Murder in The Smokehouse: (Auguste Didier Mystery 7) (18 page)

‘It is strange to think,’ Auguste said soberly, ‘that if Gregorin were to appear, I should be dead, but you would be free of suspicion.’

‘And if he disappears, then I am arrested but you live.’

He laughed. ‘This is what they call balance in marriage?’

He looked at his wife. He saw her as she was. Not the princess in the ivory tower he had dreamed of for so many years; she was Tatiana Didier and, by all the pickled eggs in China, he loved her!

The sting of the water was on their faces as he kissed her, until she firmly pushed him away.

‘
Alors
, Auguste, I am a practical woman, the ground is damp. We go back to our bedroom,
hein
? And let us hope Egbert is not searching it.’

‘What
does
one wear for a Coroner?’ Priscilla demanded the following day. The gathering had taken on a new intimacy through the common scourge that had fallen on them, as though this might maintain the pretence that nothing unusual was happening, despite the presence of policemen in the house.

‘We don’t have to wear full black again, do we?’ cried Beatrice, alarmed. ‘Not now His Majesty’s left.’

‘It
is
a death – of sorts,’ Priscilla pointed out dubiously.

‘Wear your Queen Victoria gown,’ suggested Victoria. ‘That black crepe one with the black lace sleeves and matching veil. They wouldn’t dare arrest you then.’

‘Really, Victoria,’ protested her mother, but there was no heart in it.

‘I think we should look our prettiest,’ said Gertie simply.

‘You’ll melt the Coroner’s heart, kitten,’ said her husband lovingly.

‘He can’t suspect me, can he?’ Gertie’s large eyes looked anxious.

‘No. You haven’t got the brains, Gertie,’ answered her nephew-in-law airily.

‘That’s all right then.’ Gertie was relieved.

‘I thought the corpse might be something to do with the stage,’ said Beatrice. Every pair of Tabor eyes fixed on her indignantly. In the last resort, even Gertie was regarded as one of them. ‘The police seem to think he was dressing up in someone else’s clothes,’ she added nervously, ‘so it seems an obvious deduction.’

‘Only to you, Mrs Janes,’ remarked Priscilla coldly. Beatrice might be the King’s favourite, but she was not hers.

‘And me,’ said Harold heavily, all too eager to support his wife. ‘After all, we’re only visitors here,’ his tone implied it would be the last time, ‘we would hardly come here prepared to commit a murder.’ He waxed indignant. ‘We are innocent bystanders. Like His Majesty himself.’

Priscilla paled at the implied threat that tales of the enforced hospitality of Tabor Hall would come to royal ears. But for once her husband rode gallantly to the rescue.

‘Bertie understands. Said he’ll be back for the pheasants next year.’

Beatrice and Harold exchanged glances quickly and reconsidered their position.

‘He wouldn’t be allowed on stage with those whiskers!’ Gertie had been thinking things over.

‘His Majesty never appears on stage,’ said Beatrice, astounded.

Gertie looked puzzled.

‘The corpse,’ explained Cyril kindly.

Auguste eyed him hungrily. Cyril was the only one with a suit missing and only he knew it. It might mean nothing, he told himself in excuse, for anyone might have taken it. Of all of them, Cyril would have had least reason to change the corpse’s clothes, for the suspected victim in his case was an Indian colonel who would surely be in evening dress anyway. Unless he were in uniform of course, which would be an immediate betrayal of who he was. A small voice inside him pointed out that an Indian colonel wouldn’t have long hair. It was told that a few black hairs meant nothing . . .

He manufactured an opportunity to speak to Cyril that night when Cyril, braving Priscilla’s eye, declared his intention of having a good smoke, now that the police had formally declared the smokehouse open again.

Surrounded by the artistic delights of the smokehouse, as creature comforts of brandy and leather armchairs reasserted their attractions, Auguste found it hard to imagine the terrible scene that had taken place here only a few days ago.

‘Your valet tells me, Mr Tabor, that one of your suits has disappeared,’ Auguste began, unable to think of a more subtle way to introduce the matter.

‘Yes, he told me that too. Rum thing, isn’t it?’ said Cyril indignantly. ‘I’ll ask Smith to have a look at the
suit that poor devil was wearing, just in case he got hold of it somehow.’

Auguste blinked. Guileless or subtle? ‘How could he have done?’ he enquired cautiously.

Cyril shrugged. ‘No idea. Priscilla doesn’t encourage odd vagabonds to wander in and out of the Hall.’ He yawned. ‘Sorry, old chap. Must be those damned puddings Breckles suddenly seems to be serving up. Toffee puddings, spotted dicks. Can’t think what’s come over him.’

Auguste kept a discreet silence. Talk of puddings led him to think of Breckles’ black pudding. How long would that report from Leeds take to come through?

‘Chief Inspector Rose would like to see you, sir.’

Auguste paused in the midst of adjusting his tie. This time he could not ignore the summons. Besides, it might be the report.

It wasn’t.

‘You aren’t avoiding me, are you, Auguste?’ Egbert demanded. He was not at breakfast, but already at his desk, very annoyed, and with Twitch in attendance. It did not bode well.

‘No,’ said Auguste. ‘I was involved in my duties as a guest both yesterday and today.’ He had in fact spent the greater part of yesterday undergoing tuition in Yorkshire cuisine in the kitchens. He had also taken the opportunity to let the entire servants’ hall hear of the discovery of the pig’s blood, watching keenly for signs of guilt or over-interest. The main comments seemed to focus on how anyone could so brazenly offend Mr Breckles. The only other obvious emotion came from the pantry boy who had been wrongly accused of mislaying the pig’s blood, and now saw a glimmer of hope that one day he might rise to the exalted status of third vegetable chef.

‘If any of these duties throw up anything interesting, no doubt you’ll let me know,’ Egbert said ironically.

‘Of course,’ Auguste lied.

‘Such as prising out the information from Cyril Tabor’s valet that one of his suits
is
missing. And a shirt. When I was
eventually
told, I found the labels don’t tie up with the suit on the corpse. Stitch here has turned in some excellent work on
that
.’

Twitch glowed.

‘And, moreover, Colonel Simpson didn’t arrive on board the ship for India as he should have done. He missed the boat, as you might say.’

Egbert might well be barking up the wrong tree, but Auguste was not going to encourage him to leave it. It meant Tatiana was temporarily free from suspicion.

The Coroner’s Enquiry held on Friday morning in the Court House next to the police station was an exciting event in Settle. The Tabors had not appeared in the town
en masse
for centuries. The formidable Lady Tabor was usually only encountered thrusting open the doors of their houses without warning with large bowls of unwelcome succotash for the sick. Not that the sick knew what it was called, but it made them decide to get well quickly.

The visiting Skipton Coroner was well aware of the importance of an inquest on a stranger found dead at Tabor Hall when the King had been present, and an array of Tabors and outcomers as he’d never seen before. One by one these august personages announced that they had no knowledge of the gentleman whose corpse had so inconveniently turned up in their midst. They fascinated both Coroner and jury, more by their appearance than by their testimony. Skipton shops did not display Worth models, nor had the new female outline yet swept the dales by storm. Compromise had
won. The Tabor party was in complimentary mourning colours.

The jury listened stolidly to information on guns, powder burns, animal blood tests, eradicating bloodstains on the carpets, and much other material painstakingly assembled by Cobbold, and duly brought in a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown.

‘Hard to believe we’re all free to leave the Hall, eh, Didier?’ Carstairs said somewhat wistfully. There was a distinct sense of anti-climax in the Tabor party.

‘Then stay on,’ said Laura, overhearing. ‘If,’ she continued lightly, ‘your engagements permit.’

‘It so happens I’m free till the Duchess of Hogbury’s funeral the week after next,’ retorted Oliver gravely.

Laura actually laughed, the first time Auguste had seen her do so. ‘Splendid. Perhaps she’ll postpone it a day or two to be on the safe side.’

‘I want to stay on to see what happens next,’ declared Gertie with an enthusiasm apparently not shared by her husband.

‘I think we ought to be getting back, kitten,’ he told her quickly.

‘You can’t desert the family in its need, Cyril,’ Miriam announced. ‘Can he, Priscilla?’

‘Thank you, Mother, but we are not in need, as you put it. Victoria has just become engaged to a highly suitable young man, the King greatly enjoyed his stay with us, and as soon as this wretched man’s identity is cleared up, the police will be leaving us. They are merely using the Hall as an office while they make a few little enquiries in the neighbourhood. We at Tabor Hall are quite above suspicion.’

Not quite. Egbert Rose was debating if he had enough evidence yet to arrest Cyril Tabor for murder, and Stitch was congratulating himself that at last he was ‘one of them’ – a man with ideas. Following up the
French police’s report that there never had been a tailor by name of Noire or Poire in Paris, he had suggested another look at the label. It had proved to be stitched in by hand over the place where an original label had once been. Why switch it, Rose had puzzled out loud. Why not merely cut out the original?

Twitch surpassed himself: ‘To hide the fact something fishy was going on. By someone close at hand, who could be questioned.’

‘Like Cyril Tabor,’ grunted Rose.

‘Auguste!’ Tatiana had appeared at last. After giving evidence at the inquest, to which Auguste had listened heart in mouth, in case she might, with less than perfect English, inadvertently set up suspicion in the Coroner’s mind, or, worse, increase Egbert’s, she had rejoined him on the public benches only to disappear after the verdict. The Daimler, De Dion Bouton and sundry carriages set off back to Tabor Hall, leaving only the pony trap, under the watchful eye of a local urchin in pursuit of a threepenny-piece reward. Its driver had an important errand in the Lion Inn and had lost count of time.

‘I met the clogger’s wife in the Thistlethwaite tearoom,’ Tatiana informed him, when she eventually returned. ‘There is a lot of information to be gained in tearooms. As well as good gingerbread,’ she added.

‘Who is the clogger’s wife?’ he asked politely, refusing to be diverted.

‘The wife of the clogger.’

‘
What
is the clogger?’

‘He makes clogs. With wooden soles, and Mrs Clogger says I should have some made. We can go now.’

‘But we shall miss luncheon,’ said her husband, alarmed at the impending catastrophe.

‘He thinks he recognised your corpse.’ She played her trump card.

‘He did not report that to Inspector Cobbold,’ Auguste said suspiciously, doubting her motive.

‘Because he was too busy clogging. It’s the cloggers’ main season, preparing for the winter.’

Auguste accompanied her somewhat reluctantly, cheering himself with the thought that Gregorin could hardly be disguising himself as a clogger!

The clogger, Jeremiah Taylor, was on Castle Hill, next to Edmondson’s the bootmaker, Tatiana informed her husband knowledgeably, known in the town as Boot and Clog Corner. He was a small man, bent over his stiddy, hammer in hand. Two walls seemed to be decorated with lumps of tree, in various stages of becoming clog soles. Clogging irons adorned another wall, and finished clogs united with their uppers awaited collection on the fourth.

‘Good morning,’ began Auguste companionably. ‘My wife requires some clogs.’

Taylor removed some nails from his mouth. ‘Aye. Her would. Coming here.’ He replaced the nails.

Not a good start.

‘I was talking to your wife,’ Tatiana said, rushing straight in where Auguste feared to tread, ‘and she said you thought you recognised the dead man in the poster outside the police station.’

‘Mebbe. Brass clasps?’

‘What is his name? Yes, please. And red leather uppers.’

‘Don’t know. Only black – or,’ a moment’s consideration, ‘brown.’

‘Who is he, then? Black, please.’

‘Outcomer. Do come here once, twice a year, mebbe. Alder?’

‘Where from? Yes.’

‘Travelling man. Sit tha down.’

Tatiana extended her foot and removed her boot, while the clogger struggled over with a large piece of wood.

Luncheon and the delights of William Breckles’ Yorkshire cuisine receded further. At least, Auguste thought optimistically, there was evidence now that the corpse was not that of Gregorin but of a passing stranger, a
regular
passing stranger. Why should a regular passing stranger wish to visit Tabor Hall? And why should anyone wish firstly to murder him and then to obscure his identity? Though it had only been obscured temporarily, for Auguste Didier was on the trail, luncheonless or not.