Murder Under The Kissing Bough: (Auguste Didier Mystery 6) (10 page)

‘He could have broken into the hotel to hide it in the cellars,’ pointed out Auguste, anxious to absolve Rose from any hint of blame.

‘Could be. One broken door here or there wouldn’t be noticed when our Maisie’s builders moved in.’ Rose brightened up. ‘Funny feet the Queen must have,’ he said thoughtfully as they walked back.

‘
Pardon?
’ Auguste enquired, startled.

‘That sign up there.’ He jerked a finger at the building opposite. ‘Rodways Patent Concave Shoes. It’s got the royal arms above it. Perhaps the Prince of
Wales patronises them – he has a lot of standing about to do.’ He spoke lightly, but the disagreeable thought struck him that unless he got a move on, His Royal Highness’s standing about could be cut short very suddenly indeed.

Now, however, Auguste was on his own once more, to face his disgruntled guests in the dining room, disgruntled through no fault of his.

‘I don’t want a drink from the damned wassail bowl. I want to go to my room.’ Colonel Carruthers’s pithy statements seemed to sum up the general mood.

‘I regret it is not possible to visit your rooms for the moment.’ Auguste looked anxiously round his flock, whose expressions varied from impatience to curiosity. Even Maisie looked somewhat annoyed.

‘Come on, Auguste. Stop playing games!’ she ordered him informally. ‘Why’s there a policeman on the front door, and why have we been herded in here like a load of pigs to a trough?’

‘Murder,’ announced Auguste succinctly.

An astounded silence.

‘
Murder
?’ repeated Thérèse. She laughed. ‘But we are all here.’

‘One of the maids.’

‘One of
them
?’ Harbottle pointed a somewhat disdainful thumb towards the nether regions. ‘But why should we be put to inconvenience?’

Colonel Carruthers had been thinking. Now he exploded. ‘Good God, you mean we’re suspects, don’t you? That’s why we’re here in the dining room. Sorry for the girl. But what about our luncheon? No sign of it yet.’

‘The body has only just been discovered,’ said Auguste quietly. ‘The police must examine the scene, and we must avoid it for a short time. Arrangements are being made for luncheon.’

‘Where was the body found?’ asked Bowman, for once not laughing.

‘In a large chest by the window,’ replied Auguste reluctantly.

A moment for this to sink in, then: ‘You mean where I was last night?’ shrieked Evelyn.

‘Yes, Miss Pembrey. I regret that your sister found the body. She is lying down, being tended by her maid.’

‘Oh, it was my fault. She said she would look for the brooch that I lost last night,’ cried Evelyn, woebegone. ‘She said she wanted to stay here, so she might as well hunt for it. She must have thought of the chest. Oh!’ Rosanna put her arm round her to comfort her.

‘It’s just like your story of the Bride in the Chest, isn’t it?’ chattered Gladys, eyes glowing. ‘Murder under the Kissing Bough. The Skeleton at the Feast. So she was murdered while we were out,’ she added inconsequentially.

‘Or during the night,’ said Auguste. ‘She was missing yesterday however. I was making enquiries.’ No indiscretion in his saying so, for his enquiries had been public enough.

‘Why were you looking for her?’ asked Thérèse curiously.

‘I – I thought I recognised her and wished to speak to her, but I could not find her. She might have been killed yesterday.’

‘No,’ wailed Evelyn, ‘I was in the chest last night. It must have been today.’

‘Then that would be a good place to hide the body,’ observed Gladys. ‘No one would think of searching there after Miss Pembrey had been in it.’ Her eyes were agleam. She was a devotee of the adventures of Lady Molly of Scotland Yard, and was now demonstrating her methods.

‘Since we have mostly come from overseas, I do not
see how we can be suspects,’ said Harbottle nervously.

Sir John Harnet, Bowman and Carruthers looked at each other. ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ they said in unison, as the enormity of this statement sank in.

‘Are the police looking for a jealous lover?’ asked Gladys excitedly. ‘It’s usually them, you know.’

The Marquis stood up. ‘I have diplomatic immunity, Mr Didier. My wife and I will leave immediately.’

‘Oh no, Gaston,’ cried Bella instantly. ‘Think how bad that will look. And think what excitement we will miss.’

The Marquis fastened on to the important words: ‘look bad’. ‘French Colonial Office diplomat hurriedly leaves scene of crime,’ he imagined the English newspapers shouting to the world. He slowly resumed his seat. ‘Very well, we will remain – for a short period only.’

Egbert Rose came in. ‘Mr Didier will have explained to you what has happened. We’re sorry to have to keep you here a while longer, but we need to make a search of your rooms, I’m afraid. Do any of you have any objection?’

There was instant uproar. The words ‘Diplomatic immunity’, ‘private papers,
very
private papers’ could just be discerned in the outrage. When it had died down, Bella’s voice could be heard remarking cheerfully, ‘You are at liberty to search among my chemises and stays, if you wish, Inspector.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Rose replied stolidly, as reluctant permission seemed forthcoming from the assembled guests. ‘Meanwhile,’ his eye caught Auguste’s, ‘luncheon is ready for you below. We need to search this room now. Mr Didier will show you the way.’

Reluctantly, Auguste rose. The moment he had feared. The moment when, as a reluctant Pied Piper, he must herd his band down the cellar steps, out along
a candlelit, cold corridor, past the laundry, scullery and kitchens, and into the basement room normally devoted to the repasts of maids, valets and staff. Even luncheon could not compensate for this indignity to a manager’s self-respect.

‘Been dead some hours at least, the doc says. She was probably killed during the night – the risk would be too great otherwise. We won’t know for sure until the PM.’

‘Was she killed there?’ asked Auguste, then realised his stupidity. Of course she could not have been killed in the chest or even in the drawing room, unless it was a crime on the spur of the moment and that was very unlikely. One did not choose a midnight encounter for casual conversation.

‘No,’ said Rose. ‘And the men have come up with precious little from the search of the bedrooms. No helpful bloodstained clothes. And the top floor is kept locked, you say?’

‘On the eastern side, and I myself have the only key. On the other are lumber rooms and staff bedrooms, although most of the staff are lodged nearby.’

Rose’s face grew long. Any moment now he was going to break the news to Auguste that he wasn’t going to be here to look after this case. Twitch was. He looked up as he heard footsteps. It wasn’t Twitch. It was a proud-looking police constable who was unceremoniously escorting a burly young man in a cap.

‘Found him down in one of those cellars, sir. He’s been sleeping there, I reckon. Here’s our man, sir.’

The young man tore himself free and planted his hands on the desk belligerently. ‘Rot. I’m waiting for Nancy Watkins. Why are you all here? Is anything wrong?’

Rose looked at him sharply. ‘Why should it be? And who’s Nancy Watkins and what’s she to you? And what
are you doing in the cellars?’ He motioned to the constable to take notes.

‘I had an arrangement to meet her downstairs at seven thirty this morning. She didn’t come. She’s one of the maids here.’

‘Seems an odd sort of time for a maid to arrange to meet her young man?’

‘She isn’t really a maid. And I’m not her young man.’ Anxiety gave an edge to his tone. ‘She writes a column for
London Watchman
, and I’m on their staff too. Danny Nash. She was here about an important news story she was after for the magazine.’

‘What story?’ Rose was suddenly very interested. It was a long shot, but—

Danny shook his head. ‘She wouldn’t tell me. She kept things very close, you see. And it was her first big story. Normally she does Household Hints. But she did say she had to be careful because it might be dangerous. That’s why I said I’d camp here in the cellars and she was to slip out to see me each day.’ There was another reason for his presence too, but he’d keep that to himself. ‘Yesterday she came, but not today.’ He looked from Rose to Auguste, picking up their silence. ‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Something’s happened to her.’

Rose got up from his chair. ‘Bad,’ he said gruffly. ‘She’s dead.’

‘Dead.’ The young man stared at them aghast. ‘Murdered?’

‘You think that was likely?’ Rose shot at him.

‘I believe
she
did,’ he said soberly. ‘I see that now, otherwise she wouldn’t even have agreed to my camping here. She would do it all herself. Women need a man in a job like ours.’ He banged a fist on the table. ‘I’ll help you,’ he said vehemently. ‘I’ll find out who killed her.’ He paused. ‘She did say she’d give me one
clue, but I couldn’t make anything of it without some more to go on. It was Marlborough.’

‘What about Marlborough?’ said Rose sharply.

‘Nothing more – just that. She liked being mysterious,’ said Danny, in despair at the ways of women.

The editor of the
London Watchman
led his unwelcome visitors into his study, irritated at being caught in carpet slippers and playing at toy theatres on the floor. Boxing Day was no time to have to think of work. There he was given the unwelcome news of the death of one of his staff and the fact that another was by no means clear of suspicion.

‘Nancy? Murdered? But we’re the
Watchman
,’ he babbled. ‘Surely it can’t have anything to do with us? That sort of thing doesn’t happen nowadays, does it? It must be a gentleman friend of hers,’ he diagnosed with relief. ‘Or a lunatic! I liked Nancy,’ he added sadly. ‘Nice young lady. Orphan, you know. Made her own way in life. Didn’t land up on the streets like so many others. She did well. Must have been a
crime passionnel
.’

‘Perhaps, sir, but if so it was committed by someone in the hotel; no one came in or out during the night, so the porter said.’ Not the front entrance, anyway, Rose was thinking to himself. ‘What was the story she was working on?’

The editor gave an exclamation of combined relief and annoyance. ‘She wouldn’t tell me! She wrote a column of household hints, and I told her she didn’t have time to go gallivanting after stories. But she would have it. She’d do it over Christmas, she said.’

‘She told you nothing else?’ Rose stared gloomily round the untidy cubbyhole, wondering how editorial words of such weight and wisdom could emanate from here each month and disgorge themselves into the
highly regarded
Watchman
. Then he remembered that his own office at the Factory bore a great resemblance to this cubbyhole – to the outside eye – and warmed to Mr Jonus Martin.

‘Told me, no. I did get, um, a little extra curious one day, and wanted to know just when I would be getting an article. She said it was more important than just an article: it was a matter of preventing something very important from happening in the public interest. But there would definitely be an article too? I asked. After all, I
am
an editor.’ He looked defensive. ‘“Oh yes,” she said, “the definite article is all-important.” And then laughed as if it were funny. Women are odd creatures.’ He pondered this for a moment as though it might form the basis of an article for his next issue. Very odd, he concluded. Then he recalled that Nancy Watkins was odd no longer. ‘I’m sorry to hear about Nancy,’ he said sincerely. ‘The
Watchman
will do anything it can to catch the fellow.’

‘I’ve bad news for you, Auguste. I’m going to have to leave you with Twitch on this one,’ Rose told him after they arrived back at Cranton’s, as he finished his last tour of the drawing room to ensure that nobody had broken in from the outside. Even the chest was in place, having been checked and yielded no further information. Wait till they got this fingerprinting idea in operation. It was taking them long enough, that was for sure.

Auguste stared at him unbelievingly. ‘
Why
?’ he burst out indignantly.

‘I’ve something more important on hand. I came today to start things off, but I’ve got to get back to the Yard.’

‘More important matters than murder?’ Auguste demanded.

‘Yes. Preventing one,’ said Rose grimly. He hesitated. ‘Between you and me, the murder of the Prince of Wales. A threat of an assassination attempt. We got wind of it in November and are no closer yet, except that it’s most likely to take place on the third of January.’ And he explained the background.

‘Does the Prince know?’ asked Auguste quietly. Now he saw Rose’s dilemma, saw the reason for his lack of sympathy over his own plight, and forgave him. Almost.

‘He knows all right. Mind you, threats are two a penny. Most of them are cranks, nothing serious. But this one,’ Rose paused, ‘it’s different. There’s already been one body found murdered in connection with it. An agent of the French Sûreté. Diplomacy is topsy-turvy on the Continent. Because of the Boxer trouble in China, Kaiser Wilhelm feels indebted to us for a change, so he slights his chum Kruger, ex-President of the Transvaal. You can imagine how the Boers liked that. And with rumours flying around about the Queen’s health, what better time to make an attempt? Especially with all the victory celebrations for Roberts’s return. The Prince of Wales is to meet him at Paddington on the third, in just over a week’s time.’