Murder in The Smokehouse: (Auguste Didier Mystery 7) Read online

  ‘Naturally I was with my husband,’ replied Priscilla haughtily. ‘Whom else did you expect me to be with?’

  This was voiced as a rhetorical question and Rose put forward no contenders.

  ‘Your brother Oscar, your Ladyship.’ Rose pushed forward the photograph Auguste had mentioned to him.

  Priscilla turned the glare on Auguste, clearly seeing a traitor. ‘That is a family matter, Mr Didier.’

  ‘No such thing in a murder enquiry,’ Rose informed her.

  ‘Indeed. Then pray explain just why poor Oscar is being connected with this so-called murder enquiry, when none of us recognised the corpse as being my brother.’ She glanced at the photograph in front of Rose.

  ‘When was the last time you heard from him?’

  ‘Shortly after he left here in 1889.’

  ‘How old would he be now?’

  ‘I believe fifty-seven. He was older than me.’

  ‘Could he have come here to ask for money?’

  ‘Possibly, but he did not. There has been no sign of him, and you have no evidence to the contrary. That photograph is so indistinct it is no evidence at all.’

  ‘All the same, I’ll have his last known address if you please.’

  ‘I have none. You may ask Richey for my parents’ address.’ She paused, then added, ‘In fact, were it Oscar, which is highly unlikely, there is a far more likely explanation than that you are obviously contemplating. I trust this will go no further?’ She fixed Auguste with a forbidding eye. ‘When Oscar visited us in ’89, there were a few unfortunate incidents. One concerned a housemaid, another a beater accidentally shot. He then borrowed money from my mother-in-law and from George – against my knowledge – and with the proceeds went to join the gold rush at Cripple Creek.’

  ‘Successfully?’

  ‘Highly. He is now very rich, I understand. Unfortunately he gained these riches by controversial means. Instead of digging for nuggets, he salted mines.’

  ‘He did what?’

  ‘I understand one buys a worthless claim, puts a few high grade lumps of gold not too far down to raise confidence, and then sells the claim to the first dunderhead who comes along. Unfortunately Oscar was never a good judge of character, and did it once too often. His victim swore revenge and Oscar disappeared. I understand, however, his pursuer is still after him. It is possible that, in lieu of Oscar himself, he might have decided to visit me to seek his lost fortune.’

  ‘The corpse’s shirt came from New York,’ mentioned Auguste.

  ‘Then who shot him and why?’ asked Rose unemotionally.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Lady Tabor. ‘That is your job, Chief Inspector, not mine.’

  ‘And so is this, your Ladyship, unfortunately,’ as he introduced an indignant Lady Tabor to the mysteries of fingerprinting.

  Her son followed her, sporting a raffish double-breasted spotted waistcoat, a hint of red braces and a gleam of vicious excitement. ‘Ma says she’s told you all about dear Uncle Oscar. She’s still in touch with him, of course. She’s canny, is Ma. Plays her cards close to her chest.’

  Not that close, thought Auguste irreverently of the Valkyrie bosom.

  ‘Personally I still think the corpse is Uncle Oscar. Catch Ma owning up, though.’

  ‘To murder?’ asked Auguste, startled.

  ‘Good lord no,’ Alfred said, shocked. ‘But if it was Oscar or someone about to spill the beans on him, the murderer could be old Handsome Harold. Last thing he wants is the gold market rocked by another scandal about salted mines just now when the unions are playing up in Colorado. With South African gold still uncertain because of the war, Colorado is pretty vital. So get rid of him. Much easier. There, what do you think of that?’

  ‘An excellently thought-out theory, Mr Alfred,’ Rose said genially. ‘Good to see you young folk so willing to assist the police.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Alfred took this graciously at face value. ‘After all, I’d rather it was old Harold than dear old Cyril.’

  Rose eyed him thoughtfully. ‘Your uncle? Why should he want to murder your Uncle Oscar?’

  ‘He wouldn’t. But he might well have had a go at old Simpson.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Colonel Simpson,’ Alfred told him innocently. ‘Didn’t anyone mention him? As Ma always says, Unky Cyrie is a gentleman of distressingly frivolous tastes. Before Gorgeous Gertie, he took a shine to Alluring Alice, daughter of one Colonel Cuthbert Simpson of the British Army in India. Quite smitten was Cyril and so evidently was Alice, for she opened the oven door before she should have, if you take my meaning, and was cooking up a little Cyril. By that time our Cyril had met Gertie, so he turned poor old Alice away without a second thought. The gallant Colonel threatened fire and brimstone – and what was worse to the Tabors, exposure. He lives at Skipton. Fell Hall.’

  ‘And you think your uncle murdered him?’

  Alfred looked shocked. ‘Good God, no. Cyril wouldn’t do a thing like that, except by accident. If it’s him, he might have come here looking for Cyril – but for a murderer my money’s on Carstairs.’

  Rose said nothing, but firmly pushed the powdered blacklead towards him.

  ‘Everyone is very anxious to help,’ he remarked as the door closed behind a newly fingerprinted Alfred. ‘A case of too many cooks, you might say. Where best to hide a piece of straw, Auguste?’

  ‘In a haystack, Egbert.’

  He dined well off chicken and mutton casserole and bilberry pie, after which Egbert announced very casually his intention of having a word, not only with Cyril Tabor, but with Tatiana and Alexander during the afternoon. He wondered if Auguste would fancy going to Skipton to see whether by any chance Cyril’s gallant colonel were fact. Reluctantly Auguste agreed, since he could think of no valid reason for demanding to be present while Egbert interviewed Tatiana.

  His plans, however, were delayed by the unmistakable sound of someone sobbing in the Blue Salon. Cautiously he opened the door, chivalry to the fore, hoping it was not Beatrice Janes. It was not. It was Gertie, who leapt up when she saw him and flung her arms round his neck, while Cyril stood embarrassedly by the window.

  ‘He’s just told me he was in love with someone else,’ she sniffed. ‘He went on seeing her after we were married. He was going to marry her.’

  ‘But I married you,’ Cyril shouted, pink with anger.

  She raised a cautious eye, then collapsed again on Auguste. ‘But he loved her once. She told him she was going to have a baby, Priscilla said. How could he do such a thing?’

  Auguste’s jacket was getting distinctly damp and he gently removed Gertie’s arms.

  ‘There wasn’t a baby and I didn’t love her.’ The shout increased in volume and anguish.

  ‘Then that proves you’re a cad. Why get betrothed if you didn’t want to marry her? And now you’re probably a murderer. What happened to your first wife?’

  Cyril tried to control himself. ‘She died of measles, as I told you. I don’t know how you can think such things, Gertie. You’re not the kitten I married.’ And he walked into the adjoining room, clutching in vain at the remains of his dignity.

  With a howl Gertie flung herself with renewed gusto back into Auguste’s arms – just as Tatiana entered, and took in the touching scene.

  ‘Housemaids,’ she said darkly and went out again.

  Putting Gertie aside as soon as he decently could, Auguste hurried after her, feeling much misunderstood. Gertrude’s presence in his arms was so easy to explain. He followed Tatiana’s flying figure down the front steps of Tabor Hall, still finding a childish pleasure at transgressing rules that had once, as a mere chef, applied to him. Now they were waived for ever, though only to be replaced by depressingly different and more stringent rules.

  To his trepidation, he saw Tatiana jumping into Alexander’s De Dion Bouton. Even more ominously, she was sitting at the wheel. ‘Start it up,’ she cried, as she saw him.

  ‘But—’ his protest came out as a squ
eak.

  ‘Do not worry.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Alexander has shown me how to drive it. You are not scared for me, are you, oh brave protector of all lovely ladies?’

  ‘You don’t understand. Egbert wishes to speak to you.’

  ‘Non, mon amour, it is you who do not understand,’ she muttered darkly, handing him a piece of iron.

  He stared at it blankly, till he realised it was the motor starting handle.

  ‘Crank it,’ she ordered.

  ‘I cannot. He wishes to see you.’

  ‘I will be back,’ she shouted at him.

  ‘Then I will come too.’

  It was useless to protest that one lesson from Alexander was perhaps not quite enough for a lady to be in charge of a powerful engine of 4.5 horsepower. Unfortunately cranking was not so simple as it seemed.

  ‘Faster,’ his wife ordered, sitting imperiously above him as he toiled. ‘Slower.’ But still the sparks were failing to ignite – whatever that meant – save between them. A scathing look at her husband and Tatiana descended, a muttered Russian endearment to the motorcar, one swift jerk and the engine immediately started. She jumped back in, and the motorcar proceeded to lurch into motion before he had climbed in. A lurch to one side threw him off the running board. He could not believe it. Regaining his balance, he ran furiously after the motorcar and managed this time to climb aboard, much to Tatiana’s displeasure. Sheep scattered with unusual alacrity as Tatiana careered from one side of the road to the other. The De Dion Bouton lurched perilously near disaster, as it prepared to cross the River Aire apparently under the impression it was a ford. Only belatedly did Tatiana jerk it on to the narrow bridge.

  ‘Why did you come?’ she asked crossly.

  ‘Because this morning you said I should not be left alone,’ Auguste pointed out.

  She took a deep breath. ‘I do not want you with me this afternoon.’

  ‘Why not?’ He had had no intention of staying with her, but his hackles were immediately aroused. He breathed again as the motorcar left the Tabor drive and joined the Kirkby Malham road.

  ‘You see,’ she crowed, changing the subject. ‘I can drive a motorcar.’

  Auguste disagreed. The De Dion headed straight for a ditch after failing to take a corner sufficiently sharply enough, but a yank at the wheel which almost threw him out kept the motorcar on the road.

  ‘I love this,’ she shouted over the noise of the engine and the wind whistling past their faces. She had tied a huge white veil over a wide-brimmed purple hat which, with Alexander’s goggles, made her a curious vision. She caught sight of his face. ‘What’s wrong?’

  What was wrong was that coming towards them was a caravan of steam wagons, belching into the autumn air. The fair was leaving town. Tatiana hunched over the wheel; a challenge had to be taken at full speed. Auguste covered his eyes as they rushed towards imminent impalement on a monster of an engine. He was flung violently to his right, then to his left, as the De Dion lurched on at a strange angle to the road. Above him, on the wagons, strange voices shouted encouragement to Tatiana. She needed no encouragement, he thought bitterly. It was victims like himself who most needed some hope of survival. He uncovered his eyes to find miraculously that they were back on the road.

  ‘Voilà’ Tatiana appeared pleased with her prowess.

  When they arrived eventually in Settle, Auguste complimented her, from a full heart humbly grateful for his survival, and for the moment forgetting the rift between them. He jumped down to terra firma in the courtyard of the Golden Lion. ‘You will come with me?’ he enquired. He had no intention, in fact, of leaving her.

  ‘Yes,’ Tatiana declared after an unflattering pause, and picked off a few dark hairs from his ulster in wifely consideration. ‘You are right, I should stay with you. You will lose no more hair, and I will drive back very carefully.’

  The parlour of the Golden Lion was comfortable and inviting, a blazing log fire in the hearth. Tatiana had expressed a preference for the Public Bar and Theakston Ales on the basis that these were new experiences, but he had remained adamant. There were matters that had to be discussed privately.

  ‘Tatiana, are you avoiding Egbert?’

  ‘Avoiding him? Of course not. I wanted to drive the motorcar, and to buy some stockings. You would not be in the least interested.’

  ‘I will come with you.’

  ‘Why? Do you suspect I am meeting a lover? No, my friend, it is you who are so good at that.’

  He ignored this. ‘You must tell me, and Egbert, what the mystery is about the smokehouse,’ he said seriously.

  Her eyes widened. ‘You think I have a lover.’ She leapt to her feet. ‘Me, Tatiana Maniovskaya Romanov.’

  ‘You are Mrs Auguste Didier.’

  ‘Eedee kchortoo!’

  His Russian did not extend to this, but the meaning was roughly clear as she swept furiously from the room. The door opened again, but it was only the landlord with a tray of tea, scones and jam. Never had food looked less appetising. Outside he heard the chug of a motorcar, then saw a green shape flash past the window. He rushed to look out. The De Dion Bouton was on its way without him. It was not going in the direction of Tabor Hall.

  ‘Where have you been? The Tabors expected you at dinner.’ Egbert Rose looked up from his evening meal, in none too good a mood, apparently. Nor was Auguste. He was cold, hungry and footsore.

  ‘Pursuing your enquiries,’ he answered grumpily.

  Egbert regarded him more kindly. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I took the railway train to Skipton, as you asked. It is a most attractive town. I learned much of local lore, but nothing of our corpse.’ He had not expected to in fact, since Cobbold’s men had scoured every hotel for miles around.

  ‘What about the Colonel?’

  ‘I went to Fell Hall, but the house was shut up. The Colonel left last Friday for India, so I gathered from his housekeeper who lives in the lodge.’

  ‘And the daughter?’

  ‘She died a year ago of what the housekeeper described as a wasting disease.’

  Egbert sighed. ‘I suppose we’d better set the wheels in motion.’

  Auguste shuddered. He preferred not to think of wheels, after his manic ride to Settle. Coming home from Skipton there had been no cabs available, and he had therefore been obliged to take the branch line to Bell Busk, where there had been no cabs either. Two miles in the twilight, with every sheep appearing a monster, and every tree a wicked witch who placed holes in front of unwary feet, were not amusing.

  ‘Have some of this Yorkshire pudding and beef, Auguste.’ Egbert saw it was time for compassion.

  ‘It is not precisely an exquisitely mixed salade niçoise,’ Auguste said, unmollified.

  ‘Tabor Hall isn’t Cannes either. Horses for courses, Auguste.’

  ‘This beef is like horse, too,’ Auguste rejoined belligerently, taking some and finding he was wrong. He sent a mental apology to Breckles.

  ‘Mrs Didier didn’t come to see me this afternoon, Auguste.’

  Auguste flushed.

  ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’ It was an order.

  Egbert was the police and he was being interviewed, no longer the trusted confidant.

  ‘I cannot.’

  ‘If Edith were mixed up in something I’d feel the same.’

  Auguste’s first reaction was relief, his second was anxiety for Tatiana. Almost as fear flashed through him, she appeared within the doorway, and he and Egbert rose to their feet.

  ‘I believe you wished to see me?’ It was Egbert she was looking at, not Auguste.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Didier. Please do be seated.’

  ‘Very well, Chief Inspector Rose. I hope when I have explained, I may call you Egbert again.’ She moved gracefully to an armchair and seated herself. ‘I wanted in any case to see you.’

  ‘To tell me you and Mr Tully-Rich moved the body?’

  ‘More than that. To tell you why.’

  Auguste felt numb; half
dreading, half welcoming what was to come.

  ‘I am Russian, Chief Inspector, and the majority of the Russian community in Paris remains far more Russian than the Russians themselves. It jealously guards the purity of its Russian blood – and its adherence to the Tsar is absolute, even though many came to Paris through incurring the displeasure of one Tsar or another.

  ‘My father was one such strict authoritarian, and this prevented my marriage to Auguste for so long. Auguste is a commoner and I am a princess, and that meant to my father that we could not marry. I do not share these opinions on differences between people, Chief Inspector. As I am of royal blood, Mr Marx would say I am of no value to society, but I cannot quite agree with that either.

  ‘However, when my father died, the Russian community took his role upon themselves, and one member of it in particular. The Tsar has his secret agents, the Okhrana, and my half-uncle is one of the leaders outside Russia. Only the fact that he was away on a mission at the German court meant that I could leave Paris and marry Auguste.

  ‘I hoped that, once removed from Paris and under the protection of His Majesty Edward VII, we would be safe. It seems not. When we arrived here, my cousin Alexander had bad news for me. His Majesty has, as you know, just returned from a visit to Denmark – a visit extended beyond the eight days he originally intended because of the simultaneous visit of the Tsar and Tsarina. The two emperors met, and one of the subjects they discussed was my marriage. The Tsar and His Majesty are satisfied. Unfortunately my half-uncle is not. Hearing in Denmark for the first time of the marriage, and of our visit here, he decided to show his displeasure, and one obvious conclusion was that he would show it while His Majesty was present. Tabor Hall provided a superb opportunity.

  ‘Alexander learned his plans through his mother who was in Denmark at the time, and warned the Tabors and myself. Poor Lady Tabor. I fear she was not happy. She insisted that nothing must happen under her roof, and gave her family instructions that you, Auguste, were not to be left alone. I fear this is why the Tabors might seem to have been behaving oddly. They were indeed looking out for strangers. When I met Alexander that night, it was to keep a watch on the approach to our window, as my uncle had made no move yet. Then just after half-past two we saw a light in the smokehouse. I was sure it was my half-uncle. I believed if I could talk to him, I might reason with him. Alexander insisted on coming with me. There were no lights on when we arrived, so Alexander swung the lantern, to make sure he had gone. Then we saw the body. I was glad that my uncle was dead. I thought he had shot himself in remorse, or by accident. Then I saw that he was of sturdy build, and unless he had changed greatly in the three years since I had seen him, it might not be my uncle. So we decided to turn the body over.’