by Myers, Amy
‘His wife, most like,’ grunted Rose. ‘You’re not going to suggest a jealous Harold Janes shot the man in mistake for the King, are you? Midnight assignations in the smokehouse? About as far-fetched as vengeful fathers from the Indian Army. The Colonial Office telegraphed details of Colonel Simpson, and Mr Cyril Tabor has admitted he did know his daughter, though he fiercely denies he got her in the family way. The housekeeper fainted at the photograph of the dead man, then said she couldn’t say for sure if it was the Colonel or not. Very helpful. The clothes might have been his. She couldn’t say for sure, we’d have to ask his batman.’
‘And what of Robert Mariot?’ asked Auguste hopefully.
‘The Case of the Missing Archaeologist, eh? His London housekeeper hasn’t seen hide nor hair of him, and we’re waiting to hear from Cairo where the Babylon expedition has a base. Anyway, Twitch brought up another photograph of Robert Mariot, which confirms what Laura Tabor said. He’s not our man. Mind you, Carstairs could have thought he was.’
‘Why should he have thought a stranger in the smokehouse was Mariot just because he knew Laura was expecting to see him sometime or other?’ Auguste said.
‘Another red herring most likely. We’ve a fine shoal of them.’
‘Mine was a real herring, mon ami.’ Auguste ruefully touched his painful ear.
‘He missed, didn’t he?’
Auguste stared at him unbelievingly. It wasn’t like Egbert to be irritable. ‘He meant to kill, Egbert.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘He must have been an excellent shot then,’ Auguste replied angrily. ‘Buffalo Bill perhaps.’ Then he saw Rose’s implication. ‘You surely cannot think the Tabors murdered this man, believing it to be Gregorin, and then staged the attempt on my life to cover it up? No, no, my friend, the Tabors are not so fond of me as to murder for my sake.’
Rose said nothing.
‘You think they have been producing these so-called red herrings deliberately?’
‘It fits.’
‘For my sake?’
‘Or their own safety. Or that of one close to them. Mr Carstairs, for example.’
‘But, Egbert,’ Auguste exploded, ‘they cannot be red herrings.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they have told nothing but the truth. They said it was not Oscar, and it wasn’t. They said it wasn’t Mariot, and it looks as if they were right again.’
‘Hell’s bells,’ commented Rose graphically. He thought for a moment. ‘But it’s all too pat. They’re hiding something, I’m sure of that. Keep an eye on them, Auguste. If you can’t pump the servants, start the other end. Try your charm on the Dowager. Get her to chatter about her family – away from the presence of Priscilla Tabor.’
‘I’ll try,’ said Auguste dubiously. ‘But it’s hard to pin her chatter down to anything definite.’
‘There’s one thing definite we do know about her family. One of their prints matched that thumbprint on the Webley nicely.’
‘Ah, Didier, fancy taking a gun, do you? Can’t miss the first day of the pheasant season, eh?’ His host pounced as Auguste was making his way stealthily to the kitchens to investigate the use to which that delightful pork he had noticed yesterday was being put. He had forgotten his route took him past the gun room. He tried to look enthusiastically regretful, but failed. Luckily his host ascribed his reluctance to another cause.
‘Sorry, old chap. Tactless of me what with you having a Russian assassin after you. I don’t approve of that sort of thing at Tabor Hall.’
Harold Janes frowned. He didn’t approve of that sort of thing in the City either. These Russians were known to be excitable people and might well take their vengeance on the first unsuspecting back they could see. And his new scarlet flannel and chamois chest and back protectors weren’t going to be much help then.
Auguste clutched metaphorically at the air for inspiration. ‘I regret, sir, Chief Inspector Rose needs my assistance.’
‘You’re right there,’ George told him. ‘The fellow asked me why my fingerprint was on the Webley. I told him it was probably because it was my gun from my gun room. He couldn’t answer that,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Is he up to his job? Doesn’t seem to be making much progress.’
‘I can’t live here for ever,’ Harold Janes put in.
George Tabor seemed to be in full agreement with this point of view. ‘Found out who he is?’
‘Not yet – er, George.’
‘I think you’ll find he was one of the servants’ relatives,’ his Lordship told him confidently.
‘He wore good-quality clothes.’
‘Hand-me-downs,’ said Lord Tabor dismissively, and strode off to more important matters. Such as the English pheasant and how many might be destroyed before dinner.
Auguste had spent a most enjoyable hour as guest at the servants’ luncheon, where a compromise had been tacitly agreed. The world of the upper house was not mentioned. The mystery of the pork was solved: a wonderful casserole of vegetables, forcemeat, bacon, spice and pork, called a mitoon, was forthcoming. How he pitied the Tabors, merely eating homard au gratin and blanquette de veau. Grinning at his praise, Breckles permitted him to superintend the arrangements for dinner, including the merest hint of advice over the cooking of the fillets of partridge à la Villeroi, an occupation so entrancing he realised with horror that he was shortly expected by the Dowager to meet her in the entrance hall for a drive in his Lordship’s Daimler.
First he must find Tatiana and explain where he was going. This did not take long. She was closeted with Beatrice Janes in the small Chinese Salon, surrounded by mandarins and willow-pattern ladies. Judging by the agonised expression on her face, Tatiana was not as fascinated as Beatrice by the conversation.
‘Pray, do you recommend Madame Bellanger’s Corsets Stella or Guillot, dearest Tatiana? Paris is such a long way to go when one breaks a bone but now one can get those useful Albany Corset Splints, it is not quite such a risk. Which do you favour?’
‘I do not favour them at all,’ declared Tatiana, at the end of her patience. ‘Like calling cards, stays are a boring necessity. At present,’ she added darkly. ‘One day women will not be so foolish. Corsets are cages designed by men, for man’s benefit, to keep us locked into the shape they wish to see, a shape that makes it totally impossible for us to enjoy the same benefits of life as they do.’ She glared fiercely at Auguste, who could not remember ordering her to achieve any shape at all.
‘Oh, are you an aesthetic lady?’ Beatrice asked vaguely and returned to safer ground. ‘Perhaps I’ll go to both Bellanger and Guillot, when Uh-huh takes me to Paris next.’
‘Uh-huh?’ asked Tatiana blankly.
Auguste coughed. ‘Doubtless Mrs Janes refers to Mr Janes.’
Beatrice giggled. ‘Of course. Oh, Mr Didier, pray do not take your dear wife away from me. Does she help you in your little cases? And I understand you are a cook? How sweet.’
‘A maître chef,’ said Auguste through gritted teeth.
‘Oh.’ Beatrice looked nonplussed. ‘Isn’t that the same thing?’
‘Not precisely.’ Auguste’s pleasant smile became a trifle fixed.
‘Now do join us and tell us who you think that poor corpse is,’ Beatrice continued brightly. ‘I believe,’ she rushed on before he had a chance to speak, ‘he is some unfortunate fellow from the Tabors’ past. Most unfortunate for dear Priscilla—’ she said eagerly, ‘to have him call after she spent all that time preparing for His Majesty. I think she wished to avoid some scandal.’
‘You think she shot him?’ asked Tatiana, interested.
Beatrice giggled. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.’ Her hand played nervously with the buttons of her gloves.
‘I would have thought,’ Auguste said mildly, ‘shooting him would bring upon her Ladyship the very problem she was trying to avoid.’
Beatrice could not follow this, but she was satisfied she had done her best to deflect suspicion towa
rds where it must surely belong. After all, Harold would never . . . would he? She returned to the subject of real importance. ‘And now, Tatiana, I want you to give me your opinion on which gown I should wear this evening. The flounced blue silk with the darling lace godets, or the pink glacé?’
‘It is time for my walk,’ said Tatiana firmly. ‘Russians always take a walk after luncheon.’
‘Then I will come with you. I am so fond of air. We could walk all round the outside of the house, and take Boofuls.’ Boofuls, it appeared, was her dog. ‘I bought him the sweetest little India-rubber Wellington boots with back lacing.’
‘I am going through the woods. There may be mud.’
On this happy note, Tatiana gracefully excused herself to go to change, but Auguste seized the opportunity to detain Beatrice, which she unfortunately took as a tribute to her feminine charms. His Majesty’s aide-de-camp had now been authorised to speak, but it was a delicate matter to pass his information on to the person it most concerned. ‘Er – Mrs Janes, we have been told that in fact you did not remain throughout the night with Uh-huh, as you mistakenly thought.’
‘Didn’t I?’ She looked up at him archly. ‘I was bemused by love, I must have forgotten.’
‘Can you remember now, Mrs Janes?’ Auguste said firmly.
She reached for his hand and drew him down beside her on the sofa. ‘I believe I left about two o’clock,’ she said airily, leaning towards him. ‘Perhaps a little earlier.’
‘We were told you left at about a quarter to one.’
‘Perhaps,’ she snapped, sitting upright again.
‘Why did you leave? Had you quarrelled?’ Auguste asked as gently as possible.
‘No!’ Two red spots of anger flushed her cheeks.
‘Then why?’
‘You can’t think I had anything to do with shooting that poor man—’ she wailed, changing her tactics. ‘Oh, Mr Didier, you are a gentleman, so I will tell you. It is not my husband who has the problem, but me.’ She tried a giggle.
‘You mean?’ Auguste tried to fathom this little problem, ‘you needed to visit a bathroom?’
‘I snore,’ she snapped again, angry at such obtuseness.
The Dowager Lady Tabor, as Auguste reached the entrance hall, was sitting waiting for him with Savage.
‘Ah, Mr Didier, here I am. Ready to be unleashed on the outside world.’
‘I hope I am not late?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Not in the least. I had a delightful conversation with your wife.’
Tatiana? What was she doing here? Auguste had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it whatever it was. His worst fears were confirmed, as he escorted Miriam down the outside steps. His Lordship’s Daimler awaited them as planned. What was not planned was the fact that Tatiana appeared to be sitting in the driving seat instead of the Tabor chauffeur.
‘There now. Isn’t that a delightful surprise?’ Miriam beamed.
Surprise, yes. He was less sure about how delightful it was. He had planned a quiet talk with the Dowager: a sharp-eared Tatiana might not be an asset.
Hardly to his surprise he found himself gripping a starting handle, after he had helped Miriam into the back seat. A scowling Savage tried to follow her, but was thwarted. ‘Mr Didier is to sit here, Savage.’ Savage began ponderously to move to the front as Auguste held the door open for her, but before she could enter, Beatrice came flying down the steps in lavender silk, grey frills and white lace, dragging a reluctant black pug dog complete with Wellington boots.
‘I shall come too,’ she announced happily. ‘Such a nice way to walk, isn’t it, Tatiana?’ Without a glance at Savage, she rushed past and into the front seat, handing the pug’s lead to Auguste.
‘No room, no room, Savage,’ shouted Miriam, taking pity on Auguste and making room for Boofuls. ‘Never mind, you can take me to church next Sunday, you dear thing. She so wants to drive in a motorcar,’ she explained to Auguste as the Daimler lurched off. ‘But George will never take me out in one. Priscilla won’t let him. She would be cross if she knew. Some nonsense about its being dangerous. It’s far more dangerous being next to her shooting pheasants. Tabor women have always handled a gun well, even Laura, but Priscilla is convinced she’s Annie Oakley. Or do I mean Calamity Jane?’ She laughed.
Auguste resigned himself to the prospect before him as the Daimler bounced in and out of holes and ruts, and Boofuls, not content with his own boots, took a slobbering interest in Auguste’s. Why worry about Gregorin, he wondered dolefully, considering he was doomed to death under Tatiana’s patronage anyway? Why had the English abolished the rule for a man with a red flag to walk in front of these fiendish contraptions?
‘Are we going to Settle?’ he asked.
‘No, I want to revisit the Barden Tower. I haven’t been there since I came with my darling Charles in ’45. He proposed to me there. Do you know Mr Wordsworth, Mr Didier?’
‘The poet?’
‘He was such a dull man,’ Miriam observed. ‘A worthy fellow, but, I suspect, not much fun to have to dinner. Now whom would you choose to entertain at dinner?’
‘Brillat-Savarin,’ Auguste replied promptly, glad to be on familiar ground, here at least.
‘Karl Marx,’ contributed Tatiana.
‘Who is he?’ asked Beatrice, puzzled. ‘Is he in the Marlborough House set?’
‘Yes, Mrs Janes,’ Miriam assured her blithely. ‘Just talk to His Majesty about him. Such a good chum of the King.’
The motorcar abruptly turned left, hitting a grass bank, reversing, hitting something else, and then roaring under an arch triumphantly ahead to the great alarm of a farmer peacefully ambling towards his fields in the wooded valley they were entering. Tatiana promptly yanked the wheel to swerve round him, though she did not trouble to decrease her speed.
‘Oh, splendid,’ carolled Miriam. ‘What a good driver you are, Mrs Didier.’
Auguste momentarily toyed with the idea that the Dowager Baroness Tabor was a madwoman kept by the Tabors under restraint, since she seemed as drawn to murder as Tatiana.
‘Why ever does George believe motorcars to be dangerous? I sometimes think he is like the Shepherd Lord, of whom Mr Wordsworth wrote. Like him, he would be quite happy living out here with a few sheep and the occasional pheasant or grouse to shoot. Dear Priscilla can be just a little demanding, and just as the Shepherd Lord disliked Skipton so George dislikes the London season.’
‘Who is Lord Shepherd?’ Beatrice enquired, pricking up her ears at the idea of an unfamiliar member of the peerage.
‘Shepherd Lord, dear Mrs Janes. Such a romantic story. His father was The Butcher, Earl Clifford The Butcher, that is.’ Miriam laughed. ‘After their defeat at Towton Moor, many Lancastrians forfeited both their estates and many, their heads too. Earl Clifford was dead, and his wife, fearing for her infant son’s life, gave him into the care of a shepherd in Cumbria. Mr Wordsworth highly approved of the fact that when he finally claimed his inheritance, he lived in none of his splendid castles but instead restored the twelfth-century Barden Tower, buried deep in the countryside, and studied alchemy and astronomy.’
The Daimler stopped with a jerk that threw Miriam into Auguste’s arms. He politely disentangled himself and disembarked, relieved to be on solid ground once more.
‘This?’ asked Beatrice, disappointed at the bleak towering building. ‘But it’s muddy. Boofuls doesn’t like mud. I’ll have to stay in the motorcar with him.’
Relieved, Tatiana hurried after Miriam, who was already walking spryly to the ruins.
‘He was a recluse?’ Tatiana asked with such interest that Auguste wondered whether she had notions of taking up alchemy.
‘Fortunately for the future of the Clifford line, he seemed to have learned the secret of procreation – and also of fighting, for he left his tower to fight at Flodden nearly thirty years later. I can quite see George doing the same. Priscilla would be at his side, of course. Perhaps even in front,’ she added. ‘Or Laura,’
Miriam added. ‘I can see Laura marching into battle.’
‘And why not?’ Tatiana said spiritedly. ‘If women so wish, they should do so.’
‘I fear my Charles would have been shocked at that idea.’
Looking at her feminine figure and demeanour, Auguste could only agree with her late husband. He could see no military qualities about her at all.
‘Laura was always Charles’ favourite. Such a quiet little thing, but so passionate underneath. She feels things deeply. And like Charles, so devoted. I have been fortunate in my children. Of course one could not call Cyril devoted, but he is a Tabor through and through. George has his pheasants, Cyril his young ladies. Such an attractive boy, always pretending to be so much in awe of George, his elder brother, but in fact the leader. Cyril always gets what he wants, and always did. That’s why Priscilla doesn’t get on with him. Now aren’t I a chatterbox?’ She stared up at the ruin towering over them. ‘Over fifty years and it hasn’t changed.’ There might have been a tear in her eye. ‘I am glad to have seen it again,’ she said quietly.
‘Shall we take tea at the inn?’ asked Tatiana brightly as they climbed back into the Daimler. Boofuls had been returned to the back seat, Auguste noted with some amusement, and was looking crestfallen – a state of affairs that rapidly changed when Auguste climbed in.
‘An inn?’ asked Beatrice in alarm, her eyes round. ‘But I cannot enter a public house.’
‘Auguste will protect you,’ said Tatiana cheerfully, swerving to avoid a pheasant that had forgotten it was 1 October and was peacefully ambling across the road. ‘It will be something new.’
‘Will I like it?’
‘Undoubtedly not, dear Mrs Janes,’ Miriam informed her. ‘Just like the Shepherd Lord. He couldn’t adapt to the life of a gentleman any more than you could to the life of a scullerymaid.’
Beatrice shuddered. ‘But he had all that money. Just think of the clothes he could have bought.’
There was just time to slip down to the kitchens, merely to check that all was in order. After all, his reputation was at stake, for Breckles had given permission for him to organise such meals as he wished, and whatever his own opinions as to the preferability of Yorkshire dishes in Yorkshire, a maître’s first duty was to please his customers.