by Myers, Amy
Auguste sneaked up to his hotel room, eyed with great suspicion by a chambermaid, and prepared to face Tatiana’s mirth. She was not there, but he had only got so far in his obligatory toilet as to gingerly remove his jacket when she came in, extolling the virtues of breakfast as provided by a Mrs Snipes. Mrs Snipes, it transpired, was wife to Herbert Snipes, motorcar engineer. Then came the laughter, as she took in her spouse’s blackened appearance. ‘Voilà, chéri, I know just the place for you. The Royal Baths. Did you know there are seventeen bogsprings in Harrogate?’
Auguste had no interest in bogsprings or Harrogate. He merely wanted a bath (and the Majestic’s would serve admirably), a speedy snack and to be removed to Tabor Hall as quickly as possible.
Tatiana, in the front seat of a now restored Daimler with Tompkins, busily discussed the merits of the Daimler compared with the De Dion, plug by plug, and in splendid isolation at the back, Auguste digested what he had learned. Blackboots had last been seen on the Black Beauty as the cavalcade slowly made its way into the misty but infinite possibilities of the open road. He had only partly kept his promise of declaring his route: it might be Selby; it might be Whitby; or it might be the Great North Road. He’d find him all right, if he needed to, seemed to be Blackboots’ attitude.
Had the odds shortened on the corpse being that of Tom Griffin? Some part of him didn’t want it to be so. Blackboots had brought him to life. A nameless corpse now assumed a reality of wasted hopes and dreams. Another part of Auguste’s brain was quickly working out what might have happened. From ‘what’ he might then reach ‘why’. Tom’s clothes would have to have been hidden somewhere, probably in the grounds of the Hall, given the time available. Unless of course Gregorin were the murderer. Tom had thought he might be gone a while – where then was his overnight bag? How would he get back to Settle? Walk? Possible by daylight, but not at night.
Reluctantly he dismissed Black Rufus from his mind. However much he disliked Tom, he would hardly follow his prey into private grounds or bother to change his clothes. Unless . . . Unless they both came on the same mission. And that mission could therefore only concern one person: Alfred. He and Egbert had assumed Alfred’s debts were from games in the houses of friends or London clubs. Suppose they were incurred in a hidden roulette tent at a fair? Alfred admitted he gave the man who called money; Tom Griffin had had a sudden influx of money sufficient to achieve his lifetime dream of buying his own galloper. Had he ‘forgotten’ the money belonged to Black Rufus? Had Black Rufus himself stormed up to Tabor Hall that night to demand the money from Alfred and had Tom set off to stop him? Had there been a quarrel, an accidental shooting and a desperate attempt to disguise what had happened? Auguste turned the theory round, upside down and shook it like a jelly from its mould. It did not quite come out cleanly, but it was edible nevertheless.
As the Daimler turned into the lane leading to Airton and Kirkby Malham, Auguste became aware that he was not looking forward to entering Tabor Hall again. What was he to say to Egbert? Should he tell him about Tom Griffin or not? If not, he breached their private rules on how their professional relationship was conducted. He was not supposed to keep things to himself, in view of the privileges granted him. Yet Egbert was surely tackling this case the wrong way round, concentrating on possible murderers and not on who the victim was. And one of those possible murderers might still, in Egbert’s mind, be Tatiana.
His dilemma was solved for him, for Chief Inspector Rose had left Tabor Hall, he was informed. There were still ample signs of His Majesty’s police forces, however, digging tenaciously on the moor and hillsides, and in the formal garden flowerbeds. The Daimler had accomplished the journey in under three hours, a fact that endeared motoring to Auguste, since there was still a chance that luncheon might be available. His pleasure was diminished by the wall of disapproval that met him.
‘Ah,’ George announced with forced heartiness. ‘Just in time for the cheese.’
‘Nonsense.’ Priscilla coolly rang the bell. ‘I am quite certain Breckles can find some cold pie for Mr and Mrs Didier before they depart.’
‘Depart?’ echoed Auguste.
‘My sister-in-law assumes you will want to return to London as soon as possible after your enforced stay,’ Laura explained tactfully.
Priscilla Tabor saw little need for tact. ‘Since your friend has seen fit to arrest Cyril, I see no reason that I should continue to provide an enquiry room at Tabor Hall. Presumably the matter is concluded so far as he is concerned, and I assume you wish to remain at his side. The princess is naturally welcome to remain here.’ Welcome wasn’t quite the feeling her tone of voice suggested. Tolerated, perhaps. Auguste seethed in fury, but Tatiana’s social smile did not waver.
‘How thoughtful. However, since my husband is engaged on finding the true murderer, I feel I should be at his side.’
‘True murderer?’ cried Gertie hopefully.
‘I hope so.’ There was nothing else Auguste could say.
‘You mean you believe Cyril innocent?’ asked Oliver, delighted.
‘I’m sure we all do,’ Auguste stalled valiantly. Looking round the table, he was dismayed to find, however, that on most faces there was no expression of relief at this prospect at all.
‘In that event,’ Priscilla said after a pause, ‘I realise that you might wish to remain here.’
‘Auguste,’ Tatiana addressed him sweetly, ‘I could be quite happy at the Lion.’
His heart rose and then sank, as the delights of the coaching inn faded before him. Tabor Hall was the heart of this mystery and here he should remain – even if one of the hands that fed him was that of a murderer. ‘Your thoughtfulness is much appreciated, Lady Tabor.’
Oddly, Priscilla Tabor did not seem overjoyed that he had acquiesced.
‘Walk?’ Auguste enquired suspiciously, as Tatiana announced her intention of joining a party on an excursion to view some waterfalls. He had long wondered at the passion of the English for striding across the countryside, when they could be admiring its beauties from a petit restaurant or bar.
‘You are safer with the Tabors than here alone, ma mie,’ she told him.
This aspect had not occurred to him, and the merits of muddy walks by waterfalls suddenly grew.
The journey necessitated taking one Midland railway train and then changing to another, but he noticed little of it. He was in the world of the fairground, trying to imagine the life of Tom Griffin. Only when he began to walk along woodland paths, and by rushing streams and tumbling waterfalls did he begin to take note of his surroundings. This was a different Yorkshire to that of the bleak high fells. Moreover, some kind providence or private patronage had laid out paths and bridges so that the spectacular falls could be enjoyed at their best.
‘Now,’ said Tatiana, as they lingered on one of the bridges, ‘at last you can tell me. Can you prove Cyril is not a murderer and make your lovely Gertie happy?’
‘Not yet.’
Normally he would discuss a case with Egbert. Perhaps it might help to tell Tatiana. As he did so, his sense of understanding Tom Griffin’s life and what meant most to him grew stronger.
‘If Tom came to Tabor Hall,’ he concluded, ‘we can forget Colonel Simpson. It is not a “gentleman”, but poor Tom who lies dead. And only one person could have reason to kill him that I can see. Just possibly two.’
‘Who?’
‘Gregorin, whom we provisionally ruled out on the grounds that he would not have cut his hair, and him.’ He glanced up.
Alfred was calling to them from the rocky path above them. ‘I say, you fellows, hurry up!’
‘He is only a boy,’ said Tatiana, astounded. ‘Not a very nice one, but still a boy.’
‘He is twenty-one, no boy. It could explain why the Tabors were apparently so cooperative, but in fact all their suggestions led to dead ends.’
‘Except the Colonel.’
‘And that will too, I’m sure.’
Tatiana laughed. ‘Oh
Auguste, what a wonderful imagination you have. The Tabors have a great sense of family loyalty, but do you think Cyril would get himself arrested just to save Alfred?’
Put that way, Auguste was forced to admit it seemed unlikely.
‘Too steep for you, Aged Cousin?’ Alexander came galloping down the path towards them, Victoria close behind.
Tatiana promptly chased him up the steep steps again as Victoria called to Auguste: ‘You’re dreaming up murder mysteries, aren’t you? Suppose Gertie rushed out and shot the poor man to stop him blackmailing her darling Cyril?’
‘That had not yet occurred to me.’
‘There you are, you see. I should make a wonderful detective. And an even better criminal,’ Victoria added.
Auguste glanced up. Was it his imagination or was there a very strange look on Alexander’s face as he heard her? It must have been, for he turned quickly with a joke to Tatiana again.
‘Do you believe Cyril is guilty, Laura? You all seemed rather uninterested at the prospect of his innocence.’
She whirled on Oliver indignantly. ‘How can you say that? He’s my brother. Of course I want him released. But the Colonel is missing. It’s an unfortunate coincidence.’
‘What do you mean by coincidence?’ he asked sharply.
‘Nothing.’
‘Laura, I know something is wrong.’
‘That should be of no concern to you, Oliver. You have no commitment to me, none at all. Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ he answered slowly. ‘Very clear. Do I take it you do not wish any commitment?’
‘I am afraid, Oliver, that’s precisely what I mean. I am sorry if you formed any other impression.’
‘Pussikins.’ Harold Janes did not like walks, even those laid out with every assistance to victims of overindulgence in claggy toffee pudding. ‘Let’s leave tomorrow, shall we?’
‘Oh, Puppikins.’ Beatrice was heartbroken. ‘But it’s all becoming so exciting.’ Now that there was no risk to Harold, she was enthusiastic about finding out which of the Tabors knew more than they were telling about the murder. If her stock should fall at Court (and there were just a few small signs that it might) she needed to increase her value to Society. ‘Pussikins wants to stay.’
‘We’re going,’ he replied curtly.
The water tumbled and splashed by his side, but Auguste was now oblivious to the glories of nature, absorbed in the results of his thinking. Tabor family loyalty and Tom Griffin. He must see Egbert immediately. Perhaps Alfred was not the only candidate among the Tabors after all.
Immediately took a little longer than he had hoped. Halfway round a circular walk in the wilds of Yorkshire was no place from which to get anywhere immediately. Auguste was forced to curb his impatience while the wonders of Thornton Falls, then the moorland, then Beazley Falls, the Snow Falls and finally the glories of Ingleton village and its obliging teashops were enjoyed.
Reaching Settle station at last, he leapt eagerly from the train. Tatiana had accepted his abandoning her suspiciously easily and it was only belatedly that it occurred to him how deep she had been in a discussion with Alexander in which the price of De Dion Boutons seemed to be under review. He quickly forgot it again.
Once at the Golden Lion, he was forced to curb his impatience even longer. Chief Inspector Rose, he was told, was out.
Tired of waiting for results from the digging, Rose too was sightseeing. He was on the other side of the Ingleborough Hill from the Tabor Hall party, taking a trip round Ingleborough Cave. He too needed to think. He wasn’t happy with the present situation: not with Cyril Tabor as murderer – or with the first cave they entered. Perhaps he’d seen too much of the London underground railway system to be impressed by brown-coloured stone and dim light. He thought wistfully that Edith might have liked it, though she’d have to take care of her Sunday best, and wouldn’t have taken to all these puddles. The next cave and those after that did impress him, for there was nothing like this on the Central Line. Stalactites, stalagmites, lakes of water. Very pretty.
By the time he emerged, after seeing cavern after cavern, he was highly satisfied with his afternoon, and even disposed to admire the scenery on the walk back to the village. He had come to a conclusion and not about Ingleborough Cave. He was not pleased to find Auguste waiting for him in the Golden Lion. He wasn’t quite ready yet.
‘I have something to tell you, Egbert.’
‘Good of you.’
‘May I buy you a drink?’
Egbert relented. ‘Yes. And supper. You’ve been holding out on me, haven’t you?’
‘No. Yes.’
‘You can tell me why I’ve got the wrong man. Before we have supper.’
Auguste looked at him soberly. ‘You agree Cyril is innocent?’
‘I don’t know what I think until those blasted clothes turn up. I’ll have to charge him or release him,’ Egbert told him irritably.
Seated in the snug with ale in front of them, Auguste related the story of Tom Griffin.
‘And you didn’t think to mention this to me earlier?’
‘How could I, Egbert?’ Auguste ignored a pang of conscience. ‘There was no proof. There is still none. It is but a wild theory. You would have told me as usual that I was putting two and two together and making forty.’
‘Maybe, and maybe not,’ Egbert said shortly. ‘What concerns me is that this case is the wrong way up. Normally you can’t be certain who the murderer is until you’re sure who the corpse is. Your theory tells us that. Mine doesn’t. The funeral took place after the inquest so all I’ve got now are photographs. Colonel Simpson’s housekeeper can’t identify them one way or the other, as you know, so I haven’t a hope of getting the case on Cyril Tabor tied up unless those blasted regimentals turn up.’
‘Or the Colonel.’
Egbert shot a look at him. ‘Get that beef and Yorkshire pud ordered, Auguste, and be quick about it. And an apple pie, as you’re paying.’
‘You will be as plump as a dumpling when you return to Edith,’ Auguste laughed.
‘You’re putting on weight too. Marriage, is it?’
‘I am not enceinte, mon ami.’ Auguste was unreasonably cross at this aspersion against his figure. ‘This healthy Yorkshire air overfeeds your imagination.’
Sustenance was speedily followed by Cobbold, accompanied by Constable Wright glowing with pride, and carrying a bag. Auguste thought he discerned a slight interrogative lift of Cobbold’s eyebrows followed by a nod from Egbert. It had been a long day, and it depressed him.
‘Got something for you,’ Cobbold announced.
‘Regimentals?’
For answer Cobbold tipped out the bag. To Auguste and Rose the contents shouted out: moleskin trousers, check shirt, scarf, old jacket, bowler hat, and old shoes.
Auguste could not resist it. ‘They do not look like regimentals, Chief Inspector.’ He managed to sound disappointed.
Egbert cast him a scathing look. ‘Sit down,’ he invited Cobbold, dismissing Wright. Rose pushed Auguste’s apple pie across to Cobbold. ‘Fancy some pie? Mr Didier is leaving to return to the Hall.’
‘I thought I might stay—’ Auguste began.
‘The Hall,’ interrupted Rose dismissively.
Smarting, Auguste retreated. He reached the front entrance and reconsidered. Tom Griffin was his. He marched back. He sat down again and Egbert did not comment. They were indeed talking about Tom Griffin.
‘His Nibs up at Balmoral will be relieved that it’s not going to be a major scandal,’ Egbert was saying, ‘but if I know him he’ll still want to know who did it, travelling man or not. And quickly.’
‘I don’t know what constitutes a major scandal in London, but round here it’s anything implicating the Tabors.’
Egbert Rose stared at him. ‘You’re right, Cobbold. We’re not out of the wood. We can release Cyril, and the clothes prove it can’t be Mariot, which clears Miss Laura and I suppose Carstairs. There are still other Tabors.’
/> ‘Why should they want to kill a travelling man?’ Cobbold demanded.
‘Auguste here reckons it’s to do with young Alfred and his gambling debts.’
‘But he is not the only possibility,’ Auguste put in quickly. Thank goodness now there was no mention of Tatiana. Or was that merely because of his presence?
‘We ain’t ballet dancers, Auguste,’ Egbert told him irritably. ‘We go through the facts one by one. We don’t leap six foot up and twirl around in the air like something out of Swan Lake.’
‘But you must consider other possibilities,’ Auguste pleaded. ‘We must find out more about Tom Griffin. Suppose he was an illegitimate brother?’
Egbert laughed. ‘I’d like to see Priscilla’s face.’
‘He is about the right age,’ Auguste continued doggedly. ‘Should we not ask the good Inspector Stitch to make investigations in Somerset House now he has returned to London? Tom Griffin is or was about sixty, perhaps a year or so younger: his birth should have been registered. Also Stitch could make enquiries among the workhouses and orphanages in South London where he was born. If Tom’s mother died when he was young he might have been taken into one.’
Rose hesitated, but was suddenly diverted by the idea of interrupting Twitch’s Sunday evening, with details of a nice job for the morrow. ‘Got a telephone here?’ he enquired of the Lion’s landlord.
It was nearly nine by the time Rose and Auguste arrived back at Tabor Hall, accompanied by Cyril Tabor.
Gertie’s sad face brightened; she was no longer alone in the Tabor lions’ den. ‘Cyril,’ she shrieked, hurling herself into his arms with an enthusiasm that strained her narrow jet shoulder-straps to danger point.
‘Steady, kitten. I wasn’t snatched away from the gallows.’
Priscilla rose to her feet, in righteous indignation. ‘I am glad that you have come to your senses, Chief Inspector. Cyril, you will need a brandy.’
‘I need three,’ he corrected.
‘I’d be glad if you wouldn’t leave the Hall yet, Mr Tabor,’ Egbert Rose said stolidly, ‘pending further enquiries. I’d like to have a word with you tomorrow morning in my rooms here.’ He stared blandly at Lady Tabor.