Murder Makes an Entree (27 page)

‘You still hold Freimüller?’ asked Auguste as he arrived at the Imperial and joined Egbert.

He nodded. ‘He’s still talking about duels and laudanum in the coffee. Maintaining he went into a blind rage at the sound
of Throgmorton’s name and resolved to get his own back in his own kind of duel.’

‘An uneven one,’ observed Auguste. ‘That is what is strange. Have you told Miss Throgmorton yet?’

‘She’s going into the Factory tomorrow morning to see Twitch. Not that I can see she can help us more than she has. She wasn’t
born when the Freimüller affair took place – if it did of course, we’ve still to check it – and she was a child when the groom
went off with the bonds. If that’s still relevant. His widow must be a rich woman now,’ he added absently.

‘It depends on what happened out there. Did she murder her husband for money or for some other reason?’

Rose stared thoughtfully at Auguste. ‘That’s a point. I’ll get on to Inspector Chesnais myself.’ He eyed Mr Multhrop’s telephone
with trepidation. The thought of shouting all the way to Paris was daunting. ‘She’d be about twenty-eight or -nine now, this
Elizabeth Stebbins.’

‘We have two – no, three young ladies of that age,’ observed Auguste.

Rose nodded. ‘Including Mrs Langham, yes, but I don’t see our elegant Mrs Langham as the former wife of a groom, do you, for
all she knows France and French?’

‘No,’ said Auguste. ‘I agree.’

‘That leaves Miss Fenwick and Miss Dawson.’

‘There is a fondness between Mr Freimüller and Miss Dawson that I have noticed since our arrival here.’

‘It would have to be a very great fondness to put a rope round his own neck,’ observed Rose ironically. ‘A governess and an
army officer’s daughter,’ he said, looking at his notes. ‘Check out their backgrounds, did you, when you took them on?’

‘
Mon ami
, you have no idea of business,’ said Auguste indignantly. ‘I run a school. They are paying pupils. I do not employ them.
They do not need references.’

Rose laughed. ‘You just need to know whether they can make a
coq au vin
, eh?’

Auguste inclined his head. ‘That is not such a bad requisite for a school of cooks.’

Beatrice Throgmorton stalked into Scotland Yard on the Monday morning and was duly escorted to an office where sat Sergeant
Stitch, flushed with importance, trying Rose’s chair for size. Next year all this would be his, or he was a Dutchman. He rose
to his feet and bowed Miss Throgmorton into the visitor’s chair with excessive politeness.

‘What is all this about, Sergeant?’ She had his rank duly noted.

‘I am instructed to tell you, Miss Throgmorton, that we have your father’s murderer under lock and key. You can sleep easy
at nights now.’

It had not occurred to Beatrice to do anything else.

‘Who was it?’ she enquired bluntly.

‘Herr Heinrich Freimüller,’ said Stitch impressively. ‘One of the cooks.’

‘What reason would a cook have to kill my father?’ she asked, amazed.

‘It appears, so he says, miss, that he fought a duel with your father in Germany many years ago and vowed his
revenge,’ breathed Stitch, almost betraying emotion. This was very like
The Prisoner of Zenda
. He hoped the lady would not faint at hearing of these dark doings.

She did not. ‘Do you mean that man my father told me of – he turned up in
Broadstairs
?’

Even Stitch had to confess it sounded remarkable. ‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘Did you recognise him?’

‘How on earth could I do that?’ asked Miss Throgmorton impatiently. ‘I wasn’t born thirty years ago.’

‘Inspector Rose said,’ Stitch hastily moved the blame, ‘he had the impression you might have recognised somebody from the
past that evening in the Albion Hotel, besides the gardener from the château. Was it Mr Pegg?’

‘No,’ said Beatrice. ‘It was a woman.’

‘A woman,’ breathed Stitch. This was true detection. Promotion advanced towards him. Feverishly he scrabbled for his notes
and read out a list: ‘Mrs Langham, Miss Fenwick, Miss Dawson. Any of those names familiar?’

‘Mrs Langham I’ve met of course. The other two mean nothing, though I think we had a cook called Dawson once.’

‘A man or a woman?’

‘A woman. Years ago. Even if you had not already caught your murderer, Sergeant Stitch, old Mrs Dawson would hardly be of
use to you.’

‘Old?’

‘She was about sixty when she left. I don’t remember what exactly, but I believe she left under some cloud.’

‘I don’t think,’ said Rose grumpily, ‘I’ll ever feel the same about the seaside.’

Edith, visiting the shops for the umpteenth time, was inclined to agree with him. She did not even have Mrs Figgis-Hewett’s
company since she had informed Edith with a flush of excitement on her cheeks that she was to accompany Lord Beddington to
luncheon in Ramsgate. He had invited her,
she emphasised, and wasn’t that nice? To take her mind off dear Thomas, she added hastily, in case there should be any doubt
as to the reasons for her acceptance. Edith had agreed that it was indeed for the best; she spoke truthfully, considering
that another gentleman friend might be the best tonic for Gwendolen. And from what she had seen of Lord Beddington, a union
with one who could sleep peacefully throughout the eruption of Vesuvius might be most suitable to withstand the onslaught
of Gwendolen’s voice.

Fortunately, as Edith trailed into Bobby’s in Margate for the sixth time, she had a feeling she would not be here much longer.
Firstly, someone had confessed to the murder. True, Egbert still seemed to be investigating the case, but she had known Egbert
for a long time: whenever a case was nearing its finale there was an inner excitement about it like a coiled spring. And that
excitement had been there since yesterday.

‘I’ve just had Twitch shouting down the telephone at me. Nothing of interest about Freimüller yet.’ Rose related the conversation
to Auguste, commenting gloomily, ‘Twitch is getting too lively by half. I’ll have to get him his promotion in self-defence.
Only thing puts me off is that I’ll most likely be put up to Chief Inspector. I’d still have him round my neck.’

‘Why should Freimüller confess?’ asked Auguste. ‘Do you think he could really be the murderer and hopes to make us think that
someone else did it?’

Rose was doubtful. ‘He’d have to be very confident. Suppose it was a Naseby case. He’d be only too happy to press ahead. He
wouldn’t want to go upsetting any apple carts. No, I think the pot is boiling – it remains to see what the stew is like.’

‘My friend, if you must use cooking metaphors,’ said Auguste severely, ‘please use them properly. The pot is smiling, not
boiling, and as to apple carts, these are not easy to—’ He broke off.

‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like stale sandwiches?’ Rose eyed Mr Multhrop’s offering, brought into the office for them both,
without enthusiasm.

‘No, it is an idea, just an idea . . .’ Auguste thought all round it, turned it upside down to examine it, tested each ingredient.
Rose waited patiently. This had happened before and he’d learned to value the process, however maddening it was at the time.

‘I do not see quite how or why,’ said Auguste, at last and unhappily. ‘It makes no sense, but nevertheless I shall visit the
library.’ He told Rose what was in his mind.

Rose’s face was alert. ‘I wonder. I just wonder.’

‘My friend,’ Auguste told him, ‘it could fit as tight as a Toulouse sausage skin.’

The Prince of Wales was at luncheon at Sandringham. For once it did not disturb him in the least that Alexandra was late.
He was a happy man; he was a man about to leave for Marienbad in three days’ time, where all the cares of this dull world
where Kaisers won British yacht races would be forgotten. He would forsake dull court circles. At least in Marienbad, society
was diluted with a few more colourful characters. Even if it was all family, there were Montenegrans, Hapsburgs, Romanovs
– he wondered if Tatiana Maniovska would be there this year. With the death of the Czarevitch, the Romanovs would be in mourning.
Still, Tatiana lived in Paris, not Russia, so she might be there. He hoped so. He was fond of Tatiana and he hadn’t seen her
since Cannes last year. He frowned. That brought back a few unwelcome memories. Wasn’t that where that cook fellow claimed
to have met him? Come to think of it, he owed the cook fellow something for smuggling him out of the hotel last week. Deuced
awkward from all points of view if he’d still been there when police and newsmen and so on came along. He’d actually been
sitting next to
Throgmorton, after all. Goodness knows what Mama would have said. Having to take luncheon with her again the next day at Osborne
House seemed a small penance to pay compared with having to listen to her strictures on the frequency with which he got involved
in scandals of the seamier kind. And it was never his fault, that was what aggrieved him so much. He did his best to keep
out of trouble, but it seemed inexorably to follow him.

He must do something about a present for that chef one day.

Apart from the fact that both were in formal attire, there was nothing to distinguish Rose and Auguste from hundreds of other
late promenaders on the seafront. They were on their way to Blue Horizons after a busy afternoon on both sides, Rose with
Naseby and on the telephone.

‘The widow was left without much money. She didn’t murder for money, so Chesnais says,’ Rose reported.

Auguste had had a rewarding afternoon at the library. Now there was little doubt in their minds. Only proof was lacking.

‘If it fails,’ said Rose as they reached Blue Horizons, ‘we’ll have to play a waiting game. But if we succeed we’ll at least
know where we are with Freimüller.’

Sid, who seemed to have appointed himself sheepdog for such occasions, was sitting, arms akimbo, astride a chair in the parlour
doorway. His four sheep were waiting inside. Alice’s arm was round Emily on the sofa; and Alfred sat bolt upright on a balloon-back
chair, and Algernon lounged in an armchair with a nonchalance he did not feel – if his fingers twisting nervously on the arm
were anything to judge by.

‘As you know,’ Rose began, ‘Herr Freimüller has been arrested for the murders of Sir Thomas Throgmorton and James Pegg. He
has told us how he did it, and given an explanation of why.’

A moan from Emily.

‘But we have to check his story, so our investigations are continuing.’ Rose looked round the blank faces listening to him.
‘He tells us that he served the poison in the soup. He held the plate while Pegg put the soup in, and he then added the poison.
James Pegg saw him and threatened to give him away, so he put opium in his coffee and watched him drown. Anyone any comments?’

There was an appalled silence.

‘I don’t think James would blackmail anyone,’ said Alfred, unusually forcefully. ‘He would come to tell you.’

‘Where did he keep the poison?’ asked Emily suddenly.

‘In his pocket.’

‘Then there’d be traces of it in the pocket,’ said this latter-day Lady Molly. ‘I know Heinrich is innocent. Have you checked
the pockets?’

‘The laboratory has done so, Miss Dawson. There is no trace of poison.’

‘Then he’s innocent!’ shouted Emily. ‘You must free him.’

‘Not yet. He still holds to his story, but the new evidence gives credence to our view that he may be protecting someone.
It would have to be someone he’s very fond of. Someone like you, Miss Dawson,’ Rose observed quietly.

Emily stared at him as all eyes turned to her.

‘No!’ cried Alice, outraged.

Emily said nothing.

‘Cor,’ said Sid, expelling a long breath.

‘It wasn’t me,’ Emily said flatly. ‘It wasn’t, it wasn’t, it
wasn’t
,’ shriller and shriller.

Rose ignored her. ‘We learned a day or two ago of a young lady called Elizabeth Stebbins, though I doubt if that’s her real
name; she murdered her English husband in France. He had been Sir Thomas’s groom and stolen a great deal of money in bonds
which were never recovered. We wondered whether perhaps, just perhaps, this young
murderess – who used atropine – had also been in Sir Thomas’s household. She’d be about your age, Miss Dawson. And Miss Throgmorton
told us she remembers an old cook by the name of Mrs Dawson.’

‘Grandmama,’ moaned Emily. ‘Oh no. She has nothing to do with it.’

‘Hasn’t she, Miss Dawson? Didn’t you visit her at Throgmorton Park? Didn’t you get to know the staff there? Meet a young groom?’

‘No!’ bawled Emily, as Alice withdrew her arm, moving slightly away from her.

‘Then why did your grandmama leave under a cloud?’

‘It’s nothing to do with her.
Nothing
. I’ll tell you, and then you’ll be sorry. Her eyes weren’t good enough any longer. She was confusing plants, and she put
some wrong berries in the blackcurrant jam and one or two people –’ her voice faltered – ‘were taken ill.’

‘What plant, Miss Dawson?’

‘Deadly nightshade,’ she whispered.

‘The atropine plant,’ said Rose with satisfaction. ‘I thought you were anxious about something. Why didn’t you tell us?’

‘You would have thought it was me,’ cried Emily. ‘As you do now,’ she wailed.

‘So I would, if it hadn’t been for Mr Didier, and something he saw on the day Sir Thomas was killed. He saw a donkey cart
pass Sir Thomas with Miss Fenwick and Lord Wittisham in it, and Sir Thomas noticing it and shouting something.’

‘He asked what I was doing here,’ said Alfred forlornly. ‘But I’ve told you that.’

‘Yes,’ said Auguste. ‘He wanted to know what you were doing here. You had omitted to mention you’d be in Broadstairs, you
had threatened to kill him. He saw you later that day and you reiterated your threat and then carried
it out by poison in his brandy. You have served in India. You know all about atropine. You put poison in the entrée dish to
make us think it was the food and not the drink to blame.’

‘No!’ He was on his feet glaring, a ferret at bay.

‘Then you were forced to kill your friend James Pegg because he’d heard you quarrelling with Sir Thomas. Whom else would he
protect? He was an honest man. He’d have come straight to me or the Inspector about anyone else.’