Murder in The Smokehouse: (Auguste Didier Mystery 7) (14 page)

In the morning greyness, the ladies of the smokehouse seemed to have donned a veneer of respectability as though they wore their morning faces. The smell of stale smoke hung in the air, reeking from ashtrays untouched since Saturday night by police orders. His matches marking the position of the body had been replaced with a chalk outline; in any case his careful work was now irrelevant, since the body had been moved before George Tabor touched it.

‘Morning, Walters.’

‘Morning, Chief Inspector.’ The reply came as eagerly as if Walters was envisaging a rapid removal to the very pinnacles of Scotland Yard. Egbert had arrived.

‘Come alone, did you, Auguste? Brave of you.’

‘No. Tatiana felt she should accompany me.’

‘Ah.’ Rose made no comment on her absence.

‘If Gregorin is to come, then he will,’ Auguste said, not knowing how to interpret this.

‘Twitch is checking what Special Branch has on him. These foreign agents are lying low at the moment, now we’ve got the anarchists and nihilists at least temporarily under control. But you can never tell. I’ve heard of Gregorin.’

‘What?’

‘I can see why Tatiana’s worried,’ Rose told him soberly. ‘Feel like Sherlock Holmes with a Moriarty dogging your footsteps, do you? No villain is a true Moriarty, Auguste; everyone has his weakness – if you can find it.’

‘Do you know of any particular weaknesses attached
to Gregorin?’ Auguste asked, trying not to sound too interested.

‘No.’

‘Oh.’ Auguste swallowed. ‘Then let us return to the dead man.’ It was a brave start.

‘You know, Auguste, the Yard is full of Twitches, from top to bottom. Excellent once they’ve a lead along a well-known path. But they don’t listen to what’s happening in the undergrowth to right or left.’

‘The call of the cicadas?’

‘Not to mention frogs. In the undergrowth nowadays are the scientists in the medical laboratories, as we were saying earlier.’ He rummaged in the pocket of his overcoat and produced photographs of the smokehouse before and after the body had been removed. ‘Look at this—’ He pointed to a shape on one photograph, a dull grey shadow on a rug about two feet from where the corpse had lain on the carpet. ‘What’s that? There’s nothing there now.’

Auguste dropped down on his knees to examine the rug.

‘But there is,’ he said excitedly. ‘Egbert – see. The photograph picked up what our eyes couldn’t. But if you look very closely indeed, there’s the faintest of stains on it in the pile. As if it had been washed.’

‘Blood?’ said Rose dubiously, squatting beside him.

‘It could be. Yet why should the murderer wash away one stain and leave the other?’ Auguste pointed to the dull brown patch where the head had lain.

‘To make it look like suicide.’

‘Probably. You mean he fell here, and the murderer shifted the body to where it was found?’

‘But why move the body to one side like this and try to obscure the fact?’

Auguste glanced up when Egbert said nothing more. ‘Alexander denies altering the position; he merely
lifted it slightly and let it drop.’

‘We’ve got a test now for the presence of blood. Some chemical turns blue. Cobbold’s got a chum at a Leeds hospital who’s a Home Office pathologist. I’ll get him to send the rug along. If there’s anything at all left, it might work.’ Rose paused. ‘Cobbold’s been up this morning. He told me the Denver police have telegraphed about Uncle Oscar. They tracked him down to the Yukon. Running a gold assay office there under the name of Percy Smith. Last seen a week ago. If that’s reliable, there goes one bright idea and Lady Tabor’s whiter than white. They’ve confirmed the mine-salting story too, but the chief victim died two years ago. Uncle Oscar doesn’t appear to be short of enemies, but they can’t suggest any who’d be up to tracking him down here, New York shirt or not.’

‘So Mr Janes’ motive disappears too,’ Auguste said glumly. ‘Yet he is certainly nervous about something.’

‘His wife, most like,’ grunted Rose. ‘You’re not going to suggest a jealous Harold Janes shot the man in mistake for the King, are you? Midnight assignations in the smokehouse? About as far-fetched as vengeful fathers from the Indian Army. The Colonial Office telegraphed details of Colonel Simpson, and Mr Cyril Tabor has admitted he did know his daughter, though he fiercely denies he got her in the family way. The housekeeper fainted at the photograph of the dead man, then said she couldn’t say for sure if it was the Colonel or not. Very helpful. The clothes might have been his. She couldn’t say for sure, we’d have to ask his batman.’

‘And what of Robert Mariot?’ asked Auguste hopefully.

‘The Case of the Missing Archaeologist, eh? His London housekeeper hasn’t seen hide nor hair of him, and we’re waiting to hear from Cairo where the Babylon
expedition has a base. Anyway, Twitch brought up another photograph of Robert Mariot, which confirms what Laura Tabor said. He’s not our man. Mind you, Carstairs could have
thought
he was.’

‘Why should he have thought a stranger in the smokehouse was Mariot just because he knew Laura was expecting to see him sometime or other?’ Auguste said.

‘Another red herring most likely. We’ve a fine shoal of them.’

‘Mine was a real herring,
mon ami
.’ Auguste ruefully touched his painful ear.

‘He missed, didn’t he?’

Auguste stared at him unbelievingly. It wasn’t like Egbert to be irritable. ‘He
meant
to kill, Egbert.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘He must have been an excellent shot then,’ Auguste replied angrily. ‘Buffalo Bill perhaps.’ Then he saw Rose’s implication. ‘You surely cannot think the Tabors murdered this man, believing it to be Gregorin, and then staged the attempt on my life to cover it up? No, no, my friend, the Tabors are not so fond of me as to murder for my sake.’

Rose said nothing.

‘You think they have been producing these so-called red herrings deliberately?’

‘It fits.’

‘For my sake?’

‘Or their own safety. Or that of one close to them. Mr Carstairs, for example.’

‘But, Egbert,’ Auguste exploded, ‘they
cannot
be red herrings.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because they have told nothing but the truth. They said it was not Oscar, and it wasn’t. They said it wasn’t Mariot, and it looks as if they were right again.’

‘Hell’s bells,’ commented Rose graphically. He thought for a moment. ‘But it’s all too pat. They’re hiding something, I’m sure of that. Keep an eye on them, Auguste. If you can’t pump the servants, start the other end. Try your charm on the Dowager. Get her to chatter about her family – away from the presence of Priscilla Tabor.’

‘I’ll try,’ said Auguste dubiously. ‘But it’s hard to pin her chatter down to anything definite.’

‘There’s one thing definite we do know about her family. One of their prints matched that thumbprint on the Webley nicely.’

‘Ah, Didier, fancy taking a gun, do you? Can’t miss the first day of the pheasant season, eh?’ His host pounced as Auguste was making his way stealthily to the kitchens to investigate the use to which that delightful pork he had noticed yesterday was being put. He had forgotten his route took him past the gun room. He tried to look enthusiastically regretful, but failed. Luckily his host ascribed his reluctance to another cause.

‘Sorry, old chap. Tactless of me what with you having a Russian assassin after you. I don’t approve of that sort of thing at Tabor Hall.’

Harold Janes frowned. He didn’t approve of that sort of thing in the City either. These Russians were known to be excitable people and might well take their vengeance on the first unsuspecting back they could see. And his new scarlet flannel and chamois chest and back protectors weren’t going to be much help then.

Auguste clutched metaphorically at the air for inspiration. ‘I regret, sir, Chief Inspector Rose needs my assistance.’

‘You’re right there,’ George told him. ‘The fellow
asked me why my fingerprint was on the Webley. I told him it was probably because it was my gun from my gun room. He couldn’t answer that,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Is he up to his job? Doesn’t seem to be making much progress.’

‘I can’t live here for ever,’ Harold Janes put in.

George Tabor seemed to be in full agreement with this point of view. ‘Found out who he is?’

‘Not yet – er, George.’

‘I think you’ll find he was one of the servants’ relatives,’ his Lordship told him confidently.

‘He wore good-quality clothes.’

‘Hand-me-downs,’ said Lord Tabor dismissively, and strode off to more important matters. Such as the English pheasant and how many might be destroyed before dinner.

Auguste had spent a most enjoyable hour as guest at the servants’ luncheon, where a compromise had been tacitly agreed. The world of the upper house was not mentioned. The mystery of the pork was solved: a wonderful casserole of vegetables, forcemeat, bacon, spice and pork, called a mitoon, was forthcoming. How he pitied the Tabors, merely eating
homard au gratin
and
blanquette de veau
. Grinning at his praise, Breckles permitted him to superintend the arrangements for dinner, including the merest hint of advice over the cooking of the fillets of partridge à
la Villeroi
, an occupation so entrancing he realised with horror that he was shortly expected by the Dowager to meet her in the entrance hall for a drive in his Lordship’s Daimler.

First he must find Tatiana and explain where he was going. This did not take long. She was closeted with Beatrice Janes in the small Chinese Salon, surrounded by mandarins and willow-pattern ladies. Judging by the agonised expression on her face, Tatiana
was not as fascinated as Beatrice by the conversation.

‘Pray, do you recommend Madame Bellanger’s Corsets Stella or Guillot, dearest Tatiana? Paris is such a long way to go when one breaks a bone but now one can get those useful Albany Corset Splints, it is not quite such a risk. Which do you favour?’

‘I do not favour them at all,’ declared Tatiana, at the end of her patience. ‘Like calling cards, stays are a boring necessity. At present,’ she added darkly. ‘One day women will not be so foolish. Corsets are cages designed by men, for man’s benefit, to keep us locked into the shape they wish to see, a shape that makes it totally impossible for us to enjoy the same benefits of life as they do.’ She glared fiercely at Auguste, who could not remember ordering her to achieve any shape at all.

‘Oh, are you an aesthetic lady?’ Beatrice asked vaguely and returned to safer ground. ‘Perhaps I’ll go to both Bellanger and Guillot, when Uh-huh takes me to Paris next.’

‘Uh-huh?’ asked Tatiana blankly.

Auguste coughed. ‘Doubtless Mrs Janes refers to Mr Janes.’

Beatrice giggled. ‘Of course. Oh, Mr Didier, pray do not take your dear wife away from me. Does she help you in your little cases? And I understand you are a cook? How sweet.’

‘A maître chef,’ said Auguste through gritted teeth.

‘Oh.’ Beatrice looked nonplussed. ‘Isn’t that the same thing?’

‘Not precisely.’ Auguste’s pleasant smile became a trifle fixed.

‘Now do join us and tell us who
you
think that poor corpse is,’ Beatrice continued brightly. ‘I believe,’ she rushed on before he had a chance to speak, ‘he is some unfortunate fellow from the Tabors’ past. Most
unfortunate for dear Priscilla—’ she said eagerly, ‘to have him call after she spent all that time preparing for His Majesty. I think she wished to avoid some
scandal
.’

‘You think she shot him?’ asked Tatiana, interested.

Beatrice giggled. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.’ Her hand played nervously with the buttons of her gloves.

‘I would have thought,’ Auguste said mildly, ‘shooting him would bring upon her Ladyship the very problem she was trying to avoid.’

Beatrice could not follow this, but she was satisfied she had done her best to deflect suspicion towards where it must surely belong. After all, Harold would never . . . would he? She returned to the subject of real importance. ‘And now, Tatiana, I want you to give me your opinion on which gown I should wear this evening. The flounced blue silk with the darling lace godets, or the pink glacé?’

‘It is time for my walk,’ said Tatiana firmly. ‘Russians always take a walk after luncheon.’

‘Then I will come with you. I am so fond of air. We could walk all round the outside of the house, and take Boofuls.’ Boofuls, it appeared, was her dog. ‘I bought him the sweetest little India-rubber Wellington boots with back lacing.’

‘I am going through the woods. There may be
mud
.’

On this happy note, Tatiana gracefully excused herself to go to change, but Auguste seized the opportunity to detain Beatrice, which she unfortunately took as a tribute to her feminine charms. His Majesty’s aide-de-camp had now been authorised to speak, but it was a delicate matter to pass his information on to the person it most concerned. ‘Er – Mrs Janes, we have been told that in fact you did not remain throughout the night with Uh-huh, as you mistakenly thought.’

‘Didn’t I?’ She looked up at him archly. ‘I was bemused by love, I must have forgotten.’

‘Can you remember now, Mrs Janes?’ Auguste said firmly.