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

  ‘Really, Mother,’ Priscilla said reprovingly. ‘I have explained to you it is a case of suicide, not murder.’ It was a brave attempt at re-establishing control after a night not so much broken as shattered.

  ‘I heard Mr Didier was very clever when the Galaxy chorus girls were getting strangled one after the other. He got on ever so well with them, you see,’ volunteered Gertie brightly, reaching for an apple and remembering she had forgotten the way Cyril had told her to peel it.

  Auguste was no proof against such flattery, particularly from Gertie, and bowed his head in appreciation towards her, only to find Tatiana had entered and was gazing at him in obvious amusement. Her smile died as he rose to his feet to greet her.

  ‘Oh, Princess,’ cried Beatrice excitedly, anxious to hear what the horse’s mouth had to say after what had obviously, Auguste now realised, been the subject of much discussion before he entered. ‘Alexander tells us you wanted a smoke when you discovered that poor man last night.’ If a princess could take a smoke, the twentieth century looked promising for women.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Tatiana gravely. ‘Life is a voyage of discovery, do you not agree, Mrs Janes?’

  ‘Oh, quite,’ Beatrice readily did so, though her own voyages rarely took her beyond Bond Street. ‘And do you approve, Mr Didier?’ she added meekly.

  ‘As a newly married man, I find everything my wife does is naturally perfect,’ he murmured diplomatically, wondering how his wife’s conduct could be the topic of discussion, when a dead body had been discovered only a few hours ago. Or was his arrival at breakfast the signal to cease speculation on that subject?

  ‘It does not matter. I shall not take another smoke,’ Tatiana said dismissively.

  ‘I am much relieved,’ Priscilla told her graciously. Obviously her Ladyship had recovered from the shock of what Tatiana must have disclosed to her during the night, Auguste reflected. The greater shock of the corpse had outweighed even Tatiana’s grievous sin.

  ‘Will you be accompanying us this morning, Mr Didier?’ Laura’s quiet voice asked.

  ‘To church?’

  ‘To see the body,’ Oliver told him cheerfully. ‘It’s been carted off to Settle hospital mortuary in view of His Majesty’s presence here, at the request of his detectives. Those of us who didn’t take part in the night’s proceedings are invited along to see if we can recognise him.’

  ‘It is iniquitous,’ Priscilla burst out. ‘It is unfortunate enough that this deluded man chose our smokehouse for his despicable act, without our guests being put to inconvenience.’

  ‘All your guests, your Ladyship?’ enquired Auguste delicately.

  ‘Not of course His Majesty,’ retorted Priscilla, shocked.

  ‘Yet who more likely to get murdered here than he?’ Victoria pointed out, helping herself to another buttered muffin.

  A little shriek from Beatrice. ‘Oh, Miss Tabor, the very thought of it. Do you think he’ll come back?’

  ‘Who?’ asked her husband.

  ‘His Majesty’s assassin.’

  ‘Mrs Janes!’ Priscilla’s anguished voice rang out. ‘I fear you have misunderstood.’

  Cyril failed to take note of the warning conveyed in his sister-in-law’s tone. Was it one of the Special Branch Johnnies that shot him?’

  ‘Cyril!’ Priscilla broke in desperately. ‘I fear you are forgetting it was suicide.’

  ‘Why should the King’s assassin commit suicide?’ asked Gertie, puzzled, oblivious of storm clouds since she lived amongst them most of the time.

  ‘He didn’t, kitten,’ Cyril assured her.

  ‘You mean it was murder?’ asked Miriam brightly.

  ‘It was not murder. It was suicide!’ Lady Priscilla shouted, rising to her feet. ‘Will you all please understand? It was suicide!’

  But why, Auguste wondered, was she so certain?

  His Majesty was seated at a small writing table in his salon as Auguste, bowing deeply, was ushered with Tatiana into the presence. There was a distinct lack of rapport between husband and wife. The air crackled with the tense politeness of a marital no man’s land. An equerry had been sent to summon them, and Auguste had welcomed the opportunity to attempt to put matters in their true perspective to His Majesty. It was not going to be easy. Nobody hoped more than himself that Priscilla Tabor was right in her conviction; but there were too many unexplained loose threads for him to have any confidence that this was the case. And one loose thread was Tatiana.

  ‘Ah, Tati,’ was His Majesty’s affectionate greeting, rising to kiss her before turning his attention to her husband. ‘Now, Didier, what’s all this about a suicide?’ There was little affection for Auguste in his tone.

  ‘It’s most regrettable, Your Majesty, but—’

  ‘I know that. Who is it?’

  ‘No one so far recognises him, sir.’

  The King frowned. ‘Unusual, isn’t it? I gather he was dressed.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Auguste correctly interpreted this and mentally congratulated himself it was a small sign that he had not yet been cast totally outside the pale of the royal family.

  ‘No fear it might be anything other than suicide?’ the King barked.

  Auguste steeled himself. ‘It is not beyond the bounds of possibility, sir.’

  The King regarded him suspiciously. ‘Don’t let him go making a murder out of this, Tati, will you?’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s sent for Chief Inspector Rose, Bertie,’ Tatiana told him.

  Afraid? Auguste picked up on the word with some disquiet.

  ‘In that case I’ll leave.’ His Majesty could be a man of quick decision.

  ‘But it is possible he was a potential assassin, sir,’ Auguste said in alarm. ‘Dressing in formal clothes could have averted suspicion from him if he were spotted.’

  ‘If he was,’ the King pointed out pragmatically, ‘the poor fellow clearly thought better of his plans. But –’ driven to new heights of detection, ‘– if it was murder, it’s rather a coincidence that he was killed himself before he could make his attempt on me. My bodyguards deny all knowledge of him, so I’ve nothing to do with the matter.’

  ‘Perhaps not, sir.’

  The King looked at him. He expected more cooperation from Didier. ‘I’ll leave,’ repeated His Britannic Majesty. ‘Now.’ Even sweet little Beatrice was but poor temptation where scandal might lurk.

  Sweet little Beatrice was not at that moment living up to her lover’s idealised picture of her. She was pouting in displeasure.

  ‘I don’t want to come.’

  ‘You have to,’ her husband informed her curtly. ‘It would look most odd.’

  ‘He needs me.’

  ‘He will have to manage without you. Besides, I’ve no doubt he had you last night.’

  ‘Harold!’ Beatrice was unable to believe she was hearing aright. Such crudeness from her own husband. ‘Are you out of your mind?’ He must be. Such things were never alluded to in polite society.

  ‘You weren’t in your room at one o’clock.’

  ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘No, you weren’t.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I went to see.’

  ‘And where else did you go?’ Sweetness had indeed turned acid. ‘Not for a smoke, did you?’

  Harold stared at her, and changed tack. ‘I don’t mind His Majesty,’ he said heavily. ‘After all, he’s a friend of mine. It’s the others.’

  ‘Others?’ asked Beatrice slowly. This was far worse than she had feared.

  ‘That fellow in the smokehouse,’ Harold said pleadingly. ‘He wasn’t one, was he?’

  Terror shot through Beatrice, all the sharper for being so unexpected. ‘What did he look like?’ she whispered.

  ‘About my age. Beard. Dark hair—’ He stopped as she looked at him aghast.

  ‘How do you know, Harold? Oh, Puppikins, what have you done?’

  ‘It was the Tabors,’ he gabbled. ‘The Tabors told me. Truly, Pussikins.’

>   ‘Where are you going, Auguste?’ Tatiana asked in surprise, seeing him don his ulster.

  ‘To Settle.’

  ‘But you have seen the body.’

  ‘I need to be present.’ He could not explain that he was impatient for news, since she had denied there was any need for concern. If by any chance Cobbold had now identified the corpse, he might be able to rid his mind of the still-nagging suspicion that Tatiana might know more than she was saying about the events of the night.

  ‘I will come in the carriage with you.’

  He could not stop himself as tension burst out. ‘This great desire for my company did not prevent you from absenting yourself from our bed last night.’

  ‘So you try to stop me from seeing my own cousin? Are you jealous of Alexander? You wish to cage me up like a poor little bird?’

  She did not look in the least like a poor little bird, more like an uncaged tiger.

  Two could lose their tempers, especially after virtually no sleep.

  ‘If you will creep around like a housemaid—’ Auguste shouted.

  ‘Huh! You know all about housemaids creeping around, eh? Creeping into your bed.’

  ‘That is not so!’ He was outraged.

  ‘Oh, Mr Auguste,’ she mimicked. ‘You’re so handsome, so clever.’

  ‘And if I am?’ he retorted, then broke off aghast. ‘Tatiana, we are quarrelling.’ Never, never had he imagined such a thing could happen.

  Her eyes flashed. ‘Naturally. We are married.’

  He was bereft of words. He left the room in silent dignity, only to find her following him, though not with any sign of contrition. The air was icy between them as they reached the carriages. He turned to escort her to a carriage, only to see her staring in rapture at Alexander. For a moment, he was about to erupt in fury, then he realised it wasn’t Alexander that held her attention. It was his motorcar.

  Forbidden by her father to ride in such contraptions, she was consequently as drawn to them as to Mr Marx, and to this one, it appeared, in particular.

  Alexander, seeing her bemused expression, swept her a deep bow. ‘Would you care to accompany me, dearest cousin? Victoria has been commanded to ride in the family carriage.’

  ‘I would.’ All trace of the tigress was gone, as she climbed with alacrity into the undoubtedly graceful green two-seater. It chugged into life and juddered along the Tabor drive. Auguste’s own carriage, shared with Mr Richey, the butler, a footman and the King’s aide-de-camp, the first two commanded by Cobbold to attend in case they recognised a visitor to the Hall, followed in its wake. A definite smirk had crossed Richey’s face as Auguste climbed in, as if confirming some private opinion of his own. Auguste gritted his teeth and proceeded to ask questions about visitors to the Hall. They could hardly not tell him. He was a guest, and whether they liked it or not, a gentleman.

  It was with great satisfaction that, as their carriage turned to climb the hill out of the nearby village of Kirkby Malham, Auguste saw a stationary motorcar. De Dion Boutons, it appeared, found the incline too great and would have to take the lower much longer road. He did not wave.

  At Settle Tatiana greeted her husband with enthusiasm as though motorcars oiled all troubled waters.

  ‘Just think,’ she informed him, ‘the front axles are separate from the drive shaft. Isn’t that exciting?’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted, and Auguste meanly laughed. ‘But I’m going to find out,’ she added under her breath as he walked off to greet Cobbold at the Settle mortuary.

  ‘Is it really necessary for the ladies to have to undergo this ordeal?’ Harold Janes demanded ponderously of the inspector.

  ‘Yes, sir. We still have no identification.’

  ‘It’s quite outrageous.’ What he really considered outrageous, Auguste suspected, was Beatrice bewailing the fact that she had wanted to stay behind with His Majesty.

  Auguste watched the group’s varying reactions as they inspected the corpse, which now awaited the arrival of Chief Inspector Rose before undergoing post mortem examination. Laura showed no emotion at all, her mother Miriam, who had insisted on attending, looked merely curious. Victoria was the most visibly affected, clutching Alexander’s hand for moral support. Harold Janes registered annoyance, Oliver looked shaken, Gertie refused to look, burying her head in Cyril’s shoulder. Cyril was more concerned with Kitten than with the corpse.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Inspector,’ Miriam informed him graciously. ‘I wish we could have identified him for you. But I’m afraid not one of us knows who he was.’

  At the very moment that King Edward VII, congratulating himself on a lucky escape, was enjoying a hearty luncheon of oysters, truffled mutton chops, and soufflé de chocolat on the royal train, which had soared triumphantly over the spectacular viaducts of the Ribblesdale Valley line on its way to Scotland, Chief Inspector Egbert Rose was enjoying a rather less grand luncheon of tripe and onions on the Great Northern railway to Leeds. His train was dutifully chugging rather than soaring. Its cook must know Edith, he thought sourly and unusually disloyally, not to mention Mr Pinpole; he chewed his way on through the tripe with the determination of a Stanley in search of Livingstone.

  Luncheon at Tabor Hall, while by no means comparable with Rose’s tripe, also fell short of the standards which His Majesty was now enjoying. Haute cuisine was not Mr Breckles’ forte, Auguste decided. This blanquette resembled English blancmange in its blandness, instead of achieving a subtle blending of flavours. Yet Breckles possessed all the characteristics of a good chef. Auguste considered this conundrum. Perhaps he would request the honour of being allowed further access to his host’s kitchens. After all, he thought glumly, the remainder of their stay could well be longer than intended. Gone were his expectations of being home in time for Cook’s Day Off on Tuesday. Queen Anne’s Gate seemed a depressingly long way away. Yes, he would certainly seek to widen Mr Breckles’ range. And, after all, if the corpse did prove to have been murdered, where better to seek accurate information on Tabor Hall’s inmates than in its servants’ hall?

  He jumped as his host addressed him. ‘The poor fellow was obviously here to visit another house and picked the wrong one.’

  ‘Could he have been here to visit one of your servants or anyone living on the estate?’ Auguste asked.

  ‘He was a gentleman, Mr Didier,’ Priscilla pointed out, her tone suggesting no gentleman would have asked such a question.

  George looked up from his blanquette. ‘I say, that’s it, by Jove! He must have been visiting someone else. The lodgekeeper, or the gamekeeper.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ his mother pointed out. ‘The tailcoat was far too good.’

  Her daughter-in-law overruled her. ‘I believe George is correct. I trust you will direct your enquiries in that direction, Mr Didier.’

  ‘Mother has a point,’ Cyril said suddenly. ‘The cut of those trousers wasn’t half bad. Trifle old-fashioned, but then he wasn’t exactly a chick, was he? Someone’s hand-me-downs, maybe,’ he finished lamely, as there was a silence. The invitation to remember the terrible sight of the corpse resulted in several sets of cutlery being hastily laid on plates.

  ‘Please don’t start talking about that poor man again,’ Victoria begged. ‘This has been the most horrid party ever. Alexander and I have our engagement celebrated in deep mourning, and now we have the death to follow it.’

  Beatrice giggled, and Priscilla made a rare mistake. ‘I see nothing amusing in my daughter’s ill-timed remarks, Mrs Janes.’

  The merry giggle was cut short, as Beatrice took in that she, intimate friend of His Majesty, was being reproved. Large tears formed in her eyes, and without a word she rose to her feet. ‘We shall leave,’ her husband hastily informed the company, picking up the unspoken message. ‘We are not welcome here.’ With a regretful eye on the Stilton, he held back his wife’s chair for her to make a sweeping exit.

  Tatiana took pity on Priscilla’s dilemma. P
ublic retreat was impossible for her, yet social ruin stared her in the face: not only had the King left early, but now his favourite was threatening to follow suit. ‘Please do stay, Mrs Janes. I was so relying on you to explain to me about London society – and the latest fashions. As you are one of the leaders of London society, I had hoped for guidance.’

  Auguste, not for the first time, admired his wife’s social quickwittedness. Tatiana had no interest in fashions whatsoever.

  Beatrice paused, turned, and graciously resumed her seat. Tatiana was after all a relation (of some sort) to His Majesty. And a princess, even if a somewhat unusual one, who chose to go to smokehouses in the middle of the night.

  Tatiana, true to her word, bore Beatrice away after luncheon, her arm firmly clasped in hers. They made an incongruous couple, Auguste thought: Tatiana tall, slender and firm of stride; Beatrice short, plump and definitely a trotter. He began to walk into the library to while away the time until Egbert should arrive.

  ‘Ah, Didier!’ Auguste’s heart sank. Was he still to be allowed no peace for reflection? ‘Fancy a game of billiards?’ His host approached him eagerly.

  ‘In fact, I—’

  ‘Good, good,’ George said heartily, shepherding him towards the billiard room. He probably didn’t know where the library was, Auguste thought sourly. ‘What do you make of this rum business, eh?’ George asked him anxiously, having put a cue in his hand as if to prevent escape. ‘Getting to the bottom of it, are you?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘George,’ his host said enthusiastically. ‘Call me George.’

  ‘I’m honoured.’

  ‘Deuced odd, corpse turning up in our smokehouse like that. Had a foreign look about him, didn’t you think?’

  ‘A touch of the sun, certainly. Not from Yorkshire.’

  George laughed immoderately at this feeble witticism. ‘Know who I thought it was at first?’ he said a little nervously. ‘That fellow Mariot.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Laura’s chap. Can’t be, of course. She’d have recognised him, though he left all of twenty years ago. Just a stupid fancy of mine.’

  ‘When you say “left”—’ Auguste began.