Murder in The Smokehouse: (Auguste Didier Mystery 7) (10 page)

‘We don’t know that your shooting was anything to do with the corpse,’ Cobbold pointed out.

‘I have not had enough time to upset anyone sufficiently in Yorkshire to make them wish to murder me, Inspector Cobbold.’

Cobbold said nothing and Auguste stiffened. Could it be Cobbold did not believe he had been shot at, and that he might be under suspicion of murder himself? If so, Cobbold was doomed to disappointment. ‘May I show you this?’ he said politely. It was the bullet, which had rewarded an hour’s careful search by revealing itself in the grinning turnip face of the scarecrow.

Cobbold simply nodded.

As if conscious of his lack of sympathy, Rose observed: ‘Doesn’t tell us much, does it? We know it can’t have been the Webley and even if the laboratory boys could sweep through his Lordship’s gun room and tell us it came from the third gun on the right, where would that get us? Have a look at this instead.’ He handed Auguste the post mortem report.

Auguste was always squeamish about physical details and in view of his own narrow escape from having to undergo a similar report, even more so today. ‘Time of death between eleven-forty-five and one a.m. . . . Mature man in his late fifties,’ he summed up,
skipping through as quickly as he could. ‘Physically fit, used to outdoor life.’

‘Odd, ain’t it? And look at these fingerprints again.’ Rose pointed. ‘See how distinct the ridges are? Those fingers have been doing some hard work. You find the same ridges in farmers.’

‘Our man was a hunter perhaps.’

Rose, who knew well what he was about, grinned. ‘You’re right. I always said you were a marvel. But look.’ He pointed to where the ridges at one point disappeared. ‘You know what caused that?’

Auguste shook his head.

‘Callosities. Ridges get covered up by toughened skin, wart-type things. No, I’d say our friend was used to wielding a spade.’

‘Which might fit in with his sunburned appearance.’ Auguste’s mind ranged rapidly over the possibilities, until he firmly restrained it. ‘The guests, including myself and my wife, are due to return home today,’ he mentioned provocatively, torn between the hope of seeing his own home again, a desire to follow his twitching nose as far as his detective instincts were concerned, and a nagging knowledge that some mystery still remained where Tatiana was concerned.

‘There’ll be no going home till after the Coroner’s Enquiry on Friday.’ Rose paused, ‘And anyway, I’d be glad of your comments. Might be very helpful, as in the past. You’ve got the entrée we haven’t – upstairs
and
downstairs.’

Auguste glowed, even as he noted a quick glance between Rose and Cobbold as though this were confirmation of something they had discussed. Change of station for him and rank for Egbert had made no difference and how foolish of him it had been to feel it might be otherwise. The fact that Rose had chosen the words ‘comments’ and not ‘assistance’ did not register.

‘Now tell me more about these Tabors and how the guests fit in. This Mr and Mrs Harold Janes, for instance.’

‘Mr Janes is a rich stockbroker in the City of London and a close friend to the King.’ Auguste paused. ‘It is said that his wife is even closer.’

Rose looked mildly disapproving. He had never quite got used to the thought that royalty and aristocracy might act otherwise in private than as represented in the pages of the
Illustrated London News
. ‘What about Oliver Carstairs?’

‘In his forties and a friend of the Honourable Laura Tabor, Lord Tabor’s sister. A bachelor. He played billiards with me until just before twelve-thirty on Saturday evening.’

‘Did you see this bachelor to bed?’

‘Egbert?’ Auguste was startled till he saw the point of the dry comment. ‘No, but—’

‘Then he could have popped out to the smokehouse quite easily.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Then there’s you and your good lady,’ Rose swept all demurs aside, ‘and that completes the guests.’

‘Yes and no – The Honourable Cyril Tabor and his wife are visiting. Cyril is Lord Tabor’s younger brother who lives in Harrogate. Gertrude is his second wife, and she used to be at the Galaxy.’ Auguste paused. ‘She is as dainty as a
chanterelle
.’

‘Have lots of conversations about the old days, do you?’ Rose asked drily.

‘Not all the old days,’ replied Auguste stiffly. Since dear Gertie was a friend of Tatiana’s, he did not wish to dwell on the details of his friendship with her years ago at the Galaxy. ‘And Mr Tully-Rich, he too is a guest,’ Auguste continued hastily. ‘My wife’s cousin.’

‘Ah yes, I’ll need a word with that young man.’

Auguste reflected uneasily on what that word might be.

‘And the rest of the family?’

‘Miss Laura is about forty-eight or nine, the youngest of the three. She was once, and may still be, in love with the archaeologist Robert Mariot, who was considered not worthy of her hand. There is a suggestion he might be coming back to ask her to marry him.’

‘Which would give Mr Carstairs a motive if he’d any ideas about marrying Miss Tabor.’

‘He proposes only because he knows she will refuse him.’

Rose chortled. ‘That would sound good in a breach of promise suit. Next?’

‘Victoria Tabor, who is a delightful, spirited young lady.’

‘Like her mother?’

‘Not yet.’ Auguste shuddered.

‘And the Dowager Lady Tabor?’

‘His lordship’s mother. She is charming and lively, although nearly eighty.’

‘Young Alfred?’

‘Still busy growing up,’ said Auguste as kindly as he could. ‘He thinks the corpse might be that of Lady Tabor’s black sheep brother Oscar.’

‘And why should Uncle Oscar turn up murdered in the smokehouse?’

‘I think Alfred was following the family line that it was suicide, and implying his mother was deliberately disowning him because of the disgrace. It would certainly explain Lady Tabor’s insistence on the point. There is a photograph of him in the house. I went to look at it, but as he is sporting a large hat, a beard, and a moustache, it is hard to tell. It could have been the corpse.’

‘I’ll take a look. What about Lord Tabor?’

Auguste considered. ‘Who notices who stands in the shadow of the Great Pyramid?’ he asked poetically. What was George Tabor like? Apparently ineffectual, in constant deference to his wife, yet an excellent shot and a friend of the King’s. The King did not take friendship lightly and apparently this one meant so much to him he was prepared to tolerate Priscilla for two days. There must be more to George than he’d thought.

‘At noon,’ Rose observed, ‘there’s no shadow. Perhaps murder will have the same effect.’

‘And so we come to the Baroness Tabor,’ Auguste said.

There was no need for any of them to comment. They had all met her. ‘Is she capable of murder, would you say?’

‘If her family or standing were threatened, perhaps,’ Auguste said doubtfully.

‘That could be said of a large number of people. Would you say that until this happened, it was a perfectly normal houseparty?’

Auguste hesitated. How could he say yes, while he still could not define quite what had seemed abnormal on his arrival? ‘I think so,’ he hedged.

‘But then a corpse appears by accident, and afterwards someone decides to shoot you – just as a result of the nothing you’d seen in the smokehouse.’

‘Yes – no—’

‘Not very normal, is it?’

Auguste went in search of Tatiana to inform her that Egbert wished to see all the family and guests in the Grand Salon shortly. On passing through the entrance hall, however, he came across a slight hitch to Rose’s plans. Harold and Beatrice Janes were obviously about
to depart, judging by the succession of hat boxes passing him in the careful hands of footmen and ladies’ maids. Beatrice always kept personal vigil over this task. Hats to be admired by the King required the most respectful attention, for he had an observant eye for items of apparel he had seen on previous occasions, and had no hesitation in rebuking the culprit. Once even Beatrice had committed the solecism of wearing her lily leaf green appliquéd with cream lace twice. It had taken all her powers of charm to overcome this setback. Today, however, her face was sullen, and hats seemed of no interest whatsoever to her. Whatever charm Tatiana had worked yesterday had worn off by today. Her host and hostess, also present, did not look happy.

Feeling as welcome as a sliver of shell in a crab soufflé, Auguste walked up to them. ‘I am told Scotland Yard would like us all to remain until after the Coroner’s enquiry,’ he said, trying to look concerned. ‘With your permission of course, Lady Tabor,’ he added rather belatedly.

Beatrice clutched her husband’s arm and squealed at him appealingly.

‘Nonsense,’ her husband told Auguste gruffly. ‘We’ve nothing to do with this unfortunate affair. I told that Cobbold man so. We’re going.’

‘Quite right too,’ declared George Tabor, realising belatedly this was hardly hospitable. ‘Not that I wouldn’t welcome another shoot. After all, the pheasant season starts tomorrow. I was thinking of asking the Duke of Devonshire if I could join him. Or there’s Ingleborough Hall. Good shooting there.’

‘No,’ cried Beatrice. ‘I must leave. I positively must.’

Lady Tabor’s eye fell consideringly on her. It had not escaped her notice that Beatrice’s white fur three-quarter length coat over a dark grey skirt could be
said to be complimentary mourning. Beatrice might therefore be planning a quick visit to Scotland, to the Balmoral area. She had no wish for His Majesty to know the royal wing was now occupied by Scotland Yard. ‘I do
feel
,’ she leant towards Beatrice to lend weight to her feelings, ‘we must be seen to set an example and assist the police. After all, that is what His Majesty would expect, is it not?’

It was news to Beatrice if so, but Priscilla Tabor’s obvious disapproval of her flight, plus her husband’s discussions with his host as to how many pheasants might be lurking in the Duke of Devonshire’s woods were too much for her. Harold had said they should stick it out, or it would not look good for him. Reluctantly she turned back into Tabor Hall, and the long line of footmen and ladies’ maids, bearing suitcases, trunks and hatboxes, snaked back in her wake.

‘You must speak to Cyril immediately,’ Priscilla decreed, having bearded her husband in his study, where, baulked of shooting, he had repaired to read the
Sporting Times
.

‘Dash it, Priscilla, is it wise? Aren’t you going a bit far?’ he asked weakly.

‘It is most certainly wise. This is a time for family unity. Cyril is part of the family. He must be told what we know.’

‘But not Gertie, I take it?’

‘Gertrude is a simple-minded child. She cannot be trusted. I realise he is your brother, George. Discuss it with him and I shall then ensure that Cyril is in no danger.’

‘I suppose you are right.’

‘Of course I am right,’ replied Priscilla simply, surprised that there could be any doubt about it. ‘Do it,
now
, before this person from Scotland Yard emerges.
He will, no doubt, wish to speak to us about this
suicide
.’ Her eyes met her husband’s. ‘Speak to Cyril.’ It was an order.

Egberg Rose looked like a gun eyeing up his pheasants. Which target would he choose first? Auguste wondered. At first, Rose himself appeared to be the target, as he sat in the uncomfortable Louis XV walnut armchair allotted to him in the Tabor Hall salon.

‘Murder?’ Priscilla Tabor queried formidably. Her royal blue costume proclaimed that mourning was over. ‘It is obvious the unfortunate man committed suicide.’

‘His arms weren’t long enough to shoot himself from a distance of three to four feet, your Ladyship,’ Rose retorted gravely, Titan clashing with Titan. ‘Nor would he have bothered to take off his gloves.’

‘Unless you were present, Inspector, I fail to see how you can be sure. I am told Mr Conan Doyle is excellent at resolving such puzzles.’

‘Mr Richey tells me he locked the smokehouse as usual that night, Lady Tabor, yet the door was unlocked when the body was found. He tells me that you have a key, that he has one, and that there is also a key kept by the kitchen door.’

Of course. How could he have missed that? Auguste wondered. Was his preoccupation with Tatiana clouding reason?

‘What is your point, Chief Inspector? The dead man had to get in.’

‘Then what happened to the key if it was suicide, Lady Tabor? It wasn’t found in the door or inside.’

There was a dead silence. It was broken by Miriam, transparently happy to see her daughter-in-law vanquished. ‘You are right, Chief Inspector, I’m sure. After all,’ she announced brightly, ‘this is an excellent
shire for murder. Look at Richard II, poor man, done to death at Pontefract. And there was Lady Elfrida Tabor, who murdered her companion in 1632 in a fit of rage. Not that I’d ever do that to you, Savage.’ She smiled graciously at her companion-cum-maid, an elderly woman who sat protectively by her side, looking somewhat incongruous in the black, not of mourning, but of everyday service. ‘And there was the saddler of Bantry, hanged on the evidence that he’d left his glass of beer untouched. Though now I come to think, he was merely a robber. Perhaps that is what your poor corpse was, Chief Inspector?’