Murder in The Smokehouse: (Auguste Didier Mystery 7) (17 page)

‘It puts me in mind of a ruffian who called here five or six weeks ago. The Chief Inspector was interested in callers during the last week, and then only in gentleman visitors. That’s why I didn’t think to mention it to him.’

‘What did he want?’ A sort of strangled gulp emerged from Auguste’s throat in his excitement.

‘Of course, I may be wrong. This person I refer to claimed to have business with the family; indeed, personal to her Ladyship, or if not her, his Lordship. Her Ladyship came back from her drive at that moment, and he thrust a letter into her hands. When she opened it, she said: “That’ll be all, Richey,” and beckoned this fellow to follow her. I did mention it to his Lordship,’ he added unctuously, ‘being concerned for her Ladyship’s safety with such a person.’

‘Naturally,’ breathed Auguste fervently, a sudden convert to the merits of Mr Richey.

‘Are you sure you haven’t met him, Lady Tabor?’ Auguste pressed on inexorably, regardless of diplomacy. ‘Mr Richey was very certain you had. He called five or six weeks ago, asking to see you.’

He showed her the drawing again. Priscilla gazed at it and tapped impatiently at her rosewood writing desk. Then, as if realising that this annoyance would not disappear, she announced: ‘It is possible Richey may be thinking of a terrible person who presented me with a statement of Alfred’s debts.’

‘But neither you nor Mr Alfred recognised the body.’

Priscilla fixed him with steady eye. ‘There is a quite simple reason for that, Mr Didier. The body was not that of this man. It had shorter hair, and was of quite a different class.’

‘Did your caller leave a card or address?’

‘Address?’ The stays creaked, the eyebrows rose. ‘That sort of person has no abode, Mr Didier. He travels from shire to shire. I imagine if the police—’ Did he imagine a slight emphasis on the word police? ‘Wish to pursue this enquiry they might shortly find him at Newmarket. The race meeting is often a suitable venue to meet gullible young men who are foolish enough to indulge in unlicensed gambling games.’

‘His name?’

‘Mr Didier,’ Brünnhilde rose, ‘that sort of person does not have a name. He merely requires payment in Bank of England notes. My son provided it.’

‘Did I?’ Alfred Tabor paused momentarily in the all-absorbing task of pouring Auguste and himself a stiff whisky and soda, uncalled for on Auguste’s part. ‘If you say so, my dear fellow.’

‘It is not I who say so, but your mother.’ Auguste was irritated.

‘Ah. Then I expect she’s right. Yes, by Jove she is. About three weeks ago. Terrible check suit. Big boots. That the chap?’ He glanced at the drawing. ‘Might have been. Couldn’t say. Thought of telling him to push off, but he’d only come back. Creditors do, you know.’

Auguste did.

‘So the body in the smokehouse could have nothing to do with him?’ Auguste enquired politely.

‘Nothing at all,’ Alfred told him vigorously. ‘True, I was a touch worried at first that this smokehouse
fellow might be something to do with the old spinning wheel. You know how it is, or perhaps you don’t.’ He recalled Auguste was a chef and his confidential voice adopted a somewhat more airy note. ‘Black Jack, roulette, baccarat. Got a bit behind because I had to go on “tick” at one place, but then had to pay fellow two there, because news leaked I hadn’t paid fellow one and that meant I hadn’t the money to pay off fellow one. That must have been who old check suit was working for. Yes, by Jupiter, Ma’s right. I paid the fellow off. Half expecting fellow three to turn up here, as well, but he hasn’t.’

He beamed at Auguste, and confident everything was now explained, continued with a somewhat forced laugh, ‘I say, you didn’t really think I made an assignation in the smokehouse and crept out there and shot that chappie?’

‘Not so funny for the corpse,’ Auguste pointed out with some asperity.

‘That inspector chum of yours isn’t exactly a man of the world,’ said the twenty-one-year-old of the veteran of the notorious Radcliffe Highway beat. ‘So tell him from me that shooting a bailiff don’t let you off the debt. Thought of that?’

Auguste hadn’t.

No receipt, it transpired, was to hand, though Alfred was adamant that it had existed. Generously he offered to search for it, and with that Auguste had to be content. Reluctantly he discounted Alfred as a suspect. What possible reason could he have for dressing a bailiff up in dining clothes, thus bringing suspicion nearer to the family – and on
that
night of all nights?

His brain seemed as foggy as the mist over the fells that greeted his eyes each morning. Whereas the latter was satisfying, full of promise for the rich autumn day to come, he could not say the same of the horror that
he found now himself pitchforked into.

George Tabor regarded him suspiciously, as for once Auguste presented himself with Tatiana in the morning room to await luncheon. ‘Your inspector chum has told us our home is to be searched. I’m not too keen on that at all. Not that we’ve anything to hide,’ George said hastily, ‘but our guests aren’t taking kindly to it. Nor,’ he added gloomily, ‘is Priscilla.’

The door was flung open and his wife bore down on cue. ‘Mr Didier, is there
nothing
you can do?’

‘I regret not,’ Auguste said truthfully. After all, he was on their side. His room – and Tatiana’s – was also to be searched. He was painfully aware that Egbert might be avoiding him just as much as he was avoiding Egbert. ‘George,’ he said, grasping the nettle, ‘I wonder if I might ask you more about the clothes the dead man was wearing?’

Priscilla swelled. ‘We have just told the police, Mr Didier, that nothing is missing from my husband’s wardrobe, if that is what you are implying. If you doubt our word, I suggest you speak to Johnson, my husband’s valet. He is a Quaker.’ The bell was rung vigorously.

One look at Johnson’s austere face, and there was no doubting his honesty. Or his smugness. ‘Nothing is missing, sir, from his Lordship’s wardrobe. His suits, shirts, socks, shoes, undergarments are in perfect order.’

‘The laundry?’ Auguste asked hesitantly.

Johnson permitted himself a thin smile of self-satisfaction. ‘Naturally, I made a point of checking it as soon as the Chief Inspector made his interest known. Nothing is missing. Moreover, all his Lordship’s suits are English, sir, as are his socks, underpants, shoes, shirts and ties. His Lordship does not favour France, sir.’

George gave a deprecating cough. ‘Nothing against the French, of course, Didier. But nothing to beat home cooking, eh?’

‘Indeed not, George. Save in pork,’ Auguste added mischievously.

‘Pork?’ George asked, puzzled.

‘The richness and variety of pork cuts is not appreciated here. Though Mr Breckles’ mutton presents—’

‘And now, Mr Didier,’ Priscilla intervened sweetly, ‘Johnson will escort you on a tour of all the valets.
Before
luncheon. You must of course
fully
satisfy yourself. I presume we may leave your own valet to you?’

He had no valet, she
knew
he had no valet, he squirmed.

‘And Miss Savage, too, I trust,’ he gamely made a comeback. ‘I understand the Dowager Lady Tabor retained all her husband’s clothes.’

‘Certainly, if you wish.’ Priscilla was clearly bored by domestic talk now.

Messrs Harbottle and Watkins were a surprise. He had put down the pleasant middle-aged Harbottle as Janes’ man and Watkins, an alert twenty-one-year-old with ambition, as Oliver’s. It proved to be the other way around.

‘My gentleman,’ Harbottle informed him smugly, ‘obtains his shirts and whatnots in Paris, and his suits in London. He has a very busy life,’ he said with pride. ‘Some folks think that it’s the ladies have all the luggage for these visits, changing five times a day. I know different. My gentleman has to consider very carefully what suits to take. Is he going to be a-courting, for example? Is he going to be a-dancing with maiden ladies? Is he going to be the spot of entertainment in an old folks’ household? Is he—’

‘And what was this visit?’ enquired Auguste, diverted,
thinking of his own hasty packing and sartorial shortcomings.

‘This was a mourning visit, sir, with a spot of courting thrown in. Courting, sir, not murder.’ Harbottle grinned. ‘And nothing’s missing. My gentleman still has everything he came with. How about yours, Mr Watkins?’

Watkins gave him a look of slight disapproval. ‘When going anywhere where we expect to meet Royalty, we are naturally particular. My gentleman always brings ten suits.
Ten
, Mr Didier. Ten come with us, and ten are still here.’

Savage would make a good candidate for a Holloway prison wardress, thought Auguste, as he moved on to the Dowager’s quarters where Savage also had her bedroom and one small sitting room to be at hand to tend her mistress. He found her carefully placing an embroidered cloth on a coffee tray, ready for her Ladyship.

‘Um – is that the Tabor crest?’ he asked, admiring the hand embroidery. ‘Your own work?’

‘Miss Laura’s.’ Her tone indicated that charm would make little impression on her.

Undaunted, he pressed on: ‘I wonder if I might look at his late Lordship’s clothes—’

‘I told them perlice nothing is missing.’

‘Would you be so very kind as to show me?’ Auguste’s voice tailed off under her indignant eye, but she obediently led the way into a dressing room adjoining the Dowager’s bedroom.

‘Here,’ she said scornfully, flinging open a cupboard. ‘His Lordship’s suits. Every one of them made in Harrogate. A good Yorkshire man he was.’ She turned out the breast pocket of one to flourish a label: Haycock of Harrogate. ‘And his shirts was made by Mrs Pumps, the mother of her that travels round now. She were a good worker.’

‘So you have been with Lady Tabor a long time?’ he asked politely.

‘Since she were a girl, and came as a bride to this house. A slip of a thing then, but could twist you round her little finger like she still can.’ An almost human look crossed her grim countenance.

‘My dear Mr Didier, how sweet of you. You’re looking at Charles’ clothes.’ Miriam came into the small room, laughing. ‘Dear Charles. It makes me feel just a little closer to him to have his belongings around me. Savage understands, don’t you, Savage?’

A blush of pride came into Savage’s cheeks. ‘Indeed I do, milady.’

Smith, Cyril Tabor’s valet, was employed in pressing Mr Cyril’s dress clothes for the evening, and informed Auguste that Mr Cyril would shortly be here to change for luncheon. A matter of seconds could, however, be spared from Smith’s busy agenda. ‘I explained to the police,’ he told Auguste tonelessly, ‘that Mr Cyril brought six suits with him, and three sets of dress clothes. I’ll show you.’

With the world-weary attitude of one tried beyond endurance, he opened the wardrobe in the dressing room, and speedily lost his composure.

‘This is strange, very strange. There does seem to be one missing.’

‘You were very quiet at luncheon, Auguste,’ Tatiana pointed out. ‘Did you not approve of Mr Breckles’ plum charlotte?’

‘Perhaps I prefer his Yorkshire cuisine.’ Auguste tried to give her a quick smile as if to reassure her that this was all that was amiss. It failed.

‘Egbert is looking for you,’ she told him casually, but watching him closely.

‘I would prefer to walk with you.’

The early October sun was pleasant, as they walked towards the wooded valley leading up to the track from Malham to the high moors. A path led by the side of the gushing beck, which gurgled over stones and huge boulders in its haste to join its fellow becks and springs to form the River Aire. Large mossy boulders clung to steep hillsides on either side of the path. Only a few hundred yards from the house and they were in a different world. Yet it was still a world in which issues must be faced.

‘Why are you avoiding Egbert?’ Tatiana asked bluntly.

‘Because he is working closely with Inspector Cobbold.’

‘That would make no difference. It’s because of me, isn’t it?’

He wanted to lie but he could not.

‘He is trying to do his job. It cannot be easy for him, Auguste.’

‘Perhaps not.’

‘Then don’t hold it against him. He still thinks that corpse could be Gregorin’s. While he has no other solution he
must
suspect me and Alexander.’

‘That is why I am going to find the true solution quickly,’ he told her firmly.

‘Behind there,’ Tatiana shouted against the noise, pointing to a cave behind the waterfall tumbling over an overhanging rock, ‘lived Janet, so they say in the village.’

‘Who is Janet?’ It seemed a very wet abode for a lady.

‘The Queen of the Fairies. Queen of magic spells.’

‘Could she cast one to make Gregorin change his mind about me?’

‘We could ask.’ Tatiana turned to the waterfall. ‘
Pazhahlsta tsaritsa
—’

‘She might not understand Russian.’

‘Then speak in Yorkshire.’

‘Hickity O, pickity O, pompolorum jig.’ Auguste was suddenly lighthearted, remembering Breckles’ charm. ‘That’s to remove the threat of evil.’

Beyond them in the hills the sun still shone, but here enclosed by huge rocks and overhanging trees it was easy indeed to believe in evil, in the Fairy Queen who lived behind the waterfall.