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

by Myers, Amy

  ‘And Mr Roderick Smythe,’ Auguste supplied for him. ‘He is, remember, Lady Bullinger’s godson.’

  ‘Ah yes, my Mr Smythe. Where might he be this evening? Any ideas?’

  ‘Yes. On a moonlight drive to Hampstead.’

  ‘Charlie, I have a job for you this evening.’ Tatiana summoned all her charm and all she could assume of centuries of Romanov authoritarianism. Jobs for Charlie were not easy to assign, especially at the last moment, and especially on a July summer evening, but in view of Auguste’s terrible telephone message, she had no option.

  Charlie eyed her narrowly. He was not averse to work but he preferred it to be of his choosing and timing. Nevertheless, he was prepared to listen. His bulk shifted to a pose of amiability.

  ‘I want you to be maître d’ at the club restaurant this evening. It won’t be very busy.’

  Charlie, taken entirely by surprise, was unable to adopt his normal laconic attitude. ‘Hell and Tommy, why?’

  ‘Can’t you do it?’ Tatiana abandoned charm for the formidableness of Peter the Great.

  ‘Consider me there already, Mrs D. Luigi ill, is he?’

  ‘Worse, I’m afraid. He has been found murdered.’

  Charlie whistled. ‘Annie will be upset.’

  ‘Annie?’

  ‘Annie Parsons, ma’am. She’s been sweet on Luigi for weeks.’

  ‘I thought she was sweet on you.’

  ‘So,’ said Charlie darkly, ‘did I. But Charlie, she says, my heart is another’s, and off she goes. I suppose that gives me a motive.’

  ‘Charlie,’ Tatiana remarked sadly, ‘you wouldn’t have the energy for murder.’

  Hastily she scrambled into her linen dust coat, put on her tam o’shanter, searched frantically for her goggles, and hurried outside to where the Léon Bollée awaited her. Even that glory failed to excite her this evening. After all, who wanted a motorcar that ran so perfectly it was silent? She liked noise and excitement. Perhaps it was time to have a new motorcar. Or perhaps she, like Auguste, was just longing for the end of the season when she, too, could escape the London dust for Eastbourne, which was now assuming the attraction of a Lost Atlantis. But how could they leave the club while the murder of Hester Hart remained unsolved? And now there was another to add ot it.

  The malaise clung to her as she drove the Bollée round to Birdcage Walk where the club was to assemble. There would only be fifteen cars – that in itself was a sign that the London season was near its end. After Goodwood this week, it would be over. This Saturday the club would close for a month, after a final dinner for those still lingering in London; the diehards, her committee, would be among them.

  She saw Maud, a formidable figure in blue in her Napier. She had been full of bonhomie now she knew she could race in October. There was Agatha, neat and trim in the Horbick, Isabel, managing to imply beauty even in dust coat and goggles, and there was Phyllis with Roderick Smythe, who seemed glued to her side at the moment. Tatiana suspected Phyllis had had a tussle between not wanting to associate herself too closely with the prime suspect in a murder case and not wanting to face the ordeal of a mechanical defect alone. In fact, Phyllis would have been quite safe from sullying her hands, for Tatiana could see Miss Dazey in her Oldsmobile and at her side a highly uncomfortable Leo.

  There was no Dolly Dobbs. She had heard nothing from Harold since the disaster, and the remains of the Dolly Dobbs were still, to her annoyance, in the repair house. To her knowledge he had not been near them, and she would have to ask him to remove them.

  How could she believe that any of these people, her members, her friends, had anything to do with murder? Tonight, however, she would have to tell them at some point that a second murder had blighted their club.

  ‘Darling Tatiana,’ Agatha cooed as Tatiana drove by and came to a halt behind the Horbick. One of the two steam cars let off a coincidental hoot as they prepared to move off. ‘What could be more delightful?’

  Normally Tatiana would ecstatically have agreed with her. Today, the spark was failing on the plug of her enjoyment. It was hardly surprising. She had not particularly liked Luigi but he was efficient, popular, and he was a human being who was no longer alive. Should she tell the ladies now? She decided against it. Later this evening she would break the news.

  The cavalcade set off past the Guards’ Chapel and Buckingham Palace, and up towards Hampstead. Their route was to include Netherhall Gardens, simply for the fun of unofficially racing the motorcars on the 1 in 7.2 gradient. It was something Tatiana had looked forward to but once again fate took a mean hand.

  As the cars turned into Netherhall Gardens and halted at the line of the forecourt fence on the east side of the Finchley Road, a familiar sight met Tatiana’s eyes. Stationary at the bend at the top of the steepest part of the hill by the drain grating was a bright red motorcar with two enormous hoods on its mudguards, facing towards them like monster eyes. Tatiana knew it couldn’t be the Dolly Dobbs and so—

  ‘Just what do you think you are doing, Thomas?’ Agatha demanded, squeezing her hooter bulb furiously.

  He couldn’t hear the words, but the message was clear enough. Thomas, in cap and huge goggles, jumped on to the Brighton Baby and trundled her bravely down the hill towards them. ‘I’m sure I’ve got the right answer this time,’ he assured the Duchess feverishly. ‘I’ve been testing it up and down this hill—’

  ‘The right answer is to forget this pile of rubbish,’ Agatha informed him crisply. ‘Kindly crank my motor, young man.’

  He stared miserably at the cranking handle and obeyed. The Horbick, which hadn’t needed cranking since it was hot anyway, roared away up the hill as Thomas jumped for his life.

  A fine start, thought Tatiana miserably, seeing the Horbick drive round the bend without any intention of stopping, and signalled to the rest of her flock to forget their race and proceed to Hampstead. At the top of the hill, the danger lamp in the middle of the road had been knocked askew by the angry Duchess, and as Tatiana’s wheels rumbled over the next drain grating, it sounded like ominous thunder for the days ahead.

  Two hours later, Egbert and Auguste alighted from a motor cab at the lamplit gates of Westland House overlooking Hampstead Heath.

  ‘I’ve been tempted to buy one of these contraptions,’ Egbert remarked. ‘Saves finding cabs all the time.’ He grinned. Et tu, Brute? was the message very clearly emanating from Auguste.

  Auguste always enjoyed visiting Lady Westland, the former music-hall star known as the Magnificent Masher, and since it was in her gardens that Tatiana and her club were to dine this evening he had nurtured a secret hope that he and Egbert might be in time to dine with them. As he smelt the aroma from the remains of the hot plates in chafing dishes on the serving tables, he wondered wistfully what he had missed. A furtive glance at the dinner plates being cleared back to the kitchens told him the worst; he had missed Gwendolen’s saddle of veal with soubise sauce. He tried to forget it as he explained Egbert’s presence and his mission to Lady Westland and her husband, but a slight sense of injustice as well as the lingering aroma remained with him. Gwendolen interpreted his expression correctly. ‘I suggest, Inspector Rose, that you and Auguste eat first and interview later, otherwise half the aristocracy of London will end up in Brixton prison cells.’

  Lady Bullinger’s temper at the disruption to the race up Netherhall Gardens had not been assuaged by lobster and raspberry charlotte, and she took exception to being escorted into Lady Westland’s drawing room, adorned with photographs of her in masculine dress in her music-hall days. ‘Murder? But what on earth does Hester Hart have to do with where I was today?’

  ‘It’s not Miss Hart. It’s Luigi, the maître d’.’

  She looked astounded. ‘Merciful heavens, why should anyone want to kill him? And why, may I ask, do you need to know where I was? I don’t go around murdering the servants.’

  Egbert disliked being boomed at. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘At an At Home.’<
br />
  ‘At home?’

  ‘No. At one.’ She glared. ‘I was with the Duchess of Dewbury. Where did the unfortunate occurrence take place, may I ask?’

  ‘The body was found in the Zoo.’

  ‘The Zoo? Do you suggest I disguised myself as a gorilla?’ Maud had evidently decided on hearty humour. No one, however, had mentioned disguise, it occurred to Auguste, glancing at the photographs of the Magnificent Masher.

  Agatha appeared equally horrified to hear of Luigi’s death. ‘That dear man? I am truly sorry, Inspector.’

  ‘May I ask where you were this afternoon, Your Grace?’

  ‘Certainly you may, though if you think I attended the Zoo you are greatly mistaken. I visit only on Sundays. My husband is a Fellow. I was holding an At Home.’

  ‘So Lady Bullinger told us. And she was present?’

  ‘Certainly she was,’ Agatha replied promptly.

  ‘And who else?’

  This time the answer was not so prompt. ‘There was no one else, Inspector.’

  ‘Unusual, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s the end of the season,’ Agatha replied snappily.

  ‘What time did she leave?’

  ‘About five o’clock to prepare for this evening.’ There was no hesitation in her voice. She might almost have been waiting for the question, Auguste thought.

  Isabel was equally unperturbed. ‘I was shopping, Chief Inspector. At Whiteleys. Doubtless I will be remembered. I spent some time sitting in the hosiery department. I acquired ten pairs of ribbed silk stockings with lace insertions.’

  ‘We’ll check with them to confirm it.’

  Isabel extended a leg and delicately revealed an ankle. ‘There is your proof. Why am I being cross-examined in this impudent way?’

  ‘Luigi, the maître d’ of the Motoring Club, has been found dead. You paid him for information from time to time, I understand.’

  The beautiful eyes rested on him without enthusiasm. ‘Yes,’ she admitted at last. The perfect lips closed, and did not reopen as Isabel considered the import of what she had been told. ‘My husband is a very jealous man. He has the absurd idea I have – ridiculous though it sounds – a lover. I like to know if he calls at the club. That is all.’

  ‘All? You didn’t pay him for a look at Hester Hart’s diaries?’

  ‘No!’ The eyes widened. ‘Did he have them?’

  Egbert did not reply, and Isabel wished, oh how she wished, she’d had the sense to insist on Hugh’s coming this evening. He had pleaded a stupid engagement elsewhere and she hadn’t seen him all day. It was too bad, when she needed him. Tomorrow she would leave for Goodwood and there at least she would see him. He would know what to do.

  ‘Luigi?’ Bitterly regretting his own faithfulness to his beloved, Roderick’s voice rose to an effective shriek when he had replaced Isabel in the drawing room. ‘Why?’

  ‘We believe he knew where your fiancée’s diaries were.’

  ‘Why should he?’ Roderick was guarded.

  ‘Just what I wanted to know,’ Egbert told him cordially. ‘Why give them to Luigi when she had you to turn to?’

  ‘She didn’t give them to me.’

  ‘So you’ve told us. What did you give to her? The Rubáiyát?’

  ‘No. Whatever it is,’ Roderick added cautiously.

  ‘Now tell us where you were this afternoon.’

  ‘Why do you want to know? You can’t suspect me of murdering him for the sake of diaries. What could possibly be in them of concern to me? I only recently met Miss Hart.’

  ‘I like to keep things tidy, Mr Smythe. Especially my notes.’

  ‘I was with Miss Lockwood from about –’ he hesitated ‘two to five. We took a turn on the Crossley. Splendid horse,’ Roderick added unnecessarily, pushing back the famous lock of hair which seemed to be sticking to a damp forehead. Sweat? Auguste wondered.

  ‘And where did this turn take you?’

  ‘I don’t recall. About.’

  ‘Perhaps Miss Lockwood’s memory is more vivid.’

  Roderick looked unhappy, and was justified. Phyllis Lockwood’s memory was not vivid at all.

  ‘Mr Smythe tells us you were out on a drive with him on his Crossley this afternoon.’

  ‘Did he?’ The blue eyes opened wide. ‘Oh, I’m sure he’s right then.’ She gave them one of her sweetest smiles.

  Charlie Jolly appeared at the kitchen door. ‘I’d like a word with you, Annie.’

  Pierre, distracted from the interesting problem of whether he should add both truffles and mushrooms to the garnish for the sole, looked up with a frown. ‘Annie is working.’

  ‘I’m working here too.’ Charlie came right into the kitchen in pursuit of his erstwhile beloved.

  ‘Here?’ Annie forgot all about the quenelles in her amazement.

  ‘For this evening, at least. I regret to tell you, Annie, that Luigi is absent; not to put too fine a point on it, he is dead. In fact, murdered.’

  Her eyes grew round. ‘Dead?’

  Charlie put a protective arm round her. ‘I regret, yes.’

  Pierre stood stock still, clutching a truffle, as he assimilated this information. ‘Murdered?’ he asked in a curious voice. ‘Like Miss Hart?’

  ‘Apparently so. I know no further details.’

  Annie began to cry, sniffling into Charlie’s shoulder, and Pierre returned to the sole. But his attention was not wholly on it.

  Auguste rode back with Tatiana on the Léon Bollée as the cavalcade made its way back to London. He watched her unhappy face and lightly touched her thigh. ‘I am sorry, ma mie, that your evening is ruined.’

  ‘Has it brought you any closer, Auguste, to finding out the truth? That is the important thing.’

  Auguste hesitated. ‘Every case is a possible maze. You can appear to be getting closer but until you are at the very centre you can never be absolutely sure that the path will not lead you away again.’

  ‘And do you think that will happen in this case?’

  ‘I hope not. With the murder of Luigi, the path may become clearer, not more confused.’

  ‘I hope so. It’s beginning to poison not only the club but our lives. Not to mention Eastbourne,’ she added unhappily.

  There was nothing he could say that she would accept as other than mere words of comfort, as the Léon Bollée glided serenely down the hill bringing them back into London.

  At Scotland Yard Egbert found Twitch waiting patiently for him. ‘What’s Peroni’s landlady got to say for herself, Stitch? Plenty, I’ve no doubt.’

  ‘That she wouldn’t have let the rooms to him if she’d have known he was going to be murdered,’ Stitch reported faithfully and without humour.

  ‘Still no sign of where those diaries might be?’

  ‘I’ve been through everything again. Short of sending them back home to his family in Italy, they’ve vanished. And no one got there before me, either.’

  ‘All that means is that Peroni might have had a clue on his body as to where they might be, and our villain is biding his time to pick them up, having removed the clue for our benefit. What did you find out about his fiancée? I suppose it’s too much to hope for that she’s confessed to murdering him in a jealous rage?’

  ‘She’s in Biarritz, sir.’

  Eastbourne would do for him, Egbert thought savagely.

  Stitch produced a modest beam of self-satisfaction. ‘This servant person, she’s a different matter. She’s head kitchen maid at Milton House. Annie Parsons.’

  ‘Well done, Stitch. Any luck at Somerset House?’

  Stitch inflated then promptly deflated again. ‘You’ve no idea the time it takes.’ He was aggrieved. ‘I’ve checked the father’s side. Miss Hart’s grandfather, John Hart –’ Twitch consulted his notes – ‘had a brother Cedric who had a daughter and a son, both dead. As far as I can make out, the son had no nippers, and his sister Maud only had one son who died three years ago. To go further means going back a generation to J
ohn Hart’s father.’

  ‘Tackle the mother’s side next then.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ve started. Her mother Maria was an only child. Her grandmother, Victoria, had a sister Mary. I’m on her track now.’

  ‘Keep at it, Stitch.’ Egbert yawned. It had been a long day.

  Breakfast, like any other meal, was not a time to be disturbed, Auguste thought crossly. Tatiana, however, had already left for the club this Tuesday morning, so he reluctantly left his devilled kidneys to see what might be amiss with Pierre. He must have heard the news but why should they have brought him to Queen Anne’s Gate instead of waiting for his arrival at the club?

  Auguste found him in the morning room, agitatedly pacing to and fro, beret in his hand. He came forward eagerly as soon as he saw Auguste.

  ‘I wish to see you, Monsieur Didier. I am told Luigi has been found dead. Is it true?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘And in connection with the death of Miss Hart?’

  ‘Again probably.’

  ‘Then he was killed instead of me,’ Pierre said simply.

  Whatever Auguste had been expecting, it was not this. ‘Why do you think that? You are not dissimilar in height and colouring, but no one could mistake him for you in broad daylight.’

  ‘No. But the reason he was killed might have been because of Miss Hart’s diaries. Knowing Miss Hart paid Luigi for information, the murderer would have thought she gave him the diaries to guard. But I have the diaries.’

  ‘You do? But you told Inspector Rose you did not have them.’ Auguste was aghast. Egbert was not going to like this, pleased as he would be to know their whereabouts.

  ‘I had to,’ Pierre said wretchedly. ‘I swore to Miss Hart to tell no one, and we Arabs take such vows seriously.’

  ‘Then what has changed?’

  ‘If Luigi was murdered for those diaries, so might I be. I am the most likely person to have them after Luigi, now that everybody knows I was her dragoman,’ he said wretchedly. ‘If I give them to Scotland Yard, I can tell everyone so, and then they will have no reason to kill me. Please to help me.’

  ‘Tell me where the diaries are, and then I’ll consider helping you. You’ve wasted a lot of time, Pierre.’