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

by Myers, Amy

  Astonishment ranged from the mildly curious to outright shock, Auguste observed, once he was over his own surprise. Harold Dobbs looked frightened, Lady Bullinger furious, the Countess highly amused, Hugh embarrassed, and poor Phyllis Lockwood was white with horror.

  Luigi, diplomatically impervious as ever, showed the new arrivals to a table as far from Phyllis’s as possible. But Hester went out of her way to choose a route that led them past her rival. Ignoring all rules of polite dining, she stopped and cried loudly for the edification of the room. ‘Hugh, how delightful. And Edward too.’ A pause, then: ‘And dear Agatha, Isabel and Maud. So wonderful to see you again. And Phyllis too of course.’ The latter greeting was perfunctory.

  ‘I was right,’ Tatiana hissed. ‘She’s trouble.’

  Unable to disagree, Auguste abandoned the cherries and took refuge in the pêches Maintenon. They, at least, were exquisite.

  Chapter Two

  Hester Hart bit into her muffin. It was not fresh. This Mayfair house was rented, servants included; she had made the mistake of viewing the former but not the latter. However, nothing could spoil her good humour today. She had been satisfied with the results of her carefully planned appearance last night. She had been far from satisfied to hear that she was not to become a committee member but this had served to harden her resolve as regards those responsible for the decision. It was as hard as the muffin on her plate.

  She rang the bell, and her cook-general duly appeared though rather tardily.

  ‘More muffins, if you please, Smirch. I would prefer them warm when they arrive, and to be of today’s baking.’

  Hannah Smirch’s feet were hurting her, and the fresh muffins had been reserved for herself. She had realised at once that Madam did not know how to treat servants, and she and Peters, ‘the man’, had decided the sooner this madam left their house the better. And that wouldn’t be long now, or her name wasn’t Hannah Smirch.

  Hester, oblivious of the dire fate ahead of her, contemplated her next move. The success of her first move in the game (in which the rules were known only to herself), together with the slight setback of her not becoming a committee member, decided it for her. She would marry Roderick, a gambit which would have many advantages and present few difficulties. She did not include Phyllis among the latter, although Roderick was thirty-five to her own – well, thirty-nine. Compared with Phyllis, however, she had much more to offer a virile, mature and good-looking man: wit, attractiveness, achievement and accomplishments in intimate matters that could hardly be matched in the prim beds of London ladies. She grinned at the memory of Roderick’s delight when she had first blushingly yielded her virtue to him (or so he thought). One did not travel in the East for nothing; even Sir Richard Burton in search of material for detailed explanatory footnotes for his unexpurgated edition of The Arabian Nights did not, by virtue of his sex, have easy access to harems, and within them the most fascinating ideas could be gleaned on ghunj, the art of moving during the sexual act (some of which she had speedily put into practice).

  Yes, marriage to Roderick would be quite tolerable; he at least had an interest in sexual matters, thanks to his participation in the Paris-Vienna, Paris-Berlin, and countless other Continental road races, in which she gathered from him the rewards along the route could take many forms according to individual choice. Most Englishmen would be satisfied with a footwarmer en route, she thought scornfully, but Roderick had due regard for the comfort of other parts of his body.

  Contemplating marriage to Roderick had brought her to her second plan. Thanks to the foolishness of darlings Maud, Agatha, Phyllis and Isabel, not to mention Tatiana, in not electing her to the committee, she had now fully decided on her own future career. She, too, would become a Racer. She had driven motorcars all over Europe and as far as Turkey; her negotiation of what passed for roads both there and in the rest of the world was second to none. Mules, camels, horses, all required driving – what more was the motorcar than a glorified horse? And that thought reminded her of yesterday’s demonstration by the Horse Against Motor Car Society, to which she had been a witness. There she had seen an old foe, well worthy of joining the list of those to rue the day they had upset her. Yes, all in all, the next few weeks were going to be extremely interesting for Hester Hart.

  Wednesday proved less than interesting for Auguste. Not called upon today for his services in the club kitchen, he was reluctantly struggling with Dining With Didier. Why did the recipes that flowed so easily from his brain in a kitchen refuse to communicate the same enthusiasm when he set his pen to the page? When their cook Mrs Jolly had first blessed the Didier home in Queen Anne’s Gate with her presence, her son Charlie seemed the ideal Boswell for Auguste’s Dr Johnson. Unfortunately Charlie’s enthusiasm for eating compared with writing was the same as Auguste’s, and when he developed a passionate interest in Annie Parsons, the club’s head kitchen maid, which in turn had led to his offering his services to Annie’s father who ran a fish stall in Bermondsey Market, it seemed as if Dining With Didier was destined for ever to be denied to the world.

  ‘Auguste!’

  He was saved from the torment of indecision over whether chanterelles required a sauce. Tatiana was here. True, she was not looking happy as she sank into a chair; even her muslin dress looked limp. It was one of the disadvantages of the club for Tatiana that she was obliged to wear conventional feminine attire rather than the curious working clothes of bloomers, smock and man’s cap that she adopted when she had first opened her School of Motoring two years ago. Since the School of Motoring still flourished next door to the club, she kept the aforesaid curious attire at the club to change into – a great disappointment to those working and living by St James’s Park District Railway Station who had grown accustomed to the strange figure hurrying by twice a day.

  ‘A bad day, ma mie?’ The question was almost redundant as he saw her face.

  ‘Yes. For the club, for me, for everyone. Everyone wishes to talk about how terribly Hester Hart has behaved but how she is no lady and it should therefore be expected.’

  ‘Perhaps she merely met Roderick Smythe on the way to the club?’ Auguste suggested fairly.

  ‘Phyllis arrived this afternoon in tears,’ was Tatiana’s mournful answer. ‘She seemed to blame me. The problem with being president is that whether you were involved in something or not, everyone is entitled to think you might have been. She had confronted Roderick.’

  ‘What did he have to say for himself?’

  ‘She followed him from his home to his barber’s in Jermyn Street and then, from what I can gather, pounced on the poor man as he sat there having his hair trimmed – to the great delight of the barber’s shop, clients and staff. Having the famous Phyllis Lockwood gracing their premises brought in so many gentlemen in need of a sudden shave that there was a queue. Then Phyllis simply harangued him.’

  ‘What did he reply?’ Auguste felt a sneaking man-for-man sympathy for Roderick.

  ‘He pointed out that if he was as worthless as she claimed, someone as beautiful and famous as she could not possibly want to marry him.’

  ‘And what happened next?’ Roderick Smythe was obviously a subtler man than Auguste had given him credit for.

  ‘Phyllis agreed, and handed him back his ring.’

  ‘Then why was she in tears?’

  ‘Auguste, have you no idea how a woman’s mind works? Because she does want to marry him, she loves him. I told her to have patience, Roderick would soon tire of Hester. A very tiring woman, I’d say.’

  ‘Did she listen to you?’

  ‘No. Unfortunately Maud arrived at that moment. As you know, she’s Roderick’s godmother. I gather that although she voted for Hester to join the committee, having her marry her godson is a different matter. It was very strange. She was vehement about it, much more than I would expect. She even counselled Phyllis to sue for breach of promise.’

  ‘With half the gentlemen in London having witnessed that it was she who br
oke the engagement?’

  ‘I know. But having Maud raging around like a bull in a kitchen is not good for the club. On the other hand, Roderick is one of our top international racing drivers, and he’s very popular. It was thanks to him the Motor Club of Great Britain agreed to hold the official road trials for the Dolly Dobbs at one of our events, so how can I intervene in his private life?’

  ‘And how is the dear Dolly Dobbs?’ Auguste saw an opportunity to distract Tatiana.

  It worked. ‘With all this going on today, I haven’t had much time to inquire. Fred and Leo have been working on it all day, with Harold Dobbs clucking around like a mother hen. Not to mention Mrs Judith Dobbs.’

  ‘She is a member?’

  ‘No, but where Harold goes, Mrs Dobbs goes too if she can possibly manage it. That’s another situation that worries me, Auguste.’

  ‘Judith?’

  ‘No. The Dolly Dobbs. It’s all too quiet.’

  ‘I thought electric cars were meant to be silent.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Auguste,’ was all he received for his pains. ‘I meant I think Hortensia must be planning something. We can’t leave it in its stable locked up until next Thursday because it has to be tested to make sure it’s running properly. So we were planning to bring it out on Saturday.’

  ‘What do you think she could do to it?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s the problem with the Hams. Do keep an eye open for suspicious characters hanging around the stable. They feel very strongly about doing away with motorcars.’

  Auguste sympathised. He had often wondered what the poet John Milton, a former resident of Petty France, who had lent his name to the club’s premises without being consulted, would have made of being linked to infernal machines. Perhaps it would have inspired a second Paradise Lost. He decided that a splendid dinner à deux would console Tatiana and was glad that he had asked Mrs Jolly for samphire sauce with the beef this evening.

  It failed to work. At breakfast on the Thursday morning, a meal that in Auguste’s view should be a tranquil experience, an appetiser for the delights of the repasts to follow, Tatiana was still gloomy. She nevertheless, he noticed, managed to work her way as usual through the array of chafing dishes – kidneys, kedgeree, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms. How did she manage to remain so slim? He tried to impress her with dire predictions as to what might happen in later years but she merely laughed, despite the fact that those later years were beginning to creep over the horizon, he in his mid-forties, she in her mid-thirties.

  Suddenly Tatiana stopped laughing. ‘Auguste!’ she exclaimed. ‘This is terrible.’

  ‘The eggs are not perfect? But Mrs Jolly—’

  ‘Not food. Oh, Auguste, look!’ The Morning Post was thrust under his nose.

  ‘What at?’ He found himself staring at an advertisement for William’s Shaving Soap. ‘His smile speaks louder than words,’ he read.

  Not louder than Tatiana’s ‘Look!’ Her finger pointed to an article headed ‘Miss Hester Hart’.

  He skimmed through it and gathered that Miss Hart had been chosen as the representative for England in the International Women’s Race to be run on the Circuit des Ardennes in October. That the race should be run at all was a great concession by the French government after the tragedies of last year’s Paris-Madrid race; it was therefore a great honour to participate.

  ‘But what is so terrible about that?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘Maud was counting on being chosen.’

  ‘Had she been formally asked?’

  ‘No, but she has represented the club in many other racing events and naturally she expected to do so this time.’

  ‘And this is an important race?’

  ‘Important?’ Tatiana was indignant. ‘To be chosen for the first such international contest for women alone is like being asked to cook for Monsieur Escoffier himself.’

  ‘I see.’ Auguste was impressed.

  ‘And there’s worse if you read on,’ Tatiana said hollowly.

  Auguste did. Even he realised the import of the next piece of information. ‘“Miss Hart will also be driving the new experimental Dolly Dobbs motorcar on its official road trials to be held . . .” But you said Agatha was to drive it.’

  ‘I know. She would never, never have changed her mind, and Harold Dobbs would be in no position to change it for her even if he’d wanted to. Auguste,’ her voice quavered, ‘I really do smell trouble.’

  There was nothing he could say. So could he.

  Lady Bullinger stalked to the instrument her husband had installed for the servants’ convenience in conjuring up instant supplies of smoked salmon from Senn’s Delicacies whenever he chose to visit London. Emergencies were emergencies, and some, like today’s, could not be dealt with by butlers. She snatched the appliance off its hook, careful to hold it well away from her ear in view of the warnings about the damage these monstrosities could cause to the hearing, and bawled into it, ‘Connect me to the Duchess of Dewbury.’

  Agatha had been reading her Morning Post at exactly the same moment, and her voice came almost immediately on to the line as she hurtled to snatch their own instrument from the butler’s hand. Her usual tinkle was a definite screech. ‘Have you read it?’ she cried.

  ‘It’s a joke,’ Maud trumpeted, ‘to annoy us.’

  ‘Hester never makes jokes.’

  ‘I shall summon Roderick immediately. He must tell the Motor Club that it is quite out of the question for that woman to drive in an international race. I shall be participating myself.’

  ‘I suspect you will find,’ Agatha said sadly, with just a little relish, ‘that Roderick had something to do with this woman being chosen.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Maud barked. ‘He knows how I feel about it.’ But was it nonsense? The more she thought about it, the more possible such total betrayal seemed to be. He was obviously besotted by the woman and had lost all judgement. Well, Maud Bullinger would be a more formidable opponent than that woman thought. She needed allies, however. ‘Agatha, what about the Dolly Dobbs? What is that Dobbs fellow thinking of?’

  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 p
ersonal 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.