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

by Myers, Amy

  ‘Stop him,’ Egbert yelled, apparently to no one in particular.

  Whoever it was, out of Auguste’s sight, obliged. By the time Auguste arrived, Smythe was handcuffed. Scrabbling on the ground searching for his newly-won golden sovereigns which he had dropped to answer Egbert’s call was Thomas Bailey, to Auguste’s amazement.

  The reason was quite simple. His aunt lived nearby. He always escorted her to Goodwood. This year he had had his reward. He had backed Saltpetre and now had enough money to work on another motorcar. The Brighton Baby had ceased to interest him. The wind, so to speak, had been taken out of its sails by his new brainwave.

  Tatiana had gallantly remained at His Majesty’s side during the running of the Halnaker Stakes, and raised her eyebrows despairingly as Auguste returned to find them leaving for the paddock again. Auguste had failed to follow the progress of the race and was therefore unprepared to be shouted at by His Majesty:

  ‘Bolted. Did you see that? No style at all.’

  ‘We have caught him now, Your Majesty.’ At least he could impart good news.

  His Majesty appeared surprised. ‘Where?’

  ‘Behind the grandstand.’

  His Majesty appeared even more astonished. ‘How the dickens did he get there?’

  ‘I’m not sure of his exact route. Probably he went through the grandstand.’

  ‘Near the royal box?’ The King was white with shock.

  ‘Yes.’ Auguste was slightly puzzled.

  ‘I could have been killed,’ His Majesty pointed out. ‘Damned careless, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t think he would kill you, Your Majesty.’

  ‘You can’t expect a horse to make exceptions for royalty,’ Bertie snapped.

  ‘A horse?’ Auguste felt he had gone wrong somewhere.

  ‘I told you, Didier, Esclavo bolted when the barrier was lifted and put Perchant off his paces. Only came in fourth. Tatiana’s lost again,’ His Majesty added with relish. ‘What did you think I was talking about?’

  ‘About a murderer.’

  ‘A murderer?’ The King’s face slowly changed hue once again.

  Egbert had left; Auguste and Tatiana would follow shortly. That is, if he could find her, Auguste thought wearily, having seen Egbert off under the auspices of the local Sussex police.

  He tracked his wife down on the lawns of Goodwood House where he saw she was taking tea with a friend. A friend? Immense pleasure seized him as he realised who it was. More than a friend, oh, much more, or had been so once. It was darling Maisie, his sweetheart of Galaxy days, now the matronly but even lovelier wife of an earl, and a good friend to both Tatiana and himself. He kissed her enthusiastically while Tatiana watched somewhat quizzically.

  ‘I thought you didn’t like horses, Maisie.’

  ‘I don’t. George is here somewhere, introducing his son and heir to the obligations of being a gent – that is, attending Goodwood. Did I see old Egbert here today?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘On a case?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Come now, tell me. I might be able to help.’ Meanwhile she helped herself to a large éclair. Auguste regarded her fondly. After all, there was no reason why he should not tell her. A large section of Goodwood had seen Roderick Smythe taken away.

  ‘Roderick Smythe has been arrested in connection with the murder of Hester Hart.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. Unless our Phyllis put him up to it.’

  ‘I’m not happy about it.’

  ‘Let me cheer you up and take you both to dinner at the Carlton tonight.’

  ‘Tomorrow. Tonight I have to go to Scotland Yard and all you could do to cheer me up is to tell me you know a lady called Henrietta Trotter who would be approximately seventy years old.’

  ‘Trotter? Ah.’ Maisie laughed. ‘I knew I could help.’

  ‘You can?’ Tatiana was delighted. ‘Maisie, you are a wonderful lady.’

  ‘You can take me to dinner at the Carlton then. Henrietta died about eight years ago, though. Ever heard of the Nightingale of the North?’

  ‘Of course.’ Auguste was puzzled. ‘But her name was Alice Whitby.’

  ‘Stage name, my old duck. She was otherwise known as Henrietta Trotter, my mother’s best friend, and Aunt Alice to me. She conveniently forgot all about the Trotter long before she was married. Not a name suitable either for the stage or for marrying into the minor aristocracy.’

  ‘Did she have children?’ Aromas of all sorts now began to rise enthusiastically in Auguste’s mind.

  ‘That stuffed shirt Gerald Francis wouldn’t let her off without providing him with a son and heir. Only the one, so he married again after her death, just in case.’

  ‘Francis?’ both he and Tatiana said together.

  ‘Not Hugh Francis?’ Auguste asked, hardly daring even to hope.

  ‘That’s the blighter’s name. Know him, do you? Been playing in the haystacks for years with Isabel Tunstall. She’s a cousin on his father’s side.’

  ‘Maisie, I’m going to kiss you again!’ Ah, the memories of that warm, plump cheek decorously extended towards him.

  Tatiana laughed.

  ‘Has Roderick Smythe confessed, Egbert?’

  ‘No. Arrogant to the last,’ Egbert grunted. ‘Do you have to keep appearing through my doorway like a blessed genie out of a lamp?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but perhaps Smythe is innocent to the last too, Egbert. I have news for you.’

  ‘Am I going to like this news?’

  ‘May I please see those diaries again?’

  ‘Now I know I’m not.’ Reluctantly Egbert pulled them off the shelf and piled them in front of Auguste, clearing a minute space on the far side of his desk.

  ‘Here it is: “One day I will get my revenge. I’ll use that story so carefully hushed up at the time about her eloping with the family coachman when she was seventeen.” Egbert, how did Hester Hart learn that story? And who was the one person she could trust – or so she thought – when she left England?’ He paused dramatically.

  ‘Why do I have the feeling you’re about to tell me?’

  ‘It had to be someone close to Isabel to learn the story in the first place. And it had to be someone close to Hester to tell her the story. It was the man who has proved to be her cousin – and heir – Hugh Francis.’

  ‘You’re sure of this?’ Egbert asked sharply.

  ‘Quite sure. He was one person she thought she could trust. But could she?’

  ‘You think he was the one who spread the rumours around the clubs?’

  ‘The Francis family was never wealthy, and Hugh, so my informant tells me, always needed money.’

  ‘Then he wouldn’t risk antagonising his wealthy relations,’ Egbert pointed out. Auguste could hear relief in his voice. ‘Doesn’t wash.’

  ‘It washes very well. A Sunlight Soap of a case. He didn’t know fifteen years ago that he was related to Hester, and neither did she. His mother Henrietta had no more contact with her sister after she ran away to join the stage. I suspect he only found out when his mother died eight years ago, and finding Sir Herbert was a wealthy man and Hester his only child made haste to renew acquaintance with his newfound cousin.’

  ‘Renew?’ Egbert queried sharply.

  ‘If he spread those rumours fifteen years ago, he must surely have been seen in public with her occasionally or the mud would not have stuck.’

  ‘Too many ifs, Auguste. Find me some facts. Like I’ve got on Smythe.’

  Stitch returned wearily, bleary-eyed but triumphant. ‘I’ve got her, sir. Henrietta Trotter – married in Hanover Square, you see. I didn’t connect her up at first with our Henrietta. And that’s led me on to what you might call an interesting development.’

  Egbert had had a long, frustrating day. ‘It couldn’t be called Hugh Francis, could it, Stitch?’ Twitch’s face fell. ‘Mr Didier told me half an hour ago.’

  Auguste’s conscience smote him. ‘But I found my connection
through luck, you by sheer hard work, Inspector Stitch. You have provided the evidence on which Inspector Rose will work.’

  Twitch remained unmollified. He distrusted Frenchies bearing gifts.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Like the postman in Chesterton’s story, because we were so used to seeing him with Lady Tunstall we never paid too much attention to him,’ Egbert observed. He had taken an olive branch round to Queen Anne’s Gate.

  ‘What will you do?’

  Egbert took out his pocket watch. ‘Go home. It’s eleven thirty. He’ll keep. If he’s our man he’s congratulating himself he’s safe.’

  ‘If?’

  ‘Sorry, Auguste, my money’s still on Smythe. There’s as much on one as on the other, in fact more on Smythe. You can’t arrest a man for being someone’s cousin. Or for spreading scurrilous stories fifteen years ago. Mind you, I agree the money alone gives him plenty of motive. If he knew they were related.’

  ‘Surely he must have done. He found out that she was still unmarried, and therefore – provided she had made no will to the contrary, a subject she could well have discussed with him – he was her heir. Then to his horror he heard she was going to marry Smythe. He had to strike before he was automatically excluded from inheritance, will or no will. He must have been very relieved that she had never discovered he was involved in the conspiracy to stop her marrying the Duke.’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible,’ Egbert admitted grudgingly. ‘I still think the clubman was Smythe, though. He is Lady Bullinger’s godson, Auguste.’

  ‘But Francis could be the only one in a position in ’ninety-seven to tell her scurrilous stories about Isabel eloping with the coachman. She certainly knew him – I remember she greeted him the first time I saw her in the club restaurant. And he was dining with the Duke then, which implies he could have been part of that circle fifteen years ago. What do you think?’

  Egbert yawned. ‘I think I’d like to get this wrapped up and us off to Eastbourne.’

  Auguste tried not to think of it; it was too tantalising. ‘He was at the club on the night Hester Hart was killed; he could well have thought that was his opportunity. He couldn’t guess that Smythe would return.’

  ‘You’ve got it at last, Auguste. We know Smythe was there,’ Egbert remarked with great satisfaction. ‘We don’t know Francis was. He claims he went to his club after leaving Isabel Tunstall. The villain’s clothes would be bloodstained. You could cause comment walking into Boodles like that.’

  ‘That would apply to Smythe too.’

  ‘But it’s my belief Maud and Agatha were in it too. Lady Bullinger lives close enough for him to go straight there after murdering Hester Hart. And don’t forget Smythe was part of a cosy little trio at the Duchess’s home just before Luigi’s murder. It’s Smythe, Auguste, Smythe.’

  ‘It seems to me, Egbert, there were three ounces of batter in one basin, and three in another. Which made the crêpes?’

  Egbert regarded him soundly. ‘If I’ve got to go off hunting hares at Richmond, you’re coming with me. But tomorrow.’ Back at Highbury, Edith had promised to wait up with hot cocoa; it would be lumpy, but on this July night that ordeal seemed a prospect fit for a gourmet.

  Auguste hated the moment when theory became reality, when the amateur was plunged into the professional, and Egbert knew it. He was therefore determined not to betray his reluctance to go to Richmond, even though it entailed a drive by one of the only three petrol motor cabs in London. Lacking the inspiration of a Dolly Dobbs, the electric cabs were as reluctant as Auguste to travel as far as Richmond. The Bollée suddenly acquired new charm by comparison with the petrol cabs. The day was sunny, and he had to fight back his desire to be wandering along the towpath with Tatiana, even fishing in a punt on the river by Richmond Bridge, or admiring the view from Richmond Hill, or sampling the excellent wares of the Star and Garter Hotel – in short, anything but going to interview a probable murderer. Possible murderer, he amended, in Egbert’s view.

  ‘Mr Francis is not at home.’ A young supercilious butler of the new school answered the summons of the old-fashioned bell-rope at Winter House.

  ‘Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard.’ Egbert walked in. ‘I’ll wait.’

  The morning room of Winter House displayed little of Hugh Francis’s personality, if indeed he had any, Auguste thought. He had never taken to him. Endless foxes being pursued by endless hounds and horses, a shelf of Surtees and the Racing Calendar, and a still-life oil of what looked like a half-eaten deer. It was not to his taste.

  To their surprise it was not Hugh Francis who arrived five minutes later; it was Isabel, Lady Tunstall, clad in a lace housefrock, and obviously summoned from breakfast. Isabel believed in attack, not defence, and did not bother to explain her own presence in a bachelor’s house at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning.

  ‘Really, Inspector, could this not have waited?’

  ‘It’s Mr Francis I’m here to see, Lady Tunstall – for the moment.’

  ‘Mr Francis? What can Hugh possibly have to do with Hester Hart? I presume that is what these questions are about?’

  ‘Did you know he was related to her?’

  For once Auguste saw a genuine emotion on Isabel’s face: surprise, then it speedily rearranged itself into its normal social mask. ‘I am afraid you have your notes confused, Inspector. I am related to Mr Francis. He is my cousin, and I can assure you I was not related to Hester Hart.’

  ‘Mr Francis was Miss Hart’s cousin on his mother’s side of the family.’

  A slight doubt crossed her face. ‘It is true I am related to him through my father. How close a relative was he?’

  ‘A second cousin, descended from her great-aunt.’

  ‘I am quite sure Hugh has not the slightest idea about this and indeed I also feel sure you are mistaken. Hester Hart was the daughter of a button manufacturer and Hugh could not possibly be related to trade. His family have been army people for centuries.’

  ‘Francis’s mother was an actress in burlesque.’

  ‘I’m quite sure you’re wrong,’ she replied vigorously.

  ‘How can you explain the entry in eighteen ninety-seven concerning you?’ Egbert continued blandly.

  ‘What is it about?’ Her tone was guarded. ‘I suppose you mean poor Hester’s rantings about being excluded from the Marlborough House dinner. Vastly exaggerated. The woman was unhinged about her absurd social pretensions.’

  ‘No. I had in mind the story of how you eloped with your family coachman.’

  Isabel tried a light laugh. ‘Dear Hester. So imaginative.’

  ‘Who told Hester Hart about it if not Mr Francis?’

  Emotions struggled to take precedence on Isabel’s face. She was saved from having to answer the question. Auguste, looking through the window, saw a familiar and distinctive motorcar driving well over the permitted 20 mph speed limit. It was Hugh Francis’s Rover, and it was heading out of, not into, the estate.

  ‘There he is,’ he shouted, and Egbert rushed to his side.

  ‘I thought Mr Francis had already left,’ Isabel said plaintively. She was only too anxious to help. ‘He is going either to his club, Plum’s, or to Gwynne’s Hotel. You know them?’

  Auguste knew them very well.

  There had to be pleasanter ways of travel than at high speed by motorcar. Auguste was glad he was sitting in the covered hansom-style passenger accommodation in the motor cab and not above their heads like the driver. Hot it might be in here, but at least the clouds of dust being whipped up by their fast progress were not settling on them. How the driver managed to see anything even with goggles was beyond Auguste’s comprehension. As they careered over Kew Bridge, it occurred to him with some vividness that he had no idea whether there still was a driver. At least with a horse hansom you could see the reins shake occasionally, just to comfort yourself that high behind you, looking after your safety, was a human being. In this monstrosity there was no such comfort. Here
it appeared they were on a highway to hell, clattering along in a machine over which they had no control whatsoever, driven by a maniac who might well already have abandoned them to their fate, with only a flimsy door between them and destruction. It was with relief he heard Egbert restore normality.

  ‘Makes you long for Eastbourne, doesn’t it?’

  Auguste had a sudden imaginary whiff of the sea breezes he, Egbert, Tatiana and Edith would – or should – be enjoying at the Eastbourne Hydro Hotel next week, but that only served to remind him that much water must pass under Kew Bridge before then.

  The cab, still mercifully with a driver, braked outside Plum’s Club for Gentlemen in St James’s Square. The club doorman prudently waited until the dust had subsided before advancing to open the door. When he recognised Auguste, who had been chef there for several years, he almost shut it again, but then remembered Mr Didier now had connections with royalty and was thus, almost, worthy of entering Plum’s.

  Egbert had no inhibitions about the sacredness of Plum’s portals and ran straight in. There was no sign of Hugh Francis’s Rover, and having checked with the porter, he ran back to the cab. ‘Gwynne’s,’ he shouted to the driver. ‘And wait.’

  The driver’s heart sank. An even longer job than he had bargained for, and the Yard were notoriously bad tippers.

  There was no sign of the Rover in Jermyn Street outside Gwynne’s either, but this time Auguste came in with Egbert. To see Emma Pryde, Gwynne’s redoubtable owner, was always a pleasure and, unlike Maisie, Emma’s idiosyncrasies had failed to endear his former love to Tatiana, a fact Emma seemed rather proud of. He gathered it was a regular occurrence.

  ‘I think you may find, my old cock sparrow,’ she answered Auguste amiably as he burst somewhat unceremoniously into her office, ‘that he saw you coming. He seemed very eager to leave my company, and that, as you know, ain’t usual.’