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

  He was wrong. On the floor was an undoubtedly dead body. A gentleman in full evening dress lay sprawled on his face, a pistol at his side and the reddish-brown stain of drying blood on the carpet.

  Chapter Three

  Auguste stood up, bracing himself for what was to come. He had done all he could without touching the body, but that was little. A thousand terrors raced through his mind, fear hammered somewhere at the pit of his stomach. He looked at Tatiana and Alexander, who had remained at the doorway as if distancing themselves from responsibility now Auguste was there.

  ‘Did either of you move him?’ he asked more sharply than he had intended.

  ‘No,’ answered Alexander evenly.

  ‘So you don’t know who it is?’

  ‘No,’ replied Tatiana, perhaps a little too quickly, or was his imagination over active, reason blurred by the unreality of night?

  A man in a dress suit, middle-aged by his substantial build, the hint of a dark beard – Auguste instructed the panic that was still rolling in waves inside him to be still. The general impression of the body was not that of him, was it? He could not be sure.

  ‘You think it is His Majesty, Auguste? Surely his Special Branch bodyguards would be here by now?’ Tatiana said practically.

  The man in him wanted such reassurance, the detective in him knew better. ‘Alexander, please fetch Lord Tabor and send for the police.’ As her cousin’s footsteps first walked, then pounded along the path, Tatiana was the first to speak.

  ‘Is it suicide?’

  ‘I do not know.’ Auguste forced himself to look again at the sprawled body and the gun at its side just beyond the outstretched hand. One saw such pictures in the Strand Magazine so often it was hard to believe it could have actually happened like that. Soon the police would arrive, the King’s two bodyguards also perhaps, and his own part would be over. Only his worry about Tatiana stood in the way of the relief this thought brought.

  ‘Tatiana, what were you really doing here? The police will discover and I must know first.’

  ‘I have told you.’ Her indignant face was pale in the shadows cast by the oil lamps. It seemed to him her voice was strained, or was that too the effect of night? ‘I wanted a smoke.’

  ‘It was three o’clock.’

  ‘We Russians keep late hours. Alexander and I had much to say to one another.’ Her voice rose. ‘Do you think I shot him? Or Alexander?’

  Tatiana had put voice to his fear: murder. Suppose the police thought so too?

  ‘Of course not,’ he shouted.

  ‘Then why these questions?’

  ‘Because they will be asked by others.’

  Memories surged into his mind of the murders at Plums, Stockbery Towers, and the Galaxy. Was he supersensitive to witnesses who were not telling all they knew? And was one of them now his own wife?

  It took twenty minutes of strained silence before there came the sound of footsteps, and Tatiana opened the door to Lord Tabor, accompanied by, Auguste was depressed to see, Priscilla. She wasted no time, he noted, in idle curiosity over the artistic attractions of the smokehouse, but went immediately to the corpse.

  ‘Who is it?’ she demanded.

  ‘I do not know, your Ladyship,’ Auguste replied steadily. ‘We cannot touch the body until the police arrive, and at the moment—’ He broke off, gesturing towards all that could be seen of the bloodied ruin of a face.

  ‘Suicide,’ said George disgustedly. ‘What a time to choose, eh?’

  Auguste did not answer, if answer were required. Did his host refer merely to the lateness of the hour or the inconvenience of such an event during a royal visit? And still he could not be sure that the corpse was not that of the King. Perhaps the same fear consumed Priscilla, for she said to him peremptorily:

  ‘Turn it over.’

  Taken aback, Auguste told her firmly: ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Turn it over,’ Priscilla demanded again. ‘Do you expect me to do it myself? George, you do it.’

  ‘We should wait for the police,’ Tatiana supported Auguste, seeing his appalled face. ‘If it should be His Majesty—’

  ‘It is not,’ Priscilla interrupted scornfully. ‘His Majesty would not commit suicide. Not here. Turn it over, George.’

  Nothing short of physical force could prevent it. Auguste’s usual authority in such situations had met its match in Priscilla Tabor. But at least he would mark the original position of the body. Quickly, he took matches from the Vesta cases provided on the mantelpiece, while Priscilla impatiently watched.

  Then George knelt by the body, gingerly rolling it over. Auguste gagged at the repulsive sight, and Tatiana uttered a choked sound of distress. The man had shot himself full through the eye, half obliterating his face and spattering shirt front, waistcoat and tie with blood, as well as the carpet. Enough of the face remained to bring Auguste some relief. It was not that of the King.

  George broke the silence. ‘Who the devil is it?’

  ‘I have no idea, George.’ His wife’s flat voice was as unemotional as if such annoyances were a regular feature of life in Yorkshire. ‘I have never seen him before. He is nothing to do with Tabor Hall.’

  ‘But he is clad in full evening dress, even to black mourning tie and waistcoat,’ Auguste pointed out, flabbergasted. He had fully expected it to be Harold or Cyril.

  ‘I repeat, Mr Didier,’ Priscilla’s voice grew cold, ‘he is a complete stranger to us, and why he should have found it necessary to come here to shoot himself I have not the slightest idea. I suggest now, Mrs Didier, you accompany us back to the Hall where I presume we must await the arrival of the police. Such as they are. You will remain here, Mr Didier.’

  Tatiana obeyed without a word.

  Auguste kept an uneasy vigil, his brain struggling to make sense of the night’s events. Suppose the police thought this man had committed suicide because Tatiana had had a tryst with him here? And even worse, suppose it were not suicide? The cold hand of terror fastened on his shoulder once more. Alexander would testify that there had been no assignation of course. But suppose he had lied? Why should he? asserted reason. Because Tatiana had asked her cousin for help, came needling suspicion. No, she would have come to him, her husband. Or might she have feared to do so because of his association with the police?

  Should he try to blot out any signs of her presence? No, he knew too well that that was the path to disaster.

  Auguste glanced round at his claustrophobic surroundings: the semi-nude ladies seemed to be leering down at the unpleasant sight in their midst. His eyes followed their gaze. This wasn’t the King. This man had a definite look of one used to the outdoors; his hands were tanned as though he had lived in sunnier climes than England. His hair was sleekly oiled. He wasn’t wearing gloves; that was strange if he were a dinner guest. He looked around. The gloves were on the arm of that leather armchair. Now why would he have taken them off?

  Too late he was aware his detective instincts were once more being aroused. Why me? an inner voice yelled at him, aggrieved. Why should he, Auguste Didier, be singled out by fate to cope with these horrors?

  He still didn’t like the position of that gun. Didn’t the scene look just a little posed? He forced himself to examine his fear: suppose it were murder? Suppose this stranger (assuming the Tabors were not lying) had come to meet someone here. Who?

  There was but one way to prove to the police it was not Tatiana: he must find out the truth himself. His heart sank, but he forced himself methodically to absorb every detail of the room, every bloodstain, every sign of occupation, worried not least at what a thankfully live King would say when awoken at breakfast-time to the news that once again Auguste Didier and a corpse were together on the premises.

  Forty minutes later, Alexander reappeared, now accompanied by three representatives of the Yorkshire police force, and inevitably George and Priscilla Tabor, though without Tatiana, Auguste was relieved to see, and without the King’s bodyguards. Clearly Priscilla was ho
ping this could all be cleared up before breakfast while His Majesty peacefully slept on. He doubted this very much. One of the policemen was the constable who had been guarding the main entrance to the Tabor Hall estate and was torn between indignation that his profile had not hitherto been higher in this event and apprehension as to whether or not he could have been expected to prevent it. The second was a small terrier of a man with intelligent darting eyes, and the third a silent bulldog sergeant of huge stature who hovered protectively over his superior.

  The constable gravitated to Auguste’s side, apparently hopeful of making an immediate arrest.

  ‘This is Mr Auguste Didier,’ Alexander informed the police. ‘I called him when I found the body.’ Slightly to Auguste’s indignation, this made no impact on the terrier, Inspector Cobbold. ‘He is a guest in the house and a detective.’ Auguste was torn between modest pride and awareness that this was hardly a trump card in his hand when faced with unknown professional competition.

  ‘Special Branch?’ Cobbold’s tones were noncommittal, and fortunately less heavily accented than he had expected, yet he looked as shrewd a Yorkshireman as Auguste had yet met.

  ‘No.’ How could he convey he was a highly reluctant amateur detective? ‘But I am known to Scotland Yard,’ Auguste compromised.

  Cobbold stared at him without commenting on this. ‘On His Majesty’s Staff?’

  ‘No. I am related by marriage.’ Auguste saw a wall of noncommunication rapidly nearing completion between himself and Cobbold.

  The inspector did not comment. Instead: ‘No one recognises him, that right?’ A jerk of the head at the corpse.

  ‘We do not.’ Priscilla Tabor decided to make her presence felt. ‘One of our guests may do so.’

  ‘Including His Majesty?’ Cobbold asked, obviously not one to be daunted, Auguste noticed admiringly.

  ‘It is highly unlikely that a friend of His Majesty would come here to shoot himself,’ Priscilla came back witheringly.

  ‘If it was suicide,’ Auguste incautiously commented.

  ‘Any reason why not?’ Auguste’s opinion of Inspector Cobbold shot up. Any man who could take such a fly in the soup so calmly won his appreciation.

  ‘There was something strange about the position of the gun to the body when originally found,’ he began.

  ‘Originally?’ Cobbold picked up instantly.

  ‘The body was moved.’

  ‘Why?’

  Priscilla turned the Gorgon’s stare upon him. ‘I would remind you that President McKinley of America has just been assassinated. Suppose such a catastrophe had occurred to His Majesty?’

  ‘Didn’t occur to you to go to find out?’ The Gorgon’s gaze failed to turn Cobbold to stone.

  ‘No,’ Priscilla replied icily.

  ‘What was strange then?’ Cobbold turned on Auguste.

  ‘I have put these matches to mark the original position. It seemed too neat, too close, for the gun to have fallen like that.’

  Cobbold considered this. ‘Murder, eh? No one passed PC Walters here. Not this fellow, nor anyone else. What other entrances are there?’

  ‘One giving access to the woods, leading to the Malham and Gordale lane, another giving on to the fells at the back.’ George came into his own. ‘The fellow could have scrambled over the drystone walls, I suppose.’

  ‘Not in that suit,’ said Cobbold dismissively.

  Auguste’s respect grew. The black suit was unmarked.

  ‘Otherwise, it would have to be someone in the house.’

  ‘This is quite outrageous,’ Priscilla intervened. ‘It is a simple case of suicide.’

  ‘Or one of the other guests this evening, who left after the dinner,’ Auguste suggested, ignoring her.

  ‘Mr Didier!’ his hostess said furiously. ‘I fear you forget your position.’

  ‘There is no position, Lady Tabor,’ Auguste responded firmly, ‘where death is concerned. Only truth.’

  ‘They all went,’ Walter put in, full of importance. Then as everyone looked at him, he blushed. ‘I counted them. Four carriages, ten people. They was on a list that London detective gave me.’

  ‘Well done,’ Cobbold said briefly. ‘Suicide most probably.’ The terrier features bore a sudden smile for Lady Tabor. A smile without warmth. He leaned forward and gingerly picked up the gun – by its barrel, Auguste noted with interest. ‘Do you recognise this, sir?’

  ‘Of course, my dear fellow,’ said George Tabor, irritated. ‘It’s a Webley, Mark II service revolver. The butt has no pawl.’

  ‘Do you possess one?’

  ‘Of course. Kept in the gun room.’

  ‘Is it there now?’

  ‘How the devil do I know?’

  Cobbold dropped the gun into a paper bag. ‘As I say, probably suicide, sir. No need to worry.’ But his eyes were more intent on the corpse, Auguste observed, than in reassuring Lord Tabor. So he did think it was murder, and if so Tatiana’s role in finding the body would come under scrutiny. There was some mystery there which she was not prepared to tell him about – and time was running out. What to do? Suddenly he knew.

  ‘If I might make a suggestion,’ he ventured, apparently offhandedly. ‘Since His Majesty is present, I wonder if Chief Inspector Rose of Scotland Yard should be consulted. He is used to dealing with His Majesty and murder—’ Even in his anxiety he thought how ridiculous this sounded, as if His Majesty were a Jack the Ripper in his private moments.

  He was greeted by silence. Auguste was not yet used to the Yorkshire economy of words, or its pace of contemplation.

  ‘Aye,’ said Cobbold at last.

  In Highbury, Chief Inspector Egbert Rose had long since laid aside the cares of the day, which this Saturday had involved shopping with Edith first at Mr Pinpole’s, then the Maypole Dairy, then Gamages in search of some nice toy soldiers for Edith’s younger sister’s oldest. Highbury Saturdays were not devoted to partridge shooting, though they might be rounded off with a pleasant pipe or a drink in the local public house. However, this evening had seen a rare culinary triumph on Edith’s part. Inspired by the presence of their new neighbours at dinner she had ventured to produce a creditable imitation of Mrs Marshall’s Creole Cutlets. Hitherto Rose had privately been of the opinion that Edith and Mr Pinpole the butcher were in a conspiracy to pervert the course of English justice by producing meat so tough that the resulting indigestion could be guaranteed to disturb his thought processes for days on end.

  Dreaming of Auguste’s version of the same dish in which he had once indulged at Plum’s Club for Gentlemen, Egbert slept peacefully until the sharp ring of the telephone split his dream asunder. How come these operators were all so blasted cheerful at five-thirty in the morning? His ill-temper was only slightly abated by the sound of Auguste’s somewhat hesitant voice.

  ‘Yorkshire?’ Rose grunted. ‘Out of my area,’ and prepared to hang up the receiver.

  ‘But, Egbert, the King—’

  The worst two words in the English language so far as Chief Inspector Rose was concerned. ‘You don’t mean to say you’ve dragged him in again.’

  An indignant squawk from the other end forced a reluctant grin even to Rose’s face. ‘Now let’s get this straight. You’ve got a dead body. Shot. Not an accident. Probably suicide.’

  A short silence, then, ‘Possibly.’

  Rose swore under his breath.

  ‘You will come, Egbert?’ Auguste asked, alarmed. ‘You may speak to Inspector Cobbold if you wish—’

  Rose had once made a trip to Scarborough – and what he had seen of Yorkshire convinced him that London was not only homelier, but warmer. Upstairs Edith would be hunched up under the warm bedclothes pretending to sleep but agog to know what was happening. He mentally weighed Yorkshire against the displeasure of King Edward VII as conveyed through the upper hierarchy of the Yard. ‘Yes.’

  At nine o’clock Auguste staggered down the ornate curved staircase after a mere two hours’ sleep. When he had returned to t
heir room, Tatiana, it had appeared, was asleep. This morning when he awoke – if awoke was the word – she was already dressing with the help of one of the Tabor housemaids. He could not avoid the unworthy suspicion that the girl had been summoned as a deterrent to any discussion of the night’s events.

  ‘Good morning, daragoy,’ she called.

  At the sound of her familiar greeting, doubts vanished and he went across to kiss her.

  ‘Egbert is coming,’ he told her in relief. Tatiana liked Egbert and Edith. Edith had been full of apprehension at the thought of a real princess visiting her home, especially as to what refreshment might be offered. Auguste had assured her that Tatiana was a great devotee of the recipes of Mrs Marshall, as was he himself; guilt at his duplicity had been assuaged by Edith’s look of pleasure. Tatiana had entered the house, promptly seen in it the epitome of all Mr Marx would approve, even the china Toby jugs, and suffered Edith’s cooking in the interests of a new-found-land. They got on splendidly thereafter.

  So why the sudden chill in Tatiana’s face at the mention of Egbert’s imminent arrival?

  Slowly Auguste went downstairs for breakfast. From the ecstasy of newly wedded bliss, he seemed to have been pitchforked into nightmare. Where was the safe world of yesterday, if even Egbert’s arrival was overcast by mystery?

  To his great surprise, nearly all the party save, of course, His Majesty, was present at breakfast including the Dowager. News of the night’s events must have spread. Even Beatrice Janes was present, and thus it was highly possible that His Majesty already knew what had happened – or very shortly would.

  The ramifications of this were firmly relegated to the back of his mind as he decided that his estomac could not contemplate them simultaneously with an assault by kidney or kedgeree (particularly not Mr Breckles’ less than authentic version). A café noir on the other hand might well galvanise his mind into action. There was a silence as he entered. Then:

  ‘Good morning, Mr Didier. I hear you are turning detective again,’ Miriam greeted him gaily. ‘I hope your tales to us on Friday evening did not inspire last night’s events.’