"Yes!” he howled. He was ignored.
"At the height of his career. I came to the Albion only days before that tragic occasion. Adolphus Bracket, that darling of the gods, strode the stage like a Colossus. Never, never shall I forget his interpretation of Eugene Aram. Dead, Mr. Didier, dead, killed by a mere envious underling, not fit to walk the same stage as he graced."
That murder, too, Auguste had heard of. Early in 1875 Bracket's body had been found stabbed in an alleyway off the Strand beside the Albion Theatre. He had been an actor universally applauded and greatly mourned. “Was the murderer ever caught?” he enquired.
"He fled the scene and the theatre. An Italian. I knew him well for I had worked with him in the provinces. Naturally, I was First Gentleman, and he merely the villain. He resented it greatly, just as he resented the great Adolphus Bracket. I would know him anywhere."
Auguste tried to clear his tired brain. “Have you seen him since?” He supposed he should at least pretend to take these ramblings seriously.
"The terror by night, Mr. Didier. It is always with me,” the distressed gentleman informed him gravely.
Auguste tried again. “You believe that one of these three murderers wishes to murder you? Which one?"
The distressed gentleman bowed his head. “This very week—but no, my calling forbids me to speak.” A pause followed. “A brandy, perhaps?"
* * * *
"Mr. Didier?"
Auguste looked up from his careful construction of a meringue swan. The voice was familiar, but what could have brought Inspector Egbert Rose of Scotland Yard to the Galaxy restaurant?
"A cup of warm chocolate, Inspector? An almond pastry?"
"Too rich for me, thank you.” The inspector eyed the proffered plate suspiciously. “I like a nice salmagundi myself—a little bit of everything, and you can be sure what you're eating."
Nevertheless Auguste noticed a wistful look on his face, as he conducted him to a table where they could converse.
"Did you know a Montague Phelps?” Egbert Rose continued.
The name meant nothing to Auguste.
"Beggar outside Romanos. Top hat, frock coat, good line in patter—"
Light dawned. “The distressed gentleman,” he exclaimed.
"Very,” Egbert Rose commented drily. “He's dead. Found stabbed in the small hours near his lodgings in Henrietta Street."
Only the night before that, Auguste realised with shock, he had watched at the restaurant door as the distressed gentleman walked out into the darkness, his top-hatted figure and cane briefly silhouetted in a pool of light from a gas standard. Then he had stepped briskly out of it, and disappeared forever. Auguste was filled with remorse as he remembered his impatience to be rid of a guest who had merely outstayed his welcome.
"A random robbery?” he asked, appalled. Even as he did so, however, he recalled the distressed gentleman's “I am to be murdered myself, sir.” A terrible thought struck him: Had he indeed had reason to fear for his life? Had a murderer returned, determined to silence a witness? Had he, Auguste Didier, dismissed a genuine fear as melodramatic patter?
"Perhaps,” came Egbert Rose's noncommittal reply.
"But why are you here, Inspector?” Auguste frowned. Despite his help to Egbert Rose on one or two cases in the past, he was hardly a substitute for the entire Metropolitan Police detective department when it came to solving crimes.
"Your Mr. Phelps was still alive when he was found. He managed to say a few words to the constable who found him."
"And what were they?"
"The constable took them to be the name of his killer. They were: Mr. Auguste Didier.” Egbert Rose's gimlet eyes fixed themselves firmly on him.
"You cannot believe that,” Auguste stammered in shock. Surely the inspector knew him well enough not to think that he, a master chef, could be guilty of murder?
Egbert Rose relented. “Knowing you, Mr. Didier, no. But I need some explanation of why you should have been on the victim's mind."
What had earlier been a delightful meringue and Chantilly swan began to look extremely unappealing. “It was because he had dined here, not last night but the evening before. I had offered him a free dinner since it was cold outside. He told me he thought he might be murdered. I did not take him seriously,” Auguste replied miserably, “as his patter was always about local murders."
"Perhaps someone did take him seriously,” Egbert grunted. “Tell me what he talked about."
Auguste promptly did so, and then, for the next few days, was forced to agonise in frustration. The inspector had left to “look into it” after Auguste had faithfully recounted all the three stories to him; Egbert Rose had also informed him he would be returning. To arrest him, perhaps? Did he really think that only a day after that fateful meal Auguste would have pursued Phelps into the darkness to kill him?
Auguste felt he was in danger of becoming a Strand eccentric himself. Surely nothing could link him to this terrible crime? He would have been only fourteen when even the most recent of the murders was committed. Nevertheless, he realised it was only his word as to what Montague Phelps had claimed might be the danger facing him.
At last the inspector returned, a week after his first visit. The waiting was over, and that at least was a relief.
Not quite over, it seemed. “One of those almond pastries wouldn't go amiss, Mr. Didier."
Auguste speedily obliged and then he could wait no longer. “Did you discover anything that would help clear me, Inspector?"
"Not enough,” was the far from cheering reply. “The owner of that house with the locked-up chamber, Joseph Taylor, has been dead for thirty years."
Auguste had mixed feelings. “So Montague Phelps couldn't have seen or heard of him in London recently.” If this applied to all the cases, then the answer would lie between a random assailant and Mr. Auguste Didier. And he knew which would have to receive priority from Scotland Yard.
"Agreed,” the inspector said drily. “But he left his house to his brother on condition that the room should still remain locked. Eventually, as Phelps told you, the hotel bought it, and lo and behold there was the skeleton of the missing bride, large crinoline and all."
There was something odd there. Auguste did some quick arithmetic. “But the bridegroom locked the door fifty years ago, in eighteen forty-four. I'm sure there were no crinolines then."
Egbert Rose looked mildly interested. “If so, the corpse couldn't have been there when the room was locked—"
Auguste could not wait, but burst in excitedly, “No, but afterwards where better to hide a corpse than a room everyone is forbidden to enter?"
"You mean Joseph Taylor popped a second bride-to-be in there, not his first?” the inspector asked caustically.
"Or the brother could have put one in.” Auguste's mind raced ahead. “His dead brother Joseph would automatically be blamed. If Joseph died about eighteen sixty-four, and his brother moved in soon afterwards, there would have been at least a few years when crinolines were still fashionable.” Auguste desperately tried to remember when the crinolines had reduced in size. Surely not until late in the ‘sixties?
The inspector ruminated. “Either of them could have done it in that case. I'll ask for more details, but it may be too late to get more scientific evidence now. The brother is still very much alive, although a fair age. A philanthropist, I gather."
"With or without a wife?” Auguste enquired hopefully.
"Not yet known. Now this second case, Miss Gabrielle Flower. There was another witness. Another clergyman, believe it or not. The Strand must have been crawling with them that day. That makes two real clergymen at least, plus our distressed Mr. Phelps."
Auguste clutched at an unlikely straw. “Perhaps the clergyman witness was the murderer?"
Rose regarded him with pity. “Would he risk staying around to get himself hanged? We've checked. He lives near Epsom now. Incidentally, there was a statement from the Earl of Dover in the file that Miss Flower had mentioned
a former admirer who was a clergyman in Warwickshire where she was born and brought up."
Auguste began to think it was increasingly possible that witness and murderer were the same, but he decided not to press the point. “And the third case?"
"The late Adolphus Bracket. His widow is dead but his daughter's in London. She was only ten when her father was murdered and after that she and her mother went to the west country. I've had a word with her—she's on the stage herself and has just come back here to play at Duke's in Shaftesbury's Avenue. Well thought of. She confirmed the suspect was an Italian; his name was Giovanni Fantino, who played walk-on parts at the Albion. He was thought to have fled back to Italy, but the Italian police had no trace of him."
"He could have returned to London recently,” Auguste suggested eagerly.
"We at the Yard managed to think of that for ourselves,” Egbert Rose replied dampeningly. “And that he might not be on the stage now."
"Perhaps working in a restaurant,” Auguste said undaunted. “Even Romanos, which might explain why Montague Phelps moved from his usual pitch to outside the Galaxy on Tuesday."
"With your luck, Mr. Didier, you'll have a real salmagundi here tonight. All three murderers will come marching in to supper, and you can pick out the one that suits you. I told you I like a little bit of everything."
Chuckling, Egbert Rose departed, leaving Auguste to contemplate the daunting prospect before him if he was to clear his name. A salmagundi indeed. All the ingredients were before him—but it seemed it was up to him to present the dish itself.
* * * *
Mary Bracket's dressing room at the Albion was full of mementos not only of her own career but her father's as well. Auguste could see dated-looking studio photographs, playbills, even an oil painting. The late Adolphus Bracket strode over this room as a Colossus, just as he had at the Albion. He remembered once listening to the distressed gentleman in the Strand, as he imitated Bracket's portrayal of Eugene Aram, staggering theatrically as he declaimed:
"I only saw beneath my furious blows
Some writhing vermin—not a human life.
Great God! This moment I can hear his cry—"
At that moment Mary Bracket entered the dressing room. Auguste had been expecting the dramatic entrance so favoured by her father, but she proved to be a charming, graceful woman in her late twenties, with none of the imperiousness he was used to in ladies of her eminence in the profession (except at the Galaxy, of course).
"Did your mother speak about the tragedy to you?” he asked her sympathetically.
Her face grew sad. “She was so stricken with grief, Mr. Didier, that she did not live long after my father's death. She died when I was fifteen, but she had talked endlessly of his murder."
"So it was she who told you about Giovanni Fantino?"
"Yes, Mr. Didier. She was sure of his guilt,” she replied quietly. “He believed my father had stood in the way of his receiving leading roles. Only he, he claimed, could effectively play Othello or Eugene Aram."
"How old would he have been then?"
"He was about twenty-five. I try hard to feel sorry for him, for he was crazed out of his mind. He killed my father on his way home from the theatre. He was seen with blood all over his clothes, so my mother was told, and he disappeared that night. My mother made investigations of her own and confirmed it before we left for Somerset."
As he left, Auguste considered the possibility that Fantino might be working here again, buried deep in the Italian community in Southwark or east or west London. There were several such communities. Their cuisine however seemed to consist of endless strands of tasteless spaghetti or macaroni buried under tomato sauce, or else a sort of porridge made with rice called risotto. Auguste took the view that meat, fish, eggs, even cheese should live in partnership with sauces. He did not approve of their being totally dependent on them in order to be edible, and decided to postpone his investigation of Fantino until last.
The Reverend Bertrand Watkins, living in Epsom, seemed an attractive alternative, and the likelihood of his cooking spaghetti in his rural vicarage was very small. Mr. Watkins’ proffered refreshment presented a far different problem, however. His cook had not yet understood that cakes should dance like soufflés and not lie like suet puddings upon the stomach. Nevertheless—and despite the chance that he was a murderer—the now elderly clergyman seemed a likeable host.
"My dear sir,” he explained to Auguste, “it was many years ago, and not an incident that I care to recall. That beautiful young woman killed in her prime by a madman—and one of my own calling. A great tragedy."
The distressed gentleman had been very fond, so Auguste couldn't help remembering, of tragic young ladies. This particular crime was one of his favourite orations in the Strand; at some stage the distressed gentleman must have played in The Duchess of Malfi—a fairground version perhaps—for Auguste distinctly remembered a mournful “Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle; she died young” concluding Phelps's dramatic rendering of Miss Flower's death.
"I believe you were the only witness who clearly saw his face?” he asked the Reverend Watkins.
"The young man ran up Southampton Street, into Covent Garden, and then St. Paul's church,” came the gentle reply. “The crowd following him believed wrongly that he had then run out into the churchyard, and thence to freedom. I remained in the church, however, thinking he had sought sanctuary. I too was mistaken, but nevertheless I suddenly came face to face with him as he dashed out of a side chapel and back into Covent Garden. There he disappeared in the crowds. I gave my statement to the police and returned to my living in Lower Potwell."
"Did you ever see Mr. Phelps in London? He sometimes begged as an impoverished clergyman."
The Reverend Watkins smiled. “Alas, I am in no position to give alms to bogus clergyman when I could legitimately beg for them myself if I chose. We clergy are not well paid."
Could the Reverend Watkins really be the sweet elderly parson he appeared? On the journey back to London, the distressed gentleman sitting mentally at Auguste's side seemed to have no doubt. He was vigorously shaking his head.
* * * *
As the train puffed into Canterbury station with a triumphant belch of steam, Auguste was looking forward to his last visit. So far he had apparently achieved little, but it was remarkable what could come of the most unlikely ingredients, and he was hopeful of his last appointment. The distressed gentleman seemed to be determined to accompany him on this journey, too, and indeed, in these circumstances, Auguste could hardly not bear him in mind. His most splendid rhetoric had frequently issued forth over the ghastly contents of the locked room and the skeleton found therein. His performance of this story had seemed to lean heavily on the well-known play of Maria Marten and the Red Barn for its emotions. The disappearance of poor Maria at the pitiless hands of her lover lent itself admirably to his story of the missing bride.
"Oh Heaven, deliver the murderer into the hands of justice,” the distressed gentleman had so often roared with tears in his eyes for the benefit of his audience. “Show no mercy for the bloody deed. Thy father will revenge thee, child.” His trembling voice was lowered for these last words.
Sir William Taylor, brother of the original owner of the mysterious locked room, lived in an elegant Georgian house on the outskirts of the city, and Auguste amused himself in its morning room studying the splendid oil paintings as he waited some considerable time for his host. He was admiring one of a seated young lady in a white dress with elegant draperies, when Sir William eventually arrived. He seemed in his late seventies, much older than the lady in the portrait, and not the most benevolent-looking philanthropist Auguste had ever seen.
"Your daughter, sir?"
"My second wife, Alice,” Sir William grunted. “My first wife died abroad in the ‘sixties. That's her there.” He pointed to an inferior oil painting tucked away behind the door. A meek-looking lady looked somehow lost surrounded by her enormous blue crinoline,
with one hand displaying an ornate wedding ring resting on the family Bible. “Now, what are you here for?” he barked. “That house in the Strand, I suppose."
"On behalf of a murdered man—"
A sharp look. “My dear sir,” he interrupted, “if you are another of those ghost hunters, pray speak to the new owners. I saw no ghost while I lived there, I heard no ghost, and furthermore I have no interest whatsoever in any ghost anywhere. Clear?"
"A Mr. Montague Phelps was murdered on Tuesday night."
"Never heard of him."
"A distressed gentleman."
Sir William looked surprised and then began to laugh. “You don't mean that scallywag who used to beg outside my door in the Strand until I saw him on his way? Tall fellow in his forties, looked like Mr. Micawber without the grin."
"It could well be."
"Why come to me? It's ten years since I sold that house."
"You heard about the corpse discovered in the room after the sale?"
He looked taken aback. “Of course. Joseph's doing. Poor fellow. Out of his mind. Brooded on his wrongs, pursued the poor woman, killed her, and put her in there. Always weird, was Joseph."
"You were never tempted to open the door when you lived there, sir?"
A furious reply to this. “I was legally bound not to, and I didn't. And about this fellow Phelps: If you're implying what I think, Mr. Didier, I give to the poor. I don't go round murdering distressed gentlemen—or distressed wives."
Auguste decided to leave the house, with Sir William in full agreement. Whatever he might say, Auguste concluded, he was a fit man, despite his age, and one whose jaw suggested that no one and nothing would stand in his way. Especially not distressed gentlemen.
* * * *
"The portrait showed a fine wedding ring.” Auguste produced a sketch he had made of it from memory on the journey home and handed it to Egbert Rose after he had completed the rest of his investigations. “Perhaps the same ring might have been found on the corpse?"
The inspector had not been pleased to hear of Auguste's endeavours and was only partly mollified by interest in what he had discovered. “I'll look into it,” he grunted. “What about your hunt for the Italian?"
EQMM, May 2008 Page 18
