Murder In The Motor Stable: (Auguste Didier Mystery 9) (20 page)

‘Delighted,’ he answered truthfully. He glanced at her. ‘You’re worried about those diaries, aren’t you?’

‘Wouldn’t you be?’ Hugh was her cousin, he must know the old story. He even knew about the Jubilee dinner; she’d never kept secrets from Hugh, even though he was now her lover as well as cousin.

‘Where do you think the diaries are?’

‘I’ve asked Luigi, but he claims not to know.’

‘Perhaps you haven’t paid him enough.’ Hugh thought carefully. ‘We’d better offer more.’

Isabel thrilled to the sound of the ‘we’. She needed help. Uncritical and unreserved help.

When she entered the library, her walk suggested that Egbert and Auguste should shudder at the approach of her languorous beauty. Her equanimity was restored.

‘Am I a suspect?’ She sank gracefully into the chair, her body arched at an angle far beyond that demanded by her S-bend corsetry.

‘Not yet.’ Egbert was not prepared to exchange banter.

‘How exciting. I expect you’d like to know where I was on Wednesday evening. I came up to London so that I could take part in the run early on Wednesday evening and dined in the club. I may have seen Miss Hart. I can’t recall.’

‘Your motorcar was still in a motor house at eleven thirty.’

The eyelids flickered. ‘If you say so, Inspector, I’m sure it was. I dined late.’

‘And you walked there to collect it?’

‘My dining companion did, I believe. No, I’m wrong. It was me.’

‘And what then?’

‘We drove to my home. I believe we were there about a quarter to one.’

‘And then?’

‘
He
went home, Inspector.’ There was a yawn in her voice. ‘And no, I did not return to the club to murder dear Hester. I wish I’d thought of it, but I decided to get a good night’s sleep.’

‘You had reason to wish her dead then?’ Egbert asked mildly.

Isabel was aggrieved that her pleasantry had misfired. She tried earnestness instead. ‘I did not like her but I did not seriously wish to kill her.’

‘Not even if she revealed in her memoirs how you’d ruined her chances of being accepted into the Prince of Wales’s circle?’

She stared at him coldly. ‘I may possibly have advised His Majesty some years ago that Miss Hart was not a suitable person for His Majesty to meet. Why not?’

‘Unjustly?’

‘In society unfortunately that is irrelevant. What is relevant is reputation.’

‘And yours might have been threatened if her memoirs had been published? And still might.’

‘The diaries,’ she said slowly. ‘You have them? They are full of lies, I assure you, Inspector.’ And when he did not reply, ‘
Do
you have them?’

The Brighton Baby had the motor stable yard all to itself. It had been banned from joining the cavalcade of
real
motorcars which had now moved round to the front of the main house. Of its dejected designer only the rear half was to be seen as Auguste approached; the other half was buried under the hidden parts of his beloved motorcar. Gradually Thomas became aware of two boots at his side which showed no inclination to walk away, and he reluctantly withdrew himself.

‘It
will
work,’ he cried defensively. ‘It’s just a matter of a few adjustments.’

‘That wasn’t what was on my mind.’

Thomas sat down on the running board dejectedly. ‘You don’t want me to explain exactly how having too much wind provided so much resistance to the car that it went slower because it overcharged the batteries, buckling the plates, which meant loss of voltage? I’ve worked it all out. Look.’ He waved a sheet of paper at Auguste hopefully.

‘No. What
we
want to know is whether you put the Dolly Dobbs out of action.’

Thomas looked astounded. ‘Certainly not. I wouldn’t demean myself. Nor –’ as he belatedly made the connection ‘did I kill Miss Hart. I wouldn’t dream of such a thing. I’m a professional motorcar designer.’

‘We’re told that the two motorcars are identical.’

‘So the Duchess has told me. How could I know?’ he asked pathetically.

‘I saw you peering through the roof at the Dolly Dobbs,’ Auguste reminded him.

‘Yes, but I couldn’t see much. How
identical
?’ he asked.

Never had Auguste expected to be in the position of having to discuss the technicalities of motorcars. ‘The Dolly Dobbs, like your Brighton Baby, is designed to recharge the batteries in motion with the help of wind power. It, too, had hoods and windmills—’

‘Propellers,’ interrupted Thomas sharply.

‘Isn’t the coincidence rather strange?’

‘These things happen.’

‘There is surely some competition to be first in the field.’

‘Of course,’ Thomas replied simply. ‘But I didn’t destroy the Dolly Dobbs just for the sake of the trials. I didn’t
know
. The Duchess came to me and told me she’d heard I had a new car and she wanted to drive it. As for coincidence, I would say great minds think alike, except I don’t know whether Harold Dobbs’s
is
a great mind.’

‘There’s no question of you stealing his idea then, or writing threatening letters to him?’

Thomas looked nervous. ‘Why should I? I have been working on my Baby for five years. The idea is ridiculous. Have you asked him if he stole the idea from me?’

‘Not yet, but we will.’

‘Mr Didier,’ he called after Auguste as he departed, ‘I
suppose I couldn’t drive you back to London, could I?’

‘You could not.’ Which, as Auguste reflected, was probably true.

‘Good morning, Mr Didier,’ Hortensia called, dismounting happily. ‘We’re here to bid the happy band of motorcars farewell. A small demonstration of two.’

‘Splendid. You can begin with blocking the path of His Majesty’s motorcar,’ Auguste replied gravely.

Hortensia laughed. ‘We never expected when we set out to barrack the Dolly Dobbs that it would end with meeting the King. Rather fun.’

‘If it doesn’t put paid to my chances of meeting him again in the New Year,’ her husband added gloomily.

‘When did you travel down to Kent, Mrs Millward?’

Hortensia barked with laughter. ‘You’ve got your detective voice on, haven’t you? I’ve heard about your cases. You suspect us of putting the Dolly Dobbs out of action, don’t you? We travelled down here by early morning railway train yesterday. The local Hams met us with a splendid carriage and pair, and we were in plenty of time to greet our chugging petrol horrors.’

‘And where were you both the night before?’

‘At home,’ John supplied promptly.

‘Together.’ Hortensia grinned. ‘Sorry, Auguste.’

‘And the evening before?’

Neither of them replied.

From the noise it was clear that His Majesty was about to depart, and Auguste hastened round to make his farewells. Bertie had the air of one whose duty had been overdone and who spied freedom near at hand. He was far too cordial in the
farewells he was paying to the assembled occupants of Martyr House. Auguste hurried up to stand respectfully near the car.

‘Auguste?’ He was fixed with a belligerent eye.

‘Your Majesty?’

‘I don’t like to see Tati upset, and she is. I’ve invited her to Goodwood to cheer her up. And you, of course,’ he added courteously before returning to the subject in hand. ‘Find out who murdered that woman, there’s a good chap.’

The good chap, watching the Lanchester drive away, felt relieved that he was to travel back with Egbert by train. Tatiana had insisted on his doing so. What was the point, she said, of his enduring a drive back on the Léon Bollée when he could achieve much more by a discussion with Egbert. Moreover, she conceded, judging by the number of punctures on the way down, a train might arrive quicker than the cavalcade. Agatha, she announced gloomily, had offered to travel back with her. The Duke had an appointment with a cricket match.

Directly the King had gone, the Ladies’ Motoring Club climbed enthusiastically on to their own motor cars. Cranking handles were turned, engines began to roar, the Kentish air was full of fumes. Hortensia pointedly held her nose as the motorcars began to pass her. At the end of the procession, but markedly not part of it, a lonely electric motorcar, its propellers turning defiantly, slid silently past with its solitary occupant: Thomas Bailey. Auguste and Egbert went back into the house to collect their luggage and were surprised to find they had a companion walking quickly up behind them. It was John Millward.

‘I wanted to tell you . . .’ He was extremely nervous and pushed his spectacles up his nose agitatedly several times.

‘Yes, Mr Millward?’ Egbert stopped.

‘I wanted to tell you I knew Miss Hart. My wife is not fully aware of what happened.’

‘You were at the club on Tuesday night dining with Miss Lockwood. Is this connected?’

Millward looked as if he could happily jump into one of his beloved sarcophagi. ‘You know about that? Yes, it is connected. I disliked Miss Hart.’ He looked as nervous as though this alone was sufficient for Egbert to clap handcuffs on him. ‘I am an archaeologist, as you know, and when I was working in Cairo, a fellow archaeologist, Robert Koldewey, asked my opinion of Miss Hart because she had applied to join his excavations at Babylon. I gave it to him frankly and of course unbiased.’ He glanced at Egbert as though this was too much to be believed. ‘Nevertheless, Miss Hart resented it and the next thing I knew I appeared to have a public reputation as some kind of Don Juan, tampering with her affections and, some rumours said, her body. It was most distressing. Fortunately the rumours did not reach my wife.’

‘And there was no truth in them, I presume?’ Auguste could not resist asking.

John Millward gazed at him. ‘If you had a wife like Hortensia, would you have an affair with Miss Hart?’

Auguste could see his point, though not perhaps in the sense he had meant.

‘Did Miss Hart record all this in her diaries?’ Egbert pressed him.

‘That’s what I’m worried about. If Hortensia found out . . . Will you tell me?’

‘At the moment they seem to be unaccountably missing. Now you tell
me
just why you were dining with Miss Lockwood.’

He hesitated. ‘I can say nothing. I am a gentleman,’ he offered hopefully.

‘You were sweet on her? She on you?’

‘No!’ His voice came out as a squeak. ‘She had heard the lies Hester had been spreading about our supposed affair and she wanted me –’ he almost choked in his indignation – ‘to go to Mr Smythe and persuade him they were true and that Hester wasn’t a fit person for him to marry.’

‘And did you?’ Auguste was agog.

‘Of course not. But it was most unpleasant. She threatened to tell Hortensia of Hester’s story if I didn’t. I didn’t know what to do,’ he ended ingenuously.

‘Miss Lockwood,’ Egbert remarked some time later, comfortably installed in an Elham Valley Railway carriage, ‘is a ruthless young lady. All the same, my money’s
still
on Smythe.’

‘Money?’ Auguste’s mind cleared, despite the wholly unsatisfactory luncheon. How could they not have considered it? It was like preparing the hollandaise and omitting the asparagus. ‘Egbert, Hester Hart was a rich woman, the only child of wealthy parents.’

Egbert grunted in self-disgust. ‘The first rule, who gains?’

‘To be precise, who inherits?’

Egbert stared out of the window at the Kent countryside flashing past. Sheep, hops, apple orchards . . . Give him Highbury any day. ‘I don’t know, but I’m looking forward to getting back to London to find out.’

Auguste always enjoyed visiting Egbert’s office at the Yard, tucked away on the top floor overlooking the Thames. Down below was the vast organisation of the Fingerprint Department, archives, registers, photographs, Black Museum, and countless other aids for the suppression of crime. This was a Thinking Room, untidy, small, yet the still, quiet centre of Egbert’s spider web. Egbert had once told him that the first case brought to New Scotland Yard was an unsolved murder in the foundations – a woman’s mutilated body had been found there after the site had been bought – and his job was to ensure it was the last.

Inspector Stitch was Egbert’s link with his web. It was his
métier
, and increased his devotion to the task of assisting Chief Inspector Egbert Rose. In his nightly prayers, offered up side by side with Martha Stitch, he concluded with a grateful prayer to the Deity that he had such an understanding superior, one as devoted to the advancement of Inspector Stitch as was he.

Twitch, Egbert often pointed out, had his uses. Auguste, only tolerated by Stitch as one of his superior’s eccentricities, agreed the sauce you knew was a useful standby. Stitch’s view was that Auguste should more rightly slink into the building through the rear entrance via the Convicts Supervision Department.

When they arrived at the Yard late on Friday afternoon, Twitch appeared immediately in the small office; his nose was as acute as Auguste’s in sniffing out Egbert’s presence.

‘Ah, Stitch, what kept you?’ Egbert inquired evilly. ‘This Hester Hart business, any trace of a solicitor’s address amongst her possessions?’

‘Yes, sir. I took the liberty of making an appointment for you tomorrow morning.’

‘Excellent.’ Egbert was well aware, as was Stitch, that usually Stitch would have carried out this interview himself but in any case where His Majesty was even remotely concerned, Stitch believed in playing for safety.

Stitch permitted himself a slight smile of satisfaction at such praise.

‘I take it there was no sign of a will anywhere?’

‘No, sir. There was a small safe, and I opened it as the keys were found in her bag. Nothing of interest.’

‘And no diaries?’

‘No, sir. No trace of them. Only three pages of something headed My Life. All about buttons, it was. I’ve been back to the house since you telephoned, but that Hannah Smirch –’ Stitch was aggrieved – ‘ain’t what you’d call an obliging lady.’ There’d been some tempting-looking muffins and a pot of tea in that kitchen, but never a word of would you like some.

‘How about a gun? We were told she always carried a Colt with her.’

‘Nothing in her bag, nothing in the house, sir.’

‘It seems to me,’ Egbert said grumpily, ‘we’re told a lot of things about Miss Hart but the evidence is slower to make an appearance.’

‘Was there nothing on her key ring or in her handbag to indicate where the diaries might be, Inspector Stitch?’
Auguste asked as deferentially as he could manage. A look of injured reproach was all he got for his pains.

‘I’ll show you, sir.’ Twitch swivelled his eyes back to the chief inspector in case the Frenchie got the wrong impression over the destination of the mark of respect. Twitch returned with the serviceable large black dorothy bag which Auguste remembered seeing Hester carrying at the club, and opened it wide, removing the items one by one. A cheque book, a sovereign purse, a separate coin purse, a bunch of keys, a monogrammed cotton handkerchief without benefit of the usual embroidered roses, a comb, and a small leatherbound book which Egbert picked up.

‘A prayer book?’ Auguste asked curiously.

‘No. It’s the
Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám
, FitzGerald’s translation.’

‘That’s unusual.’

‘Why? You see it everywhere.’

‘Hester Hart did not strike me as a romantic lady, and this is a sensuous poem.’ Auguste took it from him.

‘Any clues in it to where the diaries might be? Every second letter marked – that sort of thing?’

‘No,
mon ami
. Nothing at all. Not even her name.’ He flicked through it and replaced the book on the table.

‘And those keys, Stitch? You’ve accounted for every one?’

‘No, sir.’

‘No?’

Twitch blushed at making this unusual confession. ‘These,’ he indicated three small brass keys and a larger one.

‘What about next of kin?’

‘There were a few early photographs but most of the personal stuff was to do with her travels.’

‘Letters?’

‘Nothing of much interest yet. It’s a rented house, so she’s either stored them elsewhere or she travels through life very light indeed.’ Stitch was rather pleased at this way of putting things, almost poetic, he thought.

‘Nevertheless, I’d better have a word with your Mrs Smirch.’

He’d better not expect any muffins, was Stitch’s instant thought, but he expressed the sentiment differently: ‘She needs a firm hand. And that Harold Dobbs is a rum one too. Sat in my office and cried.’

‘Very touching. For Miss Hart, himself, or his motorcar?’

‘He didn’t inform me of that, sir. He claims he was at home with Mrs Dobbs at the time of the crime.’

‘And Mrs Dobbs confirms it?’

‘Yes. Mind you, she admitted he was in his workroom from teatime until the early hours so she didn’t actually see him till the morning. But I can’t see he’d risk running up to London, murdering Miss Hart, and rushing back again. He’d miss the last train.’

‘There’s always the milk train, but I still can’t believe he’d knock his own horse out of the race, even if the Dolly Dobbs was deliberately
copied
from the Brighton Baby and he had just found out the Duchess would be driving the Baby in the cavalcade. Which came first, the chicken fricassée or the egg soufflé?’ Egbert ruminated. ‘Whichever it was, it’s going to take a fair time to sort all through their records to get at the truth.’ At the back of both their minds was Eastbourne.

‘There’s a simpler way,’ Auguste pointed out. ‘An inventor’s first step would be to take out a patent on the design.’

‘Sometimes, Auguste, I know you’re wasted on beef puddings. Tatiana won’t mind if you spend a Saturday morning at the Patent Office, will she?’

Tatiana was still at the club when Auguste returned to Queen Anne’s Gate for dinner. Nobly delaying his enjoyment of Mrs Jolly’s carp salad, he walked round to the club to find her, since Egbert had said he might call round to talk to her. He tracked her down to the small room on the first floor which she used as an office. She looked up with relief as he came in. ‘I thought you might be another newspaper man, or Maud, wanting to talk about the October race and the need to get the hat settled and produced. The last bright idea was a tricorne with a Romney-style tall crown, with a steering wheel in gold perched on top.’

‘
Ma mie
, I am not in the least like Maud, nor do I want to talk about hats. And why –’ it occurred to him – ‘should she? Isn’t the murder more important?’

‘The odd thing is, Auguste, that
no one
seems to want to talk about the murder. I find it very creepy. Agatha chattered brightly all the way home. You would think nothing had happened in the last few days apart from her meeting the King, the dance last night, and Goodwood next week. And, of course, the Hat. I got so cross I deliberately talked about the Brighton Baby. I’ve never seen Agatha so put out. She took the motorcar’s failure as a personal slight. I feel almost sorrier for Thomas Bailey than for Harold Dobbs, and not,’ she added truthfully, ‘
very
sorry for either of them.’

‘What’s your diagnosis of the coincidence of the two motorcars being identical,
ma fleur
?’

‘I can’t understand it. How
could
one be a copy of the other? Harold has kept his under lock and key ever since he began it, and so has Thomas. Harold says he has been working on it for five years, so does Thomas. I’m afraid it’s going to make a big story for this new
Car
magazine to be published in August, and a laughing stock of the club for supporting crazy inventions.’

‘We will make very sure it does not. We will solve both the murder and the mystery behind these two cars quickly. During August the club will be closed, and in September we can begin again. Society’s memory is short.’

‘You are a great strength, Auguste,’ Tatiana said gratefully. ‘But somehow I can’t think it will be as easy as that. I’m not helping. I haven’t had the courage even to look at the wreck of the Dolly Dobbs, even if that policeman on duty outside would let me in.’

‘Have any of the members gone round to the stable since they returned?’

She shook her head. ‘We got back about five o’clock, had tea, and then everyone went home, except for Leo and –’ she smiled – ‘Miss Dazey. Fred has gone off duty.’

‘Then let’s go together and look at the car.’

She accepted reluctantly, and they walked over to the motor stable. ‘I can’t bear to think of anyone I know being implicated in this. I can’t imagine anyone killing Hester, and I can’t imagine anyone wanting to smash up a motorcar.’

On the latter, at least, Auguste disagreed with her. Having with some difficulty persuaded the policeman that a chief inspector of Scotland Yard would be less than pleased if they were refused entry, they entered through the repair house where they found Leo sitting disconsolately without an occupation. There were no club customers and he was not allowed to work on any cars.

Averting her eyes from the chalked outline near the door, Tatiana went straight to the far side of the Dolly Dobbs, where the crushed windmill and distorted hood clung precariously to their mudguards, and forced herself to inspect the damage.

‘Must be an interesting case to keep you from your dinner,
Auguste.’ Egbert had come up behind them. ‘Evening, Tatiana.’ The bowler was removed and replaced.

‘Egbert, I’m glad to see you.’ Auguste had been prowling around the motor house. ‘That may be where the body was found, but I think she was actually killed here,’ he pointed to just inside the door to the repair house. ‘The body was then turned and pulled to where the murderer hoped it might not be seen.’

‘You may be right.’ Egbert examined the blood splashes Auguste pointed out. ‘Or maybe she was pulled out of the way so that he or she could move the block and tackle into place.’

‘I still think a woman would need a lot of strength to do that,’ Tatiana said, hoping to exonerate her members.

‘Swinging the ropes to get the block moving would be hardest. After that it would be relatively easy. If you’ve finished here, let’s go back into your club to talk.’

Auguste realised Egbert was thinking of Tatiana’s feelings and was grateful. She was obviously eager to leave the stable and return to the comparative normality of the club.

‘Hester Hart was in the motor house when you heard her speaking to Roderick Smythe, was she?’

‘Oh yes. Fred, to my surprise, was leaving, and told me Mr Smythe was here instead. I was about to walk in through the repair house with some cocoa when I heard a quarrel going on.’

‘And it was definitely Roderick Smythe?’

‘Yes, I recognised his voice, and it was definitely anger in the voices, not just excitement, so I went back and tried again half an hour later, just before we left. She was shouting at him that she had no intention of marrying him. Obviously cocoa was not a good idea, so I went away again, though it never occurred to me her life might be in danger.’

‘Lovers’ quarrels rarely end in death,’ Auguste comforted her.

‘This one did, and I might have prevented it.’

‘We don’t know it was a lovers’ quarrel,’ Auguste said. ‘And even if it was, he might have walked off, as he claims, and any one of half a dozen people could have done it. They would be expecting to find Hester alone there, and that’s what happened once she’d quarrelled with Smythe.’

‘Smythe is still the last person to have been on the scene and that means he’s got some more explaining to do,’ Egbert said dogmatically. ‘It’s my belief we’re going to solve this case in double-quick time.’

‘But Goodwood is only a few days off,’ Tatiana said seriously.

‘What has horse-racing got to do with it?’

Auguste smiled. ‘It’s the end of the London season, Egbert. After that, most of your suspects will vanish to the countryside, or seaside, or abroad.’ Including, he hoped wistfully, themselves.

Messrs Ferdinand and Buffer’s comfortable Lincoln’s Inn offices proclaimed that Hester Hart was not as averse to the traditions of old England as her behaviour had suggested. Mr Ferdinand, an affable gentleman of Pickwickian build and mien, received a chief inspector of Scotland Yard as though it was an everyday occurrence in those law-abiding offices.

‘Miss Hart?’ He carefully adjusted the tails of his formal morning coat as he resumed his seat. ‘A terrible business. Have you solved it yet?’

Egbert wondered how he would like it if asked if he’d settled a case akin to Lord Palmerston’s problems with Schleswig-Holstein. ‘Terrible,’ he agreed cordially. ‘How did you come to be her solicitors?’

Mr Ferdinand looked somewhat offended. ‘We are solicitors to the family. Ferdinand and Buffer acted for dear Sir Herbert.’