Murder in The Smokehouse: (Auguste Didier Mystery 7) (19 page)

But that, perhaps, was all the murderer wished to achieve – to obscure the corpse’s identity until the townsfolk would no longer expect to see him, and he would pass from their consciousness like yesterday’s breakfast. But one person had remembered him – the man who had sat before him shaping a pair of clogs just as he was doing for Tatiana. To the rest of Settle and the Craven district, the dead man had merely been a face, like so many others that passed through this busy market town at this time.
At this time
? What was so special about this time? Sheep-salving time? Or, better, the shooting season? Extra beaters drawn in for the Duke of Devonshire’s estates, for Ingleborough Hall, perhaps even for Tabor Hall . . .

The clogger was whistling as he worked. Slowly Auguste identified the tune as an old English folksong he’d been taught by his mother, ‘Oh dear, what can the matter be?’ Why did he connect that with the legend he’d been told about Henry II’s mistress – no, that wasn’t quite it. Excitement rose in him. He connected it with their arrival, their first sight of Settle, and with their coming into town on Monday.
His memory regurgitated colourful, exotic sights and sounds. Which would only come to Settle once or twice a year.

In a voice that almost squawked in anticipation, Auguste asked, ‘Did he come to claim his clogs?’

The clogger shook his head. ‘Can’t trust no one or nowt nowadays. Expected him Monday.’

Monday, the day the fair left town.

Smuts flew into his face. Auguste was in an agony of excitement as if it were a prized turbot that he awaited rather than a steam train at Settle railway station. The smoke belching from the huge engine bearing down on him was the triumphant music of a victory possibly within his grasp. Never had luncheon seemed a less desirable meal, never had a gastronomic discussion (in this case with Tatiana on what species of
grenouille
was contained in this toad-in-the-hole) been of less interest. He had been sidetracked but for the merest few minutes to explain that toad-in-the-hole was a simple Yorkshire batter surrounding sausages, although, true, that led him to another discussion on the rival merits of the saveloys of Navarre versus the Toulouse sausage.

Time was passing, precious time. He had asked the landlord where the fair had gone, but to no avail. ‘’Tis busy as bees on the moor when they’re here, nothing but muck when they’re gone,’ was all he could offer at first, but complimenting his apple pudding had elicited the suggestion that Mrs Polly at the Post Office might know.

Of course. The telephone exchange was the nerve centre for information in any town or village. Mrs Polly provided information but more anxiety. ‘They was making for Skipton, but the fair was yesterday, honey.’

Yesterday! In his mind’s eye Auguste had seen the cavalcade ambling down a long road forever out of his reach. He might never be able to clear Tatiana’s name, was his immediate fear. He climbed aboard the train with the alacrity of Stephenson boarding his Rocket.

The train ponderously belched into movement once more, and steamed on its way to Skipton. Auguste stared out of the window, but he did not see the high fells and peaks in the distance; he counted the telegraph poles flashing by, seeming to undulate up and down to the rhythm of the train over the rails. There was no point in trying to reason out the purpose of his journey. Only his cook’s nose told him this was a flavour worth pursuing. And never had a flavour been of more importance.

Skipton wore the bedraggled appearance of a kitchen where the plates of satisfied diners still awaited washing. A sense of momentous events still lingered, but events that were fading into memory. The wide High Street was cluttered in places with litter, and the smell of the cattle market, to whose coat-tails the fair clung, lingered in the air. He was too late; the fair must have gone, not long ago, but gone all the same. Frustration hit him like lukewarm soup. Suddenly at the far end of the High Street he glimpsed a traction engine, and as he rushed towards it he saw two boarded-up sideshows being loaded on the attached wagon. Hope spurred his spirits as he pounded up to the loaders.

‘I need to make some urgent enquiries about someone in the fair,’ he said breathlessly.

A jerk of the thumb might have meant what the swell could do with his enquiries, or it might have indicated direction. Ever inclined to trust in mankind’s essential kindliness, Auguste chose to believe the latter,
and was rewarded by finding what he sought in a field behind the High Street. Though the cattle fair and smaller sideshows had lined the High Street, there would have been no room there for these huge modern roundabouts and swings, brought by the age of steam.

Here too the glory was departing. Even as he arrived, a bright red canopied dragon roared towards him, belching steam, and he hastily side-stepped. Children were busily employed carrying, fetching, dismantling, as the womenfolk, in colourful check skirts, organised departure. One or two rides were still in the process of being dismantled. Where to start? Auguste plunged in, picking an elderly gentleman in moleskin trousers, check shirt and bowler hat who was contemplating the scene with the satisfaction of one whose dismantling days were over.

‘I’m looking for someone in the fair,’ Auguste began politely.

A hoarse chuckle. ‘So’s most of Yorkshire, mush. Lost your watch, eh?’

Mush
was not a word Auguste knew, but he was not to be deterred. ‘Do you recognise him?’ He thrust his by now well-thumbed picture in front of him.

‘I thinks best over a glass of ale when her’s down.’

‘Her?’ Auguste followed the direction of his eyes. The man grinned, his meaning unmistakable . . .

The ale Auguste clutched two hours later tasted good. Anything would have tasted good after his part in the dismantling of the ‘Flying Pigs’. Flying pigs were no lighter than real pigs and of far less practical value, he had thought savagely. Trotters were for
pieds de porc à la Ste Ménéhould
, not for thudding into unsuspecting backs. And that had been just the beginning. The magnificent mechanical organ had to be removed from the centre of the ride, then the roof; after that he had found himself perched perilously
high on a truck, helping to remove the gaudily painted running boards.

‘I’ll take that beer now,’ his tormentor had informed him generously, as dark began to fall. All the fun of the fair was now carefully packed in wagons, like a magician’s hat waiting for the next performance. Only hats were less tiring than wagonloads of heavy fairground rides, thought Auguste wearily, with scarcely the energy to lift glass to mouth. Hitherto he had disliked British ale. Now it was nectar.

‘Who was you asking after?’ A toothless grin from his drinking companion at the Black Horse. Auguste fished the picture from the ruins of what had been the jacket of a smart lounge suit, and showed it to him, by now convinced his quest was hopeless.

‘Could be Big Fizzer. Or again it might not.’

‘Is he missing?’ A spark of hope managed to force its way up through exhaustion.

‘Missing what?’

‘From the fair.’

‘He ain’t at this gaff, mush.’

‘So he’s missing? Might he be dead?’ Tiredness made subtlety beyond him.

‘Dead?’ The old man was astonished. ‘Only saw him last week.’

‘Then he
is
missing.’

The old man set his glass of ale down. ‘Travellers don’t keep together like them flying pigs, mush. The first ride to set up on the gaff, gets it. If there’s too much stuff you goes somewhere else. Black Rufus’ three-abreast got the last pitch, so I reckon Big Fizzer – he helps Blackboots on the galloper – made off somewhere else.’

‘Where?’ Auguste’s head spun like a roundabout at full speed, but he managed to clutch at the dismal words ‘somewhere else’.

‘Depends. Maybe Horsham.’

‘Horsham? In the South?’ His spirits plummeted to the level of the ale.

‘This is the back-end-run, mush. Not much doing this time of year. ’Course, there’s Harrogate.
If
he was lucky.’

‘When’s that?’

‘Tomorrow. That’s if Black Rufus don’t get there first.’

‘Who
is
this Black Rufus?’

‘He hates Blackboots. Goes back generations,’ the old man said with relish. ‘And that goes for Big Fizzer too. That’s him now.’

The door of the pub opened with a crash. The space it left was entirely filled with the trunk clad in bright red check shirt and corduroy trousers, then the head came into view as its owner ducked to get in. All six foot four inches directed hate at Auguste: ‘Who’s asking for Black Rufus?’

Auguste hauled himself wearily up into the carriage that to his great relief was waiting at Bell Busk to greet him. This was no thanks to Tatiana, who had been annoyed at having to drive back to Tabor Hall and miss the novelty of a real fair. It was solely his own efforts conveyed through Mr Bell’s wondrous invention that had led to the carriage being here. The coachman looked askance at Auguste who, despite his best efforts at cleaning himself up in the Black Horse, smelled of smoke, looked grimy, and whose clothes were dirty, torn, and missing one lapel. The latter was due to his encounter with Black Rufus, who had seized his jacket to emphasise a less than subtle point. He had brought his bearded black face, smelling strongly of drink, tobacco and lack of dentistry, close to Auguste’s. ‘No friend o’ Big Fizzer gets out of
here alive. I hates Big Fizzer.’

‘Why?’ Auguste had bravely enquired. Could a midnight encounter between Big Fizzer and Black Rufus have taken place in the smokehouse?

‘And Blackboots.’ He spat towards the floor, but failed to miss the shoulder of Auguste’s illused jacket. ‘If you sees ’em, tell ’em Rufus will get ’em.
And
you,’ letting him go. ‘Nothing personal, o’ course,’ he added more amiably.

Perhaps Black Rufus was in league with Gregorin, Auguste thought desolately, as the train chugged its way back to Bell Busk.

A bath at Tabor Hall seemed the most urgent necessity. Once again, however, his plans were destined to be thwarted.

As he walked towards the front entrance of the Hall, he could see Richey standing at the top of the steps. Richey could smell a non-gentleman at a hundred yards, and in this case other smells were going to make his task easier.

‘I’ll call your valet, Mr Didier,’ he said impassively.

Auguste glared. They both knew the truth. He took revenge. He deposited deerstalker and grubby gloves in Richey’s care. ‘I’m sure you’ll do your best for them.’

Richey’s reply was forestalled by a distraught Gertie. Almost knocking him off his feet, she rushed like a whirlwind through the door and flung herself into his arms. Behind her followed Tatiana, eyeing this touching scene somewhat sardonically.

‘They’ve arrested Cyril,’ Gertie howled into Auguste’s shoulder (fortunately not the one Black Rufus had honoured).

‘It is true, Auguste.’ Tatiana firmly detached Gertie and put her arm round her, either to restrain further outpourings or in sisterly compassion.

‘Why?’ Auguste asked astounded, and grateful for
her intervention since the feather of Gertie’s evening coiffure had been tickling his nose. He was also greatly relieved; this must surely prove that Egbert no longer suspected Tatiana.

‘I don’t know,’ bawled Gertie. ‘Priscilla thinks it’s my fault.’

‘How could it be, Gertrude?’ asked Tatiana briskly. ‘You didn’t know the dead man, did you?’

‘Priscilla thinks
everything
is my fault,’ Gertie told her mournfully, overcome with the sorrow of life, clearly wishing she’d never left the Galaxy where her greatest problem had been which of the stage-door johnnies to choose to accompany to dinner. She buried her head in Tatiana’s shoulder.

‘
Calmez-vous
, Gertie,’ Auguste told her, quelling an instinctive movement to put his arm compassionately round her. ‘I am sure this is some mistake. I will find out the truth for you.’

Gertie disengaged herself from Tatiana’s angora shawl, and allowed herself cautious hope. ‘Oh, Auguste, you are wonderful,’ she breathed. ‘No wonder the girls at the Galaxy all loved you so.’

Something that might have been an unprincesslike snort escaped Tatiana. It might have been laughter or fury; Auguste did not pursue it.

The leisurely bath was reduced to three minutes, and Auguste prepared to meet the Tabors at dinner, wondering what protocol might dictate on the matter of one’s host’s brother having just been arrested for murder.

Tatiana enlightened the table with an account of the joys of the English sausage. Gertie sobbed quietly, disregarded by her hostess. Priscilla and George were unusually quiet with only the occasional remark on the recalcitrant pheasants, or the recent celebrations on the millenary of King Alfred at Winchester.
(Beatrice’s reference to Excalibur puzzled the company, until Alfred unkindly pointed out the difference between King Alfred and King Arthur.) Victoria and Alexander were not present. Laura did not appear to be on speaking terms with Oliver and the Dowager was dining in her rooms.

What
did
etiquette demand? Should he wait, Auguste wondered, until the ladies had withdrawn? But then the gentlemen would go to the smokehouse perhaps, and he could not say what he wished. Should he speak over dessert or cheese? Finally he could wait no longer.

‘I regret, George, Lady Tabor, to hear the news about Cyril.’

A huge tear plopped into Gertie’s soufflé.

He had done the wrong thing. The icy calm that greeted his statement told him that.

‘Thank you, Mr Didier. Did you enjoy your visit to Skipton Castle?’

Auguste blinked. Surely Priscilla could not be
so
calm, surely etiquette could not prevail
so
strongly? Apparently it did. Tatiana came to his rescue.

‘But why have they arrested him?’ she asked with genuine concern.

‘Your friend, Mr Didier—’ Priscilla’s emphasis was unmistakable on the
your
, ‘will not enlighten us. Cyril has been hauled away like a common criminal. At dawn a tribe of policemen are apparently coming to search the house and grounds yet again. They seem to forget we are Tabors.’

‘I think it affects me most, Priscilla,’ Gertie said bravely.

Priscilla looked faintly surprised, as if she had forgotten her presence. ‘This unfortunate occurrence took place here. How could Cyril have been so careless?’

‘But he didn’t do it,’ Gertie wailed.

‘If he was with you all night, Gertrude,’ Tatiana
pointed out, concerned, ‘then of course he couldn’t have done it. Was he?’ she asked, perhaps untactfully, but to Auguste’s gratitude.

Gertie’s face grew pink and she appeared uncommonly interested in the Wensleydale cheese.