Murder In The Motor Stable: (Auguste Didier Mystery 9) (15 page)

‘You don’t seem too upset at Hester’s death,’ Hugh observed, watching her closely – not that her expression was visible under the veil.

‘No,’ Isabel replied with surprise. ‘Why should I pretend? I didn’t like her very much.’ It was an understatement. She was almost faint with relief.

‘My first murder took place near here,’ Auguste observed suddenly as they sped along the Dover Road between hop-fields and cherry orchards towards Faversham.

‘I’m glad that policeman can’t hear you say that.’ Tatiana managed a laugh.

‘I’ve known Egbert nearly thirteen years. I met him at Stockbery Towers on the downs in eighteen ninety-one.’

‘And now you’re an experienced detective.’

He considered this. ‘Perhaps.’ He wondered why he always felt ambivalent about this role which had been none of his seeking.

‘Will Egbert want you to help him on this case?’

He considered this too. ‘I can hardly refuse if he asks me.’ Nor, he realised, did he want to. He was already throwing ingredients into the casserole of this murder, and besides, he was angry that Tatiana’s beloved club had been the scene of so
much violence and hatred. As they passed over Harbledon Down and the magnificent view of Canterbury spread out before them, he reflected on the joy this point in the journey must have brought the pilgrims to the cathedral’s shrine. Their own journey would be a darker one. ‘I hope he does. I want it over
quickly
. Is that selfish of me?’

At the back of both their minds was tucked away the thought: what about Eastbourne? Would the trip they were all four looking forward to so much take place? If Egbert was allotted the case, it must be solved. Eastbourne was now less than two weeks away.

The journey passed slowly as even the mechanically perfect Léon Bollée laboured up the hill out of Canterbury, and then the wind caught them in all its fury on the exposed and virtually treeless Barham Downs. At last a battered signpost displayed the legend Barham. Martyr House was almost upon them.

‘At least we haven’t had any trouble from the Hams,’ Tatiana remarked more cheerfully as she turned the steering wheel towards Barham.

One motorcar was not to be so lucky.

‘Your motorcar is driving splendidly, Thomas,’ Agatha informed him briskly. He had been very quiet since they had heard the news of Hester and the Dolly Dobbs and could hardly be raised to enthusiasm even by this praise. ‘It’s done over sixty miles now,’ she continued. ‘Doesn’t that mean we’re over the limit of what the accumulators could have achieved on their own?’

‘Yes.’ He belatedly added, ‘Your Grace.’

‘Splendid, for we’re approaching Barham Downs where the last Motor Club trial will be. After they’ve taken the time at the end of the measured mile, we’ll tell them this isn’t the Dolly
Dobbs. And no apologising to them, Thomas.’ She wagged a warning gloved finger at him, then removed it to pull the lever controlling the hoods round to face full front to catch the wind driving head on towards them over the Downs.

Half a mile further on, the Brighton Baby slid to a halt, in full view of two Motor Club officials.

There was a pause. Then, ‘What is wrong with this contraption, Thomas?’ The Duchess’s voice was dangerously quiet as, aghast, he sought an answer. He had leapt down and was running frantically round his beloved Baby. ‘Is it a broken cable?’

‘No.’

‘Is it a fault in the motor or dynamo?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Could it by any chance be the battery?’

‘I think it must be.’

‘
Why?
’

‘The voltmeter fell below seventy-five volts.’

‘Kindly explain yourself, my man.’

His voice rose in panic. ‘I think it must be the wind.’

‘There is enough wind on this heath to power a railway train.’ Agatha’s voice was clipped.

‘But not the right kind of wind.’ Thomas eyed the approaching Motor Club officials with dread fascination.

‘Right
kind
?’ she purred.

‘It’s coming from the wrong direction. It must be too strong.’

‘Forgive me if I’m wrong, but the point of the levers is to turn those windmill hoods to obtain all the wind they can get.’

He gazed at her, his face white. ‘I might have forgotten to reckon with the wind resistance factor.’

‘It seems to me the wind is resisting you all too well,’ she snapped, turning to speak to the Motor Club men with a winning smile. They were not won, and a few minutes later, with the Brighton Baby’s fate officially sealed, she switched her attention back to the cowering designer.

‘And how,’ she asked sweetly, ‘do you propose we travel from here to meet His Majesty?’

The local group of Hams led by Hortensia Millward, who had been biding its time hiding in the straggly line of trees and undergrowth lining the road, burst out, only too willing to tell her.

King Edward VII advanced cordially towards the Bollée as its occupants descended. This, he had decided, would be a pleasant, informal event. What could be more pleasant, after all, than a procession of motorcars driven by at least some pretty ladies, welcoming them all and then tucking in to an Auguste Didier banquet on a perfect July day? Especially when Tatiana was organising the event.

‘Good morning, Bertie.’

How did she manage to look so calm? Auguste wondered admiringly as Bertie kissed her, complimented her on her looks, her gown, and her Bollée. He almost went so far as to compliment her on her husband, such was his good humour.

‘If I might have a word, Your Majesty,’ Auguste murmured, returning upright after his bow and then taking the final plunge, ‘after you have received all the drivers, of course.’

‘Certainly, certainly. Nothing wrong, I hope. Haven’t left the horseradish behind, have you?’ Bertie chortled.

While he was awaiting execution for incompetence, Auguste slipped into the marquee. In there there would be comfort, and
there was. Even to his anxious eye, all seemed to be going splendidly. Greenery and roses adorned the tables in elegant trails, silver gleamed, glasses shone. More important still, the food appeared a model of pleasing colour and succulence. Hot food was ranged ready to serve along the back of the marquee, cold buffets along one side, and wine, desserts, cheese and fruit along the other. Moreover Luigi was with Bernard standing on one side of the tent and Pierre on the other,
without
an atmosphere that needed to be cut by a specially sharpened knife. Auguste debated whether to tell them about the tragedy now or after the banquet, and decided in favour of now since they would undoubtedly overhear gossip during the luncheon. He called them together, to tell them Hester Hart had been found dead and the Dolly Dobbs smashed. There was instant silence. Everyone had heard of the problem of Hester Hart.

‘No. We don’t know yet how she died, but the Dolly Dobbs was put out of action in the motor house and she was found dead beside it.’

‘Did the police come?’ asked Luigi sharply.

‘Yes. They are coming here later as well. They will doubtless wish to speak to us all, but the important matter for the moment is the banquet. Let us ensure that it goes with the perfection it deserves.’

Ten minutes later, his soul soothed by the calming sight of mousses, quails in aspic,
filets de sole
, and a hundred other dishes blending into an exciting panorama of gastronomic delight, Auguste went back to face his less pleasant duty of giving His Majesty the news. He was just in time to see the arrival of the Brighton Baby. It had come with much less horsepower than all the other cars, but what it had came from real horses.

Hortensia Millward, flushed with pride, marched in the vanguard of four horses towing the broken-down motor containing one distraught inventor and one irate duchess whose victory over Hester Hart had been ruined.

‘Why’s he coming?’ the King asked in surprise at the news that Egbert Rose would be arriving later. Then fearing this sounded inhospitable, he said with his usual courtesy (it was his expression that could whittle Auguste into the ground quicker than a tent peg), ‘I’m delighted, of course. No one planning to assassinate me today, I hope?’ There was caution in his voice for he associated Egbert, and therefore Auguste, with such attempts in the past.

‘No, sir.’

‘It’s about a sudden death,’ Tatiana broke the news gently.

‘Here?’ There was instant alarm in the King’s voice.

‘In London.’

Bertie beamed in relief. ‘Splendid.’

‘But it affects the Ladies’ Motoring Club. Hester Hart was a member of it.’

‘Hester Hart?’ The King frowned. She was that woman in the press who kept wandering off to the desert. And something had happened years ago, when he was still Prince of Wales. He tried his best to remember, but failed. He met so many women. ‘What sort of death? Apart from its being sudden?’ He fixed Auguste with the eagle eye he had come to know. It could spot defenceless prey from a thousand feet.

‘It might be murder, sir.’

There was a pause as His Majesty grappled with the word he always associated with Auguste. Then he decided to be magnanimous. After all, the body wasn’t here, only the damn
suspects, from what he could gather. ‘Another case for Inspector Didier, eh?’

The banquet passed without mishap, with even a regal compliment on the horseradish sauce. Éclairs, jellies, ice creams and circular sandwiches smoothly followed at four o’clock. Champagne punch flowed. The name of Hester Hart had not been heard for at least thirty minutes when Egbert arrived.

‘Was it murder, Egbert?’ Auguste asked soberly.

‘Oh yes. A whacking great stab wound in the chest.’

Martyr House, a severe and to Auguste’s eye rather dull seventeenth-century mansion, was large, but even so it seemed to be overflowing with bodies. Live ones fortunately. Most of the guests were staying at neighbouring houses but the provision of retiring and temporary dressing rooms for the ball this evening seemed to have converted the house into a scene worthy of Bruegel’s brush. Or perhaps, Auguste thought as he led Egbert to the cubbyhole which had been allotted to his investigation by the somewhat grudging Isabel, Lewis Carroll’s pen could do more justice to it. It was a scene built of a pack of cards, and here was Egbert in its midst, perhaps to bring them fluttering down in a heap. Auguste only hoped His Majesty didn’t decide to enter this Wonderland of a situation by crying ‘Off with their heads’.

It was a strange juxtaposition, seeing Egbert in his familiar Scotland Yard bowler and dark suit marching stolidly past those glittering birds of paradise. They hardly cast him a glance, so intent were they on discussions of such vital matters as last week’s ball and next week’s soirée, combined with average speeds, petrol consumption, and the high wages of nearly £100 a year demanded by chauffeurs. He had hardly heard the name of Hester Hart, though during the afternoon the Dolly Dobbs had most certainly been a talking point – or
rather Thomas Bailey’s imitation. Or was Dolly the imitation? There were undercurrents at work here, at which he and Egbert could only guess and into which they would have to delve to reach the truth.

These smiling ladies in their muslins and gauzes looked as if their delicate lace-gloved hands had difficulty holding bone china teacups, and yet each one of them was adventurous enough to drive a motorcar, even if they were Rabbits, not Racers. To be a Rabbit demanded an adventurousness greater than most women saw any need for.

Egbert took one look at the bare cell he had been allotted in the kitchen block. ‘The labourer is worthy of his hire,’ he announced briskly, and marched straight out again. ‘Where’s the Countess?’

Auguste consulted his pocket watch. ‘It is six o’clock. She will be dressing for the ball.’

‘I’ll see the Earl then, even if he’s in his suspenders and long johns.’

Twenty minutes later, installed in the library, a room rarely disturbed by the owners, Egbert was eyeing a tray of tea with satisfaction. It was after six, so even this gesture suggested how low Scotland Yard figured in the social scale of Martyr House, Auguste thought, but refrained from comment to Egbert.

‘Auguste,’ he set his cup down, ‘we’ve got to solve this one quickly.’

‘We, Egbert?’

‘For Tatiana’s sake. You know the club, you know the people.’

‘I suppose it couldn’t be suicide?’

‘Someone came along and moved the body if so.
And
the weapon. It was murder. Question is, why? Was the motive the death of Hester Hart, in which case why put the car out of
action, or was the motorcar the intended victim and Hester Hart inconveniently in the way?’

‘Or both,’ Auguste suggested. ‘But why would someone wish to destroy the Dolly Dobbs when another one could be built tomorrow? It is true that for some people a great deal depended on today.’

‘Any more than what you told me about last Sunday?’ Egbert consulted his notebook. ‘This Duchess had her nose put out of joint.’

‘She put it back. Dobbs’s rival brought his own motorcar here today and the Duchess drove it.’

‘She still had a motive though. Revenge on Hester Hart.’

‘Her vengeance
was
the Bailey car. The Brighton Baby is identical to the Dolly Dobbs, and the Duchess let the Motor Club officials test it under the impression it was the Dolly Dobbs.’

‘Reason enough for both of them to want the Dolly Dobbs out of action.’

‘Both Harold and Hester received threatening letters this week, warning them against driving the Dolly Dobbs.’

‘Nasty.’ Egbert made a note. ‘Anyone else have reason to smash the car? We can exclude Dobbs for a start.’

‘Perhaps.’ Auguste thought back.

Egbert cocked an eye at him. ‘You sound doubtful.’

‘A pinch of salt or pepper can transform a dish, and you always tell me never to discount anything. Suppose Dobbs knew about the Brighton Baby being identical to his own car?’

‘He’d have had all the more reason to go through the trials first.’

‘Yes, yet he behaved very strangely last Saturday after he knew Bailey had been snooping around. He refused to allow
the Dolly Dobbs out of the motor house. Even Hester could not persuade him.’

‘I suppose it’s possible, in the heat of the moment.’ Egbert was still doubtful.

‘But was it in the heat of the moment?’ Auguste asked. ‘The murderer went prepared for murder.’ A sudden thought. ‘Or did the weapon come from the repair house?’

Egbert eyed Auguste appreciatively. ‘Twitch has had Fred Gale and Leo go through that repair house like a dose of salts. If there was anything missing we’d know. There wasn’t.’

‘It might not be missing.’

‘Twitch thought of that too. He’s sized up the wound, drawn it out, and had every single article in the repair house that might fit lined up. Chisels, knives, anything. No bloodstains. None that show, anyway. We’re doing a further check with some of them to see if a camera can pick up anything. But Twitch doesn’t think so. He’s a good man, Twitch. Within his limits.’ The limits were those to which Egbert’s patience could be put.

‘Hester told Tatiana she always had a gun with her. Was there no sign of it?’

‘No. Interesting, that. Perhaps she forgot to take it.’

‘Just when she knew there was a chance she might need it? That’s not likely, Egbert. How about the Dolly Dobbs? Could the block have hit it by accident, do you think?’

‘Not a chance. It would take several swings to get the momentum going to hit the controls that hard.’

‘It would take strength too. Beyond a woman’s capabilities.’

‘There you’re wrong, Auguste. I got Fred Gale to demonstrate. It wouldn’t take that much strength, and they’re all used to driving motorcars, after all.’

Auguste was silenced, remembering his own thoughts a little earlier on the strength of delicately-gloved hands.

‘The doors were padlocked this morning. How did the murderer get in?’

‘Ah. Now we’re back to our Mr Roderick Smythe.’ Egbert had all the satisfaction of a cat with a mouse firmly in his sights. ‘Fred Gale didn’t bother with locking up because Miss Hart
and
Smythe were there. When Smythe went – if he did – he claims he didn’t bother locking up because Hester said she’d do it.’

‘How could she padlock herself in?’

Egbert thought for a moment. ‘She’d only have to padlock the Dolly Dobbs door, enter the repair house, close that one and then bolt the inner door to the Dolly Dobbs stable after her.’

‘Then how did the murderer get in?’

‘You’re not thinking, Auguste. You need a good cup of tea. She let him or her in, of course.’

His head was spinning, and Auguste struggled to puzzle it out. ‘But the repair shop door was padlocked this morning, not bolted inside. Had Fred been there?’

‘No. He left the car fully charged last night. The murderer clicked the padlock home without a key, and Hester couldn’t bolt it because she was dead.’

‘Of course.’ Auguste suddenly felt exhausted. It had been a long day.

Egbert poured tea for him and pushed the cup towards him. ‘Have some.’

He sipped. It was terrible, but it was comforting. He took another sip which was better. ‘There is a lot we don’t know about Hester. Why did she join the club and then go out of her way to tell them about her memoirs? And, even more interestingly, her diaries?’

Egbert was suddenly alert. ‘I must need more of this tea
myself. I’d forgotten about them. Twitch will find them. He’s at her house now.’

‘They may reveal other motives, besides that of the Dolly Dobbs.’

‘They may, but for my money Roderick Smythe still has some explaining to do.’

‘Is he still at the Yard?’

‘No. He’s changing for dinner upstairs. He’s back here.’

‘
Here?
’

‘I’ve no evidence yet,’ Egbert said irritably, correctly interpreting Auguste’s expression. ‘Better here than on a cross-Channel steamer. He’s an arrogant chap and was shouting all over the Yard that the King was waiting to receive him. Not to mention Phyllis Lockwood.’

It was Auguste’s opinion that Phyllis was fully able to manage on her own. Her arrival with a policeman at her side had not gone unremarked by His Majesty. The constable had changed a tyre, refilled a boiled radiator, and shooed off a herd of sheep who had inconsiderately barred Miss Lockwood’s way when she took a wrong turn on Barham Downs. Once arrived at Martyr House, he had been leapt on by His Majesty’s private guard to ensure he really was a policeman, and without so much as a caviare canapé he had been driven to the nearest railway station for immediate despatch back to Strood, whence he came.

‘What’s his story about what happened last night?’

‘Frederick Gale says Tatiana asked him to stay with Hester because Smythe was no longer coming. That right?’ Auguste nodded. ‘He came back from a nap at twelve o’clock and Hester Hart was then inside the Dolly Dobbs motor house.’

‘Alive?’

‘So he says.’

‘Of course she was alive,’ Auguste remembered. ‘Tatiana heard her talking to Smythe.’

‘Did she? I’ll have a word with her. Smythe’s story is that he came along shortly before twelve thirty hoping to make up the quarrel with his fiancée and stay on guard himself, so he told Fred to hop it. Fred was doubtful about going but as he knew nothing about any quarrrel between the two of them, and the original intention had been for Smythe to stand guard, he couldn’t see any reason to object. So he went home, glad to get a night’s sleep before the big day. This morning he and Leo went straight to the cavalcade with their motor vans.’

‘Why did Smythe change his mind about staying?’

‘He claims Hester told him quite amicably that she was fully capable of guarding the Dolly Dobbs on her own, that their quarrel was resolved and their engagement reinstated.’

‘That does not quite accord with what Tatiana overheard.’

‘I’m not too surprised. I can’t see Hester Hart being so amicable if she was anything like you’ve told me. Smythe says he had a good night’s sleep and only drove down with Miss Lockwood because his own motorcar wasn’t drivable. He’d been intending to follow the cavalcade, with Fred and Leo, as the dustcart after the Lord Mayor’s Show.’

‘Strange for a racing driver to be so inefficient with his own motorcar. Does he have witnesses to the time he arrived home?’

‘His manservant says just before two. He says one o’clock, but he spent some time in the motor house alone hoping to get the Crossley going.’

‘Alone?’ Auguste repeated.

‘Quite alone. On the other hand,’ Egbert grunted, ‘there’s no evidence against him except that he was last on the scene.’

‘Fingerprints?’ Auguste asked hopefully. He knew that the Fingerprint Department at the Yard established three years ago was at last beginning to pay dividends and that there was hope the courts might take notice of such evidence.

‘Twitch is working on it.’

Leaving Egbert to struggle into the tail coat and trousers he had reluctantly brought in honour of his King, Auguste yielded to the temptation to slip down to the kitchens before changing for dinner himself. Ostensibly this was to check that the remains of his luncheon and tea were not in any way hindering the progress of the resident chefs ball supper and that his own club china and glass and ornaments had not intruded – by sheer mistake – into the assets of Martyr House. He also, he admitted, had a professional curiosity in seeing another’s kitchen at such a critical moment in the preparation of a meal of which His Majesty was to partake. True, His Majesty always had the foresight to send one of his own chefs down to superintend the food to be served, and sometimes to cook it. When he was not long married, Auguste had had several clashes with these otherwise admirable gentlemen, as to whose authority reigned supreme. His victory was his first taste of the power that status of social position can bestow, and when he belatedly realised the reason for the chefs’ speedy surrender he had spent much time in rebuilding the delicate bridges of spun sugar needed to heal wounded feelings and open a route to a tarmacadamed smoother future.

By a kitchen, so shall you know a house. He did not like the smell of this one. There seemed to be wealth without taste, beautiful objects that instead of warming heart and eye lay and hung lifelessly, as if stifled in a house without love. Indeed it probably was, if the rumours about Isabel were true, and from what he had seen of the Earl, he was an amiable but aimless
gentleman who could no more stamp a personality on the household than a dried-out stick of sealing wax. The only member of the family who could claim connections with humanity was the Earl’s mother, who had enlivened Auguste’s teatime with a spirited account of her early, and close, friendship with His Majesty. The kitchens, however, lacked even this glimpse of warmth. Its staff moved like pawns on a sterile chessboard, the smell of food battling with, not enriching, its surroundings. Auguste knew precisely the kind of supper that would emerge from this kitchen: competent, expensive and
dull
. Lobster salads would be just that, a series of ingredients put together to answer the description, not created to form an excitement of its own;
oeufs à la neige
would be floating cardboard meringues in a sea of stagnant custard. However, he had another reason for being here, an important one, one which he had been at a loss to define until the events of the day had brought them to the surface and crystallised them into a question.