Murder in The Smokehouse: (Auguste Didier Mystery 7) (9 page)

Trying to ignore his squeamishness, Auguste pointed out the marks he had made with spent matches, and those the police had added. ‘Lie down and show me.’ Gulping, Auguste obediently huddled into position.

‘And you were the first to see the body? How was that?’

The moment he had dreaded. Egbert after all must know this from Cobbold. ‘No. I was summoned.’

‘Who by?’

‘Alexander Tully-Rich, now engaged to the Tabors’ daughter, and—’ He plunged. ‘Tatiana.’

‘You said you got there at three-thirty. Did she see a light from the bedroom window?’

‘No, she had come from the smokehouse.’

‘Why?’ the inexorable voice continued.

‘She and Alexander wished to have a smoke,’ shouted Auguste, red in the face, cornered.

Rose said no more, which alarmed Auguste more than the questions. Try as he might, that first sight of the corpse on the floor was imprinted on his memory. Sprawled on its face and the gun conveniently by the right hand, a gun he believed had been placed, not fallen. And a body he now knew had been moved before he got there. What would Egbert make of it? He relaxed, as Rose changed the subject. ‘The doctor estimated he died between eleven-thirty and two. We’ll know more later. Were you all still up then?’

‘I was playing billiards with Oliver Carstairs till half-past twelve,’ Auguste replied stiffly. ‘I believe most people had retired. I thought my wife had, but I
was wrong. She was with her cousin.’ He made it sound the most natural thing in the world for a newly married woman. ‘I heard nothing, but the smokehouse is a long way from the house.’

‘A gun makes a fair noise in a quiet night.’

‘So does the stable clock,’ said Auguste eagerly, glad to be on neutral ground. ‘And its striking twelve might cover the sound.’

‘Lucky for a murderer.’

‘Or planned.’

‘A suicide wouldn’t care.’

They regarded each other for a moment, well pleased at the familiar dovetailing of thought processes.

‘Did he force his way in here?’

‘The door is not kept locked.’

‘Raining, was it, that evening?’

‘No, but the day before it had been. Why?’

Rose glanced at the soles of his brown boots. ‘The chap’s boots were clean.’

A pause, as Auguste puzzled over this, but could find no explanation.

Rose heaved himself from the armchair. ‘No hat. No overcoat. No mud. Cobbold said he came in a suitcase, didn’t he? Looks as if he’s right.’

How ridiculous was convention, thought Auguste indignantly. The famous Chief Inspector Rose of the Yard slept in a servant’s room, albeit a superior one. He, Auguste Didier, a chef (albeit a maître), slept in a guest bedroom because he was now dubbed a gentleman – not because of anything he had achieved, but because he was married to Tatiana. This evening, however, he intended to rebel.

Since the household was no longer in deep mourning because of the King’s presence, Tatiana had decided she might now switch to complimentary mourning.
When he had asked whether Mr Marx endorsed such slavish adherence to capitalist etiquette, she had replied to the effect that Mr Marx was not necessarily always right. A hopeful sign. The white dress made her look delightful, and the lavender muff and hat suited her, but he was aware there was still a barrier between them.

This evening Tatiana was to join the family and guests at the local church of St Michael at Kirkby Malham. He, Auguste, had other plans. He crept down to the kitchens, with a delightful sense of sin. He had heard it was Breckles’ night off and thus supper would be both monotonous and cold. He, Auguste Didier, would improve the situation on both counts. Unfortunately he had been misinformed.

Opening the kitchen door nonchalantly, as if completely by chance, he ran straight into Mr Breckles himself whom he found holding an unfortunate pantry boy aloft by his collar, accusing him of the crime of mislaying the blood for the black pudding. The crime was a heinous one since the pudding could only be made with the blood of a pig killed while the moon was on the wane. Mr Breckles dropped the boy with a thud, and greeted Auguste triumphantly. ‘Did I not tell you a crawing hen brings ill-hap upon the hoos?’

Nevertheless, it was clear from his friendliness that the kitchen staff had accepted as their due all the compliments that had descended from upstairs and, in the way of the world, had forgotten not only their former animosity but also any part Auguste may have played in their glory.

It appeared nothing would be too much trouble when Auguste stated he wished merely to prepare a small repast for Chief Inspector Rose. He had in mind a light
truite aux amandes
followed by
purée
of partridges and
crème brûlée
. Anxious to help, Breckles
had different suggestions. He was eager to show the London policeman (who despite his native birthplace must be all right if he was vouched for by Auguste) that Yorkshire too was the home of fine cooking. What precisely? Auguste asked doubtfully, venturing to point out that roast beef and Yorkshire pudding were not exactly unknown south of Doncaster.

‘Claggy toffee pudding,’ announced Breckles.

Claggy, it transpired on cautious enquiry, meant sticky.

Rose’s pernickety stomach and a pudding of that name did not seem destined to agree, but Auguste decided not to mention this. A brawny hand clapped him approvingly on his back, as he murmured that claggy toffee pudding would be an undoubted treat for Inspector Rose and agreed that if it were to appear on the Tabors’ dinner menu he himself could scarcely resist the opportunity to taste it.

The resulting thump nearly sent him tumbling headfirst into the consommé. ‘’Od rabbits, man, they eat nowt from Yorkshire in t’Hall.’

‘That is a pity,’ said Auguste diplomatically. ‘The cuisine of the region is often the most interesting. I must try it. But first,’ he said firmly, ‘I require thyme for the partridge.’

‘Plenty,’ said Breckles, beaming. ‘Two hours.’

Auguste disentangled this after a moment. ‘You have a herb garden?’

Breckles proudly declared he had, and Auguste set forth towards the walled vegetable garden in which it was contained, pleased at the renewed opportunity to compare North with South. The vegetable garden lay some hundred yards away, tucked between the main drive, the Gordale beck and the rising slopes of infertile fells, which stretched far out up into the dusk. In London, he thought wistfully, it would already be
quite dark; up West, the streets ablaze with lights, filled with hansom cabs, motorcars, omnibuses, bejewelled women and cloaked gentlemen; in the East End, people would be packed into public houses and music halls, full of warmth and humanity . . . Here there was solitude, silence and a vast awe-inspiring stillness.

He opened the gate to the walled garden, to see it full of the mysterious shapes of apple trees, stunted from the wind despite the protective wall, and the familiar satisfying sight and smells of growing produce. In the semi-dusk he had to hunt for the thyme. At last he found it and bent down to pick a bunch. His mission achieved, he straightened up to return to the kitchen. Wasn’t that parsley? That too would be helpful—

Quickly he bent down again. The crack of a gunshot rang out, just as he felt the sharp pain. He spun around to hear the gate clanging shut, automatically clasping a hand to his ear while expecting to see blood dripping from his chest. There was none – only a throbbing pain whose whereabouts he could not identify. Bewilderment fought with irrational anger, propelling him into action. He ran towards the gate, then turned to the left where he could hear his assailant crashing through bracken, obviously making for the wood and then perhaps the fells beyond.

It did not occur to Auguste that it was rather foolish to run towards a man with a gun who had evil intentions towards him. Pain and the twilight made him slower, however, while his assailant seemed to grow speedier. Beyond him he saw a dark grey shape emerge from the trees, rapidly climbing the steep fell. It remained silhouetted against the skyline on the rough moorland for a moment, looking down at him. Then, running sure-footed despite cloak and hat, it disappeared from view over the brow.

He was dreaming, he must be. No one would want to shoot
him
, Auguste Didier. But when he glanced at his hand, he saw blood-red. Experimentally he touched his ear. It was sticky. Blood was no dream. So neither was the misty figure now visible again, sauntering far away upon a moorland track. A figure that, as he strained to watch in the gloom, turned to give a mocking salute.

William Breckles was a man of few words. He took one look at Auguste, and shepherded him through the fastnesses of below-stairs Tabor Hall to the sanctum that Auguste knew well from his days at Stockbery Towers – the housekeeper’s room. The plump face of Mrs Breckles showed consternation as she saw the blood.

‘That Mr Alfred take you for a duck, did ’ee?’ she enquired scathingly, as she examined the damage. ‘’Tiz only a graze on the lug-end. Thou’s ez strong ez an onion.’

Gratifying though this reassurance was, once he had translated it, it was not the sympathy for his smarting ear that Auguste wished to hear. As if reading his thoughts, the housekeeper rose to her feet in a rustle of bombazine. ‘Come wi’ me, honey.’ He followed her into the sacred precincts of her still room and the suffering ear was soon bandaged against the world, whilst a potion of indeterminate origin, said to guard against witches, soothed the pain.

‘Did tha bring bullet?’ she enquired inexplicably. ‘My granny did say if thee do tend cause, the harm be right in no time.’

‘Thy granny were an au’d Mother Stebbins of a witch,’ muttered Breckles. ‘This is a gentleman from
France
, woman. Across water.’

‘Witches get everywhere,’ rejoined his wife, ‘and if
you’d any sense, William, tha’d pay proper respect.’

Auguste was only too eager to pay proper respect. He was well acquainted with the charms, potions and beliefs of the wise women of Provence. One ignored them at one’s peril. In his pain, he had forgotten the bullet, but he’d certainly go back to search for it. But not to hand to Mrs Breckles.

‘Not one of his Lordship’s guns, was it? Not on Sunday?’ Breckles asked.

‘No. Nor a poacher.’

‘Not a Malham man, I’ll be bound. One of them outcomers, thee’ll find,’ the housekeeper commented darkly. By which it transpired she meant someone not from Yorkshire.

‘Have you seen any strangers?’ asked Auguste sharply. He was likely to get more sense this side of the green baize door than the other.

‘Sergeant asked us that,’ Mrs Breckles informed him. ‘That poor man in the smokehouse, you’re thinking of. Told him nobbut the usual, tramps and travellers. ’Tis harvest time. Plenty of work for them that knows sheep, and coming up to pheasant season, tha gets beaters coming for work. We don’t get gentlemen though. Mr Richey would know about gentlemen to see the family.’

Of course Richey would know. The butler was at the top of the servants’ hierarchical pyramid, the all-important power, the contact between the upper world and the lower one. However, Auguste already knew from Richey that no strangers had called for the family that Saturday or even that Friday. How could they, indeed, with police vetting every vehicle and footstep through the gates? But then, if it were murder, the corpse of a gentleman did not necessarily imply his assailant was also a gentleman. Moreover, gentleman or tramp at the end of the gun,
his own ear hurt just the same.

He re-examined an earlier theory. Could the dead man have been an anarchist, spying out the land to kill the King? Perhaps he had secreted himself in the smokehouse ready to make an attempt and been surprised before he could do so, perhaps killed by one of the King’s own staff? Auguste found himself back with the same obstacle. There would be no reason for the detectives not to admit it if that had been the case.

‘’Tis that crawing hen,’ Breckles stated gloomily.

‘It may craw again, my friend,’ Auguste warned him soberly.

Yorkshire eye met outcomer’s. ‘Aye.’

Egbert Rose was seated by the fire in his rooms, a contented expression on his face. He barely glanced up as Auguste entered.

Auguste had dined with the upper servants, partly to glean any information he could and partly to avoid the Tabors and their guests until he had had the chance to talk to Egbert. To his surprise, he had found these Yorkshire people the least talkative Englishmen he had come across. And now, unfortunately, even Egbert appeared to be having some difficulty keeping his
eyes
open. ‘The long train journey, no doubt,’ Auguste thought sympathetically. Then he noticed that the pudding dish was empty, as was the cream jug.

‘Splendid recipe that, Auguste,’ Rose shook himself awake. ‘Your best yet for me.’

‘Four eggs, lots of cream, even more sugar – very
rich
,’ commented Auguste meanly. Had he slaved over trout, not to mention a
purée
of partridges and
crème brûlée
, only to be beaten by a
claggy toffee pudding
?

Fully awake at the dreaded word ‘rich’, Rose
instantly saw the bandage. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked sharply.

‘It seems our corpse was definitely murdered, and our murderer is still near us. He meant to do more than graze my ear.’

‘In the
house
?’

‘No. In the grounds. He ran off over the moors, so I don’t know whether he came from the house or not.’

‘I’ll let Cobbold know,’ Rose said grimly.

‘He could be miles away by now. Or he could be biding his time to return to the house.’ This was an unwelcome thought. Alexander? Alfred? Oliver? Harold? His host? Imagination ran riot. The vegetable garden – Lady Tabor . . .

‘Are you sure it was you he was after?’

Auguste tried to put aside emotion: fear, anger, confusion, the unreality of that twilight chase; and bring reason to his aid. ‘It was growing dark, and I was picking herbs. The first suggests he could have made a mistake, the second does not – unless his target was intended to be one of the servants. Since it would be strange to have two unconnected murderers wandering the grounds, the probability is that he knew it was me,’ Auguste concluded somewhat glumly.

‘Then he must think you know something, Auguste. Anything you haven’t told me?’

‘No,’ replied Auguste quickly. Too quickly.

‘You were alone in that smokehouse for some time. Sure nothing odd struck you?’

‘No.’ Auguste tried to feign surprise. Unsuccessfully.

‘Tatiana and her cousin were the first to discover the body. Did they move it?’ Rose pounced.

‘Lord Tabor moved it.’

‘So Cobbold told me.’ Rose did not comment on Auguste’s red face. ‘You let him?’

‘I could not stop him. Lady Tabor insisted.’

‘Did she indeed.’

‘It might have been the King!’ Auguste shouted, goaded.

‘Very right and proper, I’m sure.’

‘You have met Lady Tabor.’ It had been a brief encounter between Egbert and Priscilla. There had
been
no instant rapport. ‘You understand why I could do nothing.’

‘Oh, I understand a lot of things.’ Rose closed his eyes again peacefully. Auguste was dismissed.

For once Auguste was glad to find Tatiana absent when he returned to their room. He went into the dressing room to look at his bandaged ear. He studied it in the mirror; it looked like a frill on a mutton cutlet. Had he been mistaken for someone else? If so, whom? He studied his reflection critically. He was still slim for his years – no need for ‘Dr Grey’s Fat Reducing Pills’ yet. Little was changed from when he had first come to England at the age of thirty to transform the cuisine of Stockbery Towers, and command the adoration of all his staff. He thought of dear Ethel . . .

There was a laugh behind him. ‘Don Giovanni, I presume.’

He spun round indignantly, and Tatiana saw the bandage. Even as she framed the question, he said with dignity: ‘I have been shot.’

‘Shot?’ Her face was very pale.

‘In the vegetable garden,’ he amplified, aware how funny this sounded. Tatiana did not laugh.

‘Who did it?’ she demanded.

‘A man, but I did not recognise who it was.’

‘This must
stop
,’ she said firmly, walking to the window, as though even now his would-be murderer might be waiting beneath. ‘You must leave it to me.’

‘You?’ he repeated in astonishment. ‘I will not allow you to become involved.’

‘But I
will
allow it.’ A flash of imperious black eyes reminded Auguste that he had married a Romanov, albeit remote.

‘
I
shall solve this murder,’ he told her firmly. ‘I must hold the clue to it otherwise why should I be attacked?’

‘If only it were that easy,’ she said to herself, staring out over the fells.

‘Darling, it must have been terrible for you to find that poor dead man.’ Victoria stroked Alexander’s noble brow as he lay with his head comfortably positioned in her lap on a chaise longue in the Gold Salon.

‘Not very pleasant,’ he agreed lazily.

‘And at this time.
Our
time.’

‘We have lots more to come.’

‘Not like this,’ Victoria cried dramatically. ‘We are on the threshold of our golden life, passing through the arch to enter our paradise.’

‘I hope it’s not wide enough for your mother.’

His fiancée giggled, then she grew sober. ‘Alexander, it
is
coincidence, isn’t it?’ she asked.

‘What?’

‘Your going so late to the smokehouse and finding that corpse.’

‘Are you suggesting I did it?’ Alexander asked. There was no expression in his voice. Then he said more lightly, ‘Who do you think I am? Edwin Booth?’

‘You and Tatiana might have thought he was someone else.’

Alexander promptly sat up. ‘Look here, Victoria, this is serious. You won’t mention that bright theory to the police, will you?’

‘Of course not.’ She looked rather frightened.

‘Vicky darling, you truly didn’t recognise him, did you?’

‘No!’ She flushed. ‘I only took a peep at him in that
beastly mortuary, but I’m sure I don’t know him.’

He sighed. ‘I wasn’t going to mention this because I’m sure you couldn’t hurt anyone, but in the smokehouse I found this.’ He fished in his jacket pocket and produced a small silver comb with a familiar monogrammed handle.

‘Someone must have taken it there by mistake. It’s an old one I threw away,’ Victoria told him coolly. Then less coolly: ‘Anyway, it was suicide,
suicide
. You know it was.’

‘Just now you thought Tatiana and I shot him,’ Alexander said slowly.

‘I didn’t, I didn’t. You’re
stupid
.’ It occurred to Alexander for the first time that in thirty years or so Victoria might look uncommonly like her mother.

‘Laura, you’re worrying over something, aren’t you?’ Oliver found her in the library. Ostensibly she was searching for night-time reading matter; in fact he found her staring into space.

‘You are quite wrong, Oliver.’

‘It’s Mariot, isn’t it?’

‘What is?’

Oliver continued doggedly. ‘You were expecting to see him, weren’t you? He was coming back again to ask you to marry him.’

‘Who told you that? It’s nonsense.’ Laura reflected. ‘And what if he is? It’s of no interest to you.’

‘Oddly enough, it is.’

‘A friendly eye?’ she enquired caustically.

‘Perhaps.’

‘You must preserve your professional bachelordom carefully.’

‘Sarcasm is not like you, Laura,’ he replied gravely. ‘After all, what are you so worried about if that corpse isn’t Mariot?’

‘Because—’ she broke off.

He stared at her. ‘You don’t think
I
did it, do you?’ he asked indignantly. ‘Jealous lover and all that? Not my style.’

‘There was nothing to
do
,’ she told him quietly. ‘It was suicide. Wasn’t it, Oliver?’

Cobbold had evidently arrived at Tabor Hall early on the Monday morning. Refreshed by eleven hours’ sleep and a light breakfast of kidneys and mushrooms on toast, followed by a visit to the vegetable garden, Auguste found Egbert already deep in conversation with him, over a silver pot of Tabor Hall coffee. This peaceful scene did not suggest intense activity in the search for the would-be murderer of Auguste Didier.

‘Ah, Auguste. How’s the ear?’

‘I still have it, thank you. I am not Van Gogh.’ The tartness of his reply was ignored by his friend. ‘Have you discovered anything yet?’

‘Still making enquiries,’ Cobbold said uncommunicatively.

Making enquiries! The phrase Rose used when he believed investigations would be fruitless. Auguste fumed. If he were to survive it seemed he must indeed employ his own detective talents to the full.

Especially since there seemed little call for his culinary skills, at least from Egbert.

‘Not much doubt about it being murder, Auguste. Have a look at this.’ He showed him two sheets of paper with splodges of black, and more importantly one set of ten fingerprints.

Auguste forgot his grievance in his interest. He knew that taking fingerprints from the finger, dead or alive, was simple. The more difficult and still experimental stage was to take them from objects.

‘Don’t get too excited, Auguste. The set of ten are
the dead man’s. They’re not on the gun. All we’ve managed to get from that is one thumbprint, and it’s not the corpse’s. Not much to go on. But at least it proves it’s not suicide.’

‘And that’s your proof of murder?’ Auguste tried to sound rational. If Tatiana had touched the gun, who would believe she had not used it? No, he was imagining horrors that had no basis. ‘It is true a corpse who had committed suicide could not return to shoot me, but is your evidence strong enough?’