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

by Myers, Amy

‘Where’s he gone, Emma?’

  ‘Ah well, now. I’m bound by the confidentiality of my profession.’

  Which profession? he was tempted to ask, since Emma’s succession of young and not so young men was well known, but he refrained. Emma’s temper was unpredictable and irreversible.

  ‘Emma, this is murder.’

  ‘It always is with you, old cock. I see you ain’t planning to stay, so I’ll tell you. Out that door where he left his motor.’

  Auguste ran into the yard at the back of Gwynne’s in time to see Hugh Francis driving out into York Street. He turned and, to the disapproval of several elderly gentlemen and a dog taking their ease in Gwynne’s lobby, ran right through and out into Jermyn Street where Egbert had already spotted the Rover and had banged on the window for the driver to follow it. The driver had cranked the engine and was starting to turn in pursuit as Auguste leapt up on the steps to let himself into the interior. He reflected as he sat down beside Egbert that a good walk to Beachy Head each morning next week coupled with a Turkish bath in the hotel’s therapeutic amenities might help his agility. There was no doubt one suffered in the cause of gastronomy.

  The Saturday morning traffic in Piccadilly was heavy; the congestion ahead around Eros looked as if the whole of London had elected to spend their day stuck in the middle of the Circus. Horse vans, horse buses, motor buses, motorcars mingled together, infuriating Egbert. As they at last reached the Circus, they saw the Rover proceeding into Regent Street towards Regent Circus, and agonising moments were spent steering their way past obstacles, human and mechanical, to follow its route.

  ‘Look out!’ Egbert shouted, and Auguste sat with glazed eyes as they appeared to be within inches of murdering an ancient lady in a poke bonnet so set on selling lavender that she regarded roadways as naught. Could the driver even see her, set so high up at the rear? His nerves were going to require more than camomile to revive them after this. The driver’s position had one advantage. He had a better view of the Rover than they had, as a sudden lurch round to the left into Vigo Street threw Auguste into Egbert’s arms. He straightened up. A few moments later they were reunited as the Rover turned sharply into Sackville Street.

  ‘Something tells me he knows we’re after him. He’s going to play “Here we go round the mulberry bush” round the Circus again in the hope of losing us.’

  ‘No, he’s not. He’s turning right,’ Auguste shouted. ‘He’s going to go past Green Park.’

  ‘Or back to your lady friend’s at Gwynne’s. I wouldn’t put it past Emma Pryde to hide him in her bed.’

  Nor would Auguste, but he had little time to ponder the question as a motor bus braked in front of them and the horrible insecurity of being unable to see if their driver had noticed but able all too clearly to see the back of the bus bereft him temporarily of speech. Why had they done away with the useful requirement of a man with a red flag walking in front of any motor vehicle?

  When they had swept round the bus in fine style, narrowly avoiding a large delivery horse van proclaiming its allegiance to Silver Ray’s Rum, the Rover was some way ahead, but visible.

  ‘I’m beginning to feel like Custer after the Indians,’ Egbert grunted.

  Auguste was more preoccupied with meeting a similar death and destruction as the Rover chose to turn right into Park Lane and their own driver, now getting into the spirit of things, drove straight across the path of a large Daimler.

  By the time they reached Dorchester House they were gaining on the Rover, but any hopes they might have had of stopping it in the relatively traffic-free Park Lane were doomed to disappointment. Ahead of them appeared to be a group of suicidally-inclined people marching out of Mount Street straight across their path. Traffic on the other side of the road had come to an abrupt halt; on the far side, in front of their cab, the Rover lurched to the left to avoid collision with the two human lemmings leading the group. To his horror Auguste saw firstly that they were bearing placards, secondly that they were followed by a troop mounted on horseback, and thirdly that they were all wheeling round to provide an impenetrable barricade across Park Lane, and hoisting their banners.

  The Horse Against Motor Car Society had come to make a stand. Why did they have to make it six inches from their cab? Egbert yelled in fury. The Rover, and Hugh Francis, were lost to them.

  ‘Good morning, Auguste,’ Hortensia greeted him cheerfully.

  By Saturday evening the kitchen at Milton House had already taken on a sad air, as if it was aware that for a whole month it would remain unused. For over four weeks no smells save those of Keatings Powder and turpentine would emanate from it; gone would be the warmth, the excitement, the ever-ready stockpot, and the smells of baking pies. Tonight would be the last dinner of the season. After that, the staff would vanish, once the kitchen was cleaned and tidy, and Auguste and Pierre would lock its doors and they, too, would part for a month. Like Antony to Cleopatra, Auguste proclaimed, ‘Let’s have one other gaudy night, Pierre,’ as he was handed the menu for the evening.

  ‘Monsieur?’ Pierre looked blank.

  ‘This is the last dinner of the season. The club’s first season. Let us make it a dinner to remember.’

  Pierre’s polite ‘Yes, monsieur’ suggested he was under the impression that all his dinners were to be remembered.

  ‘Are you leave England for this month, Pierre?’

  ‘Yes, I am travelling to France to see my parents. I have been saving for it. I have not seen them for two years now, and I have to tell them of Miss Hart’s death.’

  Why did he have to be reminded even here of what still remained to be settled before he could go on holiday? Auguste thought crossly, and made a determined effort to forget it again. Egbert would work out whether the murderer was Roderick Smythe or Hugh Francis far better than he.

  There was something soothing about cooking; it ordered the chaos of the brain, and even the most menial jobs, cleaning, chopping, collecting ingredients, provided a calming influence. Sometimes he would do the chopping himself rather than leave it to a vegetable chef, simply to get a sense of the recipe building up, the salutary feeling of his hands mixing flour. After all, unless one performed the basic tasks, how could one fully enjoy the fruits of creation, the pinnacle of his art? Left to itself the brain went on working behind the scenes, a servant par excellence, and could sometimes knock at the door and deliver a most unexpected message. Perhaps even now his own brain was working on the question of Smythe and Francis, and would produce that one vital ingredient which would set the seal on the recipe.

  He began to crush the raspberries, forcing them through a sieve into a purée for a coulis. How satisfying the colour, how rich compared with strawberries. He had seen white raspberries in the market, but they were an oddity like . . . like . . . the diary of 1897. Had his brain obliged? he wondered in sudden excitement. He left it to itself for a little longer in the hope it would oblige a little more fully and explain just what point it had in mind. By the time it condescended to do so, the coulis was fully prepared – like those diaries for publication.

  ‘Pierre!’

  Pierre came running over, leaving the lobster, under the impression that at the very least a cockroach had been discovered enjoying the delights of kitchen life.

  ‘Pierre,’ Auguste told him excitedly, ‘the diaries. We have read the private ones of Miss Hart’s early life, and also the diaries you have sent for publication, but those seemed to me so different in style that they were written for publication.’

  ‘I believe that is so.’

  ‘Yet there were two diaries for 1897, the year of the Jubilee; one with private material in it and the other a short one of a visit to Egypt. Isn’t that odd?’

  Pierre considered. ‘Yes. That is the year before I met her, however, so I cannot say why there should be two for that year or why the diaries should be different in style.’ He lost interest in diaries, clearly wanting to return to lobster.

  ‘Why should Miss Hart sudden
ly have written a private diary for eighteen ninety-seven?’

  ‘Because that was the year Miss Hart felt so bitter about. Often she would speak of the horror of ninety-seven.’

  The horror of ninety-seven. Auguste put his brain to work again, and tackled the dressing for the salad. His immediate brain tackled the important question of whether to include anchovy in the dressing, and the brain behind the scenes was told to get on with the problem of Roderick Smythe and Hugh Francis, a crime passionnel or a premeditated murder, in which the murderer carefully selected his murder weapon.

  When Auguste returned to Queen Anne’s Gate, Tatiana was already dressed for dinner and ran to him eagerly as he came in.

  ‘I detect you are impatient, ma mie. For my lobster Didier?’

  She tried to laugh. ‘For holidays, and a chance to recover from this horrible month. At least now Egbert has arrested Roderick we may be near the end of it, even if it’s not an end I like. And then we can leave!’

  ‘It may not be Roderick, Tatiana.’

  ‘Not? Who then?’ Tatiana was startled. ‘Oh, Auguste, not Agatha, after all?’

  ‘No, Hugh Francis.’

  She looked at him blankly. ‘Why on earth should he wish to murder Hester Hart? To preserve Isabel’s reputation?’

  Auguste’s brain rang a faint bell which he was too tired to answer, so the query was dismissed to join the stockpot of his simmering thoughts. Instead he told Tatiana just how Hugh Francis had entered the picture.

  ‘Is Egbert convinced that Hugh is guilty?’

  ‘No, but he’s notifying all the Channel ports in case. But he still believes it’s Roderick, and I too – if only, Tatiana, I could put together all the pieces of this jigsaw I would know which one. But I can’t.’

  ‘Perhaps Edith’s new hat will inspire you.’

  ‘What?’ Auguste looked puzzled.

  ‘You know how excited she is at coming to dine at the club this evening – she has bought a new hat for the occasion.’

  ‘I’m not sure that the menu is up to Edith’s new hat.’

  ‘If it’s not we’ll just eat the hat. I gather it has plenty of cherries and a strawberry on it.’

  ‘I’ll ensure the lobster á la Edith is up to the occasion then.’

  ‘You’ve named the dish after her? That’s kind of you, Auguste.’

  ‘It has her favourite corraline pepper in it, as beloved by her Mrs Marshall.’ Mrs Marshall was only slightly behind Alexis Soyer in Auguste’s list of bêtes noires.

  ‘Did you by any chance see Harold Dobbs at the club?’

  ‘No.’

  She sighed. ‘I gave him strict instructions that wreck of a motorcar had to be taken away before we closed for the summer. I asked Egbert, to get his permission. Once Dolly was the most precious thing in Harold’s life, now she means nothing to him. How like a man.’

  Charlie Jolly winked at Edith as he gravely conducted the party to Auguste’s favourite table near the kitchen, now set for four. It cheered her up; it was a friendly wink that told her all these duchesses and countesses were just ordinary people who had chilblains just like she did. Mind you, in her new hat delivered by hand yesterday by Miss Peabody, Milliner to Gentry, she felt equal to anybody.

  ‘What has happened, Egbert?’ Auguste hissed as soon as they were all seated and Tatiana had embarked on a discussion of The Hat. Not Edith’s which she had already admired, but the club hat. A compromise had been reached. A tam o’shanter had been agreed for the summer, a tricorne for the winter, each to be ornamented with a steering wheel. ‘Until the fashion changes,’ Auguste heard Tatiana mournfully add.

  ‘We haven’t got Francis yet, but the Kent police are keeping a watch on Martyr House, and Lady Tunstall. He may have gone down to Kent with the idea of hiding there awhile before slipping quietly overseas. He won’t know that she isn’t feeling quite so loving towards him now. I may have to go down there myself tomorrow, if there’s no news. Smythe will be applying for habeas corpus.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Tatiana’s sharp ears picked up the word with dismay. ‘But we were all leaving for Eastbourne tomorrow.’

  Edith said nothing.

  ‘With luck I’ll get away Monday,’ Egbert said quickly. He looked round. ‘We’ve got a roomful of suspects here, Tatiana. Suppose I arrest one or two of them, just to tide things over till we get back from Eastbourne?’

  ‘That’s an excellent idea,’ Auguste replied gravely. ‘I suggest you wait until after you have tasted the lobster Edith, Egbert.’

  Edith flushed. ‘Lobster Edith, Auguste?’

  ‘In your honour.’

  ‘Oh.’ Edith went even pinker. ‘How very kind,’ she managed to say, overcome.

  Maud Bullinger, Agatha and Phyllis were dining together, earnestly discussing the terrible news about Roderick, and also a delicious rumour that Isabel had parted from Hugh Francis who had promptly tried to kill himself by driving at over 20 mph down Park Lane. They were not pleased to see Inspector Rose dining at a nearby table. The law should be kept to bowing respectfully at the roadside as far as the peerage was concerned. They were even less amused when the inspector rose to his feet and came purposefully over to their table.

  ‘Even if you are dining with dear Tatiana, this is a private restaurant!’ Agatha was appalled at such manners, even among the working classes.

  ‘And a very good lobster I’ve had too. I trust you’ve enjoyed yours?’

  Lobster was not at the top of their list of topics to be discussed.

  ‘I’m wanting to see Mr Francis. Any of you any idea where he might be found?’

  ‘I only know where poor dear Roderick is,’ Phyllis informed him, summoning a tear to her eye.

  ‘Why should we, Inspector?’ barked Maud.

  ‘I think you should ask Lady Tunstall, Inspector,’ Agatha said coldly.

  ‘Shall we say ten o’clock Monday morning?’ Egbert replied. ‘I’ll come to your homes to see what you’ve remembered about Mr Francis. Unless you prefer the Yard?’

  From their silence it appeared they did not. Only Phyllis made an objection. ‘But it’s the end of the season, Inspector.’

  ‘This is delicious, Auguste.’ Edith was well into her dessert when Egbert returned to the table. ‘Could I cook this, do you think?’

  ‘It is a little complicated,’ Auguste said diplomatically. ‘You begin with a soufflé which is—’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy then.’ Edith beamed. She had had two glasses of red wine, she was looking forward to her holiday, she was only fifty-six, she was sitting not only with those she loved best but with duchesses and ladies, not to mention that Tatiana was a princess; she was aglow with her new hat and the thought of Eastbourne to come.

  ‘Some more wine, Edith,’ Auguste said, preparing to pour the infinitesimal amount into her glass that he deemed wise.

  ‘Oh yes. A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and Thou beside me singing in the wilderness,’ Edith pronounced lyrically.

  ‘You can’t drink a jugful, Edith.’ Egbert was alarmed.

  ‘The Rubáiyát,’ Auguste said to him. ‘It’s one of the most famous quotations from it.’ Another bell rang in his brain, but like its predecessor was sent to the stockpot, on this occasion because Leo suddenly appeared through the kitchen door.

  Miss Dazey, dining with a schoolfriend and pouring out her tale of unrequited love, beamed with happiness and rushed over to him. ‘Have you come to find me, Leo? I was coming to find you.’

  ‘No. I want to speak to Mrs Didier,’ Leo said doggedly, red in the face from the attention he was arousing.

  ‘Oh. But I have something very important to ask you.’

  A sudden fear seized him. It wasn’t leap year, was it? ‘I’ve got to speak to Mrs Didier, Daisy.’

  Unconscious of what he had said, he went over to Tatiana, leaving a deliriously happy girl behind him. He had called her Daisy. Even when he’d kissed her that time, it had been ‘Miss Dazey, ma’am’.

  ‘Mrs Di
dier, that Mr Dobbs is here.’ He delivered Fred’s message.

  ‘What, now? It’s ten o’clock.’

  ‘He says he’s come for the motorcar.’

  Tatiana sighed, glad that at least Auguste’s inventions weren’t as troublesome as the Dolly Dobbs. She excused herself from the table and followed Leo out to the motor stable. On a sudden impulse Auguste decided to accompany them and hurried in their footsteps.

  There at the stable were a cross-looking Fred and Harold Dobbs, and to his amazement the ubiquitous Thomas Bailey. Tatiana appeared as astonished as he was.

  ‘Thomas and I have been having most interesting discussions,’ Harold announced. ‘Designers and inventors, you see, Mrs Didier, are above petty differences.’

  ‘Such as patents?’ Auguste wondered.

  ‘The Dolly Dobbs is no more, nor is the Brighton Baby. However, Thomas and I have had the most splendid idea!’

  Thomas looked modest to counter Harold’s exuberance.

  ‘We’ve jointly patented it now, so we can tell you, Mrs Didier. We shall be honouring you with the first trials, of course.’

  ‘Wind-powered?’ asked Tatiana tentatively.

  ‘Wind?’ Harold loftily dismissed this as a minor aberration. ‘No, no, we are Daedalus and Icarus.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You’re going to make a motorcar fly with wax wings?’ Auguste asked, delighted he’d come.

  ‘No, no, we are Phoebus.’

  ‘We’re going to harness the energy of the sun,’ Thomas amplified. ‘We call it solar power. We need a huge circular piece of metal to attract the sun’s rays and a source of water to produce steam or gas to produce electricity.’ He beamed.

  ‘How splendid,’ Tatiana said weakly.

  Miss Dazey, prowling in the wake of the party, seized her chance as Harold and Thomas began the task of fitting a towing line to the front of the Dolly Dobbs’s frame. She plucked at Leo’s sleeve. ‘What are you going to do in August, Leo?’

  ‘Dunno.’ He looked round for support, but there was none. Mr and Mrs Didier were inside the motor house with those two daft inventors. They hadn’t the least idea how to build a motorcar. Whereas he— He tore his mind away from such daydreams.