Murder In The Motor Stable: (Auguste Didier Mystery 9)

by Myers, Amy

  ‘Strange for a racing driver to be so inefficient with his own motorcar. Does he have witnesses to the time he arrived home?’

  ‘His manservant says just before two. He says one o’clock, but he spent some time in the motor house alone hoping to get the Crossley going.’

  ‘Alone?’ Auguste repeated.

  ‘Quite alone. On the other hand,’ Egbert grunted, ‘there’s no evidence against him except that he was last on the scene.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’ Auguste asked hopefully. He knew that the Fingerprint Department at the Yard established three years ago was at last beginning to pay dividends and that there was hope the courts might take notice of such evidence.

  ‘Twitch is working on it.’

  Leaving Egbert to struggle into the tail coat and trousers he had reluctantly brought in honour of his King, Auguste yielded to the temptation to slip down to the kitchens before changing for dinner himself. Ostensibly this was to check that the remains of his luncheon and tea were not in any way hindering the progress of the resident chefs ball supper and that his own club china and glass and ornaments had not intruded – by sheer mistake – into the assets of Martyr House. He also, he admitted, had a professional curiosity in seeing another’s kitchen at such a critical moment in the preparation of a meal of which His Majesty was to partake. True, His Majesty always had the foresight to send one of his own chefs down to superintend the food to be served, and sometimes to cook it. When he was not long married, Auguste had had several clashes with these otherwise admirable gentlemen, as to whose authority reigned supreme. His victory was his first taste of the power that status of social position can bestow, and when he belatedly realised the reason for the chefs’ speedy surrender he had spent much time in rebuilding the delicate bridges of spun sugar needed to heal wounded feelings and open a route to a tarmacadamed smoother future.

  By a kitchen, so shall you know a house. He did not like the smell of this one. There seemed to be wealth without taste, beautiful objects that instead of warming heart and eye lay and hung lifelessly, as if stifled in a house without love. Indeed it probably was, if the rumours about Isabel were true, and from what he had seen of the Earl, he was an amiable but aimless gentleman who could no more stamp a personality on the household than a dried-out stick of sealing wax. The only member of the family who could claim connections with humanity was the Earl’s mother, who had enlivened Auguste’s teatime with a spirited account of her early, and close, friendship with His Majesty. The kitchens, however, lacked even this glimpse of warmth. Its staff moved like pawns on a sterile chessboard, the smell of food battling with, not enriching, its surroundings. Auguste knew precisely the kind of supper that would emerge from this kitchen: competent, expensive and dull. Lobster salads would be just that, a series of ingredients put together to answer the description, not created to form an excitement of its own; oeufs à la neige would be floating cardboard meringues in a sea of stagnant custard. However, he had another reason for being here, an important one, one which he had been at a loss to define until the events of the day had brought them to the surface and crystallised them into a question.

  There was no sign of his staff here, and upon inquiring for Pierre’s whereabouts he was directed to the vast area of larders and stillrooms at the back of the kitchens. Most of his staff were busy repacking boxes and hampers, but from the very cubbyhole Egbert had rejected he overheard the familiar strains of a quarrel between Pierre and Luigi. It was too much, and he burst into the room.

  ‘And what is the problem now? The banquet went splendidly, did it not? You worked together admirably. Can we not at this difficult time stay united?’

  ‘I am telling this dog how splendid a lady Miss Hart was. That no one would wish to murder her. It must have been someone who wanted to harm the motorcar.’

  ‘And I have told him –’ Luigi smiled with a maddening complacency – ‘that many people would wish to murder Miss Hart. When you’re in a restaurant you hear a great deal that those who are confined to kitchens miss. Let this oaf dream on. Whatever I say, he will contradict it. He has no brain.’

  ‘Only a heart, which you lack, dog.’

  ‘Suppose we all remember that Miss Hart is dead,’ Auguste said quietly, ‘and that quarrelling about her can achieve nothing. Remembering what might be helpful to the police might, however, achieve something.’

  ‘That is true,’ Luigi said slowly. ‘And I might remember very interesting things.’

  Egbert Rose felt constricted by his dinner shirt and white waistcoat, though unlike His Majesty had had no reason to leave his bottom button undone. He had been all for bringing a white dicky but Edith had insisted on taking it out of the suitcase and putting in her father’s best dress shirt, now bequeathed to Egbert. She had pointed out, with some justice, how awkward it would be if the edges of the dicky popped out as he bowed to His Majesty. In the interests of the smooth furtherance of the case, Egbert had submitted, but now he shifted in it uneasily as he stood by the door of the ballroom in which all the guests were now assembled; they were waiting for His Majesty’s arrival.

  He remembered the first time he had met Auguste; that had also been the first time he’d been plunged into the midst of the aristocracy in a murder case. It had been at Stockbery Towers in ’91. He’d been surprised by what he had found then, even shocked, but the aristocracy were, he now knew, no different from Edith and himself or anyone else. There were villains amongst them and good-hearted people, just the same as there were anywhere. What made them seem different, he thought as he surveyed the glittering evening dresses and jewels before him, was that they all conformed to some artificial code to which you had to learn the key. Though was it so artificial? All groups had their own language, from street sellers and rat-catchers to Metropolitan policemen. The aristocracy did have one asset, he conceded, which rat-catchers and chimney sweeps lacked. They had power, and Egbert never underestimated that.

  He listened as the Earl called for silence, and believing that this meant His Majesty, not Egbert Rose, was on his way, they obeyed.

  ‘Hester Hart was murdered,’ Egbert informed them as the Earl motioned he was free to speak. ‘Most of you knew her; she was a member of the Ladies’ Motoring Club, and she was murdered by someone who was either a member or who knew the ways of the club. That someone also either knew she would be there that evening or they had designs on the Dolly Dobbs and didn’t care who was there.’

  The ripple of unease communicated itself as fast as news in the Seamen’s Rest that a crusher had come through the door. Egbert registered the looks of shock around him. Auguste would have said he felt like a turnip thrown into a ratatouille, but that’s just what Egbert intended – to shake them up a bit.

  ‘Many of you were dining in the restaurant last evening, most of you knew of the Dolly Dobbs, so that means some of you must have information to give me. I shall be in the library this evening, while the ball is on, so you can come to see me there. Otherwise I’ll call on you in London.’

  As he finished his brief statement, his eye travelled round, wondering who was who. Which were the women who might have good reason to dislike Hester Hart? His eye fell on a middle-aged woman with a long face and determined jaw, standing by an inoffensive, scholarly-looking man. Now them he did recognise. How on earth did Hortensia Millward and her husband get invited to a Ladies’ Motoring Club ball?

  ‘Good evening, Tati. And Auguste.’ A belated thought.

  Auguste glowed, for this was the first time he had ever been addressed as Auguste, not Didier. Unfortunately it was soon clear His Majesty was preoccupied, and it had slipped out by accident.

  ‘This murder,’ His Majesty began querulously.

  ‘What about it, Bertie?’ Tatiana glanced nervously at Auguste.

  ‘That fellow Rose says he’s going to be in the library this evening, interviewing people. Odd thing to happen at a ball, but murder is murder, I suppose.’ He glared at Auguste as though daring him to disagree.r />
  ‘You’re always very understanding, Bertie,’ Tatiana consoled him helpfully.

  ‘I try to be.’ This was news to Auguste. ‘Does it mean Rose thinks the murderer is actually here?’

  Auguste hesitated. ‘It means he or she could be here, sir, simply because it is probably someone associated with the club, even if not a member. No one would break in from outside without at least a contact in the club.’

  ‘What about that horse woman?’

  ‘Mrs Millward?’ Tatiana was astonished. ‘How would she even know which motor house the Dolly Dobbs was in?’

  Auguste decided not to court trouble by mentioning Thomas Bailey had found no difficulty.

  ‘Good.’ The King cleared his throat. ‘I’ve had it on my mind, you see. I invited her.’

  ‘To the motor stable?’ Auguste was muddled.

  ‘Here.’ His Majesty glared. ‘I remembered John Millward will be on the next honours list, so I invited them this afternoon. Then as I was dressing I suddenly thought, suppose they’re murderers.’

  Tatiana glanced at Auguste. His Majesty must be comforted, and distracted. ‘This house is used to them,’ she said lightly.

  ‘What?’ His Majesty looked round nervously for John Sweeney, his private detective.

  ‘This house, or rather the mediaeval house it was built around, was one of several that belonged to one of the murderers of Thomas à Becket, so Isabel Tunstall told me.’

  ‘Let’s hope he’s not walking around, eh?’ The King roared with laughter.

  Dancing with Isabel, Auguste decided as he exchanged polite pleasantries (it would hardly do to ask his hostess while clasped in his arms where she was at the time of the murder) was like gliding over an already iced cake with the point of an icing bag. Maud Bullinger had proved a bumpier experience, like smoothing pastry over plums. He had felt like a mere garnish to Agatha’s neat tournedos of a waltz, and a fish scorched by a salamander after he had been released by Miss Dazey. He had then taken the floor with Isabel, watched suspiciously, he nervously noticed, not by the Earl but by Hugh Francis who appeared to be as devoted to Isabel as mutton to haricots. He was grateful that his next duty was to his wife.

  ‘Bertie does not seem too upset,’ Auguste whispered to her.

  ‘It’s not Bertie whose club has been ruined.’

  ‘The club is only the location, not the cause of the crime,’ he comforted her. ‘It will survive.’

  ‘What is the cause?’

  ‘People, as always.’

  ‘And those people are here tonight,’ she said soberly. ‘You will find out who has done this terrible thing, won’t you, Auguste?’

  ‘Chérie, I will.’

  He meant it, but it was not going to be easy. To begin with, he must eradicate the cause of the smell of something amiss which had pervaded his kitchen for the last two weeks. The smell had not stemmed from Hester Hart but had arisen within himself, his own private stockpot, for it stemmed from where he had believed himself secure. It was time, he decided, to slip away while supper was being served. The kitchens would be quieter.

  He found Pierre in the servants’ hall enjoying a plateful of roast beef. Not for the Martyr House servants anything so common as lobster salad; they roasted, even in July, meat for their own suppers.

  ‘Our own venison stew, of which much remains, is of no interest to you?’ Auguste inquired lightly.

  Pierre was not put out by Auguste’s sudden appearance. ‘A cook is entitled to tire of his own wares,’ he countered.

  ‘But not of mine,’ Auguste pointed out, a little hurt. ‘Pierre, I have something to ask you. When you have finished, we will go to somewhere more private.’

  Pierre eyed his remaining roast parsnips wistfully and put them aside. ‘Let us go now, Monsieur Didier. Whatever it is you have to ask, I have something to tell you. Something that will interest both you and this Scotland Yard inspector. I would like to explain to you first.’

  Auguste, taken aback by the accuracy of his own suspicions, accompanied him into the cubbyhole once more, but Pierre gave him no chance to speak first.

  ‘I knew Miss Hart before I came to the club. That is what you wanted to ask me, isn’t it? I knew her very well, and that is why I admired her so greatly and why I grieve so much for her death.’

  ‘Then, Pierre, would I be right in thinking that your apprenticeship as a chef was not served in the Hôtel Grande in Marseille?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur. My father worked in the kitchens for a time. As a child, I washed dishes, even peeled vegetables there on occasion. But my training, if you can call it such, was in my father’s restaurant in Marseille, and in my travels.’

  ‘And your father’s restaurant, I imagine, did not cater for French customers or provide French cuisine?’

  ‘Only in the sense that Algérie is considered part of the French Republic.’

  ‘And your father is of the Arab race, is he not?’

  ‘You are correct. And my mother is Turkish. I was born into a land of Christian beliefs but brought up as a Muhammadan. Our family name is Khalil with a K, but my father adopted French spelling.’ He hesitated. ‘Might I ask how you guessed?’

  ‘From your cooking. You are skilled in the cuisine of many lands but in the end one’s origins betray one.’

  ‘Asl,’ Pierre commented ruefully. ‘It means a man’s origin, and we Arabs believe it influences conduct for ever.’

  ‘Your love of mint does, certainly. Your fascination with sweet and sour in unusual combinations, your use of honey, and an approach that combines crudeness with occasional great subtlety. Moreover –’ Auguste was a little hurt – ‘you obviously disliked my whistling, and I know Arabs strongly disapprove of it.’ He had also thought it strange that Miss Hart had spoken so rudely to Pierre last Saturday; if that was how she treated the servants at the club, he had thought, she was in no position to complain of her treatment by those who considered themselves superior to her. ‘Now, please tell me how you met Miss Hart. I cannot believe it was in a couscous restaurant in Marseille.’

  ‘It hardly matters where I met her. What I must tell you urgently is what I was to her, so that you can find her murderer quickly.’ There was vehemence in his voice.

  ‘You were her cook?’

  ‘Her dragoman. Cooking was only part of it. For over six years I accompanied her on her travels, beginning in Algérie and elsewhere in Africa, then east through India, Syria, Persia, Jordan. I understand the Muhammadan attitude to women, to strangers, to money, to food, and to life. What was invaluable to her was that I could also understand hers. The Muhammadan holds women in high respect, monsieur, despite the fact that their women are kept at home. The foreign woman who travels, while not of their religion, should be safe, but it is necessary for them to have a dragoman, for not all Arabs keep the faith. There are brigands who would murder rather than have the trouble of bartering. Also,’ he laughed, ‘Miss Hart was not a good cook.’

  ‘And how did you come to be at the club?’ Auguste asked sharply. He was annoyed with himself for not having pursued his doubts before.

  ‘Miss Hart asked me to come,’ Pierre explained simply.

  ‘Why? Surely she had no need of a dragoman here?’

  ‘This is what I asked her immediately. I would not have been surprised if she had employed me as her cook at her new home, but a ladies’ motoring club seemed very strange. Then she explained. I was in a sense to be her dragoman in the club too. She wanted me to defend her. And look how I have failed her.’ His face contorted in agony.

  ‘Defend her against what?’ Auguste asked more gently. ‘Did she know her life could be in danger?’

  ‘Perhaps not, but she was in some sort of danger for she was marching into unknown territory, she said, and I was to be there to help if needed.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘I did what she asked me. Anything I heard about her, good or bad, I was to relay back to her.’

  ‘How?’

 
‘I sent letters, and sometimes met her outside the club. My writing is good,’ he added proudly.

  ‘But how did she know that a ladies’ motoring club could be a dangerous place before she joined it and started causing trouble?’

  ‘Because I know she intended to find danger. She sought it as eagerly as she sought adventure in the desert. She sought revenge; it was a long thought-out plan and the reason for her return to England.’

  ‘You know? How?’

  ‘She told me.’

  ‘When, where and what?’ Auguste was sharper than he intended. This could be the key he had been hoping for to the secret of Hester Hart.

  ‘Everywhere. In the desert, monsieur, in the ruins of Palmyra, in Petra, in Egypt, in ancient Babylon. A dragoman is more than a butler or cook, whose wages are paid for duty done. He is a partner in an adventure. In the desert one needs a companion, for its beauty is too immense for man to be alone. The infinite stretches ahead, behind, to east, to west, and words flow easier than here in England. In the desert there is stillness and natural beauty to rest the eye; here there are a thousand distractions to occupy every moment. Hurry is from Hell, says the Arab. Hurry is the honeyed path to Heaven, says English society.’

  Auguste hardly dared to ask. ‘While Miss Hart talked to you of this great adventure, her revenge, did she mention any names in particular?’

  ‘Indeed she did, monsieur, and that is why I knew I must tell you of them immediately, for my own sake as well as hers.’

  ‘Your sake?’

  ‘Because she is dead, monsieur, and I too have a life I cherish.’

  Chief Inspector Egbert Rose was impatiently awaiting the arrival of anyone at all. All that had happened so far was that the door had cautiously opened to reveal the most junior footman who had put down a tray of lukewarm roast beef in front of him. He had been disappointed. It tasted like Mr Pinpole’s beef; he suspected his local butcher of advertising in Smithfield for the toughest beef in England to sell to Edith, and now he knew Pinpole was not alone. Mr Pinpole’s brother must be a cattle farmer down here. Meanwhile no one from the ballroom had bothered to take time out of their busy dancing schedules to come to talk to him. Had his visit here been a waste of time? Not entirely, he reflected. In fact, it suggested quite a lot to him. He studied the list Tatiana had given him with the participants of the run and their passengers, plus the notes which Auguste had made at the side on some of them. On the whole, Roderick Smythe was still well up on his own list of those to be carefully investigated. He’d quarrelled early in the evening with the deceased, he’d come to the motor stable to guard the motorcar when she’d said he wasn’t wanted, and he’d told Fred Gale to go home. Rose was inclined to believe in simple answers where he could – until eliminated, at the very least. He had known Auguste long enough to prove that some cases were far from simple in their resolutions but it still remained a good jumping-off point.