by Myers, Amy
‘Which was during your own turn that night, the second spot. I saw him!’ Auguste agreed.
‘Max would have had plenty of time to reach the Lyle to play my turn, or his own, if he’d come in to see Will before the performance. However, I think you will find he had other business afoot, and that was during and after his usual appearance at the Lyle. You must look elsewhere for your murderer, I fear.’
‘But not your impersonator, Mr Brodie.’
‘My what?’
‘Max Hill may have impersonated you in a little crooked business on the Saturday, the twentieth.’
Brodie was suddenly guarded. ‘What crooked business?’
‘The Windsor cross.’
Brodie threw back his head and laughed. ‘In this case, I am only too glad to pin the blame on Max. He is an excellent impersonator.’
‘We’re missing something, Auguste,’ Egbert remarked gloomily, over a last drink, once they were alone.
‘What?’
‘If I knew that we wouldn’t be missing it. Too much of a coincidence, surely, that Max asked to switch the very night of Lamb’s death?’
‘Perhaps it was to do with the cross.’
‘You mean he’d found out that Gomez was double-crossing Special Branch, and that it was something to do with that?’
‘Yes.’
‘And if he found out Gomez had been intending to murder Frederick, then he, Max, he reckoned, could be next on the programme. So he killed him and decided to take an even closer interest in the cross. Like running away with it. A lot of ifs, but they all add up to the fact that Max Hill is no innocent man. I’m beginning to think you’ve provided the missing factor.’
‘But Mariella probably has the cross,’ Auguste quickly pointed out, aware he didn’t want Max to be guilty.
‘Not her. The lady would be doing something about it if she had. My men have followed her on a good few trips to Bond Street, but nothing more.’
‘These ingredients do not yet make a recipe, Egbert,’ Auguste maintained defiantly. ‘I am sure there is still some flavouring we are overlooking.’
‘Only your imagination, Auguste. The ingredients in my larder taste all right to me.’
Auguste forbore to say that with Edith’s cooking, the results of Egbert’s larder were seldom of the happiest.
When he arrived home, he found Queen Anne’s Gate ablaze with lights. Tatiana blithely ignored cost. She enjoyed electric light so much it seemed every single one had to be on to be enjoyed to the full in case this new and marvellous source of energy disappeared again.
‘Some friends of mine dislike it,’ she had told him. ‘It is too harsh for their complexions. But I find it is most useful for studying the underneath and insides of motorcars.’
‘Here?’
‘In the booklet. I wish to study the details of the new Panhard.’
‘Then why are you sitting eating that horrible-looking eclair?’
‘Because John has made them today.’
Auguste eyed her with great suspicion. ‘They are edible?’
‘Certainly. Auguste, you must get over your distrust of our chef.’
‘Why?’ he asked belligerently.
‘He will leave.’
‘That will be a disaster?’
‘Yes. He will be the eighth to do so, and we have only been married just over a year.’
‘I could take his place.’
‘You could not.’
‘Ma mie, we are quarrelling.’ There was reproach in his voice.
‘Sometimes married people do,’ she replied darkly. ‘When it is justified.’
‘But you are being unreasonable . . .’ Auguste stopped. Tatiana with a whisk of skirts was departing. Unwillingly, she hesitated as she remembered what she had to tell him. ‘We are going out tomorrow.’
His heart sank. He had looked forward to a quiet dinner discussing John’s inadequacies.
‘We are taking luncheon at Hampstead,’ she continued.
‘We are driving out to the country?’
‘It is not far.’
‘But the horses . . .’
‘We’ll motor there,’ she said reassuringly.
His heart sank even further. Suppose Tatiana insisted on driving the machine herself? Her style of driving was far from suitable to ensure calm nerves and restful eating.
‘Where are we going?’ he inquired with no great hopes of a welcome answer. The talk would no doubt be focused either on motorcars or on the latest doings of King Edward and Mrs Keppel. Both subjects tested his endurance.
His wife regarded him kindly. ‘To the home of Lady Westland.’
The mansion in Hampstead overlooking the Heath cheered Auguste immediately. It was large, comfortable and inviting-looking, like the Magnificent Masher herself. He began to wonder what kind of cook she had.
‘Is it a large party?’ he asked Tatiana.
‘Just us. She and her husband and one family friend, she told me.’
Auguste looked round the entrance hall while the business of divesting themselves of hats and cloaks took place. This appeared to be a strictly equal marriage. Half of the prints and paintings reflected a regimental career (Lord Westland, he remembered, was a retired general) and the other half were prints and paintings of the Magnificent Masher at the peak of her career. Auguste began to approve of the so-far unknown General Lord Westland. Many such gentlemen on marrying into the world of the stage went to great pains to hide all trace of their wives’ former career. Dear Maisie, for example, had suffered in this way, though she had gained revenge by starting her own business. It was through her he had met Tatiana again, and yes, he had much to thank Maisie for, besides their halcyon days together in times long past.
‘My dear Tatiana.’ Lady Westland, looking as unlike the Magnificent Masher as it was possible to do, advanced to meet them. ‘And Auguste, how good of you both to come out at such short notice.’
Short notice? His antennae quivered. Why short notice?
‘Lord Westland.’ Tatiana bowed in acknowledgement of his greeting. This was not the tall ramrod figure of Auguste’s imagination. He was a general of Napoleonic stature and build, not as short as the nation’s beloved Bobs, but no dominating presence. Or was he? One glance at those keen eyes, and Auguste began to realise he was greatly mistaken in his snap judgement.
‘And, of course, you know our friend.’ Lady Westland led the way into the drawing-room – no friend was in sight. ‘Do come out, Max,’ Gwendolen boomed.
Slowly, cautiously, Max Hill’s head appeared over the back of a sofa. He looked extremely nervous.
‘There you are,’ cried Tatiana delightedly.
‘This ain’t my idea,’ Max informed Auguste crossly, as he emerged. He edged nearer the door.
‘I’m sure it is not.’ Auguste looked questioningly at Lady Westland. ‘It was you, then, to whom Max ran for sanctuary.’ Not Nettie, as they’d assumed.
‘You have a quaint way of putting it, Auguste, but in fact it was to my husband he ran.’
‘You, Lord Westland?’ Auguste was totally puzzled now.
‘My wife is correct,’ the General said. ‘If you would allow me to explain, we can then all take luncheon.’
It sounded so reasonable, so normal, that Auguste’s head spun. He wondered feverishly whether he should insist on telephoning Egbert immediately. Or should he himself take Max in charge? In the event he adopted neither course of action and reminding himself of a Brillat-Savarin aphorism that the most essential attribute for a cook was punctuality, and telling himself that generals must adhere to the same rule, he put his confidence in the luncheon arriving at the time set and not a moment later. It was merely a matter of adapting the time of his stomach. Max at last, with his eyes fixed firmly on Auguste, followed the example of the rest of the company and sat down. His ill-fitting morning-dress suit was evidently dredged up from the General’s wardrobe judging by the length of the trousers, Auguste saw, and was making him even more il
l at ease.
‘We enjoyed your performance in Canterbury, Mr Hill,’ he began meaningfully.
‘Glad to hear it,’ Max replied nervously.
The General took command. ‘You will have heard that I have retired from His Majesty’s army. It is not correct, Mr Didier. I have retired from active service, but I now have another role which cannot be discussed further.’
‘I understand.’ They seemed the right words to say, but Auguste was not at all sure he did.
‘You will not have heard of Section H. It was created in response to the communication needs of the South African war, and then expanded its role.’
‘Spying?’ Auguste asked eagerly.
Lord Westland frowned. ‘That is one word certainly. Intelligence-gathering is perhaps a better. Before Section H there was only one office responsible for secret-service work, with a team of outside informants who were paid for their information. Now Section H had taken over its work and is rapidly expanding it. And so, of course, is its partner, or as some have it, rival.’
‘In other words, Special Branch,’ Lady Westland put in.
‘As Gwendolen has so frankly put it, Special Branch. I concede there is a certain rivalry between our departments. Formed to cope with the menace of the Fenians, which they did excellently, they were then eager to expand overseas. While we, being more recently formed, co-operated during the war, we are less enthusiastic about its continuing. When it was reported to me that His Majesty had been so unwise as to entrust Special Branch with the delicate mission of returning Prince Henry’s cross to Portugal and that they had chosen Mr Gomez as their key man, I was extremely concerned, since we knew all too well Gomez was of Republican sympathies. However, we did not know whether his politics exceeded his love of money, and Gwendolen had the excellent notion of calling on her old friend Max to keep an eye on the situation.’
Max looked up as if being a dear old friend was not always a position to be cherished.
‘He played the part of double agent most effectively, I am sure you will agree, Mr Didier,’ the General continued. Max looked modest. ‘He inveigled himself into being Gomez’s partner, and as soon as he realised Gomez was playing a double hand of his own, he let Gwendolen know so that we could keep an eye on what was going on.’
‘And myself?’ Auguste inquired coldly.
‘My dear Mr Didier, a double precaution. Quite genuinely, Nettie, knowing nothing of this, was worried about Will and told Gwendolen. What better than to have you as an unknowing but stalwart ally in the theatre, especially when poor Will Lamb was murdered and it seemed Gwendolen should be there herself?’
‘And Will? You involved Will in the cross affair?’
‘I did my bloomin’ best, begging your pardon,’ a nod towards Tatiana, ‘to keep him away,’ Max shouted indignantly. ‘I couldn’t tell him the truth, about the Gomezes’ plan to make use of him, so I tries to scare him. I did one of my impersonations of old Bill Terriss. Whenever Will came to West End theatre land, there was yours truly just whisking away out of sight in the cloak and hat or booming out behind him. I scared the living daylights out of meself, let alone him.’
‘So it was you on the Saturday night who shouted out from the audience,’ Auguste exclaimed.
‘Yes, and a fat lot of good it did.’ Max was aggrieved. ‘One flash of that red-headed tart’s b— eyes,’ he amended hastily, ‘and Will was down there slobbering. Wild horses couldn’t have kept him away, let alone Bill Terriss.’
‘Mariella was trying to keep him away too, she told us. She was writing letters to scare him.’
‘She wasn’t trying half as hard as me. Anyway, no wonder. She had her inheritance to think about. I was more interested in old Will not getting dragged into anything nasty. Poor old devil. Then that happened to him.’
‘Why did you run away, Max, if Lord Westland was protecting you?’ Auguste inquired.
‘What else could I do?’ he said plaintively. ‘Those Special Branch boys can’t wait to pin something on me, and it won’t be the Victoria Cross or old Prince Henry’s.’
‘Such as what?’
‘Gomez’s murder.’
‘But where is the cross?’ Auguste asked. ‘You know it’s disappeared?’
‘I haven’t the slightest idea, me old darling.’
‘Come on, Max, you must have,’ Gwendolen said encouragingly. ‘You can tell us now.’
‘Look here, the last I knew Gomez was taking it to his Republican chums; he was going to take it after his turn that Wednesday, and I had it all lined up to be there too incognito. But he never turned up at the pub he was going to meet them at. Because of Will’s death, I thought then. But he didn’t go out of his way to get it to them Thursday, Friday or Saturday, either.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I know, old chum, because his mob descended on me when they heard he was dead and used a few tough methods to tell ’em where it was. Not nice at all. I went to Madam Mariella and told her to take care. You should, me darling, I said, because you’ll be the next on the list. That frightened her. Better talk to her. Me. I’m guiltless as a new-born whelk. Where’s that grub, Gwendolen?’
The drive back to London was almost pleasant, considering it was by motorcar. Tatiana was talking technical nonsense (or so it seemed to Auguste) to Manners, whom to his pleasant surprise was driving, and so he was able to dream. Dream of the delightful luncheon they had just eaten, dream of Egbert’s face when he told him of Max’s whereabouts, dream of a time when John no longer reigned in his kitchen, dream of the time that Will Lamb’s murderer was safely behind bars and he could resume Dining with Didier. Suddenly the prospect no longer seemed so appealing. He tried to stimulate his interest by reciting (silently) every kind of fish he could think of, allotting the perfect sauce to each. Brocket à l’Orly, Cabillard a la Provençale, Carp à la Choucroute – or perhapsd la Chambord?. . . Morue au Gratin, Moules a la Villeroy, Raie au— He remembered his earlier mistake and laughed.
‘Don’t you think so, Auguste?’
‘I do,’ he agreed quickly, only belatedly wondering what he was concurring with, and intent on his own line of thought.
‘I’m so glad. Manners can investigate then.’
Tomorrow morning he would see Egbert. He wondered whether by chance Egbert kept a Portuguese dictionary in his office.
‘That’s all I need. Army Intelligence mixed up with this case. A case of too many cooks, or crooks in this case. Did you believe Hill, Auguste?’ Egbert asked irately, when Auguste went to report the next morning.
‘Yes, but if not he, then who?’
‘Well, I don’t. A bloke can get hungry waiting for your missing ingredients.’
‘I have brought it with me, Egbert.’ Auguste placed a small book on his desk. ‘I bought this Portuguese dictionary at Mr Bumpus’s excellent establishment this morning.’
Egbert sighed. ‘What makes me think I’m in for one of your fancy ideas?’
‘Not fancy at all. Will Lamb’s dying word as reported by Gomez was “Ghost”.’
‘That’s right. Now we know Max was playing the ghost Will saw. Lamb had realised who was playing Terriss and who his murderer was. He was telling us.’
Auguste stared at him, horrified. ‘I never thought of that.’
‘Lucky I did, then. Wraps up the case nicely.’
‘Perhaps not.’
‘Make this quick and make this good, Auguste,’ Egbert threatened.
‘Suppose Gomez heard what he thought was the word ghost in Portuguese, just as I did rate instead of “Hooray”?’
‘Any evidence?’
‘It’s a line of thought.’
‘What is it?’
Auguste turned open the page. He had resisted doing so in the hansom, so sure he was right. Staring at the page he was less sure. ‘S-0-M-B-R-A-’ he read out.
‘Chap in a sombrero hat, eh?’ Egbert was not amused.
Auguste looked up the pronunciation. ‘O-m is a nasal sou
nd, as in French.’ He tried it.
‘If that’s all, I’ll collect Twitch – we’ll be off to arrest Hill.’
‘No, it’s not all.’ Something else lingered. The smell of a dish not quite cooked recently. Which dish? Max Hill? His talk with Egbert, with Brodie, with Nettie? Little Emmeline? Something came to him, the detail that would not digest, like sombra, it was only one word, but it was odd in the circumstances.
‘Right, you’ve had your chance,’ Egbert said briskly.
‘No, one moment,’ Auguste said sharply. Please, please, he told his brain, work. Bring together all the ingredients and tell me how these words fit. He began to talk to Egbert, eager to get his thoughts into the world. If he could get Egbert to listen, to gain his attention, that might be the catalyst he needed.
Egbert listened. As usual, he cut through the ideas, and came down to fact. He could cut clear through the spongiest cake down to the strong base beneath – if it existed.
‘If you’re right,’ he said, ‘you can tell me what the blazes the case was all about, if you can puzzle it out.’
‘And then?’
‘Then we all meet down at the Old King Cole tomorrow afternoon. Percy, Max, Emmeline, Nettie, Brodie, Pickles, the twins, the Yapps, Fernando, Mariella, Old Uncle Tom Cherry and all.’
Chapter Twelve
Max and breakfast were not a beautiful sight, at least, not linked together. To Auguste, coming in from his own unfortunate start to the day, Max looked an incongruous figure at the Westlands’ elegant table, as he sat in solitary splendid state with a napkin tastefully tucked under the dirty red scarf round his neck. Both seemed to be contributing to the mopping-up of unconsidered trifles from Max’s mouth. The Westlands’ footman was studiedly fixing his attention on the middle air somewhere over Max’s head, as Max scraped back his chair, and stalked grandly to the sideboard for what, judging by the footman’s amazed face, must be at least his third plateful of herrings.
‘You moving in here too?’ he grunted, seeing Auguste.
‘Perhaps. Those eggs look magnificent.’ He spoke with feeling. This morning the all-important day for Egbert and himself, had begun with a domestic crisis. It was too much. How was a man expected to work? Worst of all, Tatiana had appeared to blame him, merely because he had ventured to observe to his own cook that the eggs were too hard to be eaten au beurre.