Murder in The Smokehouse: (Auguste Didier Mystery 7) (24 page)

Breckles shouted cheerily as Auguste entered, ‘Tha looks canty.’ Correctly guessing this to mean that he appeared in good spirits, Auguste beamed and duly admired the raised pie’s coffin which Breckles was artistically finishing, before putting the question he had come to ask.

Breckles considered. ‘Miss Savage, she’s been here longest. Come with old Lady Tabor when she was wed to the old lord.’

‘No one before that?’

Breckles grinned. ‘Reckon they’d be in t’ground now, man. There be Tompkins’ father, o’ course. He do go back a long way, he and his father before him. Served the family for generations. Lives in Malham, he do. Mind you, ’e be a bit daffly daffled these days.’

Pumping Breckles’ hand as vigorously as if it had been dough, Auguste hurried to the motor stable – where he found not only Tompkins but Tatiana, who greeted him with a cry of delight when she emerged flushed from investigating the Daimler’s intestines.

‘Have you come to take a drive?’ She moved eagerly towards the driving seat.

‘No,’ Auguste replied hastily.

‘Father?’ Tompkins repeated doubtfully when Auguste had explained.

‘Oh, Mr Tompkins, do let’s. We could all go in the motorcar,’ Tatiana interceded.

Walter Tompkins could deny Tatiana nothing, and once again Auguste found himself seated in the rear of the Daimler. It was a remarkably long way round to Malham, he thought impatiently: on foot he could have made the journey in fifteen minutes.

Mr Tompkins senior was engaged in the serious business of slaking his thirst at the Buck Inn, which, Tompkins explained, it was essential for him to attend daily otherwise he might lose his regular place by the
bar. Woe betide any outcomer who might inadvertently sit there. If indeed Tompkins senior were ‘daffly daffled’, it did not affect his memory for the past, nor for grievances long held. He took some coaxing, however, to share his memories, seeing no need to waste his pearls on daft Frenchmen.

‘He’s like the police, Father.’

This was no recommendation to Mr Tompkins senior, Auguste noticed, deciding to try charm. ‘I am sure you would wish to help solve a mystery, Mr Tompkins.’

Tompkins senior disagreed. ‘’Tis sixty year or more ago. Anyways I was only an outdoor fellow.’

Much of this was unintelligible, and needed his son as interpreter.

‘But your job is so important, Mr Tompkins.’ Tatiana had a better grasp of charm where elderly gentlemen were concerned. ‘The driver hears all, sees much, and speaks little, but he is in control of his passengers’ lives.’

Mr Tompkins beamed and, thanking the heavens for providing him with a wife, Auguste continued: ‘Were you at the Hall before the Dowager Lady Tabor came?’

‘Aye. Only a lad then, o’ course.’

‘Do you remember a housemaid called Rose Moffat?’

‘There was a lot of them. Don’t recall one from the other.’

‘Would an ounce of baccy help your memory, Father?’ Walter asked helpfully.

‘It might.’

Auguste rushed to oblige. ‘Did young Mr Tabor, the present lord’s father, have a bad reputation with the female staff?’

‘Nay. ’Twould be more than his life was worth,’ declared Tompkins in scorn. ‘Terrified of his father, he was. This Rose Moffat. I do recall a Rose. All the junior
housemaids went by their Christian names. Never knew their surnames, half the time. Pretty she was. I were seventeen and noticing these things.’ He gave a toothless grin. ‘And if there’s any
more
of that baccy I’ll be having it, thank ’ee. Not that she’d look at me. Then she left all in a ’urry. Dismissed, so the story went, but one of the girls told me different. She was to have a baby and the story was it was the young master’s. He loved her. She were a pretty young thing, as I said, and kind with it. Reminds me of her Ladyship, the present Dowager, looking back. Different class, o’ course, but same pretty ways and graceful-like as she moves. Story went he wanted to wed her, but o’ course his Lordship wouldn’t hear of it and Rose had to leave the house that day. The whole roof nearly came off with all their shouting, so I heard. But it weren’t no good. Rose went. I allus did wonder about Rose, and what happened to her. Ah well, ’tis a long time ago.’

‘Possibly she did marry, but she died a few years later. She had a son called Tom.’

He paused, hoping this might spark off another recollection.

‘Things weren’t the same between his Lordship and young Master Charlie, as we called him, after that. He spent a lot of time away for a year or two, and whenever he was home there was quarrelling. The more he came to stay the worse it got. Terrible it was. You’re right, missus. When you’re driving it’s amazing what folks’ll say. They reckon your ears don’t work. I’m the only one left of them old days. Lot of the servants left or changed when the old lord died. New ways, yer see. New mistress. But they didn’t change Tompkins. Oh no. His new Lordship wouldn’t have that.’

‘Were the quarrels still about Rose?’ Auguste asked excitedly.

‘No. They was about young Mr Charles having to
wed to produce an heir. Every time he was home, he were on about it, was his Lordship. Then he met her Ladyship and wed her in ’46. Lovely wedding t’was. She was so lovely, and so much in love. It was a pleasure to see ’em. His old Lordship dies in 1850 and that put an end to the bad blood.’

No sign of his being daffly daffled, thought Auguste gratefully.

The old man looked at his empty glass, and pushed it towards Auguste. ‘I’ll take another pint o’ this cowslip wine, Ebenezer, thank ’ee.’

‘There are as many possibilities as currants in a
clafouti
,’ Auguste commented triumphantly, back in Egbert’s rooms. ‘Surely you can’t doubt now that the corpse is that of Tom Griffin?’

‘Probably,’ Egbert grunted. ‘So I take it you believe his ancestry is the key and young Alfred, Black Rufus, roulette and gents in loud check suits dunning for payment can join our distinguished company of false scents.’

‘Yes.’ Auguste was almost reluctant to let the unlikable Alfred go as a suspect. That meant one of the other Tabors must be guilty.

‘So an illegitimate brother turns up at midnight on the very day the King was staying to threaten George Tabor with a scandal sixty years old. Why? His Majesty ain’t exactly a paragon of domestic virtue, he wasn’t going to be shocked out of his Balmoral socks. And why kill him and land themselves with a corpse? Why not just pay him off?’

‘But just suppose Rose
did
marry Charles Tabor, Egbert,’ Auguste said desperately, seeing his theories melting away. ‘Just think, Tom would be the oldest son, and he, not George Tabor, should have inherited the title and the estate.’

Egbert thought lovingly of this horror descending on Priscilla, but shook his head. ‘You forget. You say Rose Moffat died in 1847, but Charles Tabor married Miriam in ’46.’

‘Bigamy!’ breathed Auguste, his eyes gleaming with excitement. ‘George would be illegitimate. One mention by Tom Griffin of an earlier marriage, and scandal would sweep down like castor oil.’

‘How about some evidence, Auguste? All those fairy stories have gone to your head. If Rose Moffat married Tabor, Twitch will dig it out.’

Feverishly, Auguste played with the idea that Twitch might deliberately be holding back to spite him.

‘I grant you the corpse is most likely Griffin,’ Rose said reassuringly, seeing Auguste’s crestfallen face, ‘and that seems to imply that one of the Tabors must be the murderer.’

Seems to imply?
The qualification did not escape Auguste, but he managed to bite back his anger, saying instead, ‘And Gregorin seems to have his own supply of old clothes, without murdering stray working men for the privilege.’

‘Perhaps,’ Egbert threw in idly, ‘old Tompkins was a jealous lover, and popped down here to shoot the product of his sweetheart’s love for another. Seventeen-year-old boys have violent passions.’

‘Mr Tompkins is no longer a seventeen-year-old and his passion has now been transferred to the Buck Inn, its cowslip wine and tobacco,’ Auguste tried to jest.

‘If you’re right, and that body is Griffin,’ Egbert said after a pause, ‘I reckon all the Tabors are in it together.’

‘They
all
shot him?’

‘Accessories after the fact, at least. They’d gamble I’d never arrest the whole family – much as I’d like to. That wash and brush-up in the smokehouse took time –
and
organisation, especially if it were done on the
spur of the moment.’ Another pause. ‘Cobbold’s heard from his pathologist chum. You were right – it is pig’s blood on the clothes. We’ve got proof of that at least.’

Auguste glowed with pride. ‘And the carpet?’

‘Human blood where someone tried to wash it out. The pathologist had a hard job with that one, but managed it in the end. Thanks to you, we can prove murder
and
that the clothes were changed.’

‘You know it is not thanks I want.’

Rose looked at him. ‘Tatiana’s clear.’

‘Thank you, Egbert.’ All was well. Relief flowed through him. Now at last his brain could work unfettered.

‘You believe the Tabors did not expect Tom’s visit?’

‘It’s a strange time for a chap to choose for a casual call.’

‘Perhaps
one
of them knew.’

‘Which?’

‘Not Oliver Carstairs.’ Auguste was clean on that. ‘Even if Oliver believed the man was Mariot, and that is surely unlikely, given the clothes, the Tabors would not put themselves to so much trouble on his account.’

‘They would if they had been expecting Tom Griffin, and discovered him dead. They’d be only too anxious to conceal his identity.’

‘Why not bury the body?’

Rose crashed his fist on the table. ‘I don’t
know
. There’s a cunning mind behind this, Auguste. A Tabor mind, I’ll wager.’

‘But not Alfred’s.’

‘If the whole bally family decided to get rid of Tom Griffin, Alfred’s not an obvious choice for the deed. Son and heirs have to be protected.’

‘And the Dowager.’

‘Right. Would you choose an elderly lady of seventy-nine to pull the trigger? Besides, Laura and Savage
were with her. My guess is she was left well out of it.’

‘So Laura can be omitted too if she was with her mother.’

‘But the Dowager said at first she didn’t remember that,’ Egbert recalled thoughtfully. ‘It was Miss Savage confirmed her story.’

‘If they acted on a family plan, surely the task of shooting Tom Griffin would be allotted to a man. Cyril or—’

‘Not him again. I can’t take any more of his blasted stories about the Galaxy Girls. As bad as you.’

Auguste ignored this. ‘Then we are left with the obvious: George, whose thumbprint was on the gun.’

‘All the Tabors would have been wearing gloves. Can’t pin much on that.’

‘But, as head of the family, George is the obvious suspect.’

‘Is he?’ Egbert grunted. ‘What about Priscilla?’

‘Ah, Chief Inspector Rose and Mr Didier. It is not often nowadays I have the pleasure of a visit from two gentlemen. In former times it was far from unusual, though this may now be hard to believe.’ The Dowager Baroness Tabor sat in her upright armchair, a delicate hand resting on the arm, as the other gestured to them to be seated.

‘
Madame
, you are beautiful still.’

‘Beauty fades, Mr Didier, for all your kind words. Fortunately I still have my brains, don’t I, Savage?’ She turned mischievously to the woman at her side.

‘Indeed you do, my lady,’ Savage replied, her hands resting primly in her lap.

Rose cleared his throat. He could leave the pleasantries to Auguste. ‘We believe we’ve identified the dead body in the smokehouse, ma’am. It seems possible it was the body of a man called Tom Griffin.’

Miriam looked concerned. ‘I don’t think we know anyone of that name, do we, Savage? Was he a friend of His Majesty’s?’

‘He’s not what you’d call gentry, Lady Tabor. He was a travelling showman at a fair.’

‘Oh, what fun, I love fairs. But such a shame.’ Her face puckered in concern. ‘That poor man. What did he kill himself for? No – it was murder, wasn’t it? Why? Was he a thief after something here at Tabor Hall?’

‘That we don’t know yet, Lady Tabor,’ Egbert told her noncommittally. ‘But I have to ask you some questions, which may seem odd or even hurtful. How old was your husband when you married him?’

She looked startled. ‘That is indeed an odd question, Chief Inspector,’ she replied after a moment. ‘Darling Charlie. He was a year older than me, so he would have been twenty-five.’

‘Did he tell you anything of his past life, ma’am? Any wild oats, shall we say?’ Rose asked delicately.

‘You mean mistresses? I should think it quite likely, Chief Inspector,’ Miriam replied frankly. ‘Gentlemen do, you know. It is no part of a lady’s task to resent what her husband has sown in his past, merely to prevent his sowing any more.’

Auguste’s approval of this intelligent attitude was instant.

‘He never mentioned having had any children?’

The atmosphere grew a little less warm.

‘He did not.’

‘I don’t want to shock you, Lady Tabor, but it’s possible Tom Griffin was the illegitimate son of your late husband by a girl called Rose Griffin or Rose Moffat who used to work at this house.’