by Myers, Amy
‘Why did you go to see your brother, miss?’
‘I was cross with Alexander,’ said Victoria disarmingly. The look she gave him suggested she still was. ‘We were in the library until about twelve and then Alexander yawned and said he was going to bed. It was our engagement party and he didn’t even want to kiss me goodnight. Can you imagine that, Inspector?’
‘It certainly seems strange to me, miss. Why was that?’ Rose demanded of the recalcitrant suitor.
Alexander looked hopefully at Victoria. ‘It may seem strange to you, Inspector, but I can only say that my fiancée is so beautiful that it takes a great deal of strength not to kiss her. In short, considering the lateness of the hour, I was fearful that I might find her quite irresistible.’
‘Oh!’ Victoria was highly pleased. ‘I forgive you then.’
‘And then how did you come to be in the smokehouse with Mrs Didier three hours later?’ Rose asked, uncharmed.
Auguste stiffened.
Alexander answered promptly. ‘I was returning to my room when I met my cousin. We began to talk of Mother Russia in the way that Russians do and adjourned to the Blue Salon to talk further. In the course of our conversation, Tatiana expressed a great desire to have a—’ he hesitated and Tatiana nodded brightly, ‘smoke, and as I did too, we obediently adjourned to the smokehouse through the kitchen entrance to indulge our filthy habits. We took a lantern, opened the door of the smokehouse and found – well, you know what we found.’
Auguste glanced worriedly at Egbert whose face betrayed nothing. Did he think this explanation strange? For a newly married woman there were supposed to be attractions in going to bed that should surely supersede conversation with a cousin.
‘Tiring talking into the early hours, was it?’ was all Rose asked Tatiana, however, to Auguste’s relief.
‘No,’ she replied simply.
‘We Russians, even half-Russians like myself, are never tired,’ Alexander amplified.
‘Good,’ his fiancée commented brightly. ‘That bodes well for the future of the Tully-Rich line.’
A complacent cackle from the Dowager Lady Tabor. ‘She takes after me, Priscilla.’
‘I trust not, Mother.’ Priscilla was stung into tartness.
‘Her Ladyship and I retired just before twelve,’ put in George Tabor quickly, anxious to intervene between his womenfolk. ‘What about you, Cyril?’
‘Gertie and I were in bed before twelve, weren’t we, kitten?’ The look he gave Gertie suggested the reason should be obvious. Kitten giggled nervously.
‘Mr Carstairs? Mr Didier left you just before twelve-thirty, he tells me.’
‘Correct. I would certainly have had time to jump out of a window, rush over to the smokehouse in the dark, and shoot this fellow. But so, by the same token, would Mr Didier,’ Oliver pointed out cheerfully.
‘In theory, that is so,’ Auguste replied swiftly. ‘And I could then have shot my own ear.’
No one it seemed, save Tatiana, was interested in his ear. Rose simply continued: ‘Mr and Mrs Janes?’
Harold Janes’ face was suddenly the colour of Camembert. ‘My wife and I slept in adjoining rooms,’ he said airily, ‘as is usual when visiting Tabor Hall.’
Perhaps in the Janes’ case, Auguste thought amusedly. Thankfully this rule, if it existed, had been waived in his case, and from the look on Gertie’s face, in her case too. She was blushing, as if sharing the same bed as your husband was yet one more breach of etiquette. ‘We left the dance shortly after His Majesty. I took a whisky and went to bed,’ Harold announced. ‘My man will vouch for that.’
Beatrice Janes rushed in to amplify his story. ‘My husband has a distressing habit of snoring,’ she informed the company shrilly. ‘However, I decided to join my husband – how can I put it – for a goodnight kiss. I stayed some time. In fact, all night, didn’t I, Puppikins?’
Puppikins, still ashen, muttered something to the effect that she did.
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Rose stolidly, wondering whether he and Edith would ever be reduced to trotting between rooms, and disinclined to believe a word Beatrice Janes said.
‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.’ Rose looked round at the relief spreading over his audience’s faces. He decided to quell it. ‘I’ll be talking to you all individually, and we’ll need your fingerprints.’
The implications did not take long to sink in. Priscilla Tabor rose majestically to her feet.
‘Do I understand, Chief Inspector, that when you say someone in the Hall must know who this man is, you imply not the servants, but ourselves?’
‘It’s murder, your Ladyship.’
‘But none of us could have been involved,’ George spluttered indignantly.
‘It’s amazing at this stage of an investigation, sir, how often I find a corpse must have murdered itself.’
Was there a more calming place on earth than a walled vegetable garden? Auguste asked himself – save of course when somebody chose to shoot at you. But in general, with the rich smell of harvest in the air, and the promise of delights yet to be tasted, here indeed was the peace he needed to arrange his thoughts in more orderly fashion, like ingredients for a recipe. There were major problems that needed solving: who was the corpse; why had the murderer then shot at him; and whose body had Tatiana expected it to be? He puzzled over this, considering and rejecting the thesis that Tatiana had been worried lest it be his. He was not so old nor so fat. Moreover, he did not have a beard.
There was another problem too: why was the Tabor family so very cooperative in some ways and so obstructive in others? There could only be one answer; they knew whose the body was, but did not wish the police to know. He turned this idea over in his mind, and found it worked. He began to think further about Uncle Oscar and Robert Mariot.
Egbert’s comments about his being splendidly placed to find out the servants’ point of view came back to him. So far he had only talked to the Breckles. He would pick some herbs on the pretext of explaining to the chef just how one made a boeuf provençale in which Breckles had expressed some mild interest. It was strange how up here in Yorkshire he did not feel the need for so many herbs in his food. Furthermore Egbert, when asked this morning by Mrs Breckles what he might like for supper this evening, had treacherously chosen Breckles’ boiled beef in beer in preference to his own suggestions, not to mention claggy toffee pudding over his own delicate îles flottantes, to which Egbert had previously been partial. Yorkshire was indeed a strange place, where gastronomic tastes were changed so speedily.
Or was it himself? Was Breckles not an incompetent cook of London cuisine but the maître of Yorkshire? His step quickened. He now had two objectives for the rest of the morning: investigation of Yorkshire cuisine as well as picking up any items of relevant gossip from the kitchen staff.
Both quests were destined to be thwarted. Tatiana came hurrying up to him, skirts brushing aside cabbages and leeks in her impatience.
‘You should not be walking here alone, mon chéri. You are not Mr Kipling’s Just-So story cat.’
‘No one would risk shooting me in broad daylight,’ Auguste said uneasily, suddenly conscious of the vast empty hills behind him. ‘Our murderer is a night bird.’
‘You do not understand,’ said Tatiana anxiously. ‘You must take care. You would not wish to make me a widow so soon?’
He would not – on both their accounts.
‘Please promise me you will not go anywhere alone again until we leave.’
His heart was touched by her concern. ‘Very well.’ He kissed her. ‘That I promise.’
His visit to the kitchen did not begin auspiciously, however. He asked Breckles if he might participate in servants’ dinner and moreover if he might observe Breckles preparing one of the local specialities he had heard about, the Yorkshire Christmas pudding.
Breckles roared with laughter. ‘Daft outcomer,’ he said amiably. ‘Do tha know what tha’s asking?’
‘No,’ answered Au
guste humbly, perceiving he had made a mistake somehow.
‘Why, it take an age. The walls be ez thick ez Jericho, and inside be a goose, partridge, pigeons, and last of all be the turkey. All boned and spiced one on top o’ t’other. Tha’d have to be here day and night for a month o’ Sundays.’
He watched Auguste digest this information, and then gave him a friendly dig. ‘You can eat servants’ dinner here and welcome, but that won’t get thee what tha’s seeking.’
‘No food?’ asked Auguste, the Frenchman in him leaping to the worst possible conclusion.
‘Talk, that’s what tha’s after.’
‘And for good reason,’ Auguste explained firmly. ‘They might talk to me when they might be nervous of talking to police.’
‘Nothing to tell. None o’ the lower servants has anything to do with the quality.’
‘But just to know what their impression is of the family. I recall when I was in your position—’
Breckles cleared his throat. ‘And that’s the point. You aren’t in my position now, are you?’
Auguste was taken aback. Surely he could still mingle in both worlds, at least be a permitted visitor, if not accepted resident? Reflection told him it was not possible. ‘Then tell them to think, Mr Breckles: think of anything unusual they saw or heard,’ he compromised.
‘Thought here’s like Christmas pudding; a long time a-coming, so ’tis better in the eating.’
And with that Auguste was forced to be content. Baulked of the honour of dinner with the servants, and unwilling to contemplate luncheon with the Tabors, he would eat with Egbert (thus avoiding the necessity of deciding whether for the purposes of the midday repast he was a gentleman who took luncheon or a servant who had dinner).
Meanwhile Chief Inspector Egbert Rose was doggedly embarking on his programme of interviewing Tabors, beginning with the less obstreperous. However, even the Honourable Laura Tabor was proving more difficult than he had anticipated.
‘I believe the suggestion has been put to you, Chief Inspector, that this corpse might be that of Mr Mariot, my former friend.’
‘Former?’ asked Rose politely.
‘It is true that we still correspond,’ Laura continued steadily, not in the least thrown, ‘and it is true he talked of coming to visit me. He is recently returned to Europe after assisting the archaeologist Koldeway at Nebuchadnezzar’s Babylon. It is also true that, when my brother mentioned the corpse had a sunburnt appearance, I thought by some terrible chance it might be his. However, it was not.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘As far as I can be.’ She hesitated, then drew a photograph out of her bag. ‘This is a photograph of him taken in Babylon eighteen months ago.’ She pushed it across to him.
‘Good of you to think of showing it to me, ma’am.’ There was no hint of sarcasm in Rose’s voice.
‘Chief Inspector, it is not good of me at all, as you are well aware. I have no doubt that much better photographs are at this very moment speeding on their way to you.’
Rose grinned, then the grin faded.
‘What if other friends of yours thought it was Mr Mariot, though?’
She lost colour. ‘That is not possible.’ she said quietly. ‘What reason would these friends have for thinking that?’
‘Suppose someone told them, ma’am.’
‘That is nonsense,’ she said violently. ‘Do you wish to take my fingerprints, Chief Inspector?’ she continued coldly, and was silent as she allowed her fingers to be pressed into powdered blacklead.
‘Just one thing, ma’am,’ Rose said as she was about to leave the room.
She hesitated and reluctantly turned.
‘If it didn’t occur to you that one of your friends might have murdered Mr Mariot, just why did you think it might be Mr Mariot’s corpse? Did he have any reason to commit suicide?’
‘No – yes. I wasn’t thinking clearly,’ she eventually managed to say and he did not press the point. Let her stew, he thought. If she was lying to protect herself or Carstairs, the meat might grow the tenderer for the cooking. All the same, he would put enquiries in hand as to Mariot’s whereabouts.
‘What on earth’s got into you, Laura?’ Oliver asked impatiently, as he escorted her down the stairs for luncheon. He had never known her so moody.
‘I’ve just seen Chief Inspector Rose, Oliver,’ she told him jerkily.
‘And?’ he asked sharply.
‘He was questioning me about Robert coming back to see me. I had to tell him I thought at one point the corpse was Robert’s.’ She did not look at him.
He groaned. ‘Now he’s going to think that it was pistols at midnight for me and the corpse. Thank you, Laura.’
‘I had no choice.’
‘You could have told him you didn’t love Mariot, and so I had no reason to kill him. That’s true, isn’t it?’
She stared at him and did not answer.
‘Isn’t it?’ he demanded again.
‘Is that what you’d like to think, Oliver?’
‘Of course it’s bally well what I’d like to think. And it’s what I’ve always thought.’ He pulled her round to face him. ‘Aren’t I right?’
‘Whether you’re right or wrong, I didn’t tell the inspector anything about my feelings for Robert.’
‘Why on earth not? Now he’s going to think I slaughtered him in a jealous rage.’
Auguste, coming through the entrance hall on his way to see Egbert, stopped short – Laura glanced at him, but it didn’t stop her crying out, ‘You didn’t kill him, did you, Oliver?’
‘What?’ Oliver grabbed her by the wrist to detain her, but she forced herself away. She marched towards the library, a flush on her cheeks.
‘Women!’ muttered Oliver, brushing past Auguste as he strode off in the opposite direction, completely unlike the serene professional bachelor he purported to be.
Four more Tabors, and two guests, succeeded Laura in submitting to ordeal by fingerprinting. The Dowager extracted most enjoyment from the process.
‘Now what, exactly, will happen to these impressions?’ she enquired earnestly, eyes dancing. ‘Shall they join your Black Museum, dear Chief Inspector?’
‘No, ma’am, rather duller than that. They’ll be disposed of once—’
‘Once the mystery of this poor man is cleared up.’ Her eyes were grave. ‘I hope it is quickly. Tabor Hall is precious to me, as the home loved by my late husband. I cannot bear to see it stained by blood. You will find your murderer quickly, won’t you?’
‘I’ll do my best, ma’am,’ Rose replied gently. ‘Whoever it is.’
Auguste, coming in to find Egbert, all but collided with the Dowager as she left. ‘Ah, Mr Didier,’ she cried, ‘how pleased I am about your poor ear.’
‘Pleased, Lady Tabor?’ Auguste repeated blankly.
‘But of course. Because of it, you are still alive.’ She tripped off along the corridor lined with Tabor faces of the past, specially placed there by her daughter-in-law to impress His Majesty with the Tabors’ pedigree.
‘There’s still our Priscilla to face,’ Egbert told Auguste with some relish for the fray. ‘Not to mention the likeable Mr Alfred.’ But it was Beatrice Janes who next arrived.
‘Of course I don’t mind speaking in front of dearest Auguste,’ she said, turning practised artless eyes on him, as Rose formally asked if she had any objections to his staying. ‘He is related to His Majesty now.’
Auguste allowed himself a brief moment of pride. From apprentice cook in Cannes to Related to Monarchy was indeed an achievement. How impressed his maître Auguste Escoffier, in full reign at the Carlton Hotel in Pall Mall, had been. He had hopes that the maître might even create a dish for Tatiana, as he had for Dame Nellie Melba.
‘I feel, Chief Inspector,’ Beatrice said, ‘that I ought to correct my earlier statement. I was not with my husband on Saturday night. Naturally I had to say I was, because I almost was,’ she explained conspiratorially. ‘Do
you understand?’
Rose apparently didn’t.
‘I was with Another Gentleman,’ she was forced to tell him crossly.
‘And he would be?’
‘Oh, Chief Inspector. Do I really have to spell it out? You disappoint me, you really do,’ she said archly. Her fingers plucked nervously at the pale blue bébé ribbon adorning her blouse.
‘I think Mrs Janes wishes to convey that she was with His Majesty,’ intervened Auguste tactfully.
‘He would confirm you were with him all night?’ Rose asked, unimpressed, since Auguste had told him long since.
‘Oh, but—’ she hesitated.
‘Don’t you worry, ma’am. I’ve no qualms about asking him. What about your husband?’
What about him indeed? she thought quickly. If Harold had gone off in one of his jealous rages and done something foolish, she wished to be safely distanced from it. Life was too delightful with not only Bertie at her feet, or, rather, at more intimate portions of her body, but other cavaliers swearing they would follow her to the ends of the earth. Life was less delightful when she feared one of them might have interpreted the ends of the earth as Yorkshire. True, that horrid corpse hadn’t looked like anyone she knew, but Harold might well have got the wrong impression.
‘He doesn’t mind,’ she answered sweetly. That wasn’t what the inspector meant, and she knew it. She managed to convey that any more questions would be detrimental to her fragile composure.
Auguste watched in amusement as Rose placed the chubby rose-pink fingers firmly and squarely in blacklead. So he didn’t like Mrs Janes one little bit.
Lady Tabor’s bosom seemed to enter the room even further in advance of the rest of her body than usual, complemented by the large purple feather that topped her coiffure and flourished forwards like colours borne before a regiment. Only Priscilla could enter, so completely attired in formality, Auguste thought half admiringly, half repelled.
‘Were you with your husband continuously after the house had retired, your Ladyship?’ Rose enquired politely.
