by Myers, Amy
‘Ah, Stitch, what kept you?’ Egbert inquired evilly. ‘This Hester Hart business, any trace of a solicitor’s address amongst her possessions?’
‘Yes, sir. I took the liberty of making an appointment for you tomorrow morning.’
‘Excellent.’ Egbert was well aware, as was Stitch, that usually Stitch would have carried out this interview himself but in any case where His Majesty was even remotely concerned, Stitch believed in playing for safety.
Stitch permitted himself a slight smile of satisfaction at such praise.
‘I take it there was no sign of a will anywhere?’
‘No, sir. There was a small safe, and I opened it as the keys were found in her bag. Nothing of interest.’
‘And no diaries?’
‘No, sir. No trace of them. Only three pages of something headed My Life. All about buttons, it was. I’ve been back to the house since you telephoned, but that Hannah Smirch –’ Stitch was aggrieved – ‘ain’t what you’d call an obliging lady.’ There’d been some tempting-looking muffins and a pot of tea in that kitchen, but never a word of would you like some.
‘How about a gun? We were told she always carried a Colt with her.’
‘Nothing in her bag, nothing in the house, sir.’
‘It seems to me,’ Egbert said grumpily, ‘we’re told a lot of things about Miss Hart but the evidence is slower to make an appearance.’
‘Was there nothing on her key ring or in her handbag to indicate where the diaries might be, Inspector Stitch?’ Auguste asked as deferentially as he could manage. A look of injured reproach was all he got for his pains.
‘I’ll show you, sir.’ Twitch swivelled his eyes back to the chief inspector in case the Frenchie got the wrong impression over the destination of the mark of respect. Twitch returned with the serviceable large black dorothy bag which Auguste remembered seeing Hester carrying at the club, and opened it wide, removing the items one by one. A cheque book, a sovereign purse, a separate coin purse, a bunch of keys, a monogrammed cotton handkerchief without benefit of the usual embroidered roses, a comb, and a small leatherbound book which Egbert picked up.
‘A prayer book?’ Auguste asked curiously.
‘No. It’s the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, FitzGerald’s translation.’
‘That’s unusual.’
‘Why? You see it everywhere.’
‘Hester Hart did not strike me as a romantic lady, and this is a sensuous poem.’ Auguste took it from him.
‘Any clues in it to where the diaries might be? Every second letter marked – that sort of thing?’
‘No, mon ami. Nothing at all. Not even her name.’ He flicked through it and replaced the book on the table.
‘And those keys, Stitch? You’ve accounted for every one?’
‘No, sir.’
‘No?’
Twitch blushed at making this unusual confession. ‘These,’ he indicated three small brass keys and a larger one.
‘What about next of kin?’
‘There were a few early photographs but most of the personal stuff was to do with her travels.’
‘Letters?’
‘Nothing of much interest yet. It’s a rented house, so she’s either stored them elsewhere or she travels through life very light indeed.’ Stitch was rather pleased at this way of putting things, almost poetic, he thought.
‘Nevertheless, I’d better have a word with your Mrs Smirch.’
He’d better not expect any muffins, was Stitch’s instant thought, but he expressed the sentiment differently: ‘She needs a firm hand. And that Harold Dobbs is a rum one too. Sat in my office and cried.’
‘Very touching. For Miss Hart, himself, or his motorcar?’
‘He didn’t inform me of that, sir. He claims he was at home with Mrs Dobbs at the time of the crime.’
‘And Mrs Dobbs confirms it?’
‘Yes. Mind you, she admitted he was in his workroom from teatime until the early hours so she didn’t actually see him till the morning. But I can’t see he’d risk running up to London, murdering Miss Hart, and rushing back again. He’d miss the last train.’
‘There’s always the milk train, but I still can’t believe he’d knock his own horse out of the race, even if the Dolly Dobbs was deliberately copied from the Brighton Baby and he had just found out the Duchess would be driving the Baby in the cavalcade. Which came first, the chicken fricassée or the egg soufflé?’ Egbert ruminated. ‘Whichever it was, it’s going to take a fair time to sort all through their records to get at the truth.’ At the back of both their minds was Eastbourne.
‘There’s a simpler way,’ Auguste pointed out. ‘An inventor’s first step would be to take out a patent on the design.’
‘Sometimes, Auguste, I know you’re wasted on beef puddings. Tatiana won’t mind if you spend a Saturday morning at the Patent Office, will she?’
Tatiana was still at the club when Auguste returned to Queen Anne’s Gate for dinner. Nobly delaying his enjoyment of Mrs Jolly’s carp salad, he walked round to the club to find her, since Egbert had said he might call round to talk to her. He tracked her down to the small room on the first floor which she used as an office. She looked up with relief as he came in. ‘I thought you might be another newspaper man, or Maud, wanting to talk about the October race and the need to get the hat settled and produced. The last bright idea was a tricorne with a Romney-style tall crown, with a steering wheel in gold perched on top.’
‘Ma mie, I am not in the least like Maud, nor do I want to talk about hats. And why –’ it occurred to him – ‘should she? Isn’t the murder more important?’
‘The odd thing is, Auguste, that no one seems to want to talk about the murder. I find it very creepy. Agatha chattered brightly all the way home. You would think nothing had happened in the last few days apart from her meeting the King, the dance last night, and Goodwood next week. And, of course, the Hat. I got so cross I deliberately talked about the Brighton Baby. I’ve never seen Agatha so put out. She took the motorcar’s failure as a personal slight. I feel almost sorrier for Thomas Bailey than for Harold Dobbs, and not,’ she added truthfully, ‘very sorry for either of them.’
‘What’s your diagnosis of the coincidence of the two motorcars being identical, ma fleur?’
‘I can’t understand it. How could one be a copy of the other? Harold has kept his under lock and key ever since he began it, and so has Thomas. Harold says he has been working on it for five years, so does Thomas. I’m afraid it’s going to make a big story for this new Car magazine to be published in August, and a laughing stock of the club for supporting crazy inventions.’
‘We will make very sure it does not. We will solve both the murder and the mystery behind these two cars quickly. During August the club will be closed, and in September we can begin again. Society’s memory is short.’
‘You are a great strength, Auguste,’ Tatiana said gratefully. ‘But somehow I can’t think it will be as easy as that. I’m not helping. I haven’t had the courage even to look at the wreck of the Dolly Dobbs, even if that policeman on duty outside would let me in.’
‘Have any of the members gone round to the stable since they returned?’
She shook her head. ‘We got back about five o’clock, had tea, and then everyone went home, except for Leo and –’ she smiled – ‘Miss Dazey. Fred has gone off duty.’
‘Then let’s go together and look at the car.’
She accepted reluctantly, and they walked over to the motor stable. ‘I can’t bear to think of anyone I know being implicated in this. I can’t imagine anyone killing Hester, and I can’t imagine anyone wanting to smash up a motorcar.’
On the latter, at least, Auguste disagreed with her. Having with some difficulty persuaded the policeman that a chief inspector of Scotland Yard would be less than pleased if they were refused entry, they entered through the repair house where they found Leo sitting disconsolately without an occupation. There were no club customers and he was not
allowed to work on any cars.
Averting her eyes from the chalked outline near the door, Tatiana went straight to the far side of the Dolly Dobbs, where the crushed windmill and distorted hood clung precariously to their mudguards, and forced herself to inspect the damage.
‘Must be an interesting case to keep you from your dinner, Auguste.’ Egbert had come up behind them. ‘Evening, Tatiana.’ The bowler was removed and replaced.
‘Egbert, I’m glad to see you.’ Auguste had been prowling around the motor house. ‘That may be where the body was found, but I think she was actually killed here,’ he pointed to just inside the door to the repair house. ‘The body was then turned and pulled to where the murderer hoped it might not be seen.’
‘You may be right.’ Egbert examined the blood splashes Auguste pointed out. ‘Or maybe she was pulled out of the way so that he or she could move the block and tackle into place.’
‘I still think a woman would need a lot of strength to do that,’ Tatiana said, hoping to exonerate her members.
‘Swinging the ropes to get the block moving would be hardest. After that it would be relatively easy. If you’ve finished here, let’s go back into your club to talk.’
Auguste realised Egbert was thinking of Tatiana’s feelings and was grateful. She was obviously eager to leave the stable and return to the comparative normality of the club.
‘Hester Hart was in the motor house when you heard her speaking to Roderick Smythe, was she?’
‘Oh yes. Fred, to my surprise, was leaving, and told me Mr Smythe was here instead. I was about to walk in through the repair house with some cocoa when I heard a quarrel going on.’
‘And it was definitely Roderick Smythe?’
‘Yes, I recognised his voice, and it was definitely anger in the voices, not just excitement, so I went back and tried again half an hour later, just before we left. She was shouting at him that she had no intention of marrying him. Obviously cocoa was not a good idea, so I went away again, though it never occurred to me her life might be in danger.’
‘Lovers’ quarrels rarely end in death,’ Auguste comforted her.
‘This one did, and I might have prevented it.’
‘We don’t know it was a lovers’ quarrel,’ Auguste said. ‘And even if it was, he might have walked off, as he claims, and any one of half a dozen people could have done it. They would be expecting to find Hester alone there, and that’s what happened once she’d quarrelled with Smythe.’
‘Smythe is still the last person to have been on the scene and that means he’s got some more explaining to do,’ Egbert said dogmatically. ‘It’s my belief we’re going to solve this case in double-quick time.’
‘But Goodwood is only a few days off,’ Tatiana said seriously.
‘What has horse-racing got to do with it?’
Auguste smiled. ‘It’s the end of the London season, Egbert. After that, most of your suspects will vanish to the countryside, or seaside, or abroad.’ Including, he hoped wistfully, themselves.
Messrs Ferdinand and Buffer’s comfortable Lincoln’s Inn offices proclaimed that Hester Hart was not as averse to the traditions of old England as her behaviour had suggested. Mr Ferdinand, an affable gentleman of Pickwickian build and mien, received a chief inspector of Scotland Yard as though it was an everyday occurrence in those law-abiding offices.
‘Miss Hart?’ He carefully adjusted the tails of his formal morning coat as he resumed his seat. ‘A terrible business. Have you solved it yet?’
Egbert wondered how he would like it if asked if he’d settled a case akin to Lord Palmerston’s problems with Schleswig-Holstein. ‘Terrible,’ he agreed cordially. ‘How did you come to be her solicitors?’
Mr Ferdinand looked somewhat offended. ‘We are solicitors to the family. Ferdinand and Buffer acted for dear Sir Herbert.’
‘And you have Miss Hart’s will?’
‘Miss Hart did not make one – to my knowledge, and against all my advice.’ Ferdinand managed to look both regretful at such blatant flouting of his wishes and confident that his knowledge was all-encompassing; if, however, he implied, Miss Hart had been misguided enough to choose another solicitor for the purpose of a will, then she must have taken leave of her senses, which would invalidate it anyway.
‘There’s none been found at her rented London house and –’ Egbert took pity on Ferdinand – ‘no mention of another solicitor. Odd considering the dangerous travels she’s been undertaking for the last fifteen years.’
Ferdinand looked affronted. ‘I have already said that I advised her to make a will. Frequently. Indeed, after Sir Herbert’s death four years ago, I considered it essential. Miss Hart, however, travelling much in the East, strongly believed that destiny was in the hands of Allah; if it was important that her will should be made, then Allah would protect her until such time as there was someone with whom she wished to share her worldly belongings. As, indeed, seemed to be the case, for when she returned on this last occasion, she was considering making one.’
‘In whose favour?’
‘She did not say. She informed me she was planning to marry, however, and I deduced it was therefore Mr Smythe.’
‘He’s our obvious suspect, Mr Ferdinand.’
Ferdinand was shocked. ‘Mr Smythe is a most amiable young gentleman.’
‘You’d be surprised how many amiable young gentlemen I’ve put behind bars. How much is Miss Hart’s estate worth?’
‘Quite a lot. An income of ten thousand pounds a year at least. The sale of Bromley House, Sir Herbert’s residence, alone brought a capital of fifteen thousand, and the value of Hart’s Buttons of which Miss Hart holds a majority of the shares at one penny three-farthings is a further fifty thousand pounds.’
‘And no will?’ Egbert was incredulous.
Ferdinand went pink. ‘I cannot force my clients to take my advice,’ he said huffily.
‘Any more income?’
‘Very little. Sir Herbert was the only son of a Lancashire chimney sweep, and his prospects were therefore unlikely to be good. However, one day, slithering down the wrong chimney stack, he arrived, like Mr Charles Kingsley’s Water Baby Tom, in a lady’s bedroom where he came across a broken glass button on the floor and was immediately seized with the idea that superior buttons might be produced if portraits of our late dear Queen’s children could be incorporated within them. He began in a small way and within two years he had made modest headway. Then came the unexpected tragic death of the late Prince Consort. Immediately his new factory rushed out superior quality black buttons decorated with an oval black and white silhouette of Prince Albert, and his fortune was made, as they say.’ Ferdinand beamed, looking more like Mr Pickwick than ever.
‘A most stirring story,’ Egbert commented gravely.
‘Hester, his only child, was born the following year, eighteen sixty-four, by which time her father was already a rich man. Those were the days. Shall we ever see their like again?’ He sighed. ‘I had a great regard, and I may say affection, for Sir Herbert.’
‘And for his daughter?’
‘Since you ask, no. Poor Hester did not inherit her father’s confidence in his own abilities and she did not possess a social position of sufficient standing to give her that confidence. Nevertheless she was determined to go out and win her own buttons, so to speak. And very well she has done for herself,’ Ferdinand said approvingly, then stopped speaking rather quickly as he recalled her death.
‘And to whom, if she did not leave a will, does the fortune pass now?’
‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ Ferdinand announced gleefully. ‘I know of no relatives on her father’s side, save a cousin who died in the South African War, and I know nothing of her mother, who predeceased her husband, save that she was his first factory “hand” and his model. We are advertising in The Times and making investigations at Somerset House.’
‘The funeral won’t wait for that,’ Egbert commented.
Mr Ferdinand lost s
ome of his cheerfulness. He was professionally averse to matters that would not wait.
A morning’s study in the splendid new public reading room of the Patent Office confirmed everything Auguste had ever suspected about the eccentricities of the English. Every year about ten thousand happy inventors had their applications granted for patents on such essential items as burglar traps, bust improvers or foul breath indicators. There were also a great many ladies and gentlemen devoted to the technological future of the motorcar. The ladies tended to concentrate on the provision within them of face-protectors and footwarmers, the gentlemen on motorcars that could travel up staircases (presumably to be parked by the adoring driver’s bed) and horse and human – removers to clear unwanted debris from the sacred motor vehicle’s path.
With the invaluable aid of the Patent Office reference systems, Auguste was able to hurry to Scotland Yard at midday on Saturday with the eagerness of a dripping Archimedes leaping from his bath to report his new theory on the displacement of water. ‘I think you should have a further talk to Mr Dobbs, mon ami.’
‘What have you found?’ Egbert looked up hopefully.
‘There is a patent on Mr Thomas Bailey’s Improved Electrical and Wind-Powered Motorcar dated tenth March eighteen ninety-nine, and renewal. I made the most exhaustive searches and there was nothing in the name of Harold Dobbs. Moreover, I was not the first person, I was informed, to be recently interested in checking the patents for motorcars. At least two ladies, on separate occasions, recently spent some time there on the same pursuit.’
Upper Norwood would not have been Auguste’s ideal venue for a Saturday afternoon in July. He had more in mind a quiet discussion on their balcony with Tatiana overlooking the park, perhaps even a fleeting visit to his own kitchens. Mrs Jolly had mentioned a new recipe for venison that had intriguing possibilities. Mace entered into it. However, Egbert was insistent that he should accompany him, and making only the proviso that he must be back at the club by five o’clock in order to check the Saturday night dinner – and perhaps, he thought wistfully, even cook some of it – he submitted gracefully.