Murder in The Smokehouse: (Auguste Didier Mystery 7) (6 page)

He was greeted by silence. Auguste was not yet used to the Yorkshire economy of words, or its pace of contemplation.

‘Aye,’ said Cobbold at last.

In Highbury, Chief Inspector Egbert Rose had long since laid aside the cares of the day, which this Saturday had involved shopping with Edith first at Mr Pinpole’s, then the Maypole Dairy, then Gamages in search of some nice toy soldiers for Edith’s younger sister’s oldest. Highbury Saturdays were not devoted to partridge shooting, though they might be rounded off with a pleasant pipe or a drink in the local public house. However, this evening had seen a rare culinary triumph on Edith’s part. Inspired by the presence of their new neighbours at dinner she had ventured to produce a creditable imitation of Mrs Marshall’s Creole Cutlets. Hitherto Rose had privately been of the opinion that Edith and Mr Pinpole the butcher were in a conspiracy to pervert the course of English justice by producing meat so tough that the resulting indigestion could be guaranteed to disturb his thought processes for days on end.

Dreaming of Auguste’s version of the same dish in which he had once indulged at Plum’s Club for Gentlemen, Egbert slept peacefully until the sharp ring of the telephone split his dream asunder. How come these operators were all so blasted cheerful at five-thirty in the morning? His ill-temper was only slightly abated by the sound of Auguste’s somewhat hesitant voice.

‘Yorkshire?’ Rose grunted. ‘Out of my area,’ and prepared to hang up the receiver.

‘But, Egbert, the King—’

The worst two words in the English language so far as Chief Inspector Rose was concerned. ‘You don’t mean to say you’ve dragged him in again.’

An indignant squawk from the other end forced a reluctant grin even to Rose’s face. ‘Now let’s get this straight. You’ve got a dead body. Shot. Not an accident. Probably suicide.’

A short silence, then, ‘Possibly.’

Rose swore under his breath.

‘You will come, Egbert?’ Auguste asked, alarmed. ‘You may speak to Inspector Cobbold if you wish—’

Rose had once made a trip to Scarborough – and what he had seen of Yorkshire convinced him that London was not only homelier, but warmer. Upstairs Edith would be hunched up under the warm bedclothes pretending to sleep but agog to know what was happening. He mentally weighed Yorkshire against the displeasure of King Edward VII as conveyed through the upper hierarchy of the Yard. ‘Yes.’

At nine o’clock Auguste staggered down the ornate curved staircase after a mere two hours’ sleep. When he had returned to their room, Tatiana, it had appeared, was asleep. This morning when he awoke – if awoke was the word – she was already dressing with the help of one of the Tabor housemaids. He could not avoid the unworthy suspicion that the girl had been summoned as a deterrent to any discussion of the night’s events.

‘Good morning,
daragoy
,’ she called.

At the sound of her familiar greeting, doubts vanished and he went across to kiss her.

‘Egbert is coming,’ he told her in relief. Tatiana liked Egbert and Edith. Edith had been full of
apprehension at the thought of a real princess visiting her home, especially as to what refreshment might be offered. Auguste had assured her that Tatiana was a great devotee of the recipes of Mrs Marshall, as was he himself; guilt at his duplicity had been assuaged by Edith’s look of pleasure. Tatiana had entered the house, promptly seen in it the epitome of all Mr Marx would approve, even the china Toby jugs, and suffered Edith’s cooking in the interests of a new-found-land. They got on splendidly thereafter.

So why the sudden chill in Tatiana’s face at the mention of Egbert’s imminent arrival?

Slowly Auguste went downstairs for breakfast. From the ecstasy of newly wedded bliss, he seemed to have been pitchforked into nightmare. Where was the safe world of yesterday, if even Egbert’s arrival was overcast by mystery?

To his great surprise, nearly all the party save, of course, His Majesty, was present at breakfast including the Dowager. News of the night’s events must have spread. Even Beatrice Janes was present, and thus it was highly possible that His Majesty already knew what had happened – or very shortly would.

The ramifications of this were firmly relegated to the back of his mind as he decided that his
estomac
could not contemplate them simultaneously with an assault by kidney or kedgeree (particularly not Mr Breckles’ less than authentic version). A
café noir
on the other hand might well galvanise his mind into action. There was a silence as he entered. Then:

‘Good morning, Mr Didier. I hear you are turning detective again,’ Miriam greeted him gaily. ‘I hope your tales to us on Friday evening did not inspire last night’s events.’

‘Really, Mother,’ Priscilla said reprovingly. ‘I have explained to you it is a case of suicide, not murder.’ It
was a brave attempt at re-establishing control after a night not so much broken as shattered.

‘I heard Mr Didier was very clever when the Galaxy chorus girls were getting strangled one after the other. He got on ever so well with them, you see,’ volunteered Gertie brightly, reaching for an apple and remembering she had forgotten the way Cyril had told her to peel it.

Auguste was no proof against such flattery, particularly from Gertie, and bowed his head in appreciation towards her, only to find Tatiana had entered and was gazing at him in obvious amusement. Her smile died as he rose to his feet to greet her.

‘Oh, Princess,’ cried Beatrice excitedly, anxious to hear what the horse’s mouth had to say after what had obviously, Auguste now realised, been the subject of much discussion before he entered. ‘Alexander tells us you wanted a
smoke
when you discovered that poor man last night.’ If a princess could take a smoke, the twentieth century looked promising for women.

‘Yes,’ replied Tatiana gravely. ‘Life is a voyage of discovery, do you not agree, Mrs Janes?’

‘Oh, quite,’ Beatrice readily did so, though her own voyages rarely took her beyond Bond Street. ‘And do you approve, Mr Didier?’ she added meekly.

‘As a newly married man, I find everything my wife does is naturally perfect,’ he murmured diplomatically, wondering how his wife’s conduct could be the topic of discussion, when a dead body had been discovered only a few hours ago. Or was his arrival at breakfast the signal to cease speculation on that subject?

‘It does not matter. I shall not take another smoke,’ Tatiana said dismissively.

‘I am much relieved,’ Priscilla told her graciously. Obviously her Ladyship had recovered from the shock of what Tatiana must have disclosed to her during the night, Auguste reflected. The greater shock of the
corpse had outweighed even Tatiana’s grievous sin.

‘Will you be accompanying us this morning, Mr Didier?’ Laura’s quiet voice asked.

‘To church?’

‘To see the body,’ Oliver told him cheerfully. ‘It’s been carted off to Settle hospital mortuary in view of His Majesty’s presence here, at the request of his detectives. Those of us who didn’t take part in the night’s proceedings are invited along to see if we can recognise him.’

‘It is iniquitous,’ Priscilla burst out. ‘It is unfortunate enough that this deluded man chose our smokehouse for his despicable act, without our guests being put to inconvenience.’

‘
All
your guests, your Ladyship?’ enquired Auguste delicately.

‘Not of course His Majesty,’ retorted Priscilla, shocked.

‘Yet who more likely to get murdered here than he?’ Victoria pointed out, helping herself to another buttered muffin.

A little shriek from Beatrice. ‘Oh, Miss Tabor, the very thought of it. Do you think he’ll come back?’

‘Who?’ asked her husband.

‘His Majesty’s assassin.’

‘Mrs Janes!’ Priscilla’s anguished voice rang out. ‘I fear you have misunderstood.’

Cyril failed to take note of the warning conveyed in his sister-in-law’s tone. Was it one of the Special Branch Johnnies that shot him?’

‘Cyril!’ Priscilla broke in desperately. ‘I fear you are forgetting it was suicide.’

‘Why should the King’s assassin commit suicide?’ asked Gertie, puzzled, oblivious of storm clouds since she lived amongst them most of the time.

‘He didn’t, kitten,’ Cyril assured her.

‘You mean it was murder?’ asked Miriam brightly.

‘It was not murder. It was suicide!’ Lady Priscilla shouted, rising to her feet. ‘Will you
all
please understand? It was
suicide
!’

But why, Auguste wondered, was she so certain?

His Majesty was seated at a small writing table in his salon as Auguste, bowing deeply, was ushered with Tatiana into the presence. There was a distinct lack of rapport between husband and wife. The air crackled with the tense politeness of a marital no man’s land. An equerry had been sent to summon them, and Auguste had welcomed the opportunity to attempt to put matters in their true perspective to His Majesty. It was not going to be easy. Nobody hoped more than himself that Priscilla Tabor was right in her conviction; but there were too many unexplained loose threads for him to have any confidence that this was the case. And one loose thread was Tatiana.

‘Ah, Tati,’ was His Majesty’s affectionate greeting, rising to kiss her before turning his attention to her husband. ‘Now, Didier, what’s all this about a suicide?’ There was little affection for Auguste in his tone.

‘It’s most regrettable, Your Majesty, but—’

‘I know that. Who is it?’

‘No one so far recognises him, sir.’

The King frowned. ‘Unusual, isn’t it? I gather he was dressed.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Auguste correctly interpreted this and mentally congratulated himself it was a small sign that he had not yet been cast totally outside the pale of the royal family.

‘No fear it might be anything other than suicide?’ the King barked.

Auguste steeled himself. ‘It is not beyond the bounds of possibility, sir.’

The King regarded him suspiciously. ‘Don’t let him go making a murder out of this, Tati, will you?’

‘I’m afraid he’s sent for Chief Inspector Rose, Bertie,’ Tatiana told him.

Afraid? Auguste picked up on the word with some disquiet.

‘In that case I’ll leave.’ His Majesty could be a man of quick decision.

‘But it is possible he was a potential assassin, sir,’ Auguste said in alarm. ‘Dressing in formal clothes could have averted suspicion from him if he were spotted.’

‘If he was,’ the King pointed out pragmatically, ‘the poor fellow clearly thought better of his plans. But –’ driven to new heights of detection, ‘– if it was murder, it’s rather a coincidence that he was killed himself before he could make his attempt on me. My bodyguards deny all knowledge of him, so I’ve nothing to do with the matter.’

‘Perhaps not, sir.’

The King looked at him. He expected more cooperation from Didier. ‘I’ll leave,’ repeated His Britannic Majesty. ‘
Now
.’ Even sweet little Beatrice was but poor temptation where scandal might lurk.

Sweet little Beatrice was not at that moment living up to her lover’s idealised picture of her. She was pouting in displeasure.

‘I don’t want to come.’

‘You have to,’ her husband informed her curtly. ‘It would look most odd.’

‘
He
needs me.’

‘
He
will have to manage without you. Besides, I’ve no doubt he had you last night.’

‘Harold!’ Beatrice was unable to believe she was hearing aright. Such crudeness from her own husband.
‘Are you out of your mind?’ He must be. Such things were never alluded to in polite society.

‘You weren’t in your room at one o’clock.’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘No, you weren’t.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I went to see.’

‘And where else did you go?’ Sweetness had indeed turned acid. ‘Not for a smoke, did you?’

Harold stared at her, and changed tack. ‘I don’t mind His Majesty,’ he said heavily. ‘After all, he’s a friend of mine. It’s the others.’

‘Others?’ asked Beatrice slowly. This was far worse than she had feared.

‘That fellow in the smokehouse,’ Harold said pleadingly. ‘He wasn’t one, was he?’

Terror shot through Beatrice, all the sharper for being so unexpected. ‘What did he look like?’ she whispered.

‘About my age. Beard. Dark hair—’ He stopped as she looked at him aghast.

‘How do you know, Harold? Oh, Puppikins, what have you
done
?’

‘It was the Tabors,’ he gabbled. ‘The Tabors told me. Truly, Pussikins.’

‘Where are you going, Auguste?’ Tatiana asked in surprise, seeing him don his ulster.

‘To Settle.’

‘But you have seen the body.’

‘I need to be present.’ He could not explain that he was impatient for news, since she had denied there was any need for concern. If by any chance Cobbold had now identified the corpse, he might be able to rid his mind of the still-nagging suspicion that Tatiana might know more than she was saying
about the events of the night.

‘I will come in the carriage with you.’

He could not stop himself as tension burst out. ‘This great desire for my company did not prevent you from absenting yourself from our bed last night.’