Murder in The Smokehouse: (Auguste Didier Mystery 7) (11 page)

Rose coughed, in order to stifle a laugh. ‘Possibly, your Ladyship.’

Priscilla came back into the fight. ‘I would suggest, if I may, that instead of paying attention to my mother-in-law’s wild imaginings, you concentrate your efforts on discovering who this unfortunate man was.’

‘Rest assured I shall, your Ladyship,’ Rose came back instantly. ‘For someone in Tabor Hall knows.’

‘Do you have so-called evidence for this outrageous statement?’ Priscilla asked coldly.

‘Our man had no hat, no coat, no gloves, no obvious means of getting here. Either the murderer took the garments away with him, or the victim was staying somewhere very near indeed. So far we’ve not been able to discover where. It wasn’t here, it wasn’t with your closest neighbours. Nor did your lodgekeeper, gamekeeper, or any of your staff recognise him. The implication is that this was an arranged meeting, and a murder carefully planned. So what I’d like to do now is to reconstruct a picture of what exactly was going on in the Hall after His Majesty retired. I understand that was at about eleven-fifteen.’

‘Carriages were then called immediately for those of our guests not staying in the Hall,’ Priscilla informed
him. ‘My husband and I then retired at about eleven forty-five after our remaining houseguests left the ballroom.’

‘I left about eleven-thirty, but went to see my mother before retiring,’ Laura volunteered.

‘Did you, dear?’ asked Miriam vaguely. ‘I don’t recall.’

Laura sighed. ‘You know very well I came, Mother.’

‘That’s right, Miss Laura. You did,’ Savage’s deep rough voice confirmed unemotionally.

‘Then I left to retire to bed. I had dismissed my maid earlier.’ Laura smiled slightly. ‘Do you therefore suspect me of slipping out to the smokehouse to murder this poor man?’

‘What time did you leave Lady Tabor, miss?’ Rose said evenly.

‘Twenty to twelve,’ Savage answered for her. ‘I noticed because it was late for her Ladyship,’ she said reprovingly. ‘Her Ladyship’ to Savage was always her mistress, never
that woman
, as she had been known to refer to Priscilla on occasion. Priscilla was an outcomer at Tabor Hall and always would be. ‘I never got her Ladyship into bed until past one.’

‘I was with Alfred in his rooms,’ said Victoria brightly. She was ignoring her fiancé, Auguste noticed. ‘Of course if I’d known I could be a suspect for murder by being on my own, I would never have gone to see him. I went to bed about one-thirty.’

‘Why did you go to see your brother, miss?’

‘I was cross with Alexander,’ said Victoria disarmingly. The look she gave him suggested she still was. ‘We were in the library until about twelve and then Alexander yawned and said he was going to bed. It was
our
engagement party and he didn’t even want to kiss me goodnight. Can you imagine that, Inspector?’

‘It certainly seems strange to me, miss. Why was that?’ Rose demanded of the recalcitrant suitor.

Alexander looked hopefully at Victoria. ‘It may seem strange to you, Inspector, but I can only say that my fiancée is so beautiful that it takes a great deal of strength
not
to kiss her. In short, considering the lateness of the hour, I was fearful that I might find her quite irresistible.’

‘Oh!’ Victoria was highly pleased. ‘I forgive you then.’

‘And then how did you come to be in the smokehouse with Mrs Didier three hours later?’ Rose asked, uncharmed.

Auguste stiffened.

Alexander answered promptly. ‘I was returning to my room when I met my cousin. We began to talk of Mother Russia in the way that Russians do and adjourned to the Blue Salon to talk further. In the course of our conversation, Tatiana expressed a great desire to have a—’ he hesitated and Tatiana nodded brightly, ‘smoke, and as I did too, we obediently adjourned to the smokehouse through the kitchen entrance to indulge our filthy habits. We took a lantern, opened the door of the smokehouse and found – well, you know what we found.’

Auguste glanced worriedly at Egbert whose face betrayed nothing. Did he think this explanation strange? For a newly married woman there were supposed to be attractions in going to bed that should surely supersede conversation with a cousin.

‘Tiring talking into the early hours, was it?’ was all Rose asked Tatiana, however, to Auguste’s relief.

‘No,’ she replied simply.

‘We Russians, even half-Russians like myself, are never tired,’ Alexander amplified.

‘Good,’ his fiancée commented brightly. ‘That bodes well for the future of the Tully-Rich line.’

A complacent cackle from the Dowager Lady Tabor. ‘She takes after me, Priscilla.’

‘I trust not, Mother.’ Priscilla was stung into tartness.

‘Her Ladyship and I retired just before twelve,’ put in George Tabor quickly, anxious to intervene between his womenfolk. ‘What about you, Cyril?’

‘Gertie and I were in bed before twelve, weren’t we, kitten?’ The look he gave Gertie suggested the reason should be obvious. Kitten giggled nervously.

‘Mr Carstairs? Mr Didier left you just before twelve-thirty, he tells me.’

‘Correct. I would certainly have had time to jump out of a window, rush over to the smokehouse in the dark, and shoot this fellow. But so, by the same token, would Mr Didier,’ Oliver pointed out cheerfully.

‘In theory, that is so,’ Auguste replied swiftly. ‘And I could then have shot my own ear.’

No one it seemed, save Tatiana, was interested in his ear. Rose simply continued: ‘Mr and Mrs Janes?’

Harold Janes’ face was suddenly the colour of Camembert. ‘My wife and I slept in adjoining rooms,’ he said airily, ‘as is usual when visiting Tabor Hall.’

Perhaps in the Janes’ case, Auguste thought amusedly. Thankfully this rule, if it existed, had been waived in his case, and from the look on Gertie’s face, in her case too. She was blushing, as if sharing the same bed as your husband was yet one more breach of etiquette. ‘We left the dance shortly after His Majesty. I took a whisky and went to bed,’ Harold announced. ‘My man will vouch for that.’

Beatrice Janes rushed in to amplify his story. ‘My husband has a distressing habit of snoring,’ she informed the company shrilly. ‘However, I decided to join my husband – how can I put it – for a goodnight kiss. I stayed some time. In fact, all night, didn’t I, Puppikins?’

Puppikins, still ashen, muttered something to the effect that she did.

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Rose stolidly, wondering whether he and Edith would ever be reduced to trotting between rooms, and disinclined to believe a word Beatrice Janes said.

‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.’ Rose looked round at the relief spreading over his audience’s faces. He decided to quell it. ‘I’ll be talking to you all individually, and we’ll need your fingerprints.’

The implications did not take long to sink in. Priscilla Tabor rose majestically to her feet.

‘Do I understand, Chief Inspector, that when you say someone in the Hall must know who this man is, you imply not the servants, but
ourselves
?’

‘It’s murder, your Ladyship.’

‘But none of us could have been involved,’ George spluttered indignantly.

‘It’s amazing at this stage of an investigation, sir, how often I find a corpse must have murdered itself.’

Was there a more calming place on earth than a walled vegetable garden? Auguste asked himself – save of course when somebody chose to shoot at you. But in general, with the rich smell of harvest in the air, and the promise of delights yet to be tasted, here indeed was the peace he needed to arrange his thoughts in more orderly fashion, like ingredients for a recipe. There were major problems that needed solving: who was the corpse; why had the murderer then shot at him; and whose body had Tatiana expected it to be? He puzzled over this, considering and rejecting the thesis that Tatiana had been worried lest it be his. He was not so old nor so fat. Moreover, he did not have a beard.

There was another problem too: why was the Tabor family so very cooperative in some ways and so obstructive in others? There could only be one answer;
they knew whose the body was, but did not wish the police to know. He turned this idea over in his mind, and found it worked. He began to think further about Uncle Oscar and Robert Mariot.

Egbert’s comments about his being splendidly placed to find out the servants’ point of view came back to him. So far he had only talked to the Breckles. He would pick some herbs on the pretext of explaining to the chef just how one made a
boeuf provençale
in which Breckles had expressed some mild interest. It was strange how up here in Yorkshire he did not feel the need for so many herbs in his food. Furthermore Egbert, when asked this morning by Mrs Breckles what he might like for supper this evening, had treacherously chosen Breckles’ boiled beef in beer in preference to his own suggestions, not to mention claggy toffee pudding over his own delicate
îles flottantes
, to which Egbert had previously been partial. Yorkshire was indeed a strange place, where gastronomic tastes were changed so speedily.

Or was it himself? Was Breckles not an incompetent cook of London cuisine but the maître of Yorkshire? His step quickened. He now had two objectives for the rest of the morning: investigation of Yorkshire cuisine as well as picking up any items of relevant gossip from the kitchen staff.

Both quests were destined to be thwarted. Tatiana came hurrying up to him, skirts brushing aside cabbages and leeks in her impatience.

‘You should not be walking here alone,
mon chéri
. You are not Mr Kipling’s Just-So story cat.’

‘No one would risk shooting me in broad daylight,’ Auguste said uneasily, suddenly conscious of the vast empty hills behind him. ‘Our murderer is a night bird.’

‘You do not understand,’ said Tatiana anxiously.
‘You
must
take care. You would not wish to make me a widow so soon?’

He would not – on both their accounts.

‘Please promise me you will not go anywhere alone again until we leave.’

His heart was touched by her concern. ‘Very well.’ He kissed her. ‘That I promise.’

His visit to the kitchen did not begin auspiciously, however. He asked Breckles if he might participate in servants’ dinner and moreover if he might observe Breckles preparing one of the local specialities he had heard about, the Yorkshire Christmas pudding.

Breckles roared with laughter. ‘Daft outcomer,’ he said amiably. ‘Do tha know what tha’s asking?’

‘No,’ answered Auguste humbly, perceiving he had made a mistake somehow.

‘Why, it take an age. The walls be ez thick ez Jericho, and inside be a goose, partridge, pigeons, and last of all be the turkey. All boned and spiced one on top o’ t’other. Tha’d have to be here day and night for a month o’ Sundays.’

He watched Auguste digest this information, and then gave him a friendly dig. ‘You can eat servants’ dinner here and welcome, but that won’t get thee what tha’s seeking.’

‘No food?’ asked Auguste, the Frenchman in him leaping to the worst possible conclusion.

‘Talk, that’s what tha’s after.’

‘And for good reason,’ Auguste explained firmly. ‘They might talk to me when they might be nervous of talking to police.’

‘Nothing to tell. None o’ the lower servants has anything to do with the quality.’

‘But just to know what their impression is of the family. I recall when I was in your position—’

Breckles cleared his throat. ‘And that’s the point. You aren’t in my position now, are you?’

Auguste was taken aback. Surely he could still mingle in both worlds, at least be a permitted visitor, if not accepted resident? Reflection told him it was not possible. ‘Then tell them to
think
, Mr Breckles: think of anything unusual they saw or heard,’ he compromised.

‘Thought here’s like Christmas pudding; a long time a-coming, so ’tis better in the eating.’

And with that Auguste was forced to be content. Baulked of the honour of dinner with the servants, and unwilling to contemplate luncheon with the Tabors, he would eat with Egbert (thus avoiding the necessity of deciding whether for the purposes of the midday repast he was a gentleman who took luncheon or a servant who had dinner).

Meanwhile Chief Inspector Egbert Rose was doggedly embarking on his programme of interviewing Tabors, beginning with the less obstreperous. However, even the Honourable Laura Tabor was proving more difficult than he had anticipated.

‘I believe the suggestion has been put to you, Chief Inspector, that this corpse might be that of Mr Mariot, my former friend.’

‘Former?’ asked Rose politely.

‘It is true that we still correspond,’ Laura continued steadily, not in the least thrown, ‘and it is true he talked of coming to visit me. He is recently returned to Europe after assisting the archaeologist Koldeway at Nebuchadnezzar’s Babylon. It is also true that, when my brother mentioned the corpse had a sunburnt appearance, I thought by some terrible chance it might be his. However, it was not.’

‘You’re sure of that?’

‘As far as I can be.’ She hesitated, then drew a photograph out of her bag. ‘This is a photograph of him taken in Babylon eighteen months ago.’ She pushed it across to him.

‘Good of you to think of showing it to me, ma’am.’ There was no hint of sarcasm in Rose’s voice.