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

‘So you try to stop me from seeing my own cousin? Are you jealous of Alexander? You wish to cage me up like a poor little bird?’

She did not look in the least like a poor little bird, more like an uncaged tiger.

Two could lose their tempers, especially after virtually no sleep.

‘If you will creep around like a housemaid—’ Auguste shouted.

‘Huh! You know all about housemaids creeping around, eh? Creeping into your bed.’

‘That is not so!’ He was outraged.

‘Oh, Mr Auguste,’ she mimicked. ‘You’re so handsome, so clever.’

‘And if I am?’ he retorted, then broke off aghast. ‘Tatiana, we are
quarrelling
.’ Never, never had he imagined such a thing could happen.

Her eyes flashed. ‘Naturally. We are married.’

He was bereft of words. He left the room in silent dignity, only to find her following him, though not with any sign of contrition. The air was icy between them as they reached the carriages. He turned to escort her to a carriage, only to see her staring in rapture at Alexander. For a moment, he was about to erupt in fury, then he realised it wasn’t Alexander that held her attention. It was his motorcar.

Forbidden by her father to ride in such contraptions, she was consequently as drawn to them as to Mr Marx, and to this one, it appeared, in particular.

Alexander, seeing her bemused expression, swept her a deep bow. ‘Would you care to accompany me,
dearest cousin? Victoria has been commanded to ride in the family carriage.’

‘I would.’ All trace of the tigress was gone, as she climbed with alacrity into the undoubtedly graceful green two-seater. It chugged into life and juddered along the Tabor drive. Auguste’s own carriage, shared with Mr Richey, the butler, a footman and the King’s aide-de-camp, the first two commanded by Cobbold to attend in case they recognised a visitor to the Hall, followed in its wake. A definite smirk had crossed Richey’s face as Auguste climbed in, as if confirming some private opinion of his own. Auguste gritted his teeth and proceeded to ask questions about visitors to the Hall. They could hardly not tell him. He was a guest, and whether they liked it or not, a gentleman.

It was with great satisfaction that, as their carriage turned to climb the hill out of the nearby village of Kirkby Malham, Auguste saw a stationary motorcar. De Dion Boutons, it appeared, found the incline too great and would have to take the lower much longer road. He did not wave.

At Settle Tatiana greeted her husband with enthusiasm as though motorcars oiled all troubled waters.

‘Just think,’ she informed him, ‘the front axles are separate from the drive shaft. Isn’t that exciting?’

‘What does it mean?’

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted, and Auguste meanly laughed. ‘But I’m going to find out,’ she added under her breath as he walked off to greet Cobbold at the Settle mortuary.

‘Is it really necessary for the ladies to have to undergo this ordeal?’ Harold Janes demanded ponderously of the inspector.

‘Yes, sir. We still have no identification.’

‘It’s quite outrageous.’ What he really considered
outrageous, Auguste suspected, was Beatrice bewailing the fact that she had wanted to stay behind with His Majesty.

Auguste watched the group’s varying reactions as they inspected the corpse, which now awaited the arrival of Chief Inspector Rose before undergoing post mortem examination. Laura showed no emotion at all, her mother Miriam, who had insisted on attending, looked merely curious. Victoria was the most visibly affected, clutching Alexander’s hand for moral support. Harold Janes registered annoyance, Oliver looked shaken, Gertie refused to look, burying her head in Cyril’s shoulder. Cyril was more concerned with Kitten than with the corpse.

‘I’m so sorry, Inspector,’ Miriam informed him graciously. ‘I wish we could have identified him for you. But I’m afraid not one of us knows who he was.’

At the very moment that King Edward VII, congratulating himself on a lucky escape, was enjoying a hearty luncheon of oysters, truffled mutton chops, and
soufflé de chocolat
on the royal train, which had soared triumphantly over the spectacular viaducts of the Ribblesdale Valley line on its way to Scotland, Chief Inspector Egbert Rose was enjoying a rather less grand luncheon of tripe and onions on the Great Northern railway to Leeds. His train was dutifully chugging rather than soaring. Its cook must know Edith, he thought sourly and unusually disloyally, not to mention Mr Pinpole; he chewed his way on through the tripe with the determination of a Stanley in search of Livingstone.

Luncheon at Tabor Hall, while by no means comparable with Rose’s tripe, also fell short of the standards which His Majesty was now enjoying. Haute cuisine was not Mr Breckles’ forte, Auguste decided.
This
blanquette
resembled English blancmange in its blandness, instead of achieving a subtle blending of flavours. Yet Breckles possessed all the characteristics of a good chef. Auguste considered this conundrum. Perhaps he would request the honour of being allowed further access to his host’s kitchens. After all, he thought glumly, the remainder of their stay could well be longer than intended. Gone were his expectations of being home in time for Cook’s Day Off on Tuesday. Queen Anne’s Gate seemed a depressingly long way away. Yes, he would certainly seek to widen Mr Breckles’ range. And, after all, if the corpse did prove to have been murdered, where better to seek accurate information on Tabor Hall’s inmates than in its servants’ hall?

He jumped as his host addressed him. ‘The poor fellow was obviously here to visit another house and picked the wrong one.’

‘Could he have been here to visit one of your servants or anyone living on the estate?’ Auguste asked.

‘He was a gentleman, Mr Didier,’ Priscilla pointed out, her tone suggesting no gentleman would have asked such a question.

George looked up from his
blanquette
. ‘I say, that’s it, by Jove! He must have been visiting someone else. The lodgekeeper, or the gamekeeper.’

‘Nonsense,’ his mother pointed out. ‘The tailcoat was far too good.’

Her daughter-in-law overruled her. ‘I believe George is correct. I trust you will direct your enquiries in that direction, Mr Didier.’

‘Mother has a point,’ Cyril said suddenly. ‘The cut of those trousers wasn’t half bad. Trifle old-fashioned, but then he wasn’t exactly a chick, was he? Someone’s hand-me-downs, maybe,’ he finished lamely, as there was a silence. The invitation to remember the terrible
sight of the corpse resulted in several sets of cutlery being hastily laid on plates.

‘Please don’t start talking about that poor man again,’ Victoria begged. ‘This has been the most horrid party ever. Alexander and I have our engagement celebrated in deep mourning, and now we have the death to follow it.’

Beatrice giggled, and Priscilla made a rare mistake. ‘I see nothing amusing in my daughter’s ill-timed remarks, Mrs Janes.’

The merry giggle was cut short, as Beatrice took in that she, intimate friend of His Majesty, was being reproved. Large tears formed in her eyes, and without a word she rose to her feet. ‘We shall leave,’ her husband hastily informed the company, picking up the unspoken message. ‘We are not welcome here.’ With a regretful eye on the Stilton, he held back his wife’s chair for her to make a sweeping exit.

Tatiana took pity on Priscilla’s dilemma. Public retreat was impossible for her, yet social ruin stared her in the face: not only had the King left early, but now his favourite was threatening to follow suit. ‘Please do stay, Mrs Janes. I was so relying on you to explain to me about London society – and the latest fashions. As you are one of the leaders of London society, I had hoped for guidance.’

Auguste, not for the first time, admired his wife’s social quickwittedness. Tatiana had no interest in fashions whatsoever.

Beatrice paused, turned, and graciously resumed her seat. Tatiana was after all a relation (of some sort) to His Majesty.
And
a princess, even if a somewhat unusual one, who chose to go to smokehouses in the middle of the night.

Tatiana, true to her word, bore Beatrice away after
luncheon, her arm firmly clasped in hers. They made an incongruous couple, Auguste thought: Tatiana tall, slender and firm of stride; Beatrice short, plump and definitely a trotter. He began to walk into the library to while away the time until Egbert should arrive.

‘Ah, Didier!’ Auguste’s heart sank. Was he still to be allowed no peace for reflection? ‘Fancy a game of billiards?’ His host approached him eagerly.

‘In fact, I—’

‘Good, good,’ George said heartily, shepherding him towards the billiard room. He probably didn’t know where the library was, Auguste thought sourly. ‘What do you make of this rum business, eh?’ George asked him anxiously, having put a cue in his hand as if to prevent escape. ‘Getting to the bottom of it, are you?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

‘George,’ his host said enthusiastically. ‘Call me George.’

‘I’m honoured.’

‘Deuced odd, corpse turning up in our smokehouse like that. Had a foreign look about him, didn’t you think?’

‘A touch of the sun, certainly. Not from Yorkshire.’

George laughed immoderately at this feeble witticism. ‘Know who I thought it was at first?’ he said a little nervously. ‘That fellow Mariot.’

‘Who?’

‘Laura’s chap. Can’t be, of course. She’d have recognised him, though he left all of twenty years ago. Just a stupid fancy of mine.’

‘When you say “left”—’ Auguste began.

‘Wanted to marry her. As Priscilla said at the time, she’d be wanting to marry the cook next.’

‘Some people do,’ said Auguste drily.

Belatedly George realised he had blundered. ‘Things
were different then, of course,’ he added hastily. People are more broadminded now.’

Auguste hadn’t noticed.

‘Anyway,’ George continued hastily, ‘Priscilla made her see it wouldn’t do. He saw it himself, to do him justice. He had no money. No prospects. A sort of bookish navvy. Archaeologists they call them.’

‘Not
Robert
Mariot?’ Auguste asked astounded. ‘Not Mariot of the later excavations at Troy? And now Babylon?’

‘Heard of him, have you?’

‘Yes,’ said Auguste simply. ‘Most people have.’ He was thinking rapidly. It would not be too difficult to get a photograph of Robert Mariot. Just to be sure . . .

With some difficulty he extricated himself from billiards on the plea that he needed to speak to Tatiana. George, it seemed, was only too happy to come with him to the salon. It appeared he needed a word with Beatrice. Beatrice was, however, alone in the Blue Salon, deep in the
Illustrated London News
– the fashion column.

‘The Princess has gone to the village. On foot,’ Beatrice added, somewhat perplexed at this unusual activity. ‘She wished me to go as well, but my shoes—’ She looked at the white satin slippers, as Auguste speedily eluded his host’s ‘Perhaps I’ll come—’

He was alone at last. For a few moments only. Hurrying down the steps behind him, came Alfred Tabor.

‘Ah, Didier.’

Auguste turned. ‘Alfred,’ he said somewhat coldly, ‘if you are intending to accompany me, please do not concern yourself. I am quite able to find my own way.’

‘No bother,’ announced Alfred cheerily. ‘Noblesse oblige and all that.’

‘Very well. We’ll go this way.’ Meanly, Auguste set
off on the path to Malham most certain of providing mud and puddles. Alfred was shaken but undeterred.

‘What do you think are the odds it was murder, Didier?’ he began eagerly.

‘Your mother seems certain it is suicide,’ Auguste reminded him.

‘She would be, wouldn’t she?’

For one startled moment Auguste wondered if young Alfred were suggesting his mother had stooped to murder.

‘She’s afraid it’s her skeleton in the closet.’

‘Skeleton?’ asked Auguste with undisguised fascination.

‘Uncle Oscar, her brother. He hasn’t been heard of since the Cripple Creek Gold Rush in Colarado. The mater and her folks come from Philadelphia, but Oscar went to the bad. Grandfather threw him out without a dollar, so he went hunting for a few on his own. He turned up here about twelve years ago on the scrounge. Father was afraid he’d come to stay, but off he went and we heard he’d gone to Cripple Creek. He sent us a photograph. You can have a look at it. It’s on the wall in the back corridor to the servants’ quarters. He’s holding up a lump of rock, grinning like a Cheshire Cat.’

‘So he made good?’

‘Oscar couldn’t keep a fortune if he stored it in Fort Knox. Someday he’d come back, that’s what Father always said.’

‘But your parents would have recognised him.’

‘Who’s to say they didn’t?’ Alfred winked.

‘Why am I accompanied everywhere like an English cod by parsley sauce?’ Auguste demanded of his wife as she leant over the small stone bridge to admire the swift-flowing Malham beck. His voice rose sharply, to
the great interest of two urchins playing with an iron hoop, and several worthies of Malham village on their way to the Buck Inn. Only with Tatiana in view had he shaken off the obnoxious Alfred.

‘They like you, Auguste. And why not? So do I,’ his wife told him fondly, putting her arm round him.