Silver Bullets

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Silver Bullets Page 8

by Douglas Greene et al.


  * * *

  Perched now on the Panhard et Levassor with the rain seeping in through his hat and aware that his coat was miserably inadequate to fend off the weather, Auguste knew his fears had been justified. Fortunately, there was shortly to be balm in this Gilead of horror. Several public houses along the route had obligingly offered water and petrol to the contestants, but the White Hart, known to the earl whose home was nearby, was providing luncheon too. Not all contestants would wish to halt their headlong rush by motor car along the Brighton Road, as stopping at Reigate would affect their arrival time, so Auguste appreciated the earl’s solicitude.

  “My pleasure, dear chap,” the earl assured him. “Gives me time to check one or two things on the old lady.”

  The old lady, Auguste presumed, was this motor car which was chugging and choking in a disconcerting way, as they drove through the cheering crowds along Reigate High Street to the White Hart.

  The earl’s solicitude for Auguste’s welfare continued. “I’ll set you down here at the main entrance, my dear chap, while I go round to the yard. Have a look for old Pilkington, will you? He said he’d break his train journey here for a spot of luncheon, then take a train on to Brighton to see me receive the gold medal.”

  The White Hart proved to be a large inn with coaching facilities and splendid gardens at its rear. A room had been set aside for the drivers and their passengers, and Auguste assessed the array of food, ranging from tartlets filled with foie gras mousse and crayfish salad with truffles to cream soufflés and flummeries. Excellent.

  He could see Henri here but not the baron. Perhaps he had driven straight on in his desire to win the bet. No, there was a large jollylooking man talking with a German accent who might be his passenger.

  There was however no sign of Colonel Pilkington, although it was after one o’clock. He must have continued by train to Brighton because of the bad weather.

  Henri was looking strained. “What are you doing here, Didier?

  Are you the chef?”

  “No, A passenger, Monsieur le Comte.”

  Henri smiled. “My passenger Bella travels to Preston Park by train. She is too delicate to endure such rain. Her pretty feet would be wet.”

  “Bella?” Auguste queried. “Is she perhaps Miss Parker of the Galaxy theatre?”

  “Indeed she is.You know her?”

  Auguste did. He had once worked at the Galaxy theatre. She was one of the darlings of London, particularly of the mashers who vied at the stage door to escort her to dinner after the show. From what he knew of Bella she wouldn’t have the least objection to getting her pretty feet wet. It would be Henri who wanted his lady friend to appear as a fragile beauty under a parasol and not an umbrella. Auguste was uneasily aware that his own clothing showed signs of the mud through which he had been pushing the car and looked surreptitiously around to see if others suffered from similar misfortunes.

  He had no need to reply to Henri’s question as the Baron von Merkstein had just arrived and Henri’s attention immediately switched to him.

  “You should have departed already, Monsieur le Comte,” the baron said coldly, “if you wished to arrive before me at Preston Park. Perhaps you have forgotten our little arrangement? I did not see you on the journey here. No doubt you have already had trouble with that three-wheeled French toy.”

  “Pray do not concern yourself with my motor car, Baron. I saw no sign of yours passing me on the journey and your cumbrous machine must require your every care if you are ever to reach Preston Park, let alone before me.”

  With that Henri moved away. The Baron von Merkstein gave Auguste a disdainful look and he too moved away. The jolly-looking gentleman, who must indeed be the baron’s passenger, beamed at Auguste in goodwill as they exchanged a few comments about the journey to come. It transpired that he too had a preference for horses, even though he worked as a mechanic for the Benz company.

  The Earl of Sattersfield did not arrive until after Auguste had, to his great satisfaction, the pleasure of trying the warm chocolate soufflé that had been rushed from the kitchens and looked delicious.This was the most fragile of soufflés to achieve with success due to its tendency to sink so quickly after leaving the oven. He always took the precaution of preparing two in case the first fell too quickly to be presented. “Drove up to Reigate Station to see if I could spot old Pilkington,” the earl said. “No sign of him. When I reached the yard, I had to crawl under the old lady who was spluttering a bit. Deuced messy job. Ruined my coat and had to change. You can have a go at the dirty work next time, Didier. Pilkington here, is he?”

  Conscious of the cause of his own ruined trousers, Auguste seethed. “No, my lord,” he muttered.

  “He must have travelled straight on. Sensible enough if he took the Pullman train by mistake.That would mean changing at Red Hill Junction for Reigate.” The earl cheered up at this very reasonable explanation.

  Auguste agreed. It was common knowledge that the two railway companies which used Red Hill Junction had for many years clashed bitterly, not even deigning to share the same railway station. Now, at least, the Pullman trains from Victoria and London Bridge to Brighton used the same station as the trains from Charing Cross that served the Reigate line.

  “Well, let’s be off, Didier,” the earl said briskly. “I can see you’re eager to set off. The motor car’s fixed now and I’ve cleaned her up a bit, so off we go. No time to waste on food, eh?”

  At this heresy Auguste blenched. “Yes, Your Lordship,” he said, with a wistful look at the cheese. The earl might take luncheon as lightly as the non-appearance of Colonel Pilkington, but the disregard of both seemed to Auguste to signal that trouble was not far away.

  * * *

  Never had a place looked more delightful than Preston Park. To Auguste its gates were like those of paradise itself. The earl, to Auguste’s secret amusement, was not going to win his gold medal, however. The winner had been a Léon Bollée – but not Henri”s. So far he had seen no sign of that or of the baron’s Benz.

  The drive from Reigate had been easier than the first part of the journey, with no need for pushing through mud or for crawling underneath this monstrous object. Indeed the motor car looked very spic and span, although the earl looked as grim as Auguste felt. The motor car procession from Reigate had spread out over a long distance with the pilot and leading cars well out of sight. At what seemed to Auguste an outrageous speed, the earl had shot past both Henri and the baron – a dangerous movement as a horse happened to be trotting in the opposite direction.The earl had given both gentlemen a cheery wave and glared at the horse.

  The earl was no longer cheery, however, and had already hurried away to make his complaints to the organiser after the terrible truth that he had not been the first to arrive had become apparent. Rejoicing that he had survived the journey, Auguste was about to descend from the motor car when Henri and the baron arrived together at the gates – literally. Henri seemed in front of the Benz and had turned to drive in, only to have the baron overtake him on the right as he did so. Henri was forced to halt to avoid a collision in the gateway and it was the Benz therefore that drove through first and joined the motor cars lined up ready for the final procession to the Metropole Hotel. Henri trundled miserably in behind the baron.

  As Auguste jumped down from the motor car to commiserate with him, a vision of female beauty in a flowing white walking costume trimmed with fur and a large flowery hat ran past him on the same mission and stopped to greet him.

  “What a to-do, eh? All sorts of tricks going on today,” she said gleefully. “One chap just admitted he’d come straight off the boat at Newhaven, but he’d pretended to have driven the whole way from Londontown instead of a few miles. How’s my Henri doing?”

  “Very unhappy. He has lost a lot of money in a bet with the Baron von Merkstein. Two thousand pounds. Their bet depended on which of them arrived first and the baron ensured that he did.”

  Bella grimaced. “Don’t worry,
Auguste. I’ll cheer Henri up.”

  She winked at him and ran over to join Henri. Even Bella Parker’s presence beside him on the Léon Bollée failed to cheer him, though, and he clutched desperately at the driving stick as though it alone provided an answer to his problems.

  Seeing the earl climbing up on to the Panhard et Levassor, Auguste was forced to follow suit. At least the earl seemed more cheerful.

  “That’s fixed that, old chap,” he said gleefully. “Damned Frenchies winning – should have been a British motor car. The organiser quite agreed.”

  “But I understood your motor car is French?”

  “Not a bit of it. It’s English. Daimler engine.”

  Auguste decided not to point out that Herr Gottlieb Daimler was German, although it was true the Daimler Motor Company was based in England.

  “So it was I who really won it.” The earl chuckled. “Wait till we get to Brighton. Everything will turn out splendidly.”

  Auguste did not share his optimism. Henri and the baron were arguing bitterly.

  * * *

  “Ten to one Pilkington will be waiting for us,” the earl announced cheerily as his baggage was unpacked at the Metropole Hotel. “Tip the porter, old chap.”

  Auguste obliged, relieved that there was still time to take the railway train back to home and sanity, thus avoiding the presentation of the medal as well as the cost of an overnight stay in Brighton. Then his dreams of home were wrecked.

  Over the hubbub in the hotel foyer, a pageboy was shouting, “Telegraph for the Earl of Sattersfield!”

  “What’s this all about?” The earl snatched the telegraph impatiently from the salver, and Auguste saw his expression change as he read it.

  “Hell and Tommy, Pilkington’s dead,” he roared.

  Auguste’s fears of trouble had been justified. “His heart, my lord?”

  “Says here he’s been murdered, Didier. Must be a mistake.”

  Auguste was aghast. “Murdered? On the railway train?” He had heard of such atrocities.

  “Doesn’t say,” the earl snarled. “There’s worse. This is from his wife. Says Scotland Yard’s been brought in. What the devil for? This Inspector Rose fellow wants me to go back to Reigate now.”

  “I know Inspector Egbert Rose,” Auguste told him. Indeed he did. When they had first met, he himself had come under suspicion of murder. “You must indeed return, my lord, and the Colonel’s wife would surely welcome your presence.”

  The earl looked horrified. “Great Scott, man. I can’t do that. I’d miss the presentation of my gold medal.”

  Auguste was thrown. “But you did not win it, my lord.”

  “I told you I’d fixed it. The organiser quite agrees we should fly the English flag, so he’s getting hold of five more gold medals.” The earl paused. “Tell you what, Didier. You’re returning to London tonight. Drop in on this policeman fellow and tell him I’ll come tomorrow.”

  * * *

  What could have happened to the poor colonel? Auguste wondered. Had he been murdered at the railway station in Reigate or on the way to the White Hart Inn, or robbed in a cab?

  This ill-fated day would soon be over, Auguste thought, and thankfully he and Egbert Rose got on well. At least the earl had given him the cab fare from Red Hill junction so that he did not have to wait for the Reigate train. And that would be spent on a proper hackney carriage with a driver and horses.

  It was nine-thirty by the time he arrived at the White Hart, and the first person he saw coming down the stairs was Egbert Rose. His lean figure and somewhat morose expression (a misleading one) were unmistakable.

  “You again?” Unsurprisingly, Egbert looked taken aback. “Just happened to be here, did you?”

  Auguste explained. “Commitments prevented His Lordship from coming tonight. Tomorrow he will be here.”

  Egbert scowled. “Good of him. Sent you instead, did he?”

  “He did. Is the colonel’s wife here?”

  “Gone back to London. We’d best get on with it then. We’ve got a room set aside here for us.” He led the way to a small room at the rear of the inn. Dare he ask for refreshments, Auguste wondered. Even dinner?

  Judging by the gleam in Egbert Rose’s eye, he had read his thoughts, Auguste realised. Two pints of beer arrived, with a promise of pies to follow.

  “Was the colonel attacked and robbed?” he asked. “And was it on the railway train or on the way to this inn? If so, he did not reach it. He dined with his cousin the earl at Plum’s yesterday evening, and his plan was to come here.”

  “Not robbed, not on the train. Found at the back of the gardens here. There’s a side entrance not used by the public; it’s a rough track behind a thick line of bushes that provides a way out for garden, house and horse rubbish. No weapon around. Hit from behind on the head. Nasty job. Neither of the ticket collectors at Red Hill Junction or Reigate remembers him coming through, but so many people came down by train to look at the motor cars, they wouldn’t remember if they saw the old Queen herself handing over her ticket. He wasn’t dead when he was found, died almost immediately after that though.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Only a few words. ‘It shouldn’t be there’.”

  “No clue to what?”

  “None. Question is: if he left the train at Reigate, that being the nearest station to the White Hart, what’s he doing at the back of the gardens? A cab either from Red Hill Junction or Reigate would take him to the front of the pub. It’s too far for him to have walked from Red Hill and unlikely he did it from Reigate with this weather. There was a train arrived at Reigate just after one o’clock.”

  “Perhaps he took a cab and the driver planned to rob him but was frightened off. He’d know the area well.”

  Rose considered this. “Possible. The track comes out on Church Street, which leads east towards Red Hill, and a cab from Reigate might come from the north of the town to the near entrance too. If it wasn’t murder for robbery though, any idea why anyone else would want to kill him? He was coming to see his cousin win a medal, so his wife said.”

  “The Earl of Sattersfield had intended him to be his passenger, but I took his place,” Auguste told him ruefully.

  Egbert Rose raised an eyebrow. “Never put you down as a motor car enthusiast, Auguste.”

  “I am not,” he retorted savagely. “I had no choice.”

  Egbert frowned. “Think the murder has to do with this car race of yours?”

  “It is possible. Motor car enthusiasts care very much about their vehicles and about winning medals.The earl with whom I rode was very determined to remain in Brighton tonight to receive his.”

  “He won?”

  “No.”

  “He gets a medal for losing?”

  “So it seems.”

  “Odd lot, these motor car drivers.”

  Auguste agreed. “When the colonel was at Plum’s yesterday evening, he heard two of them agree to a bet of two thousand pounds on which of them arrived first at the end of the race. Both were at the White Hart today. That could have something to do with your case, perhaps?”

  Rose looked interested. “Good idea, Auguste, but it’s theory, all theory.”

  “Every good dish demands a recipe,” Auguste replied with dignity, “even if the ingredients change as the chef proceeds.”

  “How about a recipe with a colonel coming by train and two mad car drivers?” Rose grunted.

  “The ingredients clash, but it might be possible.”

  “Even if those two gamblers knew he was going by train, how could they know which station he was going to and when he’d be arriving or where they could find him? And why kill him? No, Auguste, this recipe of yours wouldn’t work.”

  “It might,” Auguste replied eagerly, warming to the idea. “These drivers go to great lengths. One joined the procession at Preston Park pretending he had driven over the entire route when he had really driven only a few miles.”

  “Cheating, eh
? I thought this motor driving was a gentleman’s sport.”

  “Every sport arouses passion, passion leads to desperation, desperation perhaps to cheating. Perhaps the colonel discovered that one of the two gambling drivers cheated.”

  “How?”

  Auguste thought rapidly. “Suppose one of them only drove part of the way and the colonel discovered that. Both of them, Henri, Comte de Montrousse and Baron von Merkstein, were at the celebratory breakfast in London and at luncheon too, but I do not remember seeing either of them on the way from London to the White Hart. Perhaps the colonel realised one of them had not been driving that part of the race.”

  “Doesn’t work, Auguste. How would he find that out? And how could the cheat have reached the White Hart?”

  Auguste was flummoxed, but then the ingredients came together. “By train,” he said triumphantly. “The cheat put his motor car on a train. The Pullman trains have carriage trucks and stop at Red Hill Junction. If the colonel saw the car and its driver there – and recognised him as one of the two who had made that bet last evening, he could have threatened to denounce him to the organiser and to the other party to the bet. Much money depended on this bet, Egbert, and the financial cost of a charge of cheating would ruin their reputations in society.”

  The inspector thought this through. “Colonel Pilkington would probably have been on the Reigate train from Charing Cross, not a Pullman continental.”

  “But it stops at Red Hill Junction so he could have seen the cheat there. And it’s possible he was on the same Pullman train as the cheat, intending to wait at Red Hill for the Reigate train. Either way he could have seen the car and its driver.”

  Egbert Rose was not convinced. “The body was found in the grounds here, not Red Hill.”

  “Perhaps the gambler offered to drive him here.”

  “Thought the colonel didn’t like cars,” Rose observed. “He didn”t.”

  “Then he wouldn’t want to ride in one, especially if he disapproved of the driver cheating.”

  Auguste was downcast. Egbert was right. “Nevertheless,” he replied firmly, “there may be something to this recipe.”

 

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