Murder in The Smokehouse: (Auguste Didier Mystery 7) (23 page)

The old man said nothing.

Thinking he had not heard, Auguste repeated more loudly, ‘Your sister Rose.’

‘I had no sister Rose.’ The voice was flat, unemotional.

‘I’m sorry. I was told you had.’ Auguste forced himself to be firm in the face of obduracy. ‘She left home when she was about sixteen, married and returned with a child a few years later. A boy called Thomas, recently known as Griffin.’

‘She was put asunder.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Moffat rose painfully from his chair, beckoning to Auguste with a thin gnarled hand. He followed him into a darkened parlour which smelled musty and unused. A sand picture of Carisbrooke Castle was the only sign of individuality, and even that seemed grey with age. On a small occasional table lay a huge family Bible. Moffat opened it on to the flyleaf and pointed to a thick line obliterating a name.

‘I had no sister called Rose,’ he repeated.

The smugness in his voice infuriated Auguste. ‘The man who died may be your nephew,’ he said sharply.

‘I had no nephew.’

Auguste snatched his hat with hands trembling at the pig-headedness of the human race. Poor Rose, poor Tom.

Rose Moffat. There would be no marriage entry here, nor baptism for Tom. Then a thought struck him – her grave might reveal more information. He walked into the churchyard, and eventually found what he sought. The stone was moss-covered, and the lettering faded, but he could still read what few words there were.

‘Rose Griffin, born March 1821, died August 1847.
Hic jacet rosa mundi
.’

So someone cared enough to provide a loving epitaph. Who? he wondered. There was no mention of parents, or husband, or child. Nor, with its Latin inscription, was it the usual village headstone.
Here lies the rose of the world
. The beautiful Rose Moffat, whose life had ended too soon. Was there ever a husband, or had she simply changed her name to avoid the disgrace of an illegitimate baby? If she left home when she was eighteen or nearly eighteen, any marriage would have been after the 1837 act of compulsory registration came into effect and should have been registered. Perhaps Twitch should check all marriages entered into by Rose Moffats between the years 1839 to 1844, and continue searching for Tom’s birth certificate to see if a connection could be established between Rose Moffat and Tom. Perhaps, however, Egbert had better put the request to him . . .

Meanwhile other Clapham folk must surely have known her, apart from old Ned the clockmaker, long since passed to a world without time. There couldn’t be many still alive, he supposed. He decided a glass of no doubt excellent ale would assist the search wonderfully.

The moment he stepped into the New Inn it was obvious that news of his mission had shot round Clapham quicker than a mayonnaise could curdle. The landlord leant confidentially on the bar towards him.

‘Tha want to buy old Amos a drink.’

Did he? Auguste dutifully purchased a pint of mild and bitter and bore it to its destination. Old Amos had the shrivelled look of one who was shrinking gradually into his own roots and, in his own time, proposing to die in them. For such people, irrespective of nationality,
Auguste had great respect. Old Amos might not display the wisdom of ages, but he proved to have a remarkable desire to talk of Rosie Moffat.

‘She were never the same after she went to Wombwell’s.’

‘After she returned to Clapham, do you mean?’

Amos looked at him. ‘I know what I means, young man. I says after she left here for Wombwell’s. Old Nell say she didn’t come back until she were wed, eh?’

‘Yes.’

‘True enough. I had sheep at Settle market, and I saw her once. “Hullo, Amos,” says Rosie. “Remember me?” Remember her, I hadn’t had a day when I never thought about her. ’Course, I’d never thought them Moffats would let the likes of a shepherd near Rosie, but she knew how I felt. “I’m going to leave the Menagerie and go into service,” Amos, she said. By gum, I didn’t like the sound of that, not for my Rosie, but she weren’t one for listening, my lovely lass.’

‘Where was she going?’ Auguste could hardly frame the words in his excitement.

‘Tabor Hall, over Malham way.’

At last the connection! The sun shone brighter and the ale tasted even better. The ecstasy of that exquisite moment when the
brandade
is complete or when the
soufflé
rises to honey-brown could only be matched in detection at the point when logic and guesswork combine in a mixture as divinely inspired as a hollandaise sauce.

‘When she returned to Clapham, she had a baby and her name was Griffin. Do you think she met this Griffin at Tabor Hall?’ Surely there could only be one answer to this, the most vital of questions? And it came.

‘Griffin? Nay. I reckon it were Tabor were the bebby’s father. Thomas Charles Tabor,’ Amos pronounced in
disgust. ‘Him that became 13th Lord Tabor; not his present Lordship, but his father. He’s long dead, but he was only a boy then. I met him once and I could’ve killed him. You see things different when you’re twenty. Now I’m eighty-odd, I suppose he weren’t so bad. He went in mortal fear of his father, who were a real terror. He turned Rosie’s head, though. She left the Menagerie and off she goes to work at Tabor Hall, and I heard no more till she tells me she’s Mrs Griffin, her husband’s dead, and Tom’s his kid. ’Course, I didn’t believe her, but she were a lovely lass. She threw a haverbread as good as Nell’s, she did. A good lass.’ Fifty-odd years whistled down the wind. ‘I thought her being back in Clapham and a widow or not, as the case may be, she might look at me, her needing a man. But all she’d say was, “I’m a married woman, Amos.”’

‘Yet her husband never came to see her?’ Auguste tried to control his excitement.

‘Nay. A chap did come once in a pony and trap just afore she died, asking after her in the village.’

‘Not Charles Tabor?’

Amos could hardly conceal his scorn. ‘This chap weren’t quality. It were a working man. An outcomer.’

‘And then she died?’

‘Aye. Poor soul, she weren’t happy. Her family ignoring her, and a young ’un to rear. She loved her clocks, she did. But it weren’t enough and her died. It fair broke my heart.’

The weekly market had come to Settle in Auguste’s absence, and the bustle and noise were overwhelming after the quiet of Clapham. He had arranged to meet Egbert to tell him his transport back to Tabor Hall; and eager to share his news he jubilantly hurried into the Golden Lion, which like every other hostelry, was crowded out. Auguste finally ran Egbert to earth,
huddled in a window seat, surrounded by three broad Yorkshiremen beside whom Rose looked lean indeed. Lean, but not hungry. He looked well satisfied, and seeing the brisk business in Yorkshire puddings and pies, Auguste had no difficulty in detecting that Egbert had already partaken of them.

Auguste glanced at the Yorkshiremen but they were more intent on discussing the rival merits of sheep salving or the new-fangled dipping than in listening to the daft conversation of outcomers, so he plunged excitedly into his story.

‘The illegitimate son of the late Lord Tabor, eh?’ Rose said when he finished. ‘It’s logical, I grant you.’

‘
Thomas
Charles Tabor,’ Auguste said. ‘The Dowager Lady Tabor calls him Charles, but if Amos is right, and it’s easy to check, then Thomas was his first name and Rose named her baby for the father.’

Egbert considered. ‘It’s slender, Auguste. What have you got after all? On the one hand a missing traveller called Tom Griffin, whose mother probably worked at Tabor Hall sixty years ago, and on the other, an unidentified corpse in dress clothes and a pile of old clothes thrown in a bush in the grounds. Coincidence.’

‘And what have
you
got,
mon ami
? Have you got Colonel Simpson’s clothes?’

‘No,’ said Egbert sourly. ‘But I
have
got the Colonel.’

‘He’s alive?’

‘Went down with measles while staying with his sister.’

‘Then surely this body
must
be that of poor Tom Griffin?’

‘
But
,’ Egbert disregarded this, ‘we’ve found Cyril Tabor’s missing suit. It was way out of Settle by the side of a viaduct.’

‘That doesn’t make sense.’ Auguste frowned.

‘Tell me what does round here.’

‘Tom Griffin.’

‘There are more loose ends to that theory than in Edith’s cushion covers. If the late Lord Tabor were the father of Rose’s illegitimate child, it’s all very neat, but it doesn’t explain why Tom was murdered in this day and age. You don’t get murdered for being born out of wedlock sixty years earlier.’

‘Blackmail?’

‘Hardly. The gentry was more or less expected to have a few on the side in those days.’ Rose paused. ‘And why can’t Twitch find a birth certificate that looks like our man?’

‘Why not ask him to look under Moffat?’ Auguste asked simply.

‘He
will
be pleased.’

‘And,’ said Auguste, struck by inspiration, ‘just in case, look for a marriage certificate for Moffat. Suppose Tabor married her? Rose told Amos she was married. Suppose she wasn’t lying, and suppose it wasn’t a man called Griffin.’

‘Why not?’ Egbert agreed evilly. ‘I’ll tell Twitch you asked.’

‘Perhaps that would not ensure the best results.’

‘In that case, I’ll have another pint.’

Auguste fought his way to the bar, past one burly figure after another, his mind racing furiously. Surely now the police would order a search of Griffin’s wagon? And perhaps Wombwell’s would have records of former staff. Perhaps there might even prove to be a Griffin amongst them, someone Rose met and married after Tabor had made her pregnant. He acquired the beer and turned to plunge into battle for the return journey.

‘A thousand pardons.’ Someone cannoned into him, slopping the beer over Auguste’s Norfolk jacket.

‘
De rien, monsieur
,’ he replied automatically, then realised in surprise that he had unconsciously picked
up a French accent. ‘
Vous êtes français
?’ he asked, delighted. The cap, unshaven face, old jacket and waistcoat looked like the dress of a market worker, hardly that of a touring Frenchman in the wilds of Yorkshire.

‘
Oui, monsieur
. My wife is from Yorkshire and we have a stand in the market. We make pies and cheese, the best in Ribblesdale. Perhaps you have tried them?’

‘Not yet. But I shall.’ Cheese stalls always interested him. ‘What are your specialities?’

‘Blue cheese,
chèvre
and ewe’s cheese. And of the pies,
lapin
—’

‘I shall most certainly come.’

‘
Enchanté, monsieur
.’

‘Where have you been?’ asked Egbert when Auguste returned. ‘A man could die of thirst waiting for you in a pub.’

‘I was detained on a professional matter with a Frenchman.
My
profession.’

‘More important than solving the murder?’

‘
Non
,’ conceded Auguste, ‘but important, nevertheless. After all, we are in the home of good cheese, and he produces it. And pies.’

‘French?’

‘Married to a Yorkshirewoman.’

‘Where is he?’ Egbert Rose craned his neck round.

Auguste turned, but the man had vanished. ‘He must have left,’ he said, wondering why he felt a chill of unease.

‘Probably has,’ retorted Rose. ‘What did he look like?’

‘He wore a cap, a jacket, a waistcoat, a scarf, he was swarthy, your build, somewhat younger than you—’ Auguste broke off, seeing Egbert’s face.

‘That was no pie-maker,’ Rose said grimly. ‘I lay you a monkey that was Pyotr Gregorin.’

He will wish you to know who killed you . . . He will introduce himself
. . .

Dazed with belated shock, Auguste listened to Egbert talking on the police station telephone to a highly annoyed Inspector Stitch, judging by the squawks that reached him every time Egbert stopped talking – or rather shouting. Egbert was never convinced that people could hear as well at long distances as short.

‘Moffat.
Moffat
, Thomas. Got that, Stitch? And you might as well check Moffat, Rose, for marriage certificates in the late thirties and early forties. Got that? And you might take a look at Thomas Charles Tabor’s will.’

A squeak from Stitch.

‘Moffat’s her maiden name. Griffin is the name she went under when she reappeared,’ Rose continued. ‘That simple enough for you? And you ain’t forgotten that list of all Tom Griffins born in the early forties, anywhere in England, have you?’ A pause. ‘I thought you’d have it in hand. Good man, Stitch.’ Rose hung up and returned to Auguste. ‘That should keep him happy,’ he announced with satisfaction.

‘Busy, certainly.’

‘Same thing with Twitch.’

‘And Wombwell’s? And Blackboots?’

‘Cobbold’s already tracking them down.’ Egbert Rose thought longingly of the Highbury fireside, his slippers, and Mr Pinpole’s pork. He was beginning to feel he might never see Edith again.

Each kitchen had its own evocative smell. The one Auguste had come to associate with Tabor Hall was a persistent smell of baking, combined with roast beef, which seemed to give the kitchen a warmth and comfort singularly lacking from the rest of the house.