by Myers, Amy
‘I know,’ he replied humbly. ‘They’re at Waterloo Railway Station luggage office.’
So simple. ‘You put the whole chest in there?’
‘No. Miss Hart did not want me to come to her house. Miss Hart took the chest herself to the railway station. I met her there and she gave me the ticket. The idea was that this was a temporary measure, until she had married and had thought of somewhere safer to keep them.’
‘Give me the ticket, Pierre.’
Pierre hesitated for a moment, then produced it from his pocket.
‘Are you sure the diaries are in the chest?’
‘Indeed they are. I have seen them.’
‘Why? You weren’t intending to make use of the information, were you?’
‘No.’ Pierre was indignant at this slur. ‘I knew Miss Hart would have wanted the diaries of her travels to be published if she failed to write her memoirs, so I gave those diaries to her publisher. You can ask them. Bacon, Archibald and Frith is the firm. Only the private diaries are left in the chest.’
‘I think that will satisfy Inspector Rose for the moment.’ Auguste took the telephone from its hook.
Waterloo Station at holiday time had a sense of a new life beginning, an energy that the city itself now lacked in late July. Buckets and spades swung enthusiastically from hands of all ages, porters shot to and fro with hand luggage, carts rushed hither and thither with trunks being forwarded in advance to seaside hotels. There were no sad farewells, only eager expectations. Hester Hart’s chest was just one more holiday trunk to the left luggage attendant, but Pierre eyed it wistfully as it was loaded by a porter into a growler.
Leaving Pierre to walk back to Milton House, Auguste set off in the growler to Scotland Yard. He peered out of the window to see Pierre standing to watch their leaving as though with them went the last of his life with Hester Hart.
‘Here it all is. No doubt of that. Listen to this.’ Egbert, having expressed his opinion of Pierre, returned to more positive thinking, and picked a diary at random. ‘Sixth of June, eighteen seventy-eight. She must have been about fourteen. “I hate them all. They are beastly to me, all of them, and especially Agatha. I’ll show them. I wish my father were a crossing sweeper. I hate him too. And I hate buttons.”’
‘And here’s a later one.’ Auguste took up another volume and leafed through it, then exclaimed in excitement. ‘Egbert, this is the one that affects this case. Look. Thirteenth of January, eighteen eighty-nine. “I love him so much, and I really think he loves me . . .” And then,’ Auguste riffled through the pages, ‘eighth of May the same year. “I cannot understand why he has not called upon me . . .” Then in June, “Today I heard the most terrible story, that I am being talked about in all the clubs, and that he has left town. What does it all mean? I know what it means. It means Maud and Agatha have been up to some more of their dirty games. I hate London society. I hate it. There’s only one person I trust.”’
‘They seem to stop as she goes on her travels,’ Egbert said. ‘No, here’s one. “June, eighteen ninety-seven: I am quite sure it was Isabel who prevented my being invited to Marlborough House. She has always disliked me. One day I’ll get my revenge. I’ll use that story so carefully hushed up about her eloping with the family coachman when she was seventeen. That never reached the Earl’s ears or the Prince of Wales.”’ He closed the book. ‘And more of the same, no doubt. You’d better check the travel diaries with the publishers too.’
Auguste’s heart sank. ‘Must I?’
‘Why not? Don’t fancy any more diaries?’
‘I fear, Egbert, that Miss Hart’s publishers are my own.’
‘Writing your memoirs, are you?’
‘My cookery book, Dining With Didier.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘It is not quite as advanced as it should be.’
Egbert guffawed. ‘Too much eating, too little writing.’
‘I am a perfectionist,’ Auguste replied with dignity.
It was Pierre’s evening off, and Auguste was relieved. It meant that he could clear his mind of everything save what he did best: cooking. True, this was difficult while Annie was sniffing into the potatoes, but even this he could ignore while he was intent on preparing the madeira sauce for the sweetbreads, not to mention an asparagus and truffle salad. And a soufflé. No matter that it was not on the menu, he would prepare one. He searched his memory for something suitable for the occasion. It obliged. He would cook his former maître’s Palmyra soufflé. Vanilla was the main flavouring.
He began to collect the ingredients, cream, eggs, flour, vanilla sticks, sugar, salt, butter, and with satisfaction contemplated the final result. It was usually the case that the subtlety of the main ingredient was the key to the whole dish. So it was in detection cases as well. In this case, it was Hester Hart. Could it be that the main ingredient had been so subtle that they had overlooked it altogether?
Chapter Eleven
Publishers were formidable people. Auguste adopted an expression of nonchalance as he walked up the steps of Messrs Bacon, Archibald and Frith in Bedford Square. Publishers had inviting-looking brass nameplates on the door, comfortable leather armchairs as you went in, a book or two strewn on the occasional table, even an aspidistra to suggest that they were loving, homely human beings. They were not. Particularly towards authors who had failed to deliver the manuscripts of cookery books on the date promised. At least, he consoled himself as he pulled the bell, he was to see Mr Archibald this morning, not the once affable Mr Bacon who had long ago expressed a burning desire to publish all ten volumes of Dining With Didier and, moreover, had advertised this fact to the book trade.
Auguste tipped his hat down to hide his face as the smiling lady clerk directed him up the stairs to Mr Archibald’s office. He wondered if Charon had been trained to give a comforting grin as he helped the dead into his boat for the trip across the river Styx to the Underworld. At least they did not run the risk of seeing a grim-faced Mr Bacon materialise before them.
‘From Scotland Yard, I believe you said?’ Mr Archibald was no Bacon. He was thinner, more anxious; the whole responsibility for the future of the printed word in English seemed to weigh on his shoulders.
‘Yes.’ Auguste began to recover as imminent danger receded.
‘Ah yes, you want to write your memoirs.’ Mr Archibald looked pleased at this feat of memory. ‘I seem to know the name. Didier, isn’t it?’
‘The Hester Hart diaries.’ His voice came out as a squeak at the terrible vision of board meetings at which the name of Auguste Didier was all too frequently raised.
‘Ah, yes.’ Archibald’s face fell at the prospect of a minnow escaping the venerable jaws of Bacon, Archibald and Frith. ‘I placed them ready for you.’ He led the way into an adjoining room where a pile of familiar-looking leatherbound volumes lay on a table, and after hovering for a moment as if hoping Auguste might be seized by a sudden hankering to start his memoirs there and then, left a thankful Auguste to his task.
There were fifteen volumes in all, one for each year from late 1889 to 1903. Auguste glanced at each one. In 1889 she had travelled to Egypt, in 1890 South America, in 1893 to India, even a short one for 1897 when she had travelled to Egypt again after the Jubilee, in 1898 to Algeria and then Iraq – that must have been when she first employed Pierre – and in 1901 Palmyra. Auguste made methodical notes of dates and years, and then began to study the diaries. His first reaction was one of envy. How could Hester write so uniformly well and with so few corrections? His own manuscript had been recommenced several times, and even in its current version had been condemned by Tatiana. Not that she had made any comment; she had merely bought a typewriting machine for his birthday.
‘“September tenth,”’ he read. ‘“What can I say of Palmyra’s pride, it’s magnificent colonnade, that has not already been better expressed by Mr Robert Wood. I can but relate how I rode in Lady Hester Stanhope’s footsteps into Palmyra and like her was g
reeted as a Queen by the Bedouin chiefs. As I rode beneath the Triumphal Arch . . .”’
He turned to another volume and looked through: ‘“My dragoman was watering the mules, and I was alone as I walked over the debris and into the mighty fortress of Kal ’At El Beida . . .”’
A sudden thought struck him and he looked for the volume of 1900. In 1898 she had hoped to join Koldewey’s team as he began his excavations of Babylon but rightly or wrongly had been prevented by the intervention of John Millward. Two years later she had visited the excavations to see what progress had been made: ‘“I held my breath. Here, this pile of rubble being painstakingly reconstructed, this was the Tower of Babel itself. The city dedicated to the worship of the mighty Marduk was rising again, thanks to one man, Robert Koldewey, born in Germany forty-five years ago . . .”’ Auguste closed the volume and tried to analyse why he felt dissatisfied.
He had seen Hester Hart speak, he had talked to her, he felt he knew a great deal about her through her early diaries. Why did she not speak to him out of these travel diaries? Where was the girl who had written with such passion, ‘I hate, I hate, I hate’? There was no sign of her here in these carefully-penned diaries with scarcely an alteration. No doubt Mr Archibald’s printers would be delighted with such perfection, but to him they were pallid compared with the young woman who had vowed to take revenge on those who had, in her view, ruined her life. Had she written these diaries with the sole intent of establishing her reputation as a traveller by publication? The earlier diaries revealed the private woman, and she, he knew all too well, had remained as set as ever on revenge, a revenge she did not propose to sully her professional reputation with by mentioning it in these volumes.
A sparrow on the windowsill peered in as though anxious to help. Auguste stared at it, reflecting that in earlier times, no sensible sparrow would dare show its face so close to a cook in case it made an unexpected contribution to a pie. This case was a pie, his thoughts rambled on, but not one up to Mrs Jolly’s standards. There were too many ingredients, too much flavouring, and he had a feeling that if only he could grasp it, one more ingredient was missing. There had been an over-seasoning with motorcars and these might yet prove to be a more major factor than he appreciated, not to mention a fine layer of Hams in the form of Hortensia’s followers. What else did the pie need before he could cover it with the pastry of success? In the pie of Hester Hart, Isabel, Agatha, Phyllis, Roderick and Maud had lined up on the marble-topped table, had been chopped and then pre-cooked to their order.
What more did it need? Surely these diaries must provide the answer? Auguste took his mind back to the entries he had read in Egbert’s office yesterday. And then, at last, he knew the ingredient he lacked.
He hurried down the stairs, after a brief word of thanks to Mr Archibald and a vague promise to write his memoirs of life on the beat in London with the Metropolitan Police Force. A pair of plump pinstriped legs stood courteously aside to allow him to pass. Auguste looked up to thank their owner. It was Mr Bacon, looking, to his relief, affable.
‘Ah, Mr Didier, I’m most gratified. I expect you have called in to leave the manuscript of your undoubted masterpiece Dining With Didier.’
Auguste flushed scarlet in a way he had not done since Maman had caught him testing the confit de canard in the larder. ‘Alas, no, a few finishing touches remain. Perfection, Mr Bacon, perfection.’
‘Schedules, Mr Didier, schedules. They, too, are an art demanding perfection.’ A note of reproof entered the erstwhile affable voice. ‘Perhaps you will let me know when I might—’
He spoke to Auguste’s back. Something that might have been ‘Forgive me, an emergency at Scotland Yard . . .’ floated up to him from the hallway beneath.
Authors! Mr Bacon sighed. The only unfortunate blot upon a publisher’s life.
The constable who showed Auguste into Egbert’s office in Twitch’s absence retreated, leaving Auguste to burst out excitedly, ‘Egbert, the diaries. Can we—’
‘Just a minute, Auguste.’
‘But this is important.’
‘Everything’s important here. Even Twitch.’ It was a bad day. It had started off with Mr Pinpole’s kidneys, though on this occasion Egbert, always a fair man, was inclined to exonerate the butcher and lay the blame on Mary, the general – though doubtless she’d been working under Edith’s instructions. A hazy memory returned of Edith talking excitedly about a new recipe she’d like to try from Mrs Marshall, kidneys á la campagne. In Egbert’s view, culinary adventures should never be embarked upon before midday. The whole point of breakfast was that it was the same.
‘Where is Twitch?’ Auguste was momentarily diverted.
‘Back at Somerset House. He’s held up over Henrietta Trotter.’
‘Who?’
‘Mary Trotter’s daughter. No death certificate and no marriage certificate yet. The lady could be anywhere, dead or alive. He’s got the Lancashire police on it.’
‘Oh.’ Auguste was not anxious to pursue the question of Twitch and Somerset House. For some strange reason Inspector Stitch seemed to bear him a grudge over a past unfortunate experience. ‘What about the advertisement in The Times put in by the solicitors for relatives of Hester Hart?’
‘Every madman bar the Tichborne claimant himself. Nothing, in other words.’
‘Oh. Egbert, about those diaries—’
‘Forget them. We’ve got the villain.’
‘What?’
‘It’s Roderick Smythe.’
‘But his motive—’
‘Forget about motive, Auguste, for the moment. Look at facts. He was the last person to see her alive, he’d quarrelled with her, and he lied about his movements yesterday.’
‘Where was he? Not driving with Miss Lockwood?’
‘Yes, but not in the Crossley and not for long. His man confirmed his story that he left with the Crossley, but he took it to a garage and left it there for a tyre change. Then he went to see Miss Lockwood, and they went out in her car. Not for long, though. She left him in St James’s where he claimed he was going to his club. He didn’t. We checked.’
‘And he has no alibi after that?’
‘Part of the time. The butler at Dewbury House revealed he came to join Her Grace and Lady Bullinger at three thirty but left again shortly after four. I can make a guess where he went then: in a cab to Regent’s Park.’
‘Has he admitted it?’ Auguste was taken aback.
‘Not yet. He left London yesterday to go to Goodwood. Lodging place not known. Miss Lockwood was only too eager to tell us his movements, and that she’d planned to meet him there. Whether the fair Phyllis warns him is open to question. Fancy coming? I’m leaving shortly.’
‘For Goodwood?’
‘I ain’t offering to take you to the opera,’ Egbert said irritably. ‘You’re slow today, Auguste.’
Goodwood was not only the last social event of the London season but this particular year one of the most important. Tatiana, too, was shortly leaving to stay overnight at Goodwood House, the home of the new Duke of Richmond which the Duke had nobly deserted to allow His Majesty and the Queen full possession as usual for those four days. They took their own house party, hence their invitation to Tatiana. Tomorrow was the all-important Cup Day – all-important from the social viewpoint, at any rate. The horses, Auguste gathered, were in second place.
This year was especially thrilling socially, he understood from Tatiana. The fact that she had bothered to mention a non-mechanical event proved it. There were two major attractions: the new grandstand and the presence of the King, not, Tatiana had laughed, necessarily in that order. Bertie and Alexandra had been absent for some years, in deference to the late Duke’s age and infirmity. They were always so considerate, she told Auguste gravely, by which he knew she suspected Bertie liked the house to himself to chat to his racing chums. At least he condescended to sleep in his host’s bed, unlike his mother who, Auguste gathered, had always despatched her own bed and w
ashstand appliances in advance of any private visit.
Tatiana had accepted the invitation; he had pleaded his necessary absence at Scotland Yard. Now here he was about to attend himself. What would His Majesty make of that?
‘I’d be delighted, Egbert,’ Auguste replied. ‘I still think you should establish the motive before you tackle Smythe.’
‘He’d quarrelled with Hester. That’s enough motive for me. He gave her that book, tore out the title page in a fit of temper in the motor house, handed it back and stabbed her. He’ll break down once I get to him, that sort always does.’
‘Were his fingerprints on it? Or on the gun at Luigi’s side?’ Auguste asked.
Egbert cast him a scathing look. ‘Outdoors. He’d have been wearing gloves. You’re as obsessed with fingerprints as Henry himself.’ The present Commissioner Edward Henry had been the instigator of the system.
‘You told me that by last year over three thousand cases had led to identifications by fingerprints last year, and I consider a murder without a known motive is a pile of ingredients without a recipe.’ Auguste felt obstinate. ‘If he had no motive other than a quarrel, how did he happen to have a knife in his pocket when he attacked Hester?’
Egbert glared. ‘They’d quarrelled earlier in the evening too; he planned it, Auguste. Why else should he go back?’
‘First it is a crime passionnel caused by a violent quarrel. Now he plans it?’
‘You got any better suggestions?’
‘Yes,’ Auguste said undiplomatically.
Egbert surrendered with grace. ‘I might have known it.’
‘The diaries, Egbert, let us look at them again.’
Egbert fetched the diaries from amidst the chaos of files and papers meticulously logged in his own organisational mind. Auguste eagerly riffled through them.
‘This one. The early eighteen eighty-nine diary.’ He read it out again: ‘“It means Maud and Agatha have been up to some more of their dirty games. I hate London society, I hate it. There’s only one person I trust.”’