by Myers, Amy
‘Why did he change his mind?’
‘I see now the woman must have blackmailed him, threatening to describe his car to Thomas Bailey.’
‘And you resented it?’
She laughed winningly. ‘Perhaps a little. Until Thomas Bailey came to me.’
‘He came to you, not the other way about?’
‘He is of the servant classes, Inspector. How could I visit him? He asked me to drive his new motorcar, the Brighton Baby.’
‘And you agreed, knowing that it was exactly the same as the Dolly Dobbs?’
‘So I have now heard. I had absolutely no idea, I assure you. I simply suggested to Thomas, as Hester did not appear in time to join the run, that he let the Motor Club officials think the Brighton Baby was the Dolly Dobbs, as none of us had any idea what Harold’s car was like. I gather they had the same idea about the hoods and the windmills. Harold was so scared his great idea would be stolen that he kept his secrets even from me. If you recall, Mr Didier, Dolly did not emerge on the day it should, and no wonder, if it was a copy.’
‘No. I didn’t say copy, Your Grace. I said exactly the same. There’s a difference.’
Agatha was not interested in semantics.
‘When did you last see Miss Hart, Your Grace?’
The eyebrows arched. ‘That evening in the restaurant when we were all treated to the most exciting scene.’
‘Your motorcar was still in the motor house when Leo went off duty at twelve. Did you collect it yourself?’
‘I cannot – ah, yes, I believe I must have done.’
‘But you didn’t see Miss Hart?’
‘I am glad to say I did not. I am quite sure the motor house doors were all shut.’
Lady Bullinger, who followed her sister-in-law in the library, gave all the appearance of being the more dominant of the two, though Auguste did not underestimate Agatha’s sweetened steel.
‘I didn’t like the woman,’ Lady Bullinger barked, ‘but I wouldn’t have wished that death on her. Very sorry to hear it.’ She sat down heavily in the chair Egbert held for her.
‘Would you be one of the ladies Hester Hart referred to in her diaries?’ he asked.
‘We moved in different circles, Inspector. I knew her, but I doubt if she recorded the fact.’
‘You and Her Grace may be mistaken.’
‘You haven’t been accusing the Duchess of Dewbury of murdering the woman, have you?’
‘I’m not accusing anyone at this stage, Lady Bullinger. Your godson in fact was the last person to see Hester Hart alive.’
‘Is that why you hauled the boy off to London like a common criminal? We all saw Hester after he did.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘She was on public display in the restaurant, my man.’
‘Roderick Smythe returned after midnight to the motor stable.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘He was seen and he admits it.’
‘The boy was still infatuated,’ she said after a few moments, having assimilated this. ‘Probably went for a goodnight kiss and left.’
‘The boy is thirty-five,’ Egbert pointed out.
‘A boy at heart,’ she maintained doggedly. ‘He wouldn’t have touched a hair on her head.’
‘Miss Hart was going to marry your brother at one time, wasn’t she?’
‘He did know her,’ she replied instantly and dismissively. ‘I gather Miss Hart over-dramatised the extent of their involvement. When he met and preferred Agatha, she went abroad.’
‘Without any help from you?’
‘I’m George’s sister, not his nurse. I may have met Miss Hart then, I can’t recall.’ She paused. ‘She’s a first-class driver, you know.’
‘Ah yes,’ Egbert said thoughtfully. ‘This race in October . . .’
‘I was glad to have her on my team,’ Lady Bullinger said stoutly.
‘Did you have a chat about it on Wednesday night, when you went to collect your motorcar?’
‘I did not.’
‘But you saw her?’
‘I could hardly help it. She was sitting in the back seat of that ridiculous motorcar. And she was still sitting there, alive, when I left.’
‘With the motor house door open?’
‘Naturally. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to see her.’ Her tone implied if this was the standard of Scotland Yard inspectors, it was hardly surprising that crime was so prevalent in London. She congratulated herself as she emerged that she’d carried that off rather well.
‘When will you be in town again, Isabel?’ Hugh asked as casually as he could, as Isabel pretended to be fascinated by Leo’s contortions in providing the Royce with its necessities of life. ‘And why,’ he suddenly asked, ‘are you preparing the Royce?’
‘My husband suggested I drive you back, Cousin Hugh.’ She moved out of Leo’s earshot. ‘Aren’t you pleased?’
‘Delighted,’ he answered truthfully. He glanced at her. ‘You’re worried about those diaries, aren’t you?’
‘Wouldn’t you be?’ Hugh was her cousin, he must know the old story. He even knew about the Jubilee dinner; she’d never kept secrets from Hugh, even though he was now her lover as well as cousin.
‘Where do you think the diaries are?’
‘I’ve asked Luigi, but he claims not to know.’
‘Perhaps you haven’t paid him enough.’ Hugh thought carefully. ‘We’d better offer more.’
Isabel thrilled to the sound of the ‘we’. She needed help. Uncritical and unreserved help.
When she entered the library, her walk suggested that Egbert and Auguste should shudder at the approach of her languorous beauty. Her equanimity was restored.
‘Am I a suspect?’ She sank gracefully into the chair, her body arched at an angle far beyond that demanded by her S-bend corsetry.
‘Not yet.’ Egbert was not prepared to exchange banter.
‘How exciting. I expect you’d like to know where I was on Wednesday evening. I came up to London so that I could take part in the run early on Wednesday evening and dined in the club. I may have seen Miss Hart. I can’t recall.’
‘Your motorcar was still in a motor house at eleven thirty.’
The eyelids flickered. ‘If you say so, Inspector, I’m sure it was. I dined late.’
‘And you walked there to collect it?’
‘My dining companion did, I believe. No, I’m wrong. It was me.’
‘And what then?’
‘We drove to my home. I believe we were there about a quarter to one.’
‘And then?’
‘He went home, Inspector.’ There was a yawn in her voice. ‘And no, I did not return to the club to murder dear Hester. I wish I’d thought of it, but I decided to get a good night’s sleep.’
‘You had reason to wish her dead then?’ Egbert asked mildly.
Isabel was aggrieved that her pleasantry had misfired. She tried earnestness instead. ‘I did not like her but I did not seriously wish to kill her.’
‘Not even if she revealed in her memoirs how you’d ruined her chances of being accepted into the Prince of Wales’s circle?’
She stared at him coldly. ‘I may possibly have advised His Majesty some years ago that Miss Hart was not a suitable person for His Majesty to meet. Why not?’
‘Unjustly?’
‘In society unfortunately that is irrelevant. What is relevant is reputation.’
‘And yours might have been threatened if her memoirs had been published? And still might.’
‘The diaries,’ she said slowly. ‘You have them? They are full of lies, I assure you, Inspector.’ And when he did not reply, ‘Do you have them?’
The Brighton Baby had the motor stable yard all to itself. It had been banned from joining the cavalcade of real motorcars which had now moved round to the front of the main house. Of its dejected designer only the rear half was to be seen as Auguste approached; the other half was buried under the hidden parts of his beloved motorca
r. Gradually Thomas became aware of two boots at his side which showed no inclination to walk away, and he reluctantly withdrew himself.
‘It will work,’ he cried defensively. ‘It’s just a matter of a few adjustments.’
‘That wasn’t what was on my mind.’
Thomas sat down on the running board dejectedly. ‘You don’t want me to explain exactly how having too much wind provided so much resistance to the car that it went slower because it overcharged the batteries, buckling the plates, which meant loss of voltage? I’ve worked it all out. Look.’ He waved a sheet of paper at Auguste hopefully.
‘No. What we want to know is whether you put the Dolly Dobbs out of action.’
Thomas looked astounded. ‘Certainly not. I wouldn’t demean myself. Nor –’ as he belatedly made the connection ‘did I kill Miss Hart. I wouldn’t dream of such a thing. I’m a professional motorcar designer.’
‘We’re told that the two motorcars are identical.’
‘So the Duchess has told me. How could I know?’ he asked pathetically.
‘I saw you peering through the roof at the Dolly Dobbs,’ Auguste reminded him.
‘Yes, but I couldn’t see much. How identical?’ he asked.
Never had Auguste expected to be in the position of having to discuss the technicalities of motorcars. ‘The Dolly Dobbs, like your Brighton Baby, is designed to recharge the batteries in motion with the help of wind power. It, too, had hoods and windmills—’
‘Propellers,’ interrupted Thomas sharply.
‘Isn’t the coincidence rather strange?’
‘These things happen.’
‘There is surely some competition to be first in the field.’
‘Of course,’ Thomas replied simply. ‘But I didn’t destroy the Dolly Dobbs just for the sake of the trials. I didn’t know. The Duchess came to me and told me she’d heard I had a new car and she wanted to drive it. As for coincidence, I would say great minds think alike, except I don’t know whether Harold Dobbs’s is a great mind.’
‘There’s no question of you stealing his idea then, or writing threatening letters to him?’
Thomas looked nervous. ‘Why should I? I have been working on my Baby for five years. The idea is ridiculous. Have you asked him if he stole the idea from me?’
‘Not yet, but we will.’
‘Mr Didier,’ he called after Auguste as he departed, ‘I suppose I couldn’t drive you back to London, could I?’
‘You could not.’ Which, as Auguste reflected, was probably true.
‘Good morning, Mr Didier,’ Hortensia called, dismounting happily. ‘We’re here to bid the happy band of motorcars farewell. A small demonstration of two.’
‘Splendid. You can begin with blocking the path of His Majesty’s motorcar,’ Auguste replied gravely.
Hortensia laughed. ‘We never expected when we set out to barrack the Dolly Dobbs that it would end with meeting the King. Rather fun.’
‘If it doesn’t put paid to my chances of meeting him again in the New Year,’ her husband added gloomily.
‘When did you travel down to Kent, Mrs Millward?’
Hortensia barked with laughter. ‘You’ve got your detective voice on, haven’t you? I’ve heard about your cases. You suspect us of putting the Dolly Dobbs out of action, don’t you? We travelled down here by early morning railway train yesterday. The local Hams met us with a splendid carriage and pair, and we were in plenty of time to greet our chugging petrol horrors.’
‘And where were you both the night before?’
‘At home,’ John supplied promptly.
‘Together.’ Hortensia grinned. ‘Sorry, Auguste.’
‘And the evening before?’
Neither of them replied.
From the noise it was clear that His Majesty was about to depart, and Auguste hastened round to make his farewells. Bertie had the air of one whose duty had been overdone and who spied freedom near at hand. He was far too cordial in the farewells he was paying to the assembled occupants of Martyr House. Auguste hurried up to stand respectfully near the car.
‘Auguste?’ He was fixed with a belligerent eye.
‘Your Majesty?’
‘I don’t like to see Tati upset, and she is. I’ve invited her to Goodwood to cheer her up. And you, of course,’ he added courteously before returning to the subject in hand. ‘Find out who murdered that woman, there’s a good chap.’
The good chap, watching the Lanchester drive away, felt relieved that he was to travel back with Egbert by train. Tatiana had insisted on his doing so. What was the point, she said, of his enduring a drive back on the Léon Bollée when he could achieve much more by a discussion with Egbert. Moreover, she conceded, judging by the number of punctures on the way down, a train might arrive quicker than the cavalcade. Agatha, she announced gloomily, had offered to travel back with her. The Duke had an appointment with a cricket match.
Directly the King had gone, the Ladies’ Motoring Club climbed enthusiastically on to their own motor cars. Cranking handles were turned, engines began to roar, the Kentish air was full of fumes. Hortensia pointedly held her nose as the motorcars began to pass her. At the end of the procession, but markedly not part of it, a lonely electric motorcar, its propellers turning defiantly, slid silently past with its solitary occupant: Thomas Bailey. Auguste and Egbert went back into the house to collect their luggage and were surprised to find they had a companion walking quickly up behind them. It was John Millward.
‘I wanted to tell you . . .’ He was extremely nervous and pushed his spectacles up his nose agitatedly several times.
‘Yes, Mr Millward?’ Egbert stopped.
‘I wanted to tell you I knew Miss Hart. My wife is not fully aware of what happened.’
‘You were at the club on Tuesday night dining with Miss Lockwood. Is this connected?’
Millward looked as if he could happily jump into one of his beloved sarcophagi. ‘You know about that? Yes, it is connected. I disliked Miss Hart.’ He looked as nervous as though this alone was sufficient for Egbert to clap handcuffs on him. ‘I am an archaeologist, as you know, and when I was working in Cairo, a fellow archaeologist, Robert Koldewey, asked my opinion of Miss Hart because she had applied to join his excavations at Babylon. I gave it to him frankly and of course unbiased.’ He glanced at Egbert as though this was too much to be believed. ‘Nevertheless, Miss Hart resented it and the next thing I knew I appeared to have a public reputation as some kind of Don Juan, tampering with her affections and, some rumours said, her body. It was most distressing. Fortunately the rumours did not reach my wife.’
‘And there was no truth in them, I presume?’ Auguste could not resist asking.
John Millward gazed at him. ‘If you had a wife like Hortensia, would you have an affair with Miss Hart?’
Auguste could see his point, though not perhaps in the sense he had meant.
‘Did Miss Hart record all this in her diaries?’ Egbert pressed him.
‘That’s what I’m worried about. If Hortensia found out . . . Will you tell me?’
‘At the moment they seem to be unaccountably missing. Now you tell me just why you were dining with Miss Lockwood.’
He hesitated. ‘I can say nothing. I am a gentleman,’ he offered hopefully.
‘You were sweet on her? She on you?’
‘No!’ His voice came out as a squeak. ‘She had heard the lies Hester had been spreading about our supposed affair and she wanted me –’ he almost choked in his indignation – ‘to go to Mr Smythe and persuade him they were true and that Hester wasn’t a fit person for him to marry.’
‘And did you?’ Auguste was agog.
‘Of course not. But it was most unpleasant. She threatened to tell Hortensia of Hester’s story if I didn’t. I didn’t know what to do,’ he ended ingenuously.
‘Miss Lockwood,’ Egbert remarked some time later, comfortably installed in an Elham Valley Railway carriage, ‘is a ruthless young lady. All the same, my money’
s still on Smythe.’
‘Money?’ Auguste’s mind cleared, despite the wholly unsatisfactory luncheon. How could they not have considered it? It was like preparing the hollandaise and omitting the asparagus. ‘Egbert, Hester Hart was a rich woman, the only child of wealthy parents.’
Egbert grunted in self-disgust. ‘The first rule, who gains?’
‘To be precise, who inherits?’
Egbert stared out of the window at the Kent countryside flashing past. Sheep, hops, apple orchards . . . Give him Highbury any day. ‘I don’t know, but I’m looking forward to getting back to London to find out.’
Chapter Eight
Auguste always enjoyed visiting Egbert’s office at the Yard, tucked away on the top floor overlooking the Thames. Down below was the vast organisation of the Fingerprint Department, archives, registers, photographs, Black Museum, and countless other aids for the suppression of crime. This was a Thinking Room, untidy, small, yet the still, quiet centre of Egbert’s spider web. Egbert had once told him that the first case brought to New Scotland Yard was an unsolved murder in the foundations – a woman’s mutilated body had been found there after the site had been bought – and his job was to ensure it was the last.
Inspector Stitch was Egbert’s link with his web. It was his métier, and increased his devotion to the task of assisting Chief Inspector Egbert Rose. In his nightly prayers, offered up side by side with Martha Stitch, he concluded with a grateful prayer to the Deity that he had such an understanding superior, one as devoted to the advancement of Inspector Stitch as was he.
Twitch, Egbert often pointed out, had his uses. Auguste, only tolerated by Stitch as one of his superior’s eccentricities, agreed the sauce you knew was a useful standby. Stitch’s view was that Auguste should more rightly slink into the building through the rear entrance via the Convicts Supervision Department.
When they arrived at the Yard late on Friday afternoon, Twitch appeared immediately in the small office; his nose was as acute as Auguste’s in sniffing out Egbert’s presence.