Murder In The Motor Stable: (Auguste Didier Mystery 9) (5 page)

There was a pause. ‘I have no idea. But I shall find out.’

‘You seem to be taking this very lightly, Agatha.’ Maud was disappointed not to hear bellows of rage to echo her own.

‘Do you think so?’ her sister-in-law’s voice tinkled. ‘At the moment I should very much like to murder Miss Hester Hart.’

The lady telephone operator, listening in avidly, shivered deliciously. This confirmed all her worst suspicions as to what went on in ducal residences. Should she inform the police?

Two telephone appliances were replaced on their hooks simultaneously as they planned revenge on the woman against whom they had committed much the same sort of offence fifteen years ago.

Some way away in Bloomsbury, another marital breakfast was taking place, this one in silence since the couple had little in common as regards the day ahead. One was preparing to discuss the ancient ruins of Babylon, and the other to go into battle on behalf of horses. Suddenly a subject of common interest arose, though Hortensia, preoccupied with four-footed friends and the latest outrageous scheme to train horses to accustom them to motorcars, failed to notice her husband’s reaction.

‘Look at this,’ she cried, waving the newspaper excitedly and throwing it under her husband’s nose. ‘It says at the end that the new monster, Dolly Dobbs, is to be driven not by
the dashing Duchess but by Hester Hart, whoever she is. Have you heard of her?’ Hortensia read little except about horses and their enemies.

John Millward choked on his toast. Yes, he had heard of her, all too often. He had even glimpsed her among the onlookers when Hortensia insisted on his taking part in that terrible demonstration. He was a mild man who usually wished no harm to anyone, and the feud to which Miss Hart referred at every opportunity in learned circles or anywhere where she thought he might be known had been on her side entirely. The point at issue had been a matter of professional integrity for him, not personal vindictiveness. He had been in Cairo in ’98, preparing for the opening of what proved to be the tomb of Amenophis II, when Robert Koldewey had asked his opinion of Hester Hart; he was choosing his team for the Babylon excavations that had produced the ruins of the Tower of Babel. Millward had felt bound to say that though the lady had a penchant for appearing in the newspapers and vaunting her travels – and all credit to her for the latter – she had no background in historical research. The next thing he knew was that he was peacefully having a pipe in Shepheard’s Hotel when a virago hurtled through the door, set about him with a parasol and accused him of impugning her honour. A lobby full of English-speaking gentlemen listened with great interest, and since then most of the civilised world apparently believed that he and Hester Hart had spent starry nights under the desert skies, wrapped in passionate embrace – an impression she did everything to strengthen.

He lived in fear that Hortensia would come to hear about this. Had he been a horse she might have done, but as things were, their marriage remained sublimely intact. He was immensely
grateful for this, for he adored his wife, though he could not have analysed quite why.

‘I wonder what this Dolly Dobbs horror is like in action,’ Hortensia mused eagerly. ‘I’ve heard that on Saturday the Ladies’ Motoring Club are holding hill trials in Richmond Park, followed by a garden party. Perhaps it will make an appearance there. Let’s go.’

‘No!’

Hortensia looked surprised. ‘You love horses, don’t you?’

‘Of course,’ John replied weakly, wondering whether he might pretend to receive a summons to ancient Assyria on Saturday.

‘So that’s settled.’ Hortensia was well satisfied.

Auguste arrived early at Milton House on the Saturday morning, not through choice since Madam President was still preparing, not herself, but her Léon Bollée motorcar, which meant some time would elapse before the pantaloons would be exchanged for more suitable attire for a princess. She had, she informed him, still to check that the accumulators were charged, that lubricators, grease cups and water tanks were full, and tenderly pack spare exhaust valves, inlet valves, sparking plugs, inner tubes, plus a tool kit that Isambard Brunel might have envied. He, Auguste, had merely to check that buffet food for nearly two hundred people was leaving Petty France in perfect condition and would arrive in Richmond in the same state. A simple task in Tatiana’s view.

His task well in hand, curiosity sent Auguste to the rear courtyard where Hester Hart would shortly be arriving for the first public airing of the Dolly Dobbs. Within the repair house he could see Leo moving about, and Miss Dazey, jauntily dressed in a dashing blue dust coat and cap, as his faithful
shadow. Outside, however, he suddenly noticed a stranger sprawled full length along the gully of the roof between the motor house and the repair house, and doing his best to peer in at the heavily barred skylight. A spy!

‘Who are you?’

At his shout the man twitched like a nervous rabbit, scrambled to the rear of the roof and disappeared. Grimly, Auguste ran to the side of the motor stable in time to catch the intruder by the arm before he could slip away. He was dressed in an old top hat and huge apron. The former he raised, and cleared his throat.

‘Morning, guv’nor,’ he ventured.

‘And good morning to you,’ Auguste replied amiably, relaxing his hold. ‘You are a window cleaner?’

The man’s face relaxed. ‘That’s it, guv’nor. Sort of odd job man.’

‘A very odd job man. All such gentlemen here are known to me. You are not one of them.’

‘Got the wrong house,’ the man said hopefully, in what he obviously believed was a nonchalant manner.

Auguste caught his arm again as he began to walk away. ‘Not so fast,
mon ami
. You are a Ham.’

‘No, Auguste.’ Contrary to his predictions, Tatiana had arrived, becomingly clad in broderie anglaise and embroidered linen dust cloak. Apart from the dark hair already escaping from its pins, and the fact that she appeared to have only one glove, Tatiana was ready. Her toilette was not foremost in her mind, however. ‘This is no Ham. You’re Mr Thomas Bailey, aren’t you? Mr Dobbs’s greatest rival.’

The man flushed. He must have been much the same age as Harold Dobbs, around thirty, but whereas Dobbs had the look of an absent-minded butterfly-collector, Bailey – once he
abandoned the pretence of being an odd job man – was a much shorter man, with the air of a fanatical Napoleon set on world conquest.

‘I am merely displaying a professional interest,’ Bailey announced loftily.

‘Then I suggest you display it at Hyde Park Corner next Thursday where we begin the official trials.’

He seized this as welcome dismissal. ‘Very well. But I have my suspicions,’ he added mysteriously as he left.

‘Isn’t anyone guarding this motorcar?’ Tatiana inquired crossly, hurrying into the repair house.

Attracted by the sound of voices, Fred Gale had just clambered up the circular staircase from the repair house basement. He shook his head indulgently as he saw Miss Dazey devotedly peering over Leo’s shoulder as he cleaned one of the new pneumatic tyres with a jeweller’s scratchbox. ‘Now, now, miss, this is no place for you.’

Leo, relief on his face, greeted Fred and Tatiana as his saviours.

‘Leo doesn’t want me here either. Isn’t he silly, Mr Didier?’ she greeted him cheerfully, as Tatiana went to talk to Fred.

Looking at her, Auguste could only agree, while Leo muttered, ‘I’ve got work to do,’ in the time-honoured way of all harassed men.

‘Working on darling Dolly, I expect.’ Miss Dazey paused provocatively at the communicating door to the Dobbs’s motor house. She put her hand on the knob, causing Leo to spring forward, detaching the hand, and providing his body as a human shield against her invasion of Dolly’s secrets. ‘We’ll all see it in a moment,’ Miss Dazey pointed out, hurt.

‘But not till Mr Dobbs says,’ Leo said firmly.

In answer, her arms crept round his neck and, spread-eagled as he was, he could do nothing to prevent her planting a kiss on his cheek. ‘It’s at a very delicate stage.’

‘It is not a soufflé,
mon ami
, it is only a motorcar,’ Auguste pointed out, laughing, just as Harold Dobbs arrived with his wife.

‘The Dolly Dobbs is more than a motorcar.’ Its proud inventor brimmed over with pride. ‘Like Icarus and Daedelus, I reach for the sun.’

‘You’re wonderful, Harold.’ The faithful Judith, clad in an old-fashioned mackintosh hood, three times as large as Napoleon’s tricorne, stood staunchly at his side.

‘Is Miss Hart here?’ Harold demanded.

‘Not yet.’ Tatiana joined them. ‘And Mr Dobbs, just why have you changed your mind about the Duchess driving your car next week? And do you propose Miss Hart should drive it today as well?’

Harold went pink. ‘Certainly. Miss Hart is a professional driver,’ he said unhappily. ‘The Duchess quite understands.’

‘Does she? Then why is she marching across the courtyard in such a determined manner?’ Tatiana inquired.

Harold took one nervous glance at Her Grace and rushed down the staircase leading to the basement, swiftly followed by his wife.

Agatha swept in in primrose silk and a fine temper. ‘Where is he?’ She looked round, and when Tatiana indicated the basement, she marched to the staircase. ‘Come up here, you foolish little man.’

After a moment Harold sheepishly emerged, bowing to the Duchess and removing his cap.

Agatha wasted no time on formalities. ‘Is the Dolly Dobbs ready for me? If so, conduct me to it.’

‘Er . . .’

Agatha whirled round to address Tatiana. ‘Kindly ignore that rubbish in the
Morning Post
, Your Highness. I shall be driving
my
car.’

‘Mine,’ squeaked Harold in a semblance of spirit.

‘I do not intend to argue with you, sir. Take me to my car.’

Defeated, Harold went to the communicating door, followed by a triumphant Agatha, and opened it.

Greeting them on the threshold was Hester Hart. ‘My dear Agatha.’ Her handsome face, topped by a rakish tam o’shanter, and topping an unbecoming lilac dust coat boasting two long rows of silver buttons, looked amused. ‘Surely you leave driving to the servants? So I shall drive and you can take your rightful place in the rear seat. The motor servant’s seat is low. I shall not impede your view.’

Auguste was riveted and stepped forward as if to intervene. Tatiana’s hand restrained him. Hester advanced into the repair house, preventing Agatha from seeing the car. Harold pressed himself against the work bench in pursuit of invisibility, Mrs Dobbs was looking mystified, Leo had vanished and Miss Dazey after him. Fred was apparently engrossed in tidying his set of duplicate keys. The Duchess stood stock still, and Tatiana trembled for her club. All eyes were on the Duchess. She said nothing for a moment, and then, amazingly, she ceded victory. She was even smiling.

‘My dear Hester,’ she said sweetly, ‘if Harold wishes you to drive
our
motorcar, then drive you shall. Far be it from me to seek to spoil your hour of glory. Or Harold’s. I am quite sure you are the better driver.’ She glanced at the bright sunshine, snapped up her chiffon-frilled parasol with its clusters of forget-me-nots as though the damaging rays of the sun were her only concern, and walked briskly away.

Even Hester was surprised. Then she regained her composure. ‘What a charming woman Agatha is. One of my oldest friends.’

‘Something very strange is going on,’ whispered Tatiana to Auguste, as Harold, confidence regained, marched through the communicating door to the Dolly Dobbs. ‘When the serpent hisses, he usually has something to hiss about.’

‘Is the serpent Hester or Agatha?’

‘Both.’

Only Harold and Hester were allowed inside the holy of holies. Tatiana, Auguste, Mrs Dobbs, Fred, Leo and Miss Dazey were forced to gather outside, and Harold Dobbs took one step further down in Tatiana’s estimation. By now Auguste’s curiosity about what the Dolly Dobbs would be like now it was completed was sufficient to overlook the fact that it was a motorcar.

As Fred Gale was at last allowed to throw back the doors of the motor house, the sound of the Dolly Dobbs’s horn tooted in triumph, and the car itself, Hester at the wheel, began to move forward with Harold, almost weeping with excitement, running beside it.

Tatiana clutched Auguste’s arm. ‘What on earth are
those
?’

If this was a motorcar, it was the most extraordinary-looking one Auguste had ever seen. High up, perched on each of the front mudguards, was what at first sight appeared to be an enormous phonograph horn. At the front of each one was a gaily-coloured windmill with eight blades each painted in a different colour. A sprightly weathercock clung daintily to the curved dash in front of the steering pillar. It rather resembled the last pantomime dragon Auguste had seen at Drury Lane.

After her first surprise, Tatiana ran forward to inspect this
monstrosity, which was evidently nothing new to Hester who sat smugly in the driving seat.

‘What
are
they?’ Tatiana demanded, stopping by the ‘phonograph horns’ and their accompanying apparatus.

Harold glowed. ‘They are wind machines. I have discovered the secret of perpetual motion.’

‘The name of Dobbs will be written in the history of science,’ shrieked Judith, the mackintosh hood falling over one eye in her excitement.