Murder Under The Kissing Bough: (Auguste Didier Mystery 6) Read online

  Ah yes. And now this meat must be chopped even finer: where was the body while the rooms were cleaned? And when and why was it moved? It would be heavy, there would be the risk of observation. The hiding place could not be far from the room.

  Now the vegetables, whose appearance, like the meat, would all be subtly changed by the spices, the hidden threads at work behind the scenes. The Baroness lived in Berlin, though she spent much time in Paris. Was her reason for being here the true one? Bella was Hungarian, with a French diplomatist for husband. Why should they be here? And Thomas Harbottle and his German wife – why not stay with his family? Colonel Carruthers and Dalmaine were unmistakably English; Dalmaine had come back from the South African War, Carruthers had been widowed, Maisie told him. The Pembrey girls were English with parents in Africa. Mr Bowman and Miss Guessings were English. All had reasons to be here at Christmas – and Miss Guessings had confessed to knowing Nancy before. And there was one other vegetable in his curry: Danny Nash, who still obstinately clung to his story that he was here merely to protect a colleague. And the staff? Egbert had ruled them out. Mrs Pomfret and the other maids could enjoy no such immunity, but Twitch had been busy checking their backgrounds. None seemed a likely candidate for stabbing either Nancy Watkins or the Prince of Wales.

  And mixing the curry, if two worked together? The Baroness, perhaps on behalf of her husband and acting with her companion. Possible. Bowman and Gladys Guessings? Motive? None yet. The Harbottles? The same applied to them. Dalmaine could possibly have been suborned while in South Africa, but it seemed unlikely. None of the three girls could be imagined villains of the deepest dye – not in the sense of murder anyway, he thought bitterly. Sir John Harnet and the Marquis were respected diplomats. Of them all, Miss Guessings was the only one with a known link to Nancy.

  Pall Mall Pudding indeed. He wondered idly what might be the recipe. He would visit Gwynne’s and ask Emma. Yet, he reminded himself, for him not the pudding, but the Pall Mall was all-important.

  His master chef’s instinct told him this curry he had invented had an indefinable quality that was entirely Didier. But what was it? If his hand had put the final touch, had created a whole from the mass of separate facts and suspicions, he could not yet discern what it might be. The art of a master chef, perhaps, but less than useful for a detective.

  One of the problems of history, thought Auguste gloomily to himself after luncheon, regarding the itinerary Maisie had given him with trepidation, was that there was a lot of it. The morning had begun well, so the Baroness informed him on their return from a visit to Westminster Abbey, though it was true the most enthusiastic response seemed to be for the waxwork show of some of the Kings and Queens of England, taken from casts of their faces and in some cases clad in their actual clothes, which had been carried in their funeral processions and for many years had stood by the graves. Animated discussion had followed as to why Charles II’s head remained on his shoulders, so animated that Harbottle was unable to make himself heard to correct their historical knowledge. Consequently he was out of sorts at luncheon, only reviving sufficiently when they reached the Post Office Station in the afternoon. A journey by the new Central London Underground Railway was voted a most pleasurable and unusual experience, and St Paul’s evoked equal new enthusiasm, especially with Harbottle. He cleared his throat.

  ‘I wonder if you are aware, Mr Didier, that the bells of St Paul’s if rung continually for twenty years would only then exhaust the number of changes.’

  ‘Indeed, monsieur.’ Auguste managed a look of great interest. Why could not the bells play tunes, he asked himself, and then the number would be limitless.

  ‘Thomas, let us go to the Whispering Gallery,’ demanded Eva, a suggestion taken up with enthusiasm by the rest of the party, now weary of stone tombs. Conscious of his role as leader of the party, Auguste followed his charges.

  ‘I’ll race you up, Evelyn.’ Ethel raised her skirts to show a shocking glimpse of shapely ankle, and sped to the stairs to the Gallery.

  Behind them Marie-Paul turned to the Baroness. ‘May we?’ she asked, her usual low voice almost animated.

  Thérèse shrugged. ‘We are in England. Of course we must go to the Gallery.’

  ‘Pray take care, Miss Pembrey. If I might offer you an arm?’

  Rosanna looked up at Dalmaine and smiled. ‘How kind, Major Dalmaine.’ She had little else to do really. She had captured her beloved in Westminster Abbey this morning. There was no sense in wasting the rest of the day. Besides, this major had a certain stiff-necked charm. She accepted the arm.

  In front, Alfred Bowman had Gladys’s arm firmly in his already. ‘Can’t have you falling, can we?’

  Bella glanced at Auguste, dimpled and took the Colonel’s arm. ‘I wonder if I might cling to you, sir. I would feel so much safer.’

  Colonel Carruthers stiffened. He could hardly say no; besides, the lady was deuced attractive. He straightened his shoulders.

  ‘Madam, I’d be honoured.’ He felt twenty years younger.

  Behind them, jostling with a crowd of other tourists, Auguste stomped up the stairs alone. A cacophony of words were echoing round the Whispering Gallery as he came up. He was just in time to hear, as did everybody else, a hoarse, unrecognisable voice inform the echo: ‘I know how it was done. I know who did it.’

  It had nothing to do with the murder. How could it? he argued. Yet it was undeniable that a marked silence fell on the party, especially on Rosanna, who seemed to find nothing at all to say to the gallant major.

  Gray’s Inn was by no means a success. The party listened politely as Auguste explained the history from Maisie’s notes, but he could not help but feel that the information that ‘Gray’s Inn Road was, at its junction with Holborn, the toll-paying entrance to the City of London, and thus in earlier times called Portpool Lane (it being near a pond)’ was not received with much enthusiasm. Sir John caused a surprising stir by uncharacteristically informing the company that in earlier times the legal profession had to sleep two to a bed in the Inns of Court. Harbottle’s defiant ‘I wonder if you are aware that this catalpa tree was brought back by Raleigh, and Bacon planted it’ aroused less interest.

  ‘Bacon burnt a bit?’ grunted Carruthers, slightly deaf when he wanted to be. ‘I agree with you, sir. Charred to cinders. That cook of yours should be shot,’ a glare at Auguste.

  Harbottle raised his voice. ‘I wonder if you are aware that in 1622 on Twelfth Night, some young barristers here stole the cannon from Tower Hill and set it off. King James thought it another Gunpowder Plot.’

  ‘The Boers have a nasty trick with gunpowder,’ remarked Dalmaine in a loud voice, impressively to Rosanna. ‘They set a cocked pistol on the line – railway engine passes over it, sets it off. Spark ignites a connected load of dynamite. End of train, and occupants, too.’

  ‘That’s murder,’ cried Gladys, shocked.

  ‘Assassination,’ corrected Thérèse.

  ‘War,’ said Eva Harbottle in her thick accent. So rarely did she speak, her voice startled everyone.

  Assassination? Murder? Was this just a general discussion, or was there more involved, more passion in these few words than was apparent? He must be careful, Auguste thought, not to read too much into casual conversation. But he should not ignore it. It must be stored in the larder of his mind, ready for use with other ingredients.

  There seemed surprisingly little enthusiasm for Lincoln’s Inn, despite his cunning promise of tea thereafter. Lincoln’s Inn was never reached, however. Crossing the wide thoroughfare of Holborn, expounding obediently from Maisie’s notes on the Dickensian associations of the area, Auguste was suddenly aware that his party had considerably reduced in size. Only Thérèse and her companion remained loyal. She smiled at his perplexity, and pointed. The vast emporium of Gamages was a mecca few could resist.

  ‘I cannot see, ma chère, why this store is of such attraction.’ Gaston de Castillon wrinkled his nose at the peculiar smell that w
as Gamages. An English smell, of wood, ironmongery and, he sniffed delicately, of the Paris Zoological Gardens. ‘On Monday we can visit Woollands, or the Army and Navy Stores if you wish to shop.’

  ‘They’re not the same,’ announced Bella cheerfully, sweeping her fur-trimmed mantle past displays of strange-looking cheap machines and into another little room filled with confectionery of gaudy packing; then she turned a corner straight into the smell, it seemed to him, and a raucous voice that informed him he was ‘a jammy old jelly-belly’. It was, so the salesmen instructed them, a Chattering Lory.

  ‘Think how well he’d go down at one of your stiff dinner parties, Gaston.’

  A rare smile reluctantly forced itself to his lips as he contemplated le ministre dining with competition of this sort. Then he remembered he was annoyed with Bella.

  ‘Ma chère,’ he said, ‘how much longer do we have to endure this torment?’

  ‘Now, now, Gaston. You know what we’re here for and why we must stay.’

  ‘I do not approve,’ eyeing his wife’s purchase of Ogden’s Otto de Rose cigarettes. Whether he spoke of her acquisition or her Christmas mission was not clear.

  ‘Nonsense, Gaston,’ she said lightly. And he didn’t know the half of it.

  Colonel Carruthers, after ensuring he was on his own, marched through Cycles and Cycle Accessories to Toys and Musical Instruments and, with a short stop at model trains, arrived triumphantly at toy soldiers. From the opposite direction, having come through Magic Lanterns, and Cigars and Tobaccos, marched Dalmaine. (Rosanna had disappeared into Umbrellas.) They stopped short at twenty paces on sighting each other, then the attraction of toy soldiers outweighing dislike, they advanced till they stood side by side, hands behind backs.

  ‘The Dirty Half Hundreds.’ Carruthers broke silence with an insult.

  ‘The Fiftieth, sir, was beyond reproach.’ After all, the 50th had become the West Kents.

  ‘No reproach intended, sir,’ said Carruthers hastily. ‘Affectionate nickname, that’s all.’ It was an olive branch and seized.

  ‘Fine regiment, the Buffs,’ Dalmaine commented.

  ‘The best,’ responded Carruthers quietly, contemplating his imminent purchase of a 10d box of seven Buff infantry.

  Dalmaine too selected a purchase, with a quick glance to see if Carruthers was watching. He was.

  ‘For my nephew,’ Dalmaine said lightly.

  ‘West Yorkshires?’ grunted Carruthers. ‘Made a mistake, have you?’

  ‘No. My brother-in-law is in the regiment,’ Dalmaine said stiffly.

  Carruthers’ brow puckered. ‘Weren’t they in the Ashanti affair of ninety-six?’

  Dalmaine did not reply. He appeared to be contemplating the further purchase of some Egyptian Camel Corps with detachable men.

  ‘They know. I’m sure they do,’ Eva Harbottle was whispering desperately to her husband in Guns and Fishing Tackle.

  ‘Of course not. How could they?’ he soothed her.

  ‘But suppose they do? Suppose your family—’

  ‘When they know you,’ Thomas said firmly, ‘they will love you. Nothing else will be important any more.’

  ‘If only it all goes right,’ Eva sighed to a display of double-barrelled hammer guns complete with all accessories.

  Auguste, left to himself, wandered through the theatrical department. How he remembered the Galaxy – and Plum’s. Those days of Maskelyne and Cooke at the Egyptian House. Illusion – all illusion. He debated whether the purchase of a Crystal Gazing Ball might add to the failing festive atmosphere at Cranton’s and decided it would not, though it might have some other uses. He tried on some false Dundreary whiskers together with an old gent’s bald head mask and was engrossed in contemplating the result only to be interrupted by the Baroness and Marie-Paul, returning from their shopping purchases.

  ‘How very handsome, Mr Didier. Do pray keep them. A most suitable disguise for a detective.’ Thérèse tried not to laugh, but failed. She and Marie-Paul Gonnet had already been through the department once in their search for Gamage’s Powder.

  ‘I have read of it, madame,’ explained Marie-Paul, perhaps to excuse this extraordinary desire to exert her personality and adorn her person. ‘Also Regent Cream.’

  ‘Very well.’ Thérèse seemed amused and stood patiently while her companion made her purchases, contemplating lipstick and eye pencil thoughtfully. ‘You had better be careful, Marie-Paul. You don’t want to catch the murderer’s eye as did Miss Watkins.’

  The companion looked at her. ‘I think there is no fear of that, madame. I am not unduly curious, unlike Miss Watkins.’

  ‘A foolish girl,’ agreed Thérèse shortly. ‘But you are not foolish, are you, my dear?’

  For some reason, Marie-Paul laughed. ‘Ah non, madame. Non.’

  Gladys Guessings was in seventh heaven as she wandered idly through the jewellery department with Mr Bowman. True, Gamages was not the ideal place to purchase an engagement ring, which would hardly be something to boast about, but nevertheless it might put the correct idea in Alfred’s head. And after all, the store was not that cheap. She could see a ring there priced at £15. She felt very bold. After all, last evening Alfred had kissed her very energetically under the kissing bough in the drawing room. True, it had not been an entirely satisfactory experience, but no doubt she could grow to like it in time. That revived memories of the contents of the oak chest so close by. She shivered. If only she could expunge it from her conscience. Or find the courage to tell the Inspector everything.

  Alfred Bowman held on to her arm determinedly. He was well aware of Gladys’s intention. He didn’t mind going along with it at all. For his own reasons of course.

  ‘Some jolly things here, Gladys. Like a belated Christmas present, would you?’

  ‘Oh, Alfred!’

  ‘Fancy this hatpin, do you? Or how about a nice Toby jug?’

  The warm cocoon of Daly’s Theatre in Cranbourne Street had been exchanged for two further cocoons, the short cab ride to the Carlton for a light supper, and the Carlton itself. The party had entered the yellow stone building of Daly’s with the highest expectations. After all, was not San Toy the notorious show where Marie Tempest had quit after only a few weeks, on a point of principle: being forced to wear short pants? Gentlemen and ladies alike in the party were looking forward to seeing the present San Toy for this reason alone; the gentlemen since the prospect of viewing Miss Ada Reeve’s legs was pleasantly titillating, the ladies because they wished to be shocked or envious according to their age and dispositions. In the event, such was the fascination and delight of the show that the legs were almost forgotten. The dance of the Pas Seul captivated the ladies, and San Toy’s song ‘All I want is a little bit fun’ left every gentleman only too willing to provide her with it. Damn good theme, Oriental girls and Western officers, who suitably late in the action see the error of their philandering ways.

  ‘I think it’s all wrong,’ said Gladys volubly over a glass of champagne, ‘women dressing up as men. Like that Vesta Tilley. Everyone knows she’s a woman, so what’s the point?’

  Alfred Bowman could have told her, but didn’t.

  ‘The Chevalier d’Eon passed half his life both in England and France as a woman,’ observed Auguste, ‘with high odds being laid as to which he was. No one was certain until his death.’

  Colonel Carruthers thought this over. ‘Damned nancy,’ he muttered to Dalmaine.

  ‘Not at all,’ remarked Thérèse, overhearing. ‘He was a master fencer. And after all, what are clothes? Merely the custom of a country. In China women do wear trousers.’

  ‘The East is a mysterious place,’ said the Marquis. ‘As you British know with your opium dealings,’ he added.

  ‘That’s over,’ barked Carruthers.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ said Evelyn brightly. ‘What about opium dens?’

  ‘A young lady shouldn’t know about opium dens.’ Sir John bore down on her.

  ‘It was in th
at old copy of the Strand Magazine that you gave me,’ replied Evelyn innocently.

  Sir John glared.

  ‘Opium goes with white slavers,’ shivered Ethel.

  ‘Don’t be foolish, you two,’ announced their elder sister. ‘No need for you to worry. The white slavers would send you right back.’

  Opium – Auguste thought back to the day in the fog, which Egbert still half thought was the result of an opium-based medicine. He stared at le maître’s Cailles Souvarow before him. How could he do justice to it while murder hung over him? Yet to ignore it was the greater crime. At the first taste, his spirits began to rise. Truly, he was in the presence of greatness. He longed himself to be back in his beloved kitchen – ah, that was where a man belonged, not as a hotelier, but like Monsieur Escoffier himself, a king in his own undisputed kingdom.

  He was brought sharply back to murder by an avid discussion at the table which seemed to have replaced admiration for le maître’s best work before them. First it concerned peach melba and whether Monsieur Escoffier’s famous dish would appear again that evening on the dessert menu. Second, it concerned the murder of Nancy Watkins.

  ‘I don’t believe all this talk about art thefts,’ announced Bella. ‘It seems very strange to me. Why should an art thief bother to come to Cranton’s?’

  ‘I agree,’ said the Baroness. ‘I do not think we should have the presence of quite so many policemen if art thefts were the matter at stake. What do you think, Mr Didier? You must know, being in Inspector Rose’s confidence.’ She gazed at him challengingly, almost daring him to try to escape answering.

  He was saved by Gladys.

  ‘Puddings,’ she said confidentially.