by Myers, Amy
‘I need to make some urgent enquiries about someone in the fair,’ he said breathlessly.
A jerk of the thumb might have meant what the swell could do with his enquiries, or it might have indicated direction. Ever inclined to trust in mankind’s essential kindliness, Auguste chose to believe the latter, and was rewarded by finding what he sought in a field behind the High Street. Though the cattle fair and smaller sideshows had lined the High Street, there would have been no room there for these huge modern roundabouts and swings, brought by the age of steam.
Here too the glory was departing. Even as he arrived, a bright red canopied dragon roared towards him, belching steam, and he hastily side-stepped. Children were busily employed carrying, fetching, dismantling, as the womenfolk, in colourful check skirts, organised departure. One or two rides were still in the process of being dismantled. Where to start? Auguste plunged in, picking an elderly gentleman in moleskin trousers, check shirt and bowler hat who was contemplating the scene with the satisfaction of one whose dismantling days were over.
‘I’m looking for someone in the fair,’ Auguste began politely.
A hoarse chuckle. ‘So’s most of Yorkshire, mush. Lost your watch, eh?’
Mush was not a word Auguste knew, but he was not to be deterred. ‘Do you recognise him?’ He thrust his by now well-thumbed picture in front of him.
‘I thinks best over a glass of ale when her’s down.’
‘Her?’ Auguste followed the direction of his eyes. The man grinned, his meaning unmistakable . . .
The ale Auguste clutched two hours later tasted good. Anything would have tasted good after his part in the dismantling of the ‘Flying Pigs’. Flying pigs were no lighter than real pigs and of far less practical value, he had thought savagely. Trotters were for pieds de porc à la Ste Ménéhould, not for thudding into unsuspecting backs. And that had been just the beginning. The magnificent mechanical organ had to be removed from the centre of the ride, then the roof; after that he had found himself perched perilously high on a truck, helping to remove the gaudily painted running boards.
‘I’ll take that beer now,’ his tormentor had informed him generously, as dark began to fall. All the fun of the fair was now carefully packed in wagons, like a magician’s hat waiting for the next performance. Only hats were less tiring than wagonloads of heavy fairground rides, thought Auguste wearily, with scarcely the energy to lift glass to mouth. Hitherto he had disliked British ale. Now it was nectar.
‘Who was you asking after?’ A toothless grin from his drinking companion at the Black Horse. Auguste fished the picture from the ruins of what had been the jacket of a smart lounge suit, and showed it to him, by now convinced his quest was hopeless.
‘Could be Big Fizzer. Or again it might not.’
‘Is he missing?’ A spark of hope managed to force its way up through exhaustion.
‘Missing what?’
‘From the fair.’
‘He ain’t at this gaff, mush.’
‘So he’s missing? Might he be dead?’ Tiredness made subtlety beyond him.
‘Dead?’ The old man was astonished. ‘Only saw him last week.’
‘Then he is missing.’
The old man set his glass of ale down. ‘Travellers don’t keep together like them flying pigs, mush. The first ride to set up on the gaff, gets it. If there’s too much stuff you goes somewhere else. Black Rufus’ three-abreast got the last pitch, so I reckon Big Fizzer – he helps Blackboots on the galloper – made off somewhere else.’
‘Where?’ Auguste’s head spun like a roundabout at full speed, but he managed to clutch at the dismal words ‘somewhere else’.
‘Depends. Maybe Horsham.’
‘Horsham? In the South?’ His spirits plummeted to the level of the ale.
‘This is the back-end-run, mush. Not much doing this time of year. ’Course, there’s Harrogate. If he was lucky.’
‘When’s that?’
‘Tomorrow. That’s if Black Rufus don’t get there first.’
‘Who is this Black Rufus?’
‘He hates Blackboots. Goes back generations,’ the old man said with relish. ‘And that goes for Big Fizzer too. That’s him now.’
The door of the pub opened with a crash. The space it left was entirely filled with the trunk clad in bright red check shirt and corduroy trousers, then the head came into view as its owner ducked to get in. All six foot four inches directed hate at Auguste: ‘Who’s asking for Black Rufus?’
Auguste hauled himself wearily up into the carriage that to his great relief was waiting at Bell Busk to greet him. This was no thanks to Tatiana, who had been annoyed at having to drive back to Tabor Hall and miss the novelty of a real fair. It was solely his own efforts conveyed through Mr Bell’s wondrous invention that had led to the carriage being here. The coachman looked askance at Auguste who, despite his best efforts at cleaning himself up in the Black Horse, smelled of smoke, looked grimy, and whose clothes were dirty, torn, and missing one lapel. The latter was due to his encounter with Black Rufus, who had seized his jacket to emphasise a less than subtle point. He had brought his bearded black face, smelling strongly of drink, tobacco and lack of dentistry, close to Auguste’s. ‘No friend o’ Big Fizzer gets out of here alive. I hates Big Fizzer.’
‘Why?’ Auguste had bravely enquired. Could a midnight encounter between Big Fizzer and Black Rufus have taken place in the smokehouse?
‘And Blackboots.’ He spat towards the floor, but failed to miss the shoulder of Auguste’s illused jacket. ‘If you sees ’em, tell ’em Rufus will get ’em. And you,’ letting him go. ‘Nothing personal, o’ course,’ he added more amiably.
Perhaps Black Rufus was in league with Gregorin, Auguste thought desolately, as the train chugged its way back to Bell Busk.
A bath at Tabor Hall seemed the most urgent necessity. Once again, however, his plans were destined to be thwarted.
As he walked towards the front entrance of the Hall, he could see Richey standing at the top of the steps. Richey could smell a non-gentleman at a hundred yards, and in this case other smells were going to make his task easier.
‘I’ll call your valet, Mr Didier,’ he said impassively.
Auguste glared. They both knew the truth. He took revenge. He deposited deerstalker and grubby gloves in Richey’s care. ‘I’m sure you’ll do your best for them.’
Richey’s reply was forestalled by a distraught Gertie. Almost knocking him off his feet, she rushed like a whirlwind through the door and flung herself into his arms. Behind her followed Tatiana, eyeing this touching scene somewhat sardonically.
‘They’ve arrested Cyril,’ Gertie howled into Auguste’s shoulder (fortunately not the one Black Rufus had honoured).
‘It is true, Auguste.’ Tatiana firmly detached Gertie and put her arm round her, either to restrain further outpourings or in sisterly compassion.
‘Why?’ Auguste asked astounded, and grateful for her intervention since the feather of Gertie’s evening coiffure had been tickling his nose. He was also greatly relieved; this must surely prove that Egbert no longer suspected Tatiana.
‘I don’t know,’ bawled Gertie. ‘Priscilla thinks it’s my fault.’
‘How could it be, Gertrude?’ asked Tatiana briskly. ‘You didn’t know the dead man, did you?’
‘Priscilla thinks everything is my fault,’ Gertie told her mournfully, overcome with the sorrow of life, clearly wishing she’d never left the Galaxy where her greatest problem had been which of the stage-door johnnies to choose to accompany to dinner. She buried her head in Tatiana’s shoulder.
‘Calmez-vous, Gertie,’ Auguste told her, quelling an instinctive movement to put his arm compassionately round her. ‘I am sure this is some mistake. I will find out the truth for you.’
Gertie disengaged herself from Tatiana’s angora shawl, and allowed herself cautious hope. ‘Oh, Auguste, you are wonderful,’ she breathed. ‘No wonder the girls at the Galaxy all loved you so.’
The leisurely bath was reduced to three minutes, and Auguste prepared to meet the Tabors at dinner, wondering what protocol might dictate on the matter of one’s host’s brother having just been arrested for murder.
Tatiana enlightened the table with an account of the joys of the English sausage. Gertie sobbed quietly, disregarded by her hostess. Priscilla and George were unusually quiet with only the occasional remark on the recalcitrant pheasants, or the recent celebrations on the millenary of King Alfred at Winchester. (Beatrice’s reference to Excalibur puzzled the company, until Alfred unkindly pointed out the difference between King Alfred and King Arthur.) Victoria and Alexander were not present. Laura did not appear to be on speaking terms with Oliver and the Dowager was dining in her rooms.
What did etiquette demand? Should he wait, Auguste wondered, until the ladies had withdrawn? But then the gentlemen would go to the smokehouse perhaps, and he could not say what he wished. Should he speak over dessert or cheese? Finally he could wait no longer.
‘I regret, George, Lady Tabor, to hear the news about Cyril.’
A huge tear plopped into Gertie’s soufflé.
He had done the wrong thing. The icy calm that greeted his statement told him that.
‘Thank you, Mr Didier. Did you enjoy your visit to Skipton Castle?’
Auguste blinked. Surely Priscilla could not be so calm, surely etiquette could not prevail so strongly? Apparently it did. Tatiana came to his rescue.
‘But why have they arrested him?’ she asked with genuine concern.
‘Your friend, Mr Didier—’ Priscilla’s emphasis was unmistakable on the your, ‘will not enlighten us. Cyril has been hauled away like a common criminal. At dawn a tribe of policemen are apparently coming to search the house and grounds yet again. They seem to forget we are Tabors.’
‘I think it affects me most, Priscilla,’ Gertie said bravely.
Priscilla looked faintly surprised, as if she had forgotten her presence. ‘This unfortunate occurrence took place here. How could Cyril have been so careless?’
‘But he didn’t do it,’ Gertie wailed.
‘If he was with you all night, Gertrude,’ Tatiana pointed out, concerned, ‘then of course he couldn’t have done it. Was he?’ she asked, perhaps untactfully, but to Auguste’s gratitude.
Gertie’s face grew pink and she appeared uncommonly interested in the Wensleydale cheese.
‘I expect he’ll be released,’ Alfred announced cheerfully. ‘Cyril hasn’t the spunk for murder.’
‘Oh!’ This seemed to cheer Gertie up.
‘Mr Didier,’ Priscilla was not amused by this argument and fixed Auguste with the power of her personality, ‘kindly use your influence to get him released.’
Appalled, Auguste bowed slightly. From his hostess’s approving smile, it seemed he had at last met her standards of etiquette.
The smokehouse was a sombre place, despite the best efforts of the cavorting ladies. It was all too easy to remember that sprawled figure on the floor now that there was a gap in their own ranks.
‘Priscilla’s worried, you know,’ her husband informed Auguste.
Was there a note of reproach in George’s voice? Auguste ignored it if so. ‘Naturally.’
‘The Tabors have been here hundreds of years,’ George pointed out. ‘We’re part of the fabric of the Craven area. We have to set an example. Murder doesn’t look good, you know.’
Auguste did know. ‘Cyril will be released, once the police have found out the truth.’ He tried to sound confident.
George gave him a sideways look. ‘It was suicide, of course,’ he said loudly. Even he could see this didn’t go down very convincingly. ‘Murder by one of the servants,’ he continued. ‘Tripped over the gun. Who was the fellow, anyway?’ he added, aggrieved.
‘The police will discover soon.’ It was a placebo and even George recognised it.
‘The family will stick by old Cyril, of course. Priscilla’s very hot on family loyalty. That’s the Tabor motto: Loyalty to the End. Seen this one, have you?’ Obviously hoping to lighten the atmosphere, he swung back a panel to reveal a lady standing in her bath indulging in contortions highly unlikely to have been called for in the pursuit of daily hygiene.
‘I still think the fellow was Mariot.’ Harold’s voice fell into the silence while this study was being appreciated.
‘Aunt Laura told me she’s just had a telegraphic message from him,’ announced Alfred with relish. ‘So it can’t be.’
‘Impostor.’ Harold was adamant.
‘No,’ said Oliver quickly. ‘The police told me they’d had confirmation from Cairo that he set off for England weeks ago. He must be here by now. Somewhere.’ He seemed rather gloomy at the prospect.
‘Laura wouldn’t marry a chap who wasn’t a gentleman,’ George assured him. ‘It would upset Priscilla.’
Oliver began to laugh hysterically. ‘A famous archaeologist and Laura can’t marry him because he isn’t in Burke’s Peerage. Can you believe it, Didier?’
‘Yes.’ Auguste could. He, Auguste Didier, maître chef, would never be a gentleman by Tabor standards. Fortunately, from what he had seen so far he had little desire to be one.
‘This is a salted herring in a salade de fruits de mer,’ he told himself later, after he had been released from ordeal by smokehouse. Was it not bizarre that nobody seemed unduly concerned about Cyril – almost as if by consensus? Was this Society’s way of coping with disaster, or was it something more sinister?
Rose returned by the police carriage late that night, and Auguste roused himself from the settle in the entrance hall.
‘Had a good day, Auguste?’ Rose asked grimly. ‘Pheasant shooting, visiting local beauty spots, eh?’ He stalked upstairs towards his quarters.
‘No,’ cried Auguste truthfully, following in his wake. He had no intention of telling Egbert about Big Fizzer yet, but he was convinced his theory added up. The corpse’s clothes had been changed not to delay identification indefinitely, but to the point when no one would miss him, and that would be when the fairground workers would be supposed to have passed out of sight and out of mind. But theory was theory, and this one would not, he knew, impress Egbert without further information.
‘Why have you arrested Cyril Tabor?’ Auguste asked Egbert’s unresponsive back.
Egbert marched on, and then stopped so suddenly that Auguste cannoned into him.
‘He’s not arrested, only being questioned.’ He paused. ‘The gallant colonel’s still missing, and now your Cyril’s admitted he and his wife had a tiff that night – over you as it happens – and he slept in the dressing room, so she can’t vouch for him. Satisfied?’
‘You’re hoping to find the colonel’s uniform buried in the grounds?’ (Over him?) Suppose after all Egbert was right about Cyril. It was as likely as his own wild theory.
‘You got anything better to offer?’
Auguste did not reply.
‘Where have you been, Auguste?’ Egbert shot at him.
‘In Skipton.’
Egbert Rose was exasperated and showed it. ‘Look here, Auguste, I don’t think Tatiana’s guilty, but until we know whose that body is, I have to bear the possibility in mind. I’m a policeman.’
Motorcars had their uses. Auguste yanked the starting handle round almost with pleasure. There was no doubt that to travel along the Harrogate Road was a great deal pleasanter than the roundabout route of the railway train. Even adhering to the maximum permitted speed of 12 mph, three hours would see them safely there. The day was fine, and both he and Tatiana were warmly equipped with fur rugs. And to add to his optimism, Walter Tompkins, at his Lordship’s insistence, sat behind the driving wheel.
Tatiana’s small blue glengarry cap was covered by a gauze veil, not only over her ears but at Beatrice’s insistence over the whole of her face and goggles
as well. Her complexion would otherwise apparently be ruined for ever.
‘I look like a toad-in-the-hole,’ Tatiana announced crossly to Auguste, ripping off the veil, ‘and you look like a rather bad burglar.’
The sleeves of his tweed jacket were secured, on George’s advice, to prevent the wind whistling up them, and his felt hat was pulled firmly over his ears inside the collar. He had always understood that a wife’s duty was to admire her husband at all times and in all situations. Apparently he had been misinformed, as in so many ways in this mysterious new world of marriage.
As the Daimler moved on to the Harrogate Road he relaxed. Behind them lay Tabor Hall and the shadow of murder; before them lay the excitement of the hunt. The hunt that might prove Cyril innocent. Not to mention Tatiana herself.
‘Cyril always gets what he wants.’ That’s what Miriam had said. Yet in this case he had already got Gertie. Nothing could change that. What else might make Cyril turn to murder? Nothing that would involve British Army colonels in India, of that he was sure.
The Daimler almost purred under Tompkins’ steady hands. Tatiana had abandoned Auguste in order to sit by Tompkins and discuss motorcars, and was listening to an incomprehensible (to Auguste) account of combustion chambers, pistons and side-slipping.
Left to himself, he pondered the beauty of bracken-covered hillsides, topped with outcrops of limestone crags, under the blue autumn sky. To his right lay valleys of green fields like a salade de mesclun – until this peaceful scene was shattered by a sharp explosion.
‘Gregorin!’ It was Tatiana that cried out his fear.
Then his jumping heart subsided, as he saw Tompkins getting calmly down from the Daimler with the air of one to whom this was not an unusual occurrence.
Having satisfied herself of Auguste’s survival, with a quick kiss, Tatiana followed suit.
Auguste leapt out after them, but there was now little to be seen of wife or driver save their lower halves.