Murder in The Smokehouse: (Auguste Didier Mystery 7) (4 page)

On her arrival at Tabor Hall, Cyril explained, Priscilla had decreed this gloomy monstrosity would make a most admirable smokehouse. She would brook no argument, and George wisely put up none. Instead, secure in the knowledge that his high-principled lady would never compromise her integrity by setting foot inside, he had adorned the smokehouse with the kind of paintings usually only hung in the back rooms of gentlemen’s clubs, a collection he had much pleasure in updating from time to time. Thus the Alma Tadema ‘Psyche’ over the mantelpiece had been replaced with a distinctly more erotic Sickert nude of the type usually only exported to Paris, and by a variety of Parisian art of lesser distinction in which garters and stockings were the only concession to haute couture.

Faced with this unexpected entertainment the King seemed somewhat dazed, as Auguste entered, but no doubt reflecting that he was used to such exoticisms in Paris, he was politely congratulating his friend on his choice of artistic adornment, and accepting his second brandy.

Equally slightly taken aback by his surroundings, Auguste accepted a cigar from Alexander, whose Russian and English ancestry were both clearly visible in his dark romantic good looks.

‘Like it?’ he asked Auguste, grinning. ‘Victoria thinks it’s wonderful.’

‘Most original.’ Auguste cleared his throat, desperately trying to think of polite conversation in the face (or in some cases rear) of so many flaunted
ladies who were anything but polite. Standing by the mantelpiece, he was unable to avoid close study of the Sickert, which showed a lady on a bed, bursting from her armour all too efficiently. Uncertain of his company, he passed a remark to Oliver on the glories of the dead duck on the mantelpiece so charmingly carved in wood. Oliver chuckled, and he relaxed. ‘I gather you are an old friend of the family?’

‘Not so old. Late forties,’ Oliver informed him, handing Auguste a glass. ‘I’m a regular visitor every six months. I only come here to propose to Laura. She never accepts. Perhaps luckily so.’

‘Luckily?’

‘It would affect my career, Didier.’

‘And that is?’ Auguste brightened, now he knew he was in the company of a fellow member of the working proletariat.

‘I’m a professional bachelor. I’m invited to Society occasions to make up numbers, make amusing conversation – and at Tabor Hall to propose to Laura of course.’

‘Why does she refuse? Does she not love you?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘Waiting for that ne’er-do-well to roll home,’ grunted George, overhearing. ‘Fellow wasn’t a gentleman.’

‘Not in your sense of the word, no,’ Oliver agreed, good-humouredly. ‘But after all, when Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?’

George tried to make sense of this, failed, and dismissed it. ‘Only one sense of the word. Fellow either is or he isn’t and nothing can be done about it.’ George’s eye suddenly fell on Auguste and he realised to his horror that he had been guilty of the ultimate ungentlemanliness of making a guest uncomfortable. ‘Seen this one, have you?’ he asked, to make amends. He swung back a folded panel to reveal a fetching
study of an otherwise naked lady looking winsomely through her plump black-stockinged legs.

‘Er—’ Auguste gulped, reflecting that there were some advantages after all in the restraining armour of the less artistically pleasing portions of a lady’s anatomy. ‘No, I haven’t had the pleasure.’

Alfred sniggered. ‘Rather like our Beatrice, isn’t she?’

Auguste looked aghast, noticing the King in earnest conversation with the lady’s husband, who was much of the King’s own build, despite his being twenty years younger. Harold Janes looked as exciting as a vegetable marrow – and yet, Auguste reflected, the marrow was a much neglected vegetable.

‘Surprised old Bertie hasn’t noticed the resemblance,’ Alfred continued, with uncalled-for familiarity in referring to his monarch.

‘Isn’t it time we rejoined the ladies?’ His father had clearly decided the conversation had gone far enough. Alfred might be twenty-one but he had not yet reached the years of discretion. The young folk of today were far too precocious. ‘Carstairs, keep an eye on Didier, will you?’

‘Did you attend Ascot this season, Mr Didier?’

‘I regret not.’

‘Ah, Goodwood?’

‘We were on our honeymoon.’

No excuse apparently. ‘Henley?’

‘I regret not.’

All conversation ceased.

It seemed exceedingly strange to be dancing not in the servants’ hall, graciously offering to dance with scullerymaids terrified of offending their god, the chef, but to be circling with over one hundred and sixty-eight solid pounds of aristocratic kid-gloved hostess in
your arms, fully aware that one was being judged as to one’s suitability for Society. The stiffly corseted back did not give an inch. Duty was merely being done in dancing with all one’s guests. Even ex-cooks.

The engagement of Victoria and Alexander had duly been announced by a nervous George. His Majesty had then indicated that dancing to the three-piece band that coincidentally happened to be present would not be an affront to his state of mourning, and Priscilla Tabor was congratulating herself that all had passed off excellently. She smiled beneficently on the cook, and swept away, the black feathers adorning her coiffure nodding their approval of her charitable deed.

It was with relief that Auguste took Tatiana in his arms. Gloomy black crepe did little to dampen the fires of curiosity in Tatiana’s eyes.

‘What is it like, this smokehouse?’ she hissed.

‘Not proper for princesses.’

The eyes gleamed. ‘I am no longer a princess, so I can go there.’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Why not?’

‘The adornments are not meant for ladies.’

‘There are pots in the cupboards, you mean?’

‘No,’ he hissed.

‘What then?’

‘The pictures.’

‘Oh. I
must
go. I once met Monsieur Toulouse Lautrec. Such interesting drawings.’

‘These are not of the same quality.’

‘One must experience everything. Where else can I have a smoke?’

He almost lost his footing. ‘
Quoi
?’ he asked faintly.

‘I wanted to find out what it was like, so I asked John for a cigarette. Then I tried a cigar.’

A few judicial words would be spoken to footman
John on his return to Queen Anne’s Gate, Auguste decided. True, his relations with the staff had not so far been easy. The very first week the cook had given notice, on account of Auguste’s interference in matters which were none of his concern. After the third cook had left, even Auguste was forced to admit that it might have something to do with him. Hurt, he had pondered the matter, and discussed it with Tatiana. There was no problem.
She
would cook, she blandly informed her husband. Blinis, for instance. And dumplings. He shuddered, and promptly came to a working arrangement with the fourth cook, whereby Auguste might have the run of the kitchen on the cook’s day off.

‘Oh, Mr Didier, so romantic. It’s like King Cophetua and the Beggarmaid, only the other way round, to see you and the princess together.’

‘Quite,’ said Auguste shortly, regretting his invitation to Beatrice Janes to dance, and eyeing Carstairs enviously as he took Gertie on to the floor. Gertie no longer wore the white rose, he noted sadly. Authority, in the form of Priscilla, had intervened.

Dizzy after wine and the effects of smoke, assaulted by Mrs Janes’ high-pitched giggle that inevitably followed one of her conversational sallies, he yielded her gratefully to the arms of her portly husband, only to find himself accosted by the Dowager Lady Tabor, resplendent in black lace over silk. ‘Do take pity on me, Monsieur Didier. I have not danced with a Frenchman since the fall of the Third Republic.’ Whether a Strauss waltz was the best choice to make her reacquaintance with this experience was doubtful, but her energy seemed greater than his.

‘You’re still with us, I’m glad to see, Mr Didier.’

Uncertain he had heard aright, he gave a noncommittal answer.

‘I thought you might be dead by now.’

He could
not
have heard aright. He had definitely had one brandy too many. ‘What did you say?’ he asked faintly.

Miriam Tabor smiled at him. ‘I said I thought you might be in bed by now. You mustn’t mind an old lady like me. But I’m going to bed anyway.’

‘But the King, my lady, he has not yet retired,’ Auguste blurted out, mindful of protocol.

‘Phooey. He won’t be wanting to take me with him, will he?’ Miriam enquired, unanswerably, but quashing all Auguste’s doubts as to her sanity.

In the event the King retired shortly afterwards, either in pursuit of an early night or after having reached an understanding with Mrs Janes. Black skirts swept the floor in deep curtseys. He was hardly out of earshot before Priscilla Tabor called for the carriages of those guests not staying in the house.

‘Withdrawing time, gentlemen, is eleven-thirty.’

Oliver groaned. ‘Amazing how George lets her get away with it. I think he’s frightened of her. Like Wellington.’

‘
Boeuf Wellington
?’ Auguste asked, still befuddled.

Oliver laughed. ‘The Iron Duke himself. Remember what he said when the troops arrived to fight in the Peninsula? “I don’t know what effect they may have upon the enemy, but, by God they terrify me!”’ He contemplated Priscilla for a moment. ‘The curfew isn’t for billiards. It’s intended for the smokehouse. She locks the doors of the Hall at eleven-thirty, so that the smokehouse has to be vacated by eleven-fifteen at the latest. At eleven twenty-five the path lights are extinguished. Her excuse is the need to prepare for the Sabbath.’

‘Does everyone obey?’ Auguste asked amazed.

Oliver regarded him kindly. ‘Take a close look at
her, Auguste. Would you gainsay Priscilla? She counts every damn man of them, kings, dukes or maharajahs, and locks the front and garden doors herself. Promptly. Fortunately, she doesn’t realise that the staff exist and have their own means of exit. Richey has to lock the smokehouse and put out the lights, after all. One can always get in and out of the kitchens.’

Auguste looked round blearily for his wife but she was nowhere to be seen. She must already have retired. Just one quick game would do no harm, surely, now he was a gentleman. He joined Oliver in the billiard room, and only the chiming of the loud stable clock reminded him of the lateness of the hour. Even so, it was twelve-thirty before he staggered somewhat drunkenly to his room.

He was rather more drunk than he realised for he noticed nothing odd; he vigorously cleaned his teeth several times, and only as he approached the bed did he realise that Tatiana was not in it. He contemplated various courses of action, and decided there was only one, dressed as he now was. He would sit up in bed and wait for her. He was just a little hurt, even in his bemused state. This was the first time, such was her enthusiasm for her newly married status, that he had sat in bed alone. He read a page of Zola upside down, his eyes closed . . .

‘Wake up! Wake up!’

He felt sick, he was being swung from side to side. Was he in a boat? If so, it was on some unknown nightmarish sea. A sea that would not be calm. ‘Auguste,
chéri
, wake up!’

His eyes opened, the room swam round him. Into slow focus came the face of his wife, leaning over him, her eyes full of terror in the light of the candle she was holding. He tried to force himself awake. ‘What is
wrong? And why—?’ His eyes went to her dress. She was still in her black evening gown with a cloak around her shoulders.

‘There is a body in the smokehouse. Darling, you must come, please.’

He shut his eyes thankfully again. For a moment he thought she’d said . . .

‘Wake
up
.’ Reluctantly he opened them once more.

‘A body? Someone is drunk?’ Confused by dreams, it did not occur to him to question his wife as to how she came to be discovering drunken gentlemen in smokehouses.

‘No, Auguste.
Dead
,’ she told him quietly. This was one new experience she did not relish.

Save for his wife’s obviously confident belief that he was well competent to remove such horrors as dead bodies from smokehouses, he would still have thought this part of his nightmare.

‘An accident? A joke?’ he asked without hope, seeing any chance of nestling down beneath these inviting bedclothes with an equally inviting wife vanishing rapidly.

‘No, Auguste. It is a
real
body.’

At last he believed her. ‘No,’ he shouted firmly. ‘No more dead bodies.’

Then he heard the real fear in her voice. ‘Please,
daragoy
. Someone must do something and I told Alexander it must be you.’

She began to drag Auguste out of bed. He contemplated the thought of going in his nightwear across that murky blackness to investigate a body, and decided against it. He lit the oil lamp and clambered into clothes. Should he wear deep mourning, he thought, still slightly confused. No, because doubtless, he told himself, this was some mistake. Men did not die in smokehouses. They got drunk in smokehouses,
they were sick in smokehouses, they fell asleep in smokehouses. They did not die there.