Murder in The Smokehouse: (Auguste Didier Mystery 7) (13 page)

‘He’s just told me he was in love with someone else,’ she sniffed. ‘He went on seeing her after we were married. He was going to
marry
her.’

‘But I married
you
,’ Cyril shouted, pink with anger.

She raised a cautious eye, then collapsed again on Auguste. ‘But he
loved
her once. She told him she was going to have a baby, Priscilla said. How could he do such a thing?’

Auguste’s jacket was getting distinctly damp and he gently removed Gertie’s arms.

‘There wasn’t a baby and I didn’t love her.’ The shout increased in volume and anguish.

‘Then that proves you’re a cad. Why get betrothed if you didn’t want to marry her? And now you’re probably a murderer. What happened to your first wife?’

Cyril tried to control himself. ‘She died of measles, as I told you. I don’t know how you can think such things, Gertie. You’re not the kitten I married.’ And he walked into the adjoining room, clutching in vain at the remains of his dignity.

With a howl Gertie flung herself with renewed gusto back into Auguste’s arms – just as Tatiana entered, and took in the touching scene.

‘Housemaids,’ she said darkly and went out again.

Putting Gertie aside as soon as he decently could,
Auguste hurried after her, feeling much misunderstood. Gertrude’s presence in his arms was so easy to explain. He followed Tatiana’s flying figure down the front steps of Tabor Hall, still finding a childish pleasure at transgressing rules that had once, as a mere chef, applied to him. Now they were waived for ever, though only to be replaced by depressingly different and more stringent rules.

To his trepidation, he saw Tatiana jumping into Alexander’s De Dion Bouton. Even more ominously, she was sitting at the wheel. ‘Start it up,’ she cried, as she saw him.

‘But—’ his protest came out as a squeak.

‘Do not worry.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Alexander has shown me how to drive it. You are not scared for me, are you, oh brave protector of all lovely ladies?’

‘You don’t understand. Egbert wishes to speak to you.’

‘
Non, mon amour
, it is you who do not understand,’ she muttered darkly, handing him a piece of iron.

He stared at it blankly, till he realised it was the motor starting handle.

‘Crank it,’ she ordered.

‘I cannot. He wishes to see you.’

‘I will be back,’ she shouted at him.

‘Then I will come too.’

It was useless to protest that one lesson from Alexander was perhaps not quite enough for a lady to be in charge of a powerful engine of 4.5 horsepower. Unfortunately cranking was not so simple as it seemed.

‘Faster,’ his wife ordered, sitting imperiously above him as he toiled. ‘Slower.’ But still the sparks were failing to ignite – whatever that meant – save between them. A scathing look at her husband and Tatiana descended, a muttered Russian endearment to the
motorcar, one swift jerk and the engine immediately started. She jumped back in, and the motorcar proceeded to lurch into motion before he had climbed in. A lurch to one side threw him off the running board. He could not believe it. Regaining his balance, he ran furiously after the motorcar and managed this time to climb aboard, much to Tatiana’s displeasure. Sheep scattered with unusual alacrity as Tatiana careered from one side of the road to the other. The De Dion Bouton lurched perilously near disaster, as it prepared to cross the River Aire apparently under the impression it was a ford. Only belatedly did Tatiana jerk it on to the narrow bridge.

‘Why did you come?’ she asked crossly.

‘Because this morning you said I should not be left alone,’ Auguste pointed out.

She took a deep breath. ‘I do not want you with me this afternoon.’

‘Why not?’ He had had no intention of staying with her, but his hackles were immediately aroused. He breathed again as the motorcar left the Tabor drive and joined the Kirkby Malham road.

‘You see,’ she crowed, changing the subject. ‘I can drive a motorcar.’

Auguste disagreed. The De Dion headed straight for a ditch after failing to take a corner sufficiently sharply enough, but a yank at the wheel which almost threw him out kept the motorcar on the road.

‘I love this,’ she shouted over the noise of the engine and the wind whistling past their faces. She had tied a huge white veil over a wide-brimmed purple hat which, with Alexander’s goggles, made her a curious vision. She caught sight of his face. ‘What’s wrong?’

What was wrong was that coming towards them was a caravan of steam wagons, belching into the autumn air. The fair was leaving town. Tatiana
hunched over the wheel; a challenge had to be taken at full speed. Auguste covered his eyes as they rushed towards imminent impalement on a monster of an engine. He was flung violently to his right, then to his left, as the De Dion lurched on at a strange angle to the road. Above him, on the wagons, strange voices shouted encouragement to Tatiana. She needed no encouragement, he thought bitterly. It was victims like himself who most needed some hope of survival. He uncovered his eyes to find miraculously that they were back on the road.

‘
Voilà
’ Tatiana appeared pleased with her prowess.

When they arrived eventually in Settle, Auguste complimented her, from a full heart humbly grateful for his survival, and for the moment forgetting the rift between them. He jumped down to terra firma in the courtyard of the Golden Lion. ‘You will come with me?’ he enquired. He had no intention, in fact, of leaving her.

‘Yes,’ Tatiana declared after an unflattering pause, and picked off a few dark hairs from his ulster in wifely consideration. ‘You are right, I should stay with you. You will lose no more hair, and I will drive back very carefully.’

The parlour of the Golden Lion was comfortable and inviting, a blazing log fire in the hearth. Tatiana had expressed a preference for the Public Bar and Theakston Ales on the basis that these were new experiences, but he had remained adamant. There were matters that had to be discussed privately.

‘Tatiana, are you avoiding Egbert?’

‘Avoiding him? Of course not. I wanted to drive the motorcar, and to buy some stockings. You would not be in the least interested.’

‘I will come with you.’

‘Why? Do you suspect I am meeting a lover? No, my
friend, it is you who are so good at that.’

He ignored this. ‘You must tell me,
and
Egbert, what the mystery is about the smokehouse,’ he said seriously.

Her eyes widened. ‘You think I have a lover.’ She leapt to her feet. ‘Me, Tatiana Maniovskaya Romanov.’

‘You are Mrs Auguste Didier.’

‘
Eedee kchortoo
!’

His Russian did not extend to this, but the meaning was roughly clear as she swept furiously from the room. The door opened again, but it was only the landlord with a tray of tea, scones and jam. Never had food looked less appetising. Outside he heard the chug of a motorcar, then saw a green shape flash past the window. He rushed to look out. The De Dion Bouton was on its way without him. It was not going in the direction of Tabor Hall.

‘Where have you been? The Tabors expected you at dinner.’ Egbert Rose looked up from his evening meal, in none too good a mood, apparently. Nor was Auguste. He was cold, hungry and footsore.

‘Pursuing your enquiries,’ he answered grumpily.

Egbert regarded him more kindly. ‘Tell me.’

‘I took the railway train to Skipton, as you asked. It is a most attractive town. I learned much of local lore, but nothing of our corpse.’ He had not expected to in fact, since Cobbold’s men had scoured every hotel for miles around.

‘What about the Colonel?’

‘I went to Fell Hall, but the house was shut up. The Colonel left last Friday for India, so I gathered from his housekeeper who lives in the lodge.’

‘And the daughter?’

‘She died a year ago of what the housekeeper described as a wasting disease.’

Egbert sighed. ‘I suppose we’d better set the wheels in motion.’

Auguste shuddered. He preferred not to think of wheels, after his manic ride to Settle. Coming home from Skipton there had been no cabs available, and he had therefore been obliged to take the branch line to Bell Busk, where there had been no cabs either. Two miles in the twilight, with every sheep appearing a monster, and every tree a wicked witch who placed holes in front of unwary feet, were not amusing.

‘Have some of this Yorkshire pudding and beef, Auguste.’ Egbert saw it was time for compassion.

‘It is not precisely an exquisitely mixed
salade niçoise
,’ Auguste said, unmollified.

‘Tabor Hall isn’t Cannes either. Horses for courses, Auguste.’

‘This beef is like horse, too,’ Auguste rejoined belligerently, taking some and finding he was wrong. He sent a mental apology to Breckles.

‘Mrs Didier didn’t come to see me this afternoon, Auguste.’

Auguste flushed.

‘Tell me what’s wrong.’ It was an order.

Egbert was the police and he was being interviewed, no longer the trusted confidant.

‘I cannot.’

‘If Edith were mixed up in something I’d feel the same.’

Auguste’s first reaction was relief, his second was anxiety for Tatiana. Almost as fear flashed through him, she appeared within the doorway, and he and Egbert rose to their feet.

‘I believe you wished to see me?’ It was Egbert she was looking at, not Auguste.

‘Yes, Mrs Didier. Please do be seated.’

‘Very well, Chief Inspector Rose. I hope when I have
explained, I may call you Egbert again.’ She moved gracefully to an armchair and seated herself. ‘I wanted in any case to see you.’

‘To tell me you and Mr Tully-Rich moved the body?’

‘More than that. To tell you why.’

Auguste felt numb; half dreading, half welcoming what was to come.

‘I am Russian, Chief Inspector, and the majority of the Russian community in Paris remains far more Russian than the Russians themselves. It jealously guards the purity of its Russian blood – and its adherence to the Tsar is absolute, even though many came to Paris through incurring the displeasure of one Tsar or another.

‘My father was one such strict authoritarian, and this prevented my marriage to Auguste for so long. Auguste is a commoner and I am a princess, and that meant to my father that we could not marry. I do not share these opinions on differences between people, Chief Inspector. As I am of royal blood, Mr Marx would say I am of no value to society, but I cannot quite agree with that either.

‘However, when my father died, the Russian community took his role upon themselves, and one member of it in particular. The Tsar has his secret agents, the
Okhrana
, and my half-uncle is one of the leaders outside Russia. Only the fact that he was away on a mission at the German court meant that I could leave Paris and marry Auguste.

‘I hoped that, once removed from Paris and under the protection of His Majesty Edward VII, we would be safe. It seems not. When we arrived here, my cousin Alexander had bad news for me. His Majesty has, as you know, just returned from a visit to Denmark – a visit extended beyond the eight days he originally intended because of the simultaneous visit of the Tsar
and Tsarina. The two emperors met, and one of the subjects they discussed was my marriage. The Tsar and His Majesty are satisfied. Unfortunately my half-uncle is not. Hearing in Denmark for the first time of the marriage, and of our visit here, he decided to show his displeasure, and one obvious conclusion was that he would show it while His Majesty was present. Tabor Hall provided a superb opportunity.

‘Alexander learned his plans through his mother who was in Denmark at the time, and warned the Tabors and myself. Poor Lady Tabor. I fear she was not happy. She insisted that nothing must happen under her roof, and gave her family instructions that you, Auguste, were not to be left alone. I fear this is why the Tabors might seem to have been behaving oddly. They were indeed looking out for strangers. When I met Alexander that night, it was to keep a watch on the approach to our window, as my uncle had made no move yet. Then just after half-past two we saw a light in the smokehouse. I was sure it was my half-uncle. I believed if I could talk to him, I might reason with him. Alexander insisted on coming with me. There were no lights on when we arrived, so Alexander swung the lantern, to make sure he had gone. Then we saw the body. I was
glad
that my uncle was dead. I thought he had shot himself in remorse, or by accident. Then I saw that he was of sturdy build, and unless he had changed greatly in the three years since I had seen him, it might not be my uncle. So we decided to turn the body over.’

‘How could you not tell me, Tatiana, that you were in danger?’ Auguste cried.

‘You haven’t been listening carefully enough,’ she replied soberly. ‘My uncle would never kill a Romanov. It is
you
Pyotr Gregorin intends to kill.’

‘This puts a different sauce on the goose,’ Rose grunted after Tatiana had left them.

It certainly did, and it was not one Auguste found digestible. He shivered, as if a Russian assassin even now stood behind the deep rose-red velvet curtains armed with Webley and poisoned samovar. He sipped his brandy and soda gratefully, as the fire glowed comfortingly in the lamplight.

His brain was numb, pinioned on the concept that somewhere, somehow, sometime, a Russian was about to kill him. Tatiana’s account had brought the reality of the attack home to him. No happy fantasy of mistaken shots at rabbits could delude him now.

‘So the Tabors were protecting me, and I thought they suspected me of having designs on their teaspoons.’ He spoke as lightly as he could.

‘Not all diamonds and foie gras marrying royalty, then.’

‘Too rich a diet for me, Egbert. Like eating Mr Breckles’ toffee pudding every day.’

Egbert grinned. ‘Not to be compared with your
bavarois de framboises
, but naturally, when in Yorkshire, eh?’

‘You are a true friend, Egbert.’

‘Policeman too.’

His meaning was lost on Auguste as his eyes gently began to close . . .

‘But the Tabors must have known that body wasn’t Gregorin’s,’ Rose muttered as much to himself as Auguste. ‘Alexander would have told them when he went to rouse them.’ He frowned. ‘That might lead to another conclusion . . .’ He glanced at Auguste, who dozed in happy ignorance of Egbert’s deduction. It wasn’t entirely sound but he couldn’t afford to ignore the possibility, or, at least, the detective in him couldn’t. The man could quite easily.

A sudden tap on his shoulder. Auguste spun round in the Tabors’ morning room, his nerves still not steady. It was not Gregorin, but it was a face he knew well. Sergeant Stitch – no, Inspector, he must now remember. How strange to think that Twitch, to use Rose’s not too affectionate adaptation of his name, had now attained the rank that had been Rose’s when Auguste first met him ten years ago at Stockbery Towers.

‘Morning, Mr Didier.’ Something that was almost a grin stretched across Twitch’s face. ‘Didn’t expect to see me, eh?’ Promotion had made his heart a trifle fonder towards Auguste, hitherto regarded as an interfering Frenchie.

‘No, indeed. Chief Inspector Rose told me he had sent for a sergeant. We are fortunate indeed.’

‘Came myself,’ Twitch said obviously. ‘Can’t get along without me in a major investigation of this kind. Royalty,’ he summed up succinctly. He eyed Auguste as if expecting him to challenge his statement. Indeed perhaps it was true. Where routine and painstaking thoroughness were concerned, there had been few better than Sergeant Stitch. Whether he would exhibit new dramatic qualities as Inspector Stitch remained to be proved. True, there had been the affair of Charlie Harbottle and the Earl of Doncaster’s Rubens, but as Twitch had in fact arrested the villain in connection
with a daring raid on Perkins’ Pie Shop, the Rubens could be said to be a fortunate bonus.

‘I’m at the Temperance Hotel.’ Twitch eyed the glories of Tabor Hall wistfully.

‘I am sure there is plenty of room in the royal wing,’ murmured Auguste generously on behalf of his hostess, leading the way to Rose’s quarters.

Egbert Rose glanced up from his peaceful survey of the
Craven Herald
where a demure paragraph announced the discovery of the body of an unknown man in the grounds of Tabor Hall. ‘Solved the crime yet, Stitch?’

‘On the trail, sir,’ Twitch replied woodenly.

‘Fortunately Mr Didier was staying here as a guest. That’s a help, isn’t it?’

‘Yessir,’ Stitch replied without batting an eyelid. He never quite knew how to take the Chief.

‘What have you got for me?’

‘The Frenchie tailor can’t be found, so Chesnais says.’ Twitch relished the fact that he was now of equal status to Rose’s friend in the Sûreté. No more ‘Inspector Chesnais’ for him.

‘And the shirt?’

‘There’s a shirtmaker of that name in New York. None too grand, so they don’t keep records of every batch of shirts they produce. They have a regular clients’ list,’ Stitch told him, carried away by his achievements, ‘so if we could let them have a name . . .’ His voice trailed off weakly as his chief looked at him scathingly.

Rose decided to let him off. ‘Underwear?’

‘The same.’ Twitch began to get nervous. ‘They need the name—’

Rose pulled a face. ‘Why don’t I ever get told, “That shirt’s one of two made for the Marquis of Yorkshire Pudding.” No, it’s always if we send them the name of
the client, they’d be happy to check their pneumatic cash carriers to see if some old bills have decayed inside.’ He sighed. ‘Get the lists, Stitch, check ’em against the missing persons list we sent you.’

‘I did, sir. And against the Yard’s lists.’ Pride animated his voice.

‘And?’

‘Nothing, sir.’ It deflated again.

Rose sighed.

‘I’ve brought details of steamship arrivals from the United States in the last few weeks,’ Stitch offered hopefully.

‘Better than nothing, I suppose,’ Rose admitted grudgingly. ‘Though the fellow can’t have sailed right up and docked outside the gates. Even if he hopped over the wall, he had to have arrived at one of the local villages or towns at some point, and that’s where we stick at the moment.
Somebody
must know the fellow,’ he continued irritably. ‘Poke round the city, Stitch. See if there’s anything in these rumours about the gold market falling, and its affecting Janes. And telegraph the Colonial Office and Army HQ on Simpson. There’s plenty of leads in this case, that’s one thing. Like that children’s game, the Labyrinth. Ever played it, Auguste? Edith’s eldest sister’s middle one used to be fond of it. You wind balls of string or wool in and out of trees and bushes in the garden, or if you’re unlucky, all around the house. Everyone takes the end of a piece and follows it. At the end of one of them lies the buried treasure. Like detective work really.’

‘And like Fair Rosamund, born to William de Clifford in Skipton Castle,’ Auguste laughed, glad his time in Skipton had not been entirely wasted. ‘King Henry II set his love in the midst of a labyrinthine maze so that his jealous wife could not find her. But Queen Eleanor managed to find the way in and poisoned her.’

‘Did they get any evidence on this Eleanor?’ Rose asked disapprovingly. ‘More likely to be the King up to no good if you ask me. Ladies in bowers could be demanding. Probably blackmailing him.’

‘It is but a legend, Egbert. In Skipton I learned many – like that of the green fairies haunting Ilkley bathhouse. They have not been seen for some years, though.’

‘Add green fairies to the missing persons list, Stitch,’ Rose grunted.

‘Do you forgive me, Auguste, for not telling you? It was for your own good.’ Tatiana hurried to catch up with him as he strode towards the smokehouse, and finally caught his arm impatiently. ‘I did not tell you because I thought if I spoke to Gregorin I could persuade him to forgive me. Alexander and I were so sure he would come on Saturday night. On Friday we escorted you everywhere, and at night I locked our windows and doors once you were asleep. I slept with a gun beneath my pillows. I would have—’

‘
Gun
?’ This was getting worse.

‘It was loaned to me by George. It was not the Webley, Auguste,’ she added reproachfully. ‘On Saturday we watched all day without success, and at night I locked you in as soon as you came back, and closed the windows again. Alexander and I searched the house, and then went back to the Chinese Blue Salon directly underneath our room. We were so sure it was Gregorin in the smokehouse.’ She paused. ‘I told Egbert the truth,
ma mie
.’

‘Were you going to see Gregorin yesterday in Settle?’ asked Auguste, enlightenment dawning.

‘Yes. I believed my uncle might well be staying there.’

‘Did you find him?’

‘Yes.’

‘
Yes
?’ A shiver ran up his spine.

‘But I fear, I very much fear, Auguste, that I talked in vain.’

Auguste swallowed. ‘Do not worry,’ he told her, more bravely than he felt. ‘Egbert can discuss it immediately with Special Branch and Gregorin can be made to leave the country. Special Branch are most particular about other countries’ secret agents working here, ever since a body turned up in Strutton Ground about fifteen years ago. That was the work of the
Okhrana
too,’ he told her, trying hard to sound matter of fact.

‘It is not Gregorin’s style to leave bodies lying around. He usually disposes of them.’

‘The sooner this gentleman leaves England, the better.’

‘Then we can never go abroad again.’

Could he cut himself off from La Belle France? Auguste sighed. ‘I suppose it is better to face these people.’

‘He prefers it,’ she informed him soberly. ‘His favourite method is a stiletto in the breast.’

Auguste gulped. ‘Pray tell me more about your delightful uncle.’

‘I think he is now about forty-five, but always he seems the same age to me. He is slim, dark, not tall, and moves like a cat. And like a cat, he works best alone. He has no friends that I know of, merely associates. Those who use his services, the Tsar, the Kaiser and others, trust him. He has a code of honour to those for whom he works.’

Auguste tried to grapple with the notion of an assassin who pounced like a cat with a stiletto. ‘Good.’ He attempted nonchalance.

‘I tried to convince him I am not worthy to be a
Romanov, and that I would renounce my rank and live privately, so it is just possible he might dismiss you from his list,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Or else—’

‘Yes?’ he asked eagerly.

‘He might kill us both.’ She watched him, then added wrily, ‘He will wish you to know who killed you, however. He will introduce himself. He is, after all, a gentleman.’

‘I am glad to hear it. It makes the prospect of sudden death much more appealing.’

She ignored this. ‘Russians are patient, of course. He may wait five hours, five days or five years before striking again. But I know he will return.’

His heart sank. ‘Why did you not tell me before?’

‘I was afraid you might not marry me if I did.’

‘I would not have hesitated,’ he said truthfully, taking her in his arms. The rarest truffles of Périgord were beyond price.

‘Auguste,’ she said, her voice muffled against his cheek, ‘when we go back to London I shall stop being a princess. I have been one for thirty-three years and it is time to change. There are many more interesting things to do in the world. I do so hate At Homes. I never wish to be At Home again. Moreover, I do not think Mr Marx would approve of Nainsook knickers or bust improvers modelled on the Venus de Milo, and that is all the Mrs Janes of this world can talk of.’

‘
Ma mie
!’ Auguste’s heart melted at her patent efforts to cheer him up. ‘You can never not be a princess, any more than I can say I will not be Auguste Didier born in the fishing village of Cannes. We carry our past with us.’

‘Only if we let it.’

‘Society does not yet permit otherwise,’ he said, despondently.

‘But
we
make Society,’ said Tatiana obstinately. ‘It
is all brazen pretence. It accepts whom and what it chooses, regardless of its own rules; like Lady Tichborne acknowledging that fat old butcher as her son in the famous Tichborne Claimant case, even though he was nothing like the missing heir.’

‘That is not Society, that is the human heart.’

‘So
that
,’ said Tatiana triumphantly, ‘is the most important. Is it not, Auguste?’

He laughed at having been caught out, hugging her and swinging her round. ‘Once I would have thought so, and between us two it is. But we live in the world, and regretfully the world is not yet at a stage when Society can be entirely disregarded.’

‘But what shall I do, when we return to London? I cannot be At Home for ever. I
cannot
.’

‘What would you want to do?’ he asked gravely. Marriage was producing unexpected problems. Love might not necessarily solve everything. What would his wife do? Between breakfast and the marriage bed there was much time to fill. (Assuming Gregorin permitted him to fill it, he thought uneasily.) For him there was the ten-volume work on cuisine. But for her? ‘What would you like to do?’

‘I would like to have a profession, like you.’

‘Cooking?’ asked Auguste guardedly.

She laughed. ‘No. I do not have the patience.’

Relief flooded over him, until an equally appalling prospect struck him. ‘Not detection?’

‘No, I do not have the logic.’

‘What then?’

‘I don’t yet know. But I will soon. I am simmering the pot, Auguste.’

They had arrived at the smokehouse, and Police Constable Walters eyed them suspiciously.

‘What have you come for?’ Tatiana asked Auguste. She seemed unwilling to enter.

‘To meet Egbert.’

‘Oh. Then you will not need me.’

‘On the contr—’ but Tatiana was already hurrying away. Auguste watched her, in some surprise at her lack of enthusiasm for meeting Egbert again now all was well between them, and idly wondered why.