Murder At The Music Hall: (Auguste Didier Mystery 8) (22 page)

‘I acquired it in the course of being looked after by Lady Westland, your friend,’ Auguste replied innocently. His head had not yet recovered from the previous day, but his spirits seemed to have lifted remarkably.

‘And I had thought she would be safe from your attentions,’ his wife replied worriedly, with equal innocence.

He laughed in sheer pleasure at seeing her again. ‘I will tell you the entire story,’ he assured her. ‘After, of course, you have completed the exciting tale of why you are home early and of the three hundred and thirty-seventh kilometre.’

‘I burst the right front tyre cover,’ she began, ‘but fortunately—’ Tatiana eyed him suspiciously. ‘You really wish to hear this?’

‘But of course.’ He placed a suitably shocked expression on his face.

‘Then I will tell you
before
we take breakfast.’

Perhaps
while
we are eating,
ma mie.’
Time was important. So was the choice of breakfast from the vast array of chafing dishes that John saw fit to provide for breakfast each day. In vain, he had pointed out that the stomach must be gently wooed and comforted at such a time, not assaulted by sausages, kidneys and chops. Both contenders in this battle had entrenched their positions, and as usual it was Tatiana who negotiated a truce by gently pointing out to Auguste’s soft heart that uneaten food from upstairs undoubtedly found a happy reception downstairs where it was a welcome addition to diet. His counter request for poached fish – most reasonable in his opinion – had not met with the same generosity in his opponent. Kedgeree was grudgingly provided, but its consistency varied from cloggy lumps of rice bound together by starch and processed curry powder with the occasional whisper of over-smoked haddock to a passable (by Auguste’s exacting standards) light concoction of rice, cream, and delicately smoked fish and eggs with a mere hint of Indian spices.

Today was one of the latter. Could this be anything to do with Tatiana’s return? Auguste was aware that he was not the most popular member of his household to his own kitchen staff, but it did not worry him unduly. High standards engendered not affection but respect in those destined to achieve them for others. Dedicated as both he and John were to the temple of gastronomy, Auguste saw no reason to lower his own standards. If pushed he was forced to admit he might possibly be persuaded to give way graciously over the matter of how to prepare gravy, but he would stand firm on the
blancmange. This ancient and delicate savoury dish should not be allowed to sink forever into the tasteless sugary porridge of a Mrs Beeton nursery.

‘Red corsets,’ Tatiana commented thoughtfully some time later as he finished both his kedgeree and his account of the events of the Old King Cole, and was distracted by the realisation that once again only marmalade had been provided on their table. French recipe it might be, but his French palate required something sweeter at this hour.

‘Delightful,’ he agreed absently. ‘You are wearing one?’

Tatiana laughed. ‘If I sat in a chafing dish, you would pay more attention to me,
mon amour.’

Guilty, Auguste jerked back to full attention. ‘Ah,
red
corsets.’

‘Why did this child possess one, and why did she hide it in Will’s room?’

‘As to the first, I cannot guess.’

‘I can. She was forbidden to wear them at home. With me, it was the opposite,’ she said ruefully. ‘Useless armour.’

‘And on the second, she told me it was because no one would ever look there.’

‘Now why should a child think of that? I would think something or someone put the idea in her head.’

Auguste tried to concentrate. The smell of the Old King Cole’s greasy food must be pickling his brains, as well as his clothes. His valet was not impressed, but again Auguste was indifferent to his suffering. His previous acquaintance with valets had been on equal terms at upper servants’ dining tables, and he had managed perfectly well to dress himself for forty years,
minus two or three when his mother performed the service for him. He had seen no reason to change the status quo on his marriage, just because he was storming the green baize door into high society.

Tatiana had agreed with him. Society was humbug.
All
society, was it not? It was. Then why, she inquired, had he so passively submitted to the hierarchical self-imposed practices of the upper servants when working in large houses? Was it not because it was accepted practice? It was, he admitted (reluctantly). ‘Then why cannot you and I, Auguste, accept the practices of the world we live in, and yet live
our
lives, not theirs? You cook, I teach motoring.’

He had opened his mouth to protest, and then found that he had no argument to make. In theory, that was. Practice had proved a little more difficult, but over a year of marriage had made him impervious to disdainful expressions on the faces of his staff.

‘I know something you don’t know . . .’ Little Emmeline’s voice seemed to be piping in his head, insisting she took precedence over valets and marmalade. She implied she’d merely overheard general gossip, but he’d seen that look on her face on those of countless parlourmaids and footmen. The look of the smug keyhole-listener. He leapt up from the table.

‘You are going already, Auguste?’

‘My job, my love.’

‘Does His Majesty know you have a job?’

‘Of honour,’ Auguste added hastily. ‘And merely investigation.
Nothing
to do with cuisine.’ (This was of course true – how could the Old King Cole aspire to
cuisine
– it merely provided food). ‘Moreover the job was
given to me by a lady whom you chose – as I shall inform His Majesty, should he ever inquire.’

Her eyes gleamed. ‘Very well, Auguste. I trust he never discovers – although I understand from you he
is
somewhat involved through the stolen cross.’

‘I must leave. I am going to see a young lady.’

‘I am so glad.’

‘Of thirteen years old.’

Little Emmeline’s home in Holloway was surprisingly modest. Either Little Emmeline’s fees were equally modest, or her parents were industriously investing them in ‘the Funds’ against a rainy day. And with Little Emmeline that rain was already threatening, in Auguste’s view. Her dancing talent would not outlast her curiosity as a child performer.

When Auguste confessed he was neither prospective agent nor manager, her parents speedily lost interest and left Auguste alone with their precious offspring in the bleak Sunday parlour, which they now obviously regretted opening up merely for the likes of him. Emmeline was unusually subdued, which he put down either to her being alone with him, or to a guilty conscience – until he realised that this might possibly be Emmeline’s normal self in her home surroundings. Only away from Holloway and her parents did she take vengeance on them by launching herself aggressively at her fellow players and audiences. Here, clad in a somewhat longer drearier pinafore dress than her stage costume, she looked a model, if somewhat forlorn, young girl, no longer a child.

‘Emmeline, were you a friend of Will Lamb’s?’

‘No.’ She eyed him with scorn. ‘Not likely, is it? He took all my applause, his turn coming before me like that. It wasn’t fair. I was glad –’ she hesitated, and finished weakly ‘– he was going to be unhappy.’

‘What do you mean?’ Auguste asked sharply, the hesitation duly noted.

‘He was going to run away with that woman, wasn’t he?’

‘Now how
did
you come to know that?’

‘Everyone knew. I told you that.’

‘Did she mean it?’ he asked lightly.

‘How should I know?’ Emmeline said guardedly. ‘Women say things, don’t they?’

‘They do indeed,’ Auguste agreed. For a moment, there was accord between them. Now was the time. ‘Did you overhear Mariella and Will Lamb talking from Miss Turner’s room, or from the props room on the other side? You must have been very clever not to be noticed.’

‘I
am
clever.’ Emmeline looked complacent as she considered whether or not she needed more admiration from Auguste. ‘It was easy. No one thinks children are doing any harm when they just hang around doors like I do.’

‘And you were doing harm?’

‘Who says so?’

‘You did.’

‘No, I never.’

Auguste gave up this dead-end trail. ‘Did they talk about anything else interesting?’

She shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’

‘You’d like to help find who murdered Will Lamb, wouldn’t you?’

She considered this. ‘Why?’

Auguste tried to keep a pleasant smile on his face. ‘It could bring you to the attention of lots of people. You’d be famous.’

‘I’m famous already.’

‘Only in this part of London. You would be known all over the country.’

‘In Northumberland?’

‘Even there,’ he assured her readily. Why Northumberland, he wondered? He could not know that Little Emmeline had a fantasy life in which she played the role of Grace Darling, and had decided her future lay in her heroine’s birthplace, clad in a red corset or otherwise.

‘I remember she was asking him whether he’d changed something in the last few years.’

‘His love for her?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘His shirt?’ He tried a light-hearted joke, which she did not even bother to answer. She was frowning, trying hard to remember.

‘I think there was something else too.’

‘What?’

Such eagerness was unwise with Little Emmeline.

‘Aha!’

‘You must tell me,’ he said gravely.

‘Why?’

‘It could be important. Very important.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ she said delightedly, power in her hands.

‘Emmeline, do more than think.
Tell
me, and tell no one else. No one.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because,’ he hesitated. He did not wish to alarm her, but one person had been murdered. The punishment was the same for two murders as for one. ‘Because if anyone else knows, it could be dangerous for
you.’
Her eyes lit up with excitement.

He continued quickly: ‘And you will never get to Northumberland.’

Left alone, Emmeline went on frowning. If only she
could
remember.

Cherry and Black, clad in smart suits and bowler hats, arrived via the stage door to see Egbert Rose early on Friday afternoon, as though they wished to distance themselves as far as possible from yesterday’s pierrot humiliation.

Percy, passing them in the backstage area on his way to his boot cupboard office, stopped in dismay. ‘You’re still here.’

‘So’s your debts,’ growled Bowler Hat quickwittedly.

‘How true, alas, but another few nights like last night and you may depend upon it, it will be a different story,’ Percy burbled happily, but tactlessly.

Their faces darkened. ‘You put ’em up to it, that’s why they booed and threw things.’ There was hope in Black’s voice.

‘What?’ Percy looked at them in astonishment, then realised his
faux pas.
‘Oh, dearie me, indeed not. It is quite the tradition at the Old King Cole to barrack new performers; you must not take it personally. The more they boo, the more it means they like you.’

‘Want us to go on tonight, do you?’

Percy gazed at them, caught in his own trap. ‘Do I hear my name? I am summoned,’ he cried wildly, rushing on to the stage.

Something that might have been a sad grin crossed Cherry’s face. ‘I wish I had been a bailiff,’ he remarked wistfully. ‘It seems like fun.’

Fun was not uppermost in their minds by the time they had stalked through the corridors, up the stairs and reached Rose’s office, save perhaps the fun of guerrilla warfare, so recently demonstrated by the Boers.

‘We have some good news for you,’ Black informed Rose lugubriously.

‘Good.’ Rose settled himself down again. He was going to need all his wits about him.

‘Co-operation, like we said.’ Black rammed the point home.

‘Splendid.’

‘We’ve tracked down the bloke that did the fake of the cross –’ Cherry’s impressive note of triumph implied that they had been trailing the streets since dawn.

‘– In return for a promise your lot won’t nab him –’ Rose’s eyes narrowed, ‘– over this. We ’ad a lot of hard work, my colleague and me, to get him to talk.’ Black looked suitably modest. In fact the hard work had been only comparative. The faker hadn’t objected to talking since it wasn’t for a regular customer, only to the minimal sum being offered for his so doing.

‘Who was the customer?’

‘Sir Henry Irving. What do you think of that? England’s greatest actor involved in this treasonable affair.’

Rose kept his face under control. ‘Have you followed this up with Sir Henry yet?’

‘No.’

‘You’ll be lucky to do so. England’s greatest actor has been ill in bed, unable to talk or move much, what with all the to-do over the Lyceum closing down. Still, he might have made a big effort, whipped down to Windsor, pinched the cross, putting on a Portuguese accent, and then gone to have a fake made down East, all in order to have a last stab at raising funds to buy his dear old theatre.’