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

by Myers, Amy

  ‘Twitch has had the pathologist’s report now. She was killed between about twelve thirty and two thirty, and Tatiana can vouch for her being alive and quarrelling with Smythe just before one. He says he only stayed fifteen minutes or so, which as he knows full well wouldn’t have given him time to quarrel with Hester, kill her, and smash the car.’ Egbert paused. ‘Apart from him, looks like you were last on the scene, Auguste.’

  Egbert looked well-breakfasted, Auguste noted grumpily. He disliked interrupting his digestion. In his opinion life processes went on in three main areas of the body, one of which was irrelevant at the moment, but all should be allowed to finish their course uninterrupted. This morning his brain and his stomach were alternating in a fashion highly detrimental to both. What’s more, Egbert knew it and was enjoying it.

  Auguste had come out to the stables to settle his temper and his stomach and to find Leo before seeking out Luigi in accordance with Egbert’s demands. He dragged Leo away from an eight horsepower Wolseley, despite his protestations about compression leaks. He was holding a lighted taper aloft like Florence Nightingale’s lamp, but Auguste had no compassion on this particular errand of mercy and promptly blew it out.

  ‘While you were guarding the Dolly Dobbs, Leo, did you notice anything or anyone odd that you haven’t told us about?’ Auguste asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ Leo didn’t mention Miss Dazey. ‘They just came to collect their cars, that’s all. And that horse lady turned up looking for her husband,’ he suddenly remembered.

  ‘Mrs Millward? But why should her husband be there?’ Even as he spoke, Auguste had a vision of John Millward on the ballroom floor with Phyllis Lockwood last night.

  ‘She didn’t say. But he was there. He came to collect Miss Lockwood’s car. I didn’t tell her that.’ Leo looked worldly-wise.

  ‘Very sensible, Leo.’ What was Phyllis Lockwood thinking of? John Millward surely would not look at any woman younger than three hundred years old apart from his wife. Would he?

  In a somewhat more spacious bedroom than Chief Inspector Rose’s, another shared breakfast was in progress. The boiled eggs under their dainty cosies were, however, of little interest to Maud and Agatha. Agatha had summoned her sister-in-law to a conference, one to which Maud raced as keenly as in the Paris-Bordeaux of ’99.

  ‘Now dear Hester is no longer with us –’ Agatha poured tea carefully into Maud’s cup – ‘what are we going to do about you know what?’

  ‘The diaries?’ Maud never appreciated delicate china.

  Agatha nodded. ‘The police will be searching for them, I fear. That policeman looks as indefatigable as Edward’s bloodhound.’

  ‘I told you we should have gone to see him last night, Agatha.’

  ‘Do try the toast, Maud. I really cannot recommend dear Isabel’s eggs. That would have looked over-eager on our part. He is a public servant; it is his place to request an audience of us. Now we know Hester cannot have progressed far with her memoirs, it is the diaries that are at issue.’

  Maud ruminated. ‘Roderick will know what to do.’

  ‘Excellent. Burn them, I suggest,’ said Agatha thoughtfully. ‘Really, I do feel Isabel’s kitchen could have peeled this peach. What is happening in this world?’

  ‘This murder is a terrible thing,’ Luigi informed Egbert sanctimoniously, as if the chief inspector might disagree. He had not been pleased to realise Auguste was to remain in the room, and Auguste decided to leave all the talking to Egbert.

  ‘You knew Miss Hart well, did you?’

  ‘Naturally. In the restaurant I saw her on many occasions.’

  ‘As maître d’ you must hear quite a lot, too.’

  ‘If so, I am discreet. I am from an old-established family of the Milan aristocracy.’

  Egbert grunted. Pedigree was no way to his heart. ‘Did you talk to Miss Hart in the dining room on the evening she was killed?’

  ‘Only polite courtesies. Monsieur Didier will confirm that Miss Hart was not in a happy mood, having had a public altercation with her fiancé and broken her engagement to him.’ He glanced confidently at Auguste, who nodded.

  ‘How late were you at the club that night?’

  ‘The restaurant closed early since there were few diners, at twelve. I must have left about,’ he considered, ‘twelve thirty.’

  ‘Through the kitchens?’

  Auguste’s last remaining amiability towards Luigi vanished as he replied, ‘I am not a menial. I left through the main entrance. The night porter will vouch for that.’ He hesitated. ‘When was she killed, please?’

  ‘Between one and two thirty.’

  ‘Ah.’ He looked at Egbert’s unfriendly face. ‘I hope the night porter will confirm the time I left. He is not always at his post, and I cannot be certain I saw him.’

  ‘That may be your misfortune.’

  ‘Why should I wish to kill Miss Hart?’ Luigi burst out, injured. ‘Or smash the Dolly Dobbs? I have no interest in motorcars.’

  ‘An interest in money, though, so we’ve heard. That right? We’re told you passed information on to Miss Hart, and I daresay for other members too. All out of the kindness of your heart, was it?’

  ‘That peasant Pierre!’ Luigi’s face took on the colour of his beloved Chianti. ‘He goes too far. This time I will tell you something about him. Did you know—’

  ‘That Pierre Calille was Miss Hart’s dragoman on her travels?’ Egbert finished for him. ‘Yes, he told us. Rather more forthcoming than you.’

  ‘He told you?’ There was a blank surprise on Luigi’s face.

  ‘So now you can be just as frank. You don’t want us to think you’ve something to hide in a murder inquiry, do you?’

  Apparently he did for he said nothing for a few moments, then virtuously declared, ‘Miss Hart had many enemies at the club. I felt I should keep her informed of anything she should know.’

  ‘And how grateful was she?’

  ‘She gave me presents from time to time,’ he replied a little less eagerly.

  ‘How many other ladies gave you presents?’

  He was slower to answer now. ‘Lady Tunstall, Lady Bullinger, the Duchess of Dewbury, and Miss Lockwood.’

  ‘Very generous of them.’

  Luigi was shaken from his usual poise. ‘I have done nothing criminal. I merely passed on innocent information – who was dining with who, where. That sort of thing.’ He proceeded to give some examples in his sudden anxiety to help.

  ‘Did Miss Hart give you anything for safekeeping on her behalf?’

  ‘What sort of thing?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘Her diaries, for instance. They’re not at her home.’

  ‘Diaries?’ he repeated. ‘No. She might have given them to Pierre – no,’ he changed his mind, ‘he is a peasant; she would entrust nothing of value to him.’

  ‘We’ll be searching your home, of course.’

  He flushed. ‘Do you refuse to take the word of a gentleman?’

  ‘Always,’ Egbert informed him heartily. ‘Now if it is not too ungentlemanly for you, you can go away and write me a complete list of all the information you passed on and to whom.’

  ‘Arrogant blighter, isn’t he?’ Egbert remarked when he had left.

  ‘He was smirking with relief, I think.’

  ‘It may be short-lived.’

  ‘Miss Lockwood is innocent!’

  ‘No doubt she is. Come in, Mr Smythe.’

  The racing driver was poised dramatically, if sulkily, in the doorway, a lock of his black hair falling over his forehead in blatant defiance of his macassar oil. Gone was the cowed man Auguste had seen being led off to Welling Railway Station.

  ‘And so am I,’ her defender added. ‘Phyllis is the dearest, sweetest little thing that ever walked this earth.’

  Auguste blinked. This was somewhat of a departure for a man who was only too eager to turn a cold shoulder on Miss Lockwood while providing the other for Miss Hart to lean on.

  ‘And Miss
Hart no longer does walk this earth.’ Egbert cut his tribute off sharply. ‘I want you to tell Mr Didier the story that you told me at the Yard yesterday.’

  Roderick cast Auguste a look of intense dislike. ‘After that quarrel with Hester which you overheard,’ he began meaningfully, ‘I took Phyllis to dinner at the Carlton, and afterwards decided I should go back to the motor stable, make up the quarrel with Hester, and guard the car in her place.’

  ‘So although Phyllis is the dearest sweetest little thing, you preferred to marry Hester Hart?’ Egbert asked.

  ‘I respected Hester greatly,’ he replied with dignity. ‘My feelings for Phyllis are quite different. I believed I had let down Hester badly by my behaviour and that as a gentleman I should apologise. I went back and we did resolve our quarrel. Hester quite understood that I still felt affection for Phyllis, and admitted she had been overhasty in speaking to us the way she did. We were reconciled, but she told me there was no need for me to lose my night’s sleep as she had every intention of remaining there herself, and it would not be proper for us both to be there. She had only agreed to let Fred Gale stay because Mrs Didier had insisted on it. Now she was insisting on staying there alone, so I came away.’

  ‘And next morning you went straight to Miss Lockwood to ask if you could drive down with her?’ Auguste asked.

  ‘Only because my own motorcar was incapacitated.’

  ‘The funny thing was, Auguste, that when our sergeant went to see this incapacitated motorcar, the engine started up like a dream. Mighty pleased with himself, he was, for being able to drive a motorcar which had defeated the famous Roderick Smythe.’

  There was a moment’s pause. Then, ‘Dirt on the spindle,’ Roderick cried with a glad shout. ‘Of course. And it cleared itself.’

  ‘Most obliging of it. You say you left Miss Hart, alive, at about quarter to one. Tell him, Auguste.’

  ‘My wife heard you quarrelling with Miss Hart,’ Auguste said quietly, ‘and that far from agreeing to marry you, she absolutely refused to. That was at one o’clock, so my wife must have been mistaken, if you are right.’

  Roderick turned red, then tried a light laugh. ‘Mrs Didier must have misunderstood. Hester and I did shout a little at first, but then we realised how much we loved each other. Perhaps she did not hear that part.’

  ‘Doesn’t explain the time, does it? Not covering up for anybody, are you? You seem very keen to defend Miss Lockwood.’

  ‘Whatever reason would Miss Lockwood have to harm Hester Hart?’ he demanded belligerently.

  ‘The same as quite a few people perhaps. Those diaries. Seen them, have you?’

  ‘No. I knew Hester kept diaries but I’ve never seen them.’

  ‘She didn’t give them to you for safekeeping?’

  ‘She did not.’ He was growing increasingly uneasy; yesterday had been a nightmare and today had begun little better.

  ‘Where did you first meet Miss Hart?’ Egbert asked casually, and Auguste was surprised to see this question threw Roderick’s composure even more.

  ‘In—’ He stopped. ‘In the Motor Club of Great Britain headquarters. In April.’

  ‘Not earlier?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He tried another light laugh. ‘I may have done. One meets so many . . .’ His voice trailed off.

  Phyllis burst into tears. A short burst. ‘Darling Roderick wouldn’t hurt a fly. He tells me you think he murdered her, just because he realised he loved me and not her.’

  ‘He claims he was reconciled to her.’

  Her large blue eyes brimmed over. ‘Perhaps I was wrong. Anyway, he can’t marry both of us, can he? I mean, he won’t have to now. Just me.’

  ‘Quite, Miss Lockwood.’

  Phyllis smiled shyly. ‘I suppose that gives me a sort of motive. But I couldn’t have done it, really I couldn’t. I can’t stand loud bangs. I couldn’t pull the trigger on a water pistol.’

  Egbert looked at her suspiciously. Bangs? ‘Miss Hart was stabbed, not shot.’

  ‘Was she? I quite thought she was shot, because of the gun she always carried.’

  ‘It wasn’t with her body when she was found.’

  ‘Roderick said she always carried a Colt pistol, so I quite thought she was shot. That proves I couldn’t have done it, doesn’t it?’ she added brightly.

  Egbert did not comment.

  ‘She may have left it at home,’ Phyllis continued helpfully. ‘After all, she had come out expecting only to dine that night when she was so horrid to us; she wasn’t planning to stay all night to guard the car, so she may have left it at home, but it is odd, isn’t it, because she must have had time to run home – well, not literally run – to get it.’

  ‘She did go home,’ Auguste said. ‘She had changed her clothes, and it is odd.’

  Egbert agreed. Twitch had not mentioned a gun being found at Hester Hart’s home. ‘Where were you on Wednesday evening, Miss Lockwood?’

  ‘Oh, we had a lovely evening, although Hester was so nasty to us, just because Roderick had brought me to the club for dinner. We had been engaged, after all. She stole him from me, though Roderick has explained it to me.’

  ‘How?’ Auguste was fascinated as to how he had managed to wriggle out of his predicament.

  ‘Roderick told me she more or less forced him into marrying her. She knew something really nasty about his godmother whom he’s very fond of and said unless Roderick married her – I mean Hester, not the godmother, that’s Maud Bullinger, you know – she would tell everybody about it. I was puzzled because she then threatened to tell everybody about it anyway, but Roderick is such an old-fashioned gentleman, he agreed straightaway.’

  ‘Not very gentlemanly towards you.’

  ‘Don’t you think so?’ She looked sweetly surprised. ‘But he loves me, he really does, and always has. It was only because—’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Egbert cut her off hastily as the phonograph recording threatened to begin again. ‘Where did you go when you left Milton House?’

  ‘To the Carlton. We had a divine little soufflé of—’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘He took me home, and went home himself.’

  ‘No. He went back to Milton House. I take it you didn’t accompany him?’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Or decide to follow him?’

  She stared at him, tears threatening to well up once more. ‘Oh, no! Why would I?’

  ‘You, too, had good reason to dislike Miss Hart; perhaps you wanted to ensure the engagement was not reinstated, as Mr Smythe claims it was.’

  ‘She trapped him.’ The sweetness vanished.

  ‘You were dining with Mr Millward on the previous evening. Why was that, Miss Lockwood?’ Auguste asked politely.

  ‘He’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘Not of Miss Hart’s, though.’

  She stared at him. ‘Poor John,’ she said tremulously, ‘you don’t understand. He was in such distress. His wife, you know . . .’ She cast her eyes demurely down, and refused to say more.

  ‘I don’t see Phyllis Lockwood missing her beauty sleep, even for darling Roderick, let alone John Millward,’ Egbert commented after she had left.

  ‘Mon ami, remember her profession.’

  In the home of a good horse-loving family, Hortensia for once was not thinking about form and flanks but about her husband. He was off his fodder and that was unusual. Then she remembered what she’d been going to ask him.

  ‘Where were you on Tuesday evening, John?’

  He turned pink. He was always a bad liar. ‘At the club.’

  ‘Oh.’ She didn’t pursue the matter, to his relief, and he assumed she had just forgotten to inquire which club. She had not, and her concern increased.

  ‘My dear Inspector.’

  Agatha sailed into the library, as though welcoming Egbert to an At Home. ‘And Mr Didier. How delightful. And how is dear Tatiana this morning?’

  Auguste was tempted to reply that she was as well a
s might be expected after a murder, but simply bowed instead, as the Duchess graciously agreed to be seated.

  ‘Poor Hester.’ Agatha sighed. Obviously, like royalty, she felt she must speak first, Auguste noted.

  ‘Did you like Miss Hart, Your Grace?’ Egbert asked.

  Agatha considered. ‘I don’t believe I gave much thought to the question. Her lectures were stimulating.’

  ‘You had known her a long time, I believe, long enough to be threatened by the announced publication of her memoirs.’

  ‘Good gracious, no.’ She decided in favour of humour rather than the outrage she felt. ‘People don’t threaten duchesses. It is one of the great advantages of the position.’

  ‘So you didn’t meet her earlier in your life?’

  ‘I can’t recall. Why? Should I have done?’

  ‘She was at one time going to marry the man who is now your husband.’

  ‘Oh, is that who she was? Do you know, I thought there was something just a little familiar about her face. She was infatuated with my husband – or, rather, with his title. It was all very sad, poor girl. Luckily my husband – though he wasn’t my husband then of course – realised that it would never do. She went abroad, and then he met me.’

  ‘Hadn’t he met you before that? Weren’t you instrumental in making him realise it would never do?’

  ‘Really, Inspector, what are you implying? I fear I find you quite impolite.’

  ‘I fear I have to be at times, Your Grace. I can speak to your husband, if you prefer.’

  She stared at him coldly. ‘I doubt that very much. I shall advise him to have nothing to say to you, if you are to twist what I say in this appalling manner.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to rely on what Miss Hart’s diaries tell us.’

  She was ready for that, Auguste observed. ‘Poor Hester, always such a dreamer. She wrote such a lot about so many things and not one of them true. Have you found the diaries? One’s lawyers may have such a splendid time. They are not at all impressed by fairy stories without evidence to back them up.’

  Egbert decided to change tack. ‘You were originally planning to drive the Dolly Dobbs, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, until poor Hester badgered Harold into letting her drive. I quite understood, of course.’ Then she glanced at Auguste and belatedly remembered his presence at a certain occasion when understanding had not played any part at all in the proceedings. ‘I was naturally disappointed at first.’