stories fifteen years ago. Mind you, I agree the money alone gives him plenty of motive.
If
he knew they were related.’

‘Surely he must have done. He found out that she was still unmarried, and therefore – provided she had made no will to the contrary, a subject she could well have discussed with him – he was her heir. Then to his horror he heard she was going to marry Smythe. He had to strike before he was automatically excluded from inheritance, will or no will. He must have been very relieved that she had never discovered he was involved in the conspiracy to stop her marrying the Duke.’

‘I suppose it’s possible,’ Egbert admitted grudgingly. ‘I still think the clubman was Smythe, though. He is Lady Bullinger’s
godson
, Auguste.’

‘But Francis could be the only one in a position in ’ninety-seven to tell her scurrilous stories about Isabel eloping with the coachman. She certainly knew him – I remember she greeted him the first time I saw her in the club restaurant.
And
he was dining with the Duke then, which implies he could have been part of that circle fifteen years ago. What do you think?’

Egbert yawned. ‘I think I’d like to get this wrapped up and us off to Eastbourne.’

Auguste tried not to think of it; it was too tantalising. ‘He was at the club on the night Hester Hart was killed; he could well have thought that was his opportunity. He couldn’t guess that Smythe would return.’

‘You’ve got it at last, Auguste. We know Smythe
was
there,’ Egbert remarked with great satisfaction. ‘We don’t know Francis was. He claims he went to his club after leaving Isabel Tunstall. The villain’s clothes would be bloodstained. You could cause comment walking into Boodles like that.’

‘That would apply to Smythe too.’

‘But it’s my belief Maud and Agatha were in it too. Lady Bullinger lives close enough for him to go straight there after murdering Hester Hart. And don’t forget Smythe was part of a cosy little trio at the Duchess’s home just before Luigi’s murder. It’s Smythe, Auguste,
Smythe
.’

‘It seems to me, Egbert, there were three ounces of batter in one basin, and three in another. Which made the crêpes?’

Egbert regarded him soundly. ‘If I’ve got to go off hunting hares at Richmond, you’re coming with me. But
tomorrow
.’ Back at Highbury, Edith had promised to wait up with hot
cocoa; it would be lumpy, but on this July night that ordeal seemed a prospect fit for a gourmet.

Auguste hated the moment when theory became reality, when the amateur was plunged into the professional, and Egbert knew it. He was therefore determined not to betray his reluctance to go to Richmond, even though it entailed a drive by one of the only three petrol motor cabs in London. Lacking the inspiration of a Dolly Dobbs, the electric cabs were as reluctant as Auguste to travel as far as Richmond. The Bollée suddenly acquired new charm by comparison with the petrol cabs. The day was sunny, and he had to fight back his desire to be wandering along the towpath with Tatiana, even fishing in a punt on the river by Richmond Bridge, or admiring the view from Richmond Hill, or sampling the excellent wares of the Star and Garter Hotel – in short, anything but going to interview a probable murderer. Possible murderer, he amended, in Egbert’s view.

‘Mr Francis is not at home.’ A young supercilious butler of the new school answered the summons of the old-fashioned bell-rope at Winter House.

‘Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard.’ Egbert walked in. ‘I’ll wait.’

The morning room of Winter House displayed little of Hugh Francis’s personality, if indeed he had any, Auguste thought. He had never taken to him. Endless foxes being pursued by endless hounds and horses, a shelf of Surtees and the Racing Calendar, and a still-life oil of what looked like a half-eaten deer. It was not to his taste.

To their surprise it was not Hugh Francis who arrived five minutes later; it was Isabel, Lady Tunstall, clad in a lace housefrock, and obviously summoned from breakfast. Isabel
believed in attack, not defence, and did not bother to explain her own presence in a bachelor’s house at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning.

‘Really, Inspector, could this not have waited?’

‘It’s Mr Francis I’m here to see, Lady Tunstall – for the moment.’

‘Mr
Francis
? What can Hugh possibly have to do with Hester Hart? I presume that
is
what these questions are about?’

‘Did you know he was related to her?’

For once Auguste saw a genuine emotion on Isabel’s face: surprise, then it speedily rearranged itself into its normal social mask. ‘I am afraid you have your notes confused, Inspector.
I
am related to Mr Francis. He is my cousin, and I can assure you
I
was not related to Hester Hart.’

‘Mr Francis was Miss Hart’s cousin on his mother’s side of the family.’

A slight doubt crossed her face. ‘It is true I am related to him through my father. How close a relative was he?’

‘A second cousin, descended from her great-aunt.’

‘I am quite sure Hugh has not the slightest idea about this and indeed I also feel sure you are mistaken. Hester Hart was the daughter of a button manufacturer and Hugh could not possibly be related to trade. His family have been army people for centuries.’

‘Francis’s mother was an actress in burlesque.’

‘I’m quite sure you’re wrong,’ she replied vigorously.

‘How can
you
explain the entry in eighteen ninety-seven concerning you?’ Egbert continued blandly.

‘What is it about?’ Her tone was guarded. ‘I suppose you mean poor Hester’s rantings about being excluded from the Marlborough House dinner. Vastly exaggerated. The woman was unhinged about her absurd social pretensions.’

‘No. I had in mind the story of how you eloped with your family coachman.’

Isabel tried a light laugh. ‘Dear Hester. So imaginative.’

‘Who told Hester Hart about it if not Mr Francis?’

Emotions struggled to take precedence on Isabel’s face. She was saved from having to answer the question. Auguste, looking through the window, saw a familiar and distinctive motorcar driving well over the permitted 20 mph speed limit. It was Hugh Francis’s Rover, and it was heading out of, not into, the estate.

‘There he is,’ he shouted, and Egbert rushed to his side.

‘I thought Mr Francis had already left,’ Isabel said plaintively. She was only too anxious to help. ‘He is going either to his club, Plum’s, or to Gwynne’s Hotel. You know them?’

Auguste knew them very well.

There had to be pleasanter ways of travel than at high speed by motorcar. Auguste was glad he was sitting in the covered hansom-style passenger accommodation in the motor cab and not above their heads like the driver. Hot it might be in here, but at least the clouds of dust being whipped up by their fast progress were not settling on them. How the driver managed to see anything even with goggles was beyond Auguste’s comprehension. As they careered over Kew Bridge, it occurred to him with some vividness that he had no idea whether there still
was
a driver. At least with a horse hansom you could see the reins shake occasionally, just to comfort yourself that high behind you, looking after your safety, was a human being. In this monstrosity there was no such comfort. Here it appeared they were on a highway to hell, clattering along in a machine over which they had no control whatsoever, driven by a maniac who might well already have
abandoned them to their fate, with only a flimsy door between them and destruction. It was with relief he heard Egbert restore normality.

‘Makes you long for Eastbourne, doesn’t it?’

Auguste had a sudden imaginary whiff of the sea breezes he, Egbert, Tatiana and Edith would – or should – be enjoying at the Eastbourne Hydro Hotel next week, but that only served to remind him that much water must pass under Kew Bridge before then.

The cab, still mercifully with a driver, braked outside Plum’s Club for Gentlemen in St James’s Square. The club doorman prudently waited until the dust had subsided before advancing to open the door. When he recognised Auguste, who had been chef there for several years, he almost shut it again, but then remembered Mr Didier now had connections with royalty and was thus, almost, worthy of entering Plum’s.

Egbert had no inhibitions about the sacredness of Plum’s portals and ran straight in. There was no sign of Hugh Francis’s Rover, and having checked with the porter, he ran back to the cab. ‘Gwynne’s,’ he shouted to the driver. ‘And wait.’

The driver’s heart sank. An even longer job than he had bargained for, and the Yard were notoriously bad tippers.

There was no sign of the Rover in Jermyn Street outside Gwynne’s either, but this time Auguste came in with Egbert. To see Emma Pryde, Gwynne’s redoubtable owner, was always a pleasure and, unlike Maisie, Emma’s idiosyncrasies had failed to endear his former love to Tatiana, a fact Emma seemed rather proud of. He gathered it was a regular occurrence.

‘I think you may find, my old cock sparrow,’ she answered Auguste amiably as he burst somewhat unceremoniously into her office, ‘that he saw you coming. He seemed very eager to leave my company, and that, as you know, ain’t usual.’

‘Where’s he gone, Emma?’

‘Ah well, now. I’m bound by the confidentiality of my profession.’

Which profession? he was tempted to ask, since Emma’s succession of young and not so young men was well known, but he refrained. Emma’s temper was unpredictable and irreversible.

‘Emma, this is murder.’

‘It always is with you, old cock. I see you ain’t planning to stay, so I’ll tell you. Out that door where he left his motor.’

Auguste ran into the yard at the back of Gwynne’s in time to see Hugh Francis driving out into York Street. He turned and, to the disapproval of several elderly gentlemen and a dog taking their ease in Gwynne’s lobby, ran right through and out into Jermyn Street where Egbert had already spotted the Rover and had banged on the window for the driver to follow it. The driver had cranked the engine and was starting to turn in pursuit as Auguste leapt up on the steps to let himself into the interior. He reflected as he sat down beside Egbert that a good walk to Beachy Head each morning next week coupled with a Turkish bath in the hotel’s therapeutic amenities might help his agility. There was no doubt one suffered in the cause of gastronomy.

The Saturday morning traffic in Piccadilly was heavy; the congestion ahead around Eros looked as if the whole of London had elected to spend their day stuck in the middle of the Circus. Horse vans, horse buses, motor buses, motorcars mingled together, infuriating Egbert. As they at last reached the Circus, they saw the Rover proceeding into Regent Street towards Regent Circus, and agonising moments were spent steering their way past obstacles, human and mechanical, to follow its route.

‘Look out!’ Egbert shouted, and Auguste sat with glazed eyes as they appeared to be within inches of murdering an ancient lady in a poke bonnet so set on selling lavender that she regarded roadways as naught. Could the driver even
see
her, set so high up at the rear? His nerves were going to require more than camomile to revive them after this. The driver’s position had one advantage. He had a better view of the Rover than they had, as a sudden lurch round to the left into Vigo Street threw Auguste into Egbert’s arms. He straightened up. A few moments later they were reunited as the Rover turned sharply into Sackville Street.

‘Something tells me he knows we’re after him. He’s going to play “Here we go round the mulberry bush” round the Circus again in the hope of losing us.’

‘No, he’s not. He’s turning right,’ Auguste shouted. ‘He’s going to go past Green Park.’

‘Or back to your lady friend’s at Gwynne’s. I wouldn’t put it past Emma Pryde to hide him in her bed.’

Nor would Auguste, but he had little time to ponder the question as a motor bus braked in front of them and the horrible insecurity of being unable to see if their driver had noticed but able all too clearly to see the back of the bus bereft him temporarily of speech. Why had they done away with the useful requirement of a man with a red flag walking in front of any motor vehicle?

When they had swept round the bus in fine style, narrowly avoiding a large delivery horse van proclaiming its allegiance to Silver Ray’s Rum, the Rover was some way ahead, but visible.

‘I’m beginning to feel like Custer after the Indians,’ Egbert grunted.

Auguste was more preoccupied with meeting a similar death
and destruction as the Rover chose to turn right into Park Lane and their own driver, now getting into the spirit of things, drove straight across the path of a large Daimler.

By the time they reached Dorchester House they were gaining on the Rover, but any hopes they might have had of stopping it in the relatively traffic-free Park Lane were doomed to disappointment. Ahead of them appeared to be a group of suicidally-inclined people marching out of Mount Street straight across their path. Traffic on the other side of the road had come to an abrupt halt; on the far side, in front of their cab, the Rover lurched to the left to avoid collision with the two human lemmings leading the group. To his horror Auguste saw firstly that they were bearing placards, secondly that they were followed by a troop mounted on horseback, and thirdly that they were all wheeling round to provide an impenetrable barricade across Park Lane, and hoisting their banners.