Murder Makes an Entree (22 page)

He puzzled about it when they had left. Two things occurred to him: firstly, that they were extremely anxious to divert attention
away from Mrs Langham, which was natural enough. The second was the stirrings of a memory in his mind.

He returned thoughtfully to the
Saint Pierre au gratin
, only to discover that matters had not progressed well in his absence. He passed Sid and Algernon on the stairs having a
heated argument, which stopped abruptly as he appeared. Alfred was nowhere to be seen, Emily and Heinrich were bickering over
the mayonnaise, and James Pegg and Alice were silently working together on a salad.

At luncheon there was an odd restlessness among his pupils, which Auguste attributed to excitement at seeing what a true
salade niçoise
should taste like. Alice explained the real reason: ‘We’re all going bathing, Mr Didier. Why don’t you come? Miss Multhrop
will be there,’ she teased.

Yes, why didn’t he?

‘That would be most pleasant,’ he said, gratified. ‘I have to visit Inspector Rose at three-thirty, but there is time to bathe
as well.’

As if in anticipation of the coming treat, relations had thawed between the pupils. Alice now sat next to Alfred, Heinrich
next to Emily, Algernon was chatting to Sid. Only James remained as abstracted as he had all day yesterday. In the evening
Auguste had found him wandering around on his own. Auguste glanced at him curiously. Perhaps it was love of Araminta or perhaps,
glancing at Alfred, it was pique that his lordship had reverted to Alice. Perhaps James still secretly adored Alice?

There was a scramble to finish luncheon, and due regard was not paid in Auguste’s view to the seriousness of the John
Dory as a fish. The usual critique was reserved for the evening, in view of the common abstraction. Coffee was taken amid
a rush to wash up the dishes, and at last, at two o’clock, they were free.

‘It’s too nice an afternoon to spend inside listening to a lecture,’ announced a Lioniser suddenly.

Mr Multhrop groaned. ‘No, no, the sun will hurt your complexion, dear madam. It is bad to take too much sun.’ He had a splendid
tea arranged and could see his profits disappearing yet further.

But it was too late. The idea had borne fruit. Yesterday had been the group’s first taste of real sunshine and comparative
warmth and it had fired their enthusiasm. There was a sudden rebellion – or, rather, a retreat. Faced with a lecture on ‘Dickens’s
Use of Language in
Hard Times
’ or the delights of the Broadstairs sands, the Lionisers did not hesitate. They were going to break out of their self-imposed
cage. Bathing, which before leaving London had been deemed suitable only for the lower classes, suddenly seemed a most adventurous
and desirable way of spending an afternoon. Bathing dresses had been surreptitiously acquired, those provided in the machines,
Araminta had assured them, being definitely not suitable for ladies and gentlemen of their status. Being now the proud possessors
of these shocking and daring items, they were determined to try them out.

‘After all, bathing is a Dickensian-approved activity,’ pointed out one person, anxious to appease her conscience. ‘He did
write to that American professor that Boz “disappears and presently emerges from a bathing machine, and may be seen – a kind
of salmon-coloured porpoise – splashing about in the ocean”.’

‘He bathed naked as was the custom, madam, for both men and women,’ pointed out Oliver wickedly and
grandly. ‘We must do the same, to be true to the Master.’

‘Oh!’ cried the good lady, shocked, flustered and titillated.

‘He doesn’t mean it,’ soothed Angelina.

‘Don’t I?’ muttered Oliver, seizing her hand.

The attendant of the bathing machines was overwhelmed by the sudden rush for service as first the Lionisers’ committee, then
Auguste Didier and his retinue arrived, with the rest of the Lionisers in hot pursuit. The latter were forced to repair to
the waiting area where they enviously sipped ginger beer while waiting their turn and watching the old horses pull the machines
into the water, one after another.

Auguste and Sid had made the mistake of sharing a machine. Since the machine began to move towards the water as soon as they
were inside, changing in its damp, smelly and restricted confines was none too easy, despite the lure of their newly acquired
bathing costumes. Auguste wondered if his blue one-piece button-to-neck stockinette costume were not too daring with its knee-length
shorts and short sleeves. What would happen when this material got wet? He was rather glad that Araminta would be some way
removed from him, and reflected that cold water might be no bad thing. Sid had chosen plain black drawers, constructed from
his granny’s old skirt.

One by one, the men descended, Heinrich in demure body-concealing maroon jersey, Alfred in rakish red and white striped drawers
with plain red jersey top, James in black stockinette, and Algernon in garish green stripes. Oliver was dashing in blue serge,
Samuel Pipkin pumpkin-like in large enveloping flannel; Lord Beddington rivalled Sid in black drawers, though it is doubtful
whether they were made from his grandmother’s skirt.

The men’s eyes automatically swivelled left to the women’s section at a tasteful thirty yards’ distance. Heinrich felt possessively
protective as he recognised Emily’s head in a mob cap, the rest of her splashing up and down in grey serge
knickers, tunic and blouse and black stockings. Alice, more sporty, boasted navy blue knickerbockers and striped jersey, without
stockings, and serviceable yellow jaconet bathing cap.

‘They’re looking at us!’ screamed Emily, promptly disappearing from view underwater; Alice waved to Alfred and promptly followed
her example, as a scream came from behind. Gwendolen Figgis-Hewett had stepped out of her machine into three feet of water.
All eyes were on her in a bright red cretonne two-piece and Normandy satin hat with wide frill. Gwendolen did like to be beside
the seaside. She jumped up and down experimentally in the briny, took a step further full of confidence, then further and
further still. Forgetting all about her need to keep one foot on the ground and splashing wildly, she announced she was swimming,
and then shrieked. She was out of her depth.

‘Help!’ Her hand was thrust up.

Gentlemen dithered. Was it a greater crime to let her drown or to cross the great divide to the women’s section to rescue
her? Fortunately they were not called upon for the supreme test, however, for Alice scooped her up from behind and tried to
propel her into safer water. It was not easy for Gwendolen seemed hysterical and determined to avoid arrest. Emily, swimming
vigorously, came to assist her, and together they managed to reach shallow water, where Gwendolen promptly denied she had
been in danger. The men resumed their bobbing about.

‘Angelina!’ shouted Oliver as he caught sight of her trim figure clad in pink cotton. She did not hear him and vigorously
continued splashing. The sea was a mass of foam with so many bodies stirring it up, and some of the men ventured further out
to try their skills at swimming. Of them, only Alfred, Auguste and James were adept. The rest bobbed up and down at chin height,
or remained by the bathing-machine steps.

Auguste found himself caught up in the general excitement
and cursed his heavy waterlogged costume. In his childhood swimming at Cannes there had been no need for these ridiculous
costumes. There was no great excitement about swimming either. One swam because one had to. But then there were no Aramintas
at Cannes. She was a vision of loveliness with her curls peeping out from her mob cap – and oh, those beautiful arms emerging
from the short sleeves of her blouse. He wondered what would happen if he swam to her underwater and surprised her, and decided
he would probably be imprisoned by Naseby for rape.

He was the first to emerge from the water, partly because he had an appointment with Rose, partly because he could see Araminta
leaving. True, he had told James Pegg he would be available to discuss a problem with him after bathing, but now that must
wait until he had seen Rose. He had certainly not drawn James’s attention to Araminta’s departure – or his own.

Hastily he dried himself on the thin towel and clambered into clothes that stuck to every inch of his damp body. Pulling on
his socks and shoes, he opened the door to realise that, since Sid was still in the water, so was the bathing machine. He
had three feet of shallow water to cross – and there was Araminta floating across the sands. Hastily he whipped off shoes
and socks and prepared to paddle.

‘You’re too early, Auguste,’ Rose said sourly. It was all too clear Auguste had been out enjoying the pleasures of Broadstairs,
one of which was just disappearing up the main staircase, folding up her parasol. ‘Twitch hasn’t heard from the Factory yet.’

‘About what,
mon ami
?’

Rose told him. ‘Grooms,’ he said. ‘Amazing. James Pegg. But I still don’t see
how
he could have done it.’

Auguste looked unhappy. One of
his
pupils? It reflected
on his honour. He could not, would not believe it. ‘
Mon ami
, I have an idea,’ he announced.

Three minutes later they were in the still-locked room lately occupied by Sir Thomas Throgmorton. Auguste marched to the bathroom.
‘In here,’ he said. ‘I think – yes.’ His memory had not played him false. There it was in the cabinet amid the long row of
bottles.

‘Grinrod’s Remedy for Spasms,’ said Rose. ‘You think he took some? How does that help us?’

‘Because this remedy, Egbert, contains
morphine
.’

‘So?’

‘Your analyst’s report about atropine stated that morphine is sometimes a treatment. Suppose he took it thinking that his
malaise stemmed from his gastric trouble? What with the coffee, it would help to slow down the symptoms even further. He was
drinking a great deal, he felt ill – pain, burning, hoarseness. But the full force of the poison was staved off for a while.
Atropine affects different people in different ways, if you recall. This would make it possible that the poison
was
administered earlier in the meal. The soup, the salad even.’

Rose considered. ‘It’s
possible
. I’ll say that. So our thesis is he was Throgmorton’s groom. Runs off with the money, comes back to this country thinking
he’s safe after ten years, changes his name perhaps, then you announce
he’ll
be waiting on Sir Thomas down here. Daren’t risk being seen and so he makes his plans. Yes, as soon as I hear from the Factory,
we’d better have a word with Mr James Pegg.’

Sergeant Stitch came marching into the bathroom, to find Egbert Rose. He did not for the moment notice Auguste. When he did,
his cup of woe was full. Naseby would have sympathised.

The rest of the revellers emerged dripping from the brine. Their clothes felt damp, corsets defied fastening by chilling
fingers, socks and stockings were recalcitrant, the bathing attendant was shouting impatiently. One by one they emerged down
the steps onto the sands, glowing. They had bathed. They were ready to enjoy the fruits of victory, and to listen to Uncle
Mack’s Broadstairs Minstrels.

One bathing machine, however, had remained in the water. So had its occupant.

Picking his way around the fishing nets, Auguste leant over the rail of the pier towards his native France as if by so doing
he could distance himself a little from yesterday’s tragedy. There was no escaping the fact that, short of being kidnapped,
James Pegg had tragically drowned. It still seemed impossible to believe that he would not once more come marching into the
kitchens in Lord Wittisham’s wake.

Auguste was conscious that he had manufactured an excuse to come down to the pier early this Friday morning in order to get
away from the sombre atmosphere in Blue Horizons. Even fish failed to hold allure for him this morning and he was almost relieved
to find that William and Joe were for once not at their usual station at the end of the pier. He gazed out across the sea,
and went over yesterday’s events once more. The tide had been going out, which made accident more likely, and indeed how could
anyone have murdered Pegg so publicly? Yet reason told him that where murder had so recently occurred, accident would be a
strange coincidence.

Rose had been accompanied by Naseby on his visit to Blue Horizons yesterday evening; Naseby had scarcely concealed his glee
as regards the effects of the ramifications of James Pegg’s disappearance on Auguste. ‘Bad business,’ he’d said to Rose, rubbing
his hands briskly. ‘Bad for our friend.’

He would have been surprised to know with what feeling Auguste shared that view. He blamed himself bitterly for
not having waited for Pegg at the bathing machines. By then he might already have been dead of course, but there was no way
of knowing. Auguste felt responsible since Pegg was one of his flock. And suppose it were murder? Once again he would be a
suspect. Suppose someone had held James’s head underwater until he drowned? But surely only an excellent swimmer could have
done that? With sinking heart, Auguste realised that he was one of the few strong swimmers there.

Rose’s lean body had reclined, deceptively relaxed, in the shabby armchair at Blue Horizons. ‘Any of you recall him talking
about going anywhere? Any of you near him in the water?’ he threw out casually, sipping a cup of Auguste’s camomile tea. First
time he’d ever drunk it, although Auguste was keen enough to hand it out at times of crisis. He wouldn’t be repeating the
experience.

‘No, and we were in the women’s section,’ pointed out Emily, setting clear demarcation lines. ‘Me and Alice,’ to get it entirely
straight.

Rose smiled at her. ‘Thank you, Miss Dawson. Did you notice Mr Pegg at all?’

Two vigorous shakes of the head from Emily and Alice.

‘Mr Didier?’

‘He could swim well,’ said Auguste, rushing to get his ordeal over. ‘He was swimming next to me out into the deeper water.’

‘You didn’t see him getting into difficulties, calling at all.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘No. There was a lot happening. People were splashing and shouting. There was much noise,’ he explained unhappily, as though
this carefree behaviour were in some way disrespectful to the dead.

‘Anyone know if he has family? I’ll need his home address.’

‘I will give it to you, Inspector.’ Alfred stirred feebly from
his dejection. ‘He has a father,’ he managed to say. ‘Also a sister. He – he spoke to me of them.’ Alice held his hand comfortingly.

‘We’ll need them here for the inquest – that’s when we find the body, of course.’

‘Inquest?’ queried Heinrich with foreboding. ‘But he has probably drowned.’

‘Sudden death. There has to be an inquest in this country,’ said Rose briskly, ‘to decide whether it’s accident, suicide –
or murder. Just like there was on Sir Thomas.’

Everyone glanced quickly round at his neighbours, but there seemed little surprise at the introduction of the word murder.

‘You don’t think,’ said Emily, a hopeful note in her tone, ‘that he could have killed himself?’

‘Had he reason to?’

‘He didn’t like me,’ said Alice rather plaintively, ‘or, rather, he didn’t like me being friendly with Alfred, but I don’t
think he’d kill himself over it. Why should he?’

‘He was very quiet recently. He obviously had something on his mind,’ said Algernon offhandedly.

‘Did he talk to any of you about any problems he might have had? Personal ones?’

‘Only those to do with cooking,’ said Emily helpfully. ‘And I don’t think he’d kill himself over a soufflé. He wasn’t as dedicated
as Mr Didier.’

Rose caught Auguste’s eyes and looked hastily away. Odd how in the middle of something as serious as a death investigation,
it was easier, not harder, to laugh. Some kind of antidote perhaps.

‘I looked in his room,’ Alfred was saying. ‘There wasn’t any last letter to me, or anyone else. But I know he wouldn’t go
without saying goodbye.’

‘I think you’ll find he’s been murdered all right,’ Algernon stated.

‘How could anyone murder him?’ asked Emily stoutly. ‘He was a big man. If Heinrich had tried to kill him, he could have easily
resisted. No, he’s just decided to go off somewhere.’

‘Emily, I cannot swim,’ Heinrich reminded her sharply.

Auguste smiled to himself. Emily was about as much help as Araminta in a crisis.

‘Who swam out with him besides Mr Didier?’ enquired Rose.

‘Mr Michaels came a little way out, I think,’ said Auguste.

‘Alfred, you swam out,’ Algernon reminded him helpfully.

‘I may have done,’ he muttered, ‘but I didn’t see James. I wish I had. The – um – ladies were shouting.’ His face was consumed
with renewed unhappiness.

‘No use looking at me, Inspector, I wuz ’anging on to the machine. Keep yer feet on the ground. That’s the best way to swim,’
offered Sid virtuously.

‘Where were you, Mr Peckham?’ asked Rose, not losing sight of the fact that helpful as he was about others, he was somewhat
circumspect about his own movements.

‘I can’t remember,’ Algernon responded. ‘But look at me. Is it likely I could have drowned James Pegg?’ They appraised his
slight figure and remembered James’s. It was unlikely in the extreme. Algernon looked triumphant. ‘No, Inspector, old Pegg’s
just slipped off to watch cricket. Couldn’t stand any more fish.’

Auguste Didier fixed him with a baleful eye. Algernon ignored it.

‘Pegg?’ Samuel Pipkin was asking one hour later, after Rose and Auguste had walked slowly to the Imperial, averting their
eyes from the gleaming dark ocean.

‘One of the waiters here last Saturday, sir,’ replied Rose. ‘A large stocky man, about thirty. Dark.’

‘I don’t notice waiters,’ said Samuel.

‘I remember him,’ said Gwendolen suddenly. ‘He was the young man served us the entrée. I remember his hands. Big strong hands.’
There was a wistful note in her voice. The late Mr Figgis-Hewett had not been conspicuous for physique.

‘Do any of you remember seeing him in the water? He was a good swimmer, I believe. Mr Didier informs me, for instance, that
you swam a little way, Mr Michaels.’

‘Do you?’ enquired Oliver of Auguste with interest. ‘If you say so, then no doubt I did. I was aware there were several of
us, but I really did not have my mind—’ He stopped. He could hardly say that he was too intent on trying to catch a glimpse
of Angelina even if it was only her eye. This poor fellow Pegg was dead, after all. ‘Inspector, I suppose he couldn’t have
been your murderer, could he? Perhaps he took this way out?’

‘Technically it’s possible, Mr Michaels. He might have managed to slip something in the entrée, but for the life of me I can’t
see how. Yet it’s an odd way to commit suicide in the middle of a group of people. He left no note either and that’s not usual.’

‘Perhaps he couldn’t write,’ said Gwendolen brightly. She had been reading too many Dickens novels, thought Rose. Hadn’t she
heard of Forster’s Education Act?

‘I saw him,’ rumbled Lord Beddington unexpectedly. ‘I was standing in the water by the machines and saw this big chap swim
out.’ He remembered the moment vividly. Those damned drawers of his were waterlogged, and he couldn’t move anywhere.

‘Anything more?’

‘Lost sight of him. Mrs Figgis-Hewett screamed and we all turned towards the sound. Remember thinking he might have gone to
help her.’

‘Did he, Mrs Figgis-Hewett?’

‘No,’ she said, outraged. ‘He was a
man
. Anyway, I didn’t need help, as I told the young person who seized hold of me.’

‘Mr Pipkin, did you see anything?’

‘No,’ he replied shortly. ‘I remained in the shallows.’ He could hardly add that he had been thinking about Dickens and his
glorious passages in
David Copperfield
of the East Anglian coast and Mr Peggotty.

‘This,’ said Rose as they had left the Lioniser, ‘doesn’t look good for your pupils, Auguste.’

‘It could be one of the Lionisers,’ said Auguste desperately. ‘Perhaps James was blackmailing one of them, over knowledge
of the murder of Sir Thomas.’

‘Unlikely. Especially as the Lionisers’ last safe chance of murder would have been at the drinks gathering beforehand. Pegg
was not present then.’

‘But he may have known
something
,’ insisted Auguste, unwilling to face the fact that one of his group could have slaughtered a colleague.

‘It’s possible, yes. We’ll go over his room in the morning,’ Rose conceded. ‘You’ve locked it?’

Auguste nodded. ‘It may not be blackmail,’ he offered suddenly. ‘I don’t see him as a blackmailer. Perhaps he saw or knew
something he did not understand, and wished to seek an explanation before he came to us. That seems more like James.’

‘Never mind the character, stick to the alleybi,’ quoted Rose suddenly. ‘There, that’s your Dickens for you.
The Pickwick Papers
. Pickwick didn’t have a corpse on his hands though,’ he added morosely.

‘Neither do we – yet,’ Auguste pointed out. ‘At least,’ he amended, thinking of Sir Thomas, ‘we don’t have James Pegg’s body.’

At this moment Araminta whisked across the foyer. With a jolt, Auguste realised that not only had she been present but that,
even worse, she might well not yet have heard of the tragedy. He hurried to her, concerned.

‘Araminta, you have heard the news of your friend Mr Pegg?’ He held her hands.

‘Mr Pegg?’ She looked bewildered and gently he explained.

‘Oh dear,’ she said inadequately. ‘I don’t think I can help you,’ she added doubtfully, extending her full charm on Rose who
was hovering behind Auguste.

‘You saw nothing of him while he was in the water?’

‘I was with the other ladies,’ she pointed out.

‘And your eyes did not stray towards the gentlemen?’ asked Auguste a little wistfully.

‘No. Why should they?’ she enquired. Then: ‘Oh, poor Mr Pegg.’ She hesitated. ‘It might have been a cow that trampled him.’

They stared at her blankly.

‘People often take their animals down there to bathe. Horses and cattle. Even elephants from the circus. But now I remember,’
she smiled her lovely smile – ‘the Pier and Harbour Commission have forbidden it after one o’clock. Papa told me so. So that’s
all right, isn’t t?’ She seemed somewhat anxious on this point. ‘There, I’ve solved your case.’

Such was her charm that Auguste fervently thanked her. Happy that she had been of assistance, she passed on her way like Robert
Browning’s Pippa. It was only when he saw Rose’s wry smile that it dawned on Auguste that she had said not a word about Pegg
and her relationship to him. Fleetingly he wondered if anyone could be that artless, but he pushed the uncharitable thought
away.

‘What authority do you have,’ snarled Naseby, ‘for allowing a principal suspect to be present?’

‘Mine,’ said Rose wearily, no stomach for the fight. ‘Have a word with the Commissioner if you wish.’

Auguste was paying no attention to Naseby. As he had
returned from the pier, his attention had been drawn to the small group on the sands. He recognised Egbert and he knew there
could be only one reason for his presence. Unwillingly, legs like lead, he went to join him. Now at his feet was the body
of James Pegg, wearing only half of his bathing costume, skin wrinkled and pale. Auguste felt momentarily sick, then an overwhelming
emotion. What an end to hopes, to a life. No more would James Pegg cook delicious venison, or pheasants. No more game pies.
Auguste had never felt
close
to Pegg, but that was immaterial. He was dead, and pointlessly dead – unless of course he was Sir Thomas’s murderer. Yet
somehow, looking at the lifeless body, Auguste could not believe it.

‘Broadstairs won’t like this,’ the doctor announced after the body had been borne away for post-mortem. ‘Not on their sands.
Good job it happened early.’

‘Pegg would be pleased not to have caused too much of a disturbance,’ said Rose sarcastically.

The doctor glanced at him. ‘Job getting on top of you, is it?’ he remarked kindly.

‘He could be right,’ Rose commented to Auguste after doctor, body and Naseby had departed for police headquarters. ‘There’s
something even nastier about murder when everyone else is enjoying themselves in the sun. First, it doesn’t seem real, and
then when it does, the sun makes it all the worse.’

‘If James was the killer of Sir Thomas—’

‘You know as well as I do he wasn’t, Auguste. And this wasn’t an accident either.’

‘But how could it be murder? It would require two people at least to hold him down and that would be noticed.’

Rose disliked modern forms of communication, but telegrams were hardly the most expressive means of obtaining information.
He failed to reach Miss Throgmorton
by telephone on Wednesday or Thursday; now the funeral was over, surely she would be at home. Clearing his throat, he once
again took off the telephone receiver in Multhrop’s office and Beatrice Throgmorton’s voice came over stridently.

‘Your father had a groom,’ yelled Rose – it was a long way to Buckinghamshire.

‘He had many grooms,’ replied Beatrice. ‘I hear you quite well, Inspector.’ Her own voice was nearly as loud as his.

‘About ten years ago. One who stole money in bonds from your father.’