by Myers, Amy
But he was incapable of saying more, and instead seized her in a bearlike hug, heedless of her cry that he was squashing her. Enthusiasm was all very well, thought Emily, but surely this agony was not the romance she had dreamed of. She struggled ineffectively and he released her, but not because of her struggles. Like Gwendolen before him, the hollands had caught up with him. Muttering incomprehensibly, he made for some bushes where he disappeared from Emily’s view. He did not return. He could not, for he was lying recumbent and unconscious on the carefully tended garden.
Emily waited, disappointed, rejected – and angry. When he had not reappeared after fifteen minutes, convinced she had been abandoned, she set off home alone.
Alice, too, was alone. She had seen Alfred disappearing with Beatrice Throgmorton and walked quickly back along the promenade. She took a walk up to the West Cliff before returning to Blue Horizons, overwhelmed in misery. What was she to do now?
Algernon Peckham was alone. He had had the fright of his life seeing that woman in the hotel. What the dickens, so to speak, was he to do? So he had been a gardener at the Château de la Ferté. That proved nothing, did it? There was no proof that it was he who had taken the necklace.
Naturally, he would say, he had disappeared from the château; he was scared they’d pin the crime on him because he’d done stir – time. Yes, that was the way to handle it. All the same, there were other problems to be thought about.
James Pegg wandered home alone. He too had seen Alfred departing with Beatrice, but unlike Alice he had followed them, and had been witness to Alfred’s humiliating rejection. He did not rush to console Alfred, however. He had a lot to think about, and he preferred to do it slowly and alone.
Auguste did not walk home alone to Blue Horizons. He had the exciting company of Sid. Sid was keeping a close eye on Mr Didier; not that he thought anyone would try to poison him, but you never knew, when the likes of Peckham were around.
When they returned, they found Alice in the kitchen. She was crying. Man to man, Sid and Auguste exchanged glances. Auguste nodded, Sid disappeared.
‘They’re engaged,’ she wailed as soon as Sid had closed the door. ‘He’s led me on.’
‘Are you sure, Alice?’ he asked cautiously, uncertain what he could say if she was sure.
She nodded and burst into a fresh flood of tears. ‘I feel so silly. He doesn’t even notice me. He doesn’t even think of me as a woman.’
‘Chérie.’ He knelt down by her chair and drew her to him. She was warm in his arms, and he felt Lord Wittisham was foolish indeed.
‘Oh, Mr Didier.’ She raised her tear-stained face to his and it seemed quite natural to place his lips on hers, and since she seemed to welcome it, he kept them there. For some time. It occurred to him forcibly that he would have no objection at all to extending this romantic episode further. Much further. But an irritating and inopportune appearance of honour made him hesitate to benefit from her rejection by Alfred at least for tonight. He ordered conscience to remove itself immediately, but it did not. Regretfully he kissed her forehead, extracted himself from her embrace and sent her on her way to a virtuous bed.
Once in his own, he dreamed again of Tatiana, but she was far away from Broadstairs.
Chapter Nine
The night of the hollands had left in its wake the day of the doldrums at Blue Horizons. There were bright spots for Auguste, however. The sun was shining, and an early morning trip to the pier had produced some unusually good mackerel.
Being on breakfast duty, Alice and Emily were the first two pupils down to breakfast. Heinrich was next, entering the kitchen bleary-eyed. Emily ignored him and he slumped down in a chair, trying to catch her eye. It refused to be caught. She had been deserted. He had left her mid-kiss and come home. Did he dislike the smell of her southernwood hair wash or her home-made lavender perfume? She wondered what Grandmama would have advised in all the circumstances.
Few of Auguste’s pupils seemed inclined to mackerel for breakfast. In fact Auguste and Sid were the only volunteers and even Auguste had second thoughts as he smelt them on the gridiron. Black coffee was much favoured however. So was silence. Sid was the exception, whistling happily about daring young men on flying trapezes, the sound throbbing through Alice’s headache and giving Emily very uncharitable thoughts.
Algernon and James came in together, requesting thin toast, and black coffee. Alice fulfilled the orders, then sat down as far as she could from Alfred who had just arrived. Emily could serve him. Alice, slightly pink, glanced at Auguste, and continued to avoid Alfred’s eyes which were fixed on her beseechingly.
Alfred had had a dark night of the soul. He had seen how entirely wrong it had been for him to have assumed that Beatrice Throgmorton would look twice at him. In any case, upon reflection, did he really want her now he compared her sturdy body and overpowering nature with Alice’s pliable warmth? He stole covert glances at her across the table. True, she was not blue-blooded, but she was an officer’s daughter and therefore fit for a gentleman. He was suddenly and belatedly delightfully aware of her adoration, of her devotion, of her light hand with the pastry, and even at breakfast time he could contemplate with pleasure how jolly nice it would be to kiss her. He gazed at her ardently. When she required more coffee he leapt up, determined to prove his newfound love and to take the opportunity the task afforded of sitting by her side. James watched aghast, toast suspended halfway to his mouth; the rest of the table observed the manoeuvre with interest, and Alice felt surprise then delight. Auguste, patronisingly benevolent, glowed with virtue at his sexual restraint.
As yet the sunshine could not be enjoyed for this morning the inquest was to take place. Once again the world of the sands and holidays was left far behind as the Auguste Didier School of Cuisine and the committee members of the Literary Lionisers, together with such other Lionisers as could squeeze into the room allotted to them in police headquarters, were once again taken back over the events of last Saturday night. The three uninterested pressmen from the Imperial attended. After this, they could no longer, they supposed, justify a prolonged holiday in Broadstairs; it would be back to Fleet Street. They took desultory notes throughout the succession of witnesses that took the stand, They were profoundly bored. Until it came to the verdict: murder.
Sergeant Stitch, formally attired in dark lounge suit, stiff collar, bowler hat and umbrella, walked out of the railway station, prepared to show Broadstairs how things should really be done. To this end, he had not even considered packing anything that could remotely be considered seaside wear, and as a result suppressed a pang of envy when his cab turned along the Victoria Parade and his eyes beheld a scene that reminded him irresistibly of his annual holiday at Margate, fortunately yet to come.
‘Scotland Yard,’ he informed Mr Multhrop severely, taking him for the doorman as he marched through the doors of the Imperial Hotel.
‘Ah, Stitch.’ Rose looked up from a Naseby-dominated desk as Mr Multhrop speedily opened the door and almost pushed the sergeant in. Better be a butler than have policemen littering up his foyer. As far as Rose was concerned, even Stitch made a welcome diversion from Naseby. Better the devil you know. His brain seemed to seize up when Naseby was around, whereas Stitch sharpened it, like a whetstone. Edith was right. Albert, she had remarked – Rose hadn’t known Twitch even had a Christian name – is like pummy stone, whereas Naseby (who had had a definite smirk on his face when he saw her new hat) is like Irritating Plaster, he causes irruptions.
‘Seen your room yet?’ Rose enquired politely.
‘No, sir. Eager to begin work, sir.’
‘No sea view,’ said Rose absently. ‘Thought you might get distracted.’
Stitch gulped. ‘Quite right, sir,’ thinking lovingly of what he would do when he was promoted Inspector. The only problem was that Rose would then be Chief Inspector unless some awful fate overtook him . . . Stitch’s nose had twitched eagerly as he took in the size of the Imperial. It was going to be another
of those cases with coronets that Rose was so good at. And this time he, and not that chef, would be at Rose’s right hand. Usually he got palmed off with the Mile End Road, stabbings in Chinatown, Lascars, opium dens – you name it, Stitch was on the case. Master Didier got Mayfair, he thought incorrectly and unjustly.
‘Here’s my report, sir. Results of my enquiries.’
‘Pertaining to this case?’ breathed Naseby, eyes gleaming.
‘Just so, Naseby,’ said Rose blandly, eyes skimming quickly through pages of Stitch’s careful copperplate handwriting.
‘I looked up reports from the Continental police as requested, sir.’ Virtue oozed out of Stitch. ‘You were right,’ no harm in giving justice where it was (for once) due, ‘the thief of the Château de la Ferté case was believed to be English. Jobbing gardener, by name Augustus Poplar.’
‘Alias Algernon Peckham,’ said Rose. ‘Only a few miles in it.’
‘What, sir?’ Twitch did not follow the reasoning.
‘Anything on Poplar in our files?’
‘No, sir, not in the Metropolitan area.’
‘Keep trying. Look under Peckham. Now, Throgmorton,’ Rose said, returning to the report. Stitch had been working hard, Rose granted him that. Like a mole was Twitch – blind, but a good digger. Rose whistled. Naseby tried hard to read over his shoulder. Stitch stood stolidly to attention.
‘Born in 1845. Widower, one daughter. Studied London School of Economics, Heidelberg, Sorbonne, Vienna, Foreign department of Masterman’s Bank 1870-83, President 1883 to date. Adviser to Treasury and Foreign and Colonial Offices.’
‘That’s the formal information, sir. It gets more interesting.’
‘You seem quite excited, Stitch,’ Rose commented drily. ‘Must be the sea air.’ Stitch ran a finger round his collar.
‘Rumours that he had profited from the Barings Crisis of 1890.’ Rose frowned. Wasn’t that the time when the Bank of England stepped in to avoid the whole City suffering? ‘Interesting, but I don’t see how it can affect this case. Still, you never know.’
‘And we were in touch with him twice at the Yard, sir,’ Stitch burst forth, eager to display the fruits of his research. ‘Once when the Yard needed advice over a fraud case, and once over a theft!’
‘Theft again eh?’ said Rose studying the report.
‘Big one sir. Twenty thousand pounds in bearer bonds. Cashed abroad.’
‘When?’
‘About ten years ago, sir. The villain was never caught.’
‘Peckham would have been about fourteen. Pity,’ observed Rose regretfully. What would he do about that young man and the necklace? He rather thought he’d let him stew for a while; with the murder investigation on, he couldn’t get far – or he’d be a fool to try, and Peckham was no fool.
‘Oh, there was no doubt who stole them, sir. His groom.’
‘Groom?’ echoed Rose. ‘Name?’
‘I didn’t bring it, sir.’ Stitch’s face was crestfallen.
‘Back to the Yard, Stitch. I want everything on that case.’
‘But I’ve only just got here,’ bleated Stitch.
Rose paused. An evil look came into his eye. The sun was shining. It was holiday time, he reflected wistfully, wondering where Edith was. He relented. ‘Get them on the telephone then.’
‘The crime’s ten years old, sir,’ Stitch pointed out. ‘Is it that urgent?’
Rose sighed. ‘Ever heard of cumulative probabilities, Stitch?’
Stitch hadn’t.
‘There’s an advertisement I read in here,’ said Rose, tapping the local newspaper, ‘for Mother Seigel’s Syrup. This learned advertisement suggests that, just like in the Bertillon system, when you get a lot of small pieces of evidence grouped together, it can add up to be something prodigious in the way of proof. And I’m hearing the word “groom” one too many times for it to be coincidence. So after you’ve heard from the Factory, Stitch, we’ll –’ the ‘we’ did not include Naseby – ‘be having a word with Mr James Pegg.’
Beatrice Throgmorton saw no point in delaying her departure. The inquest was over. She had duly registered the death of her father at the Council Offices that afternoon and the funeral had now speedily to be carried out in Buckinghamshire. She paid her account at the Imperial Hotel, and with her maid staggering under six hatboxes, followed by a small procession of luggage borne by sturdy footmen, she climbed into a victoria to depart for the railway station. Her cab had no sooner left the Imperial than Egbert Rose tore out of his office, ran to the reception desk to enquire Miss Throgmorton’s whereabouts and, being told, continued this headlong rush out of the hotel, hotly pursued by Stitch and Naseby.
There were no victorias conveniently passing, and Rose was forced to commandeer a passing donkey cart, much to the amazement of its young driver, especially when a bowler-hatted Stitch leapt in after him.
‘Follow that victoria,’ Rose commanded.
‘’Ere, no more!’ yelled the boy, seeing Naseby about to follow suit.
‘Scotland Yard, laddie. Hurry,’ said Stitch grimly. The boy cast one horrified look at the bowler-hatted majesty and communicated his message to the donkey. With a jerk they were off. When he left his home this morning he had not expected to be carrying Lestrade of the Yard and Sherlock Holmes, and was by no means certain he was ready for this responsibility.
Looking by chance out of his kitchen window, Auguste was amazed to see a donkey cart with Egbert Rose and – yes – Stitch driving past. He blinked. Was this a late hallucinatory effect of the hollands? Seeing Naseby in hot pursuit running on foot after the cart almost convinced him it was. The donkey turned into the High Street, negotiating without enthusiasm the usual morning traffic jams in its odd corners and narrow width.
No Miss Betsy Trotwood leapt out to bar the way to their donkey, but a large van delivering beer to the Prince Albert public house did. A second delivery van by their side, full of interesting-looking vegetables, proved another hazard; the donkey was unwilling to move from these Elysian fields. By the time it had been persuaded onwards the victoria was out of sight. When they reached the railway station it was already plying for new hire and the sound of an engine gathering up steam could be heard. They raced onto the platform, followed a minute or two later by a panting Naseby, only to see the railway train, now bearing Miss Throgmorton, steaming slowly away, enveloping them in white smoke.
‘That’s that,’ said Rose gloomily. ‘We won’t be able to reach the lady until we can telephone tonight.’
‘’Ere, where are your platform tickets?’ demanded the ticket collector.
‘Scotland Yard,’ Stitch informed him loftily.
‘Platform tickets,’ retorted the ticket collector.
‘You know me, my man,’ said Naseby angrily. ‘Inspector Naseby, Sandwich police.’
‘Yes, I do.’ A happy look came to his face. ‘That’ll be thruppence,’ he said firmly.
‘We want to hasten the discovery of Sir Thomas’s murderer. Mr Didier, just in case the police think it’s me,’ Angelina declared honestly.
She and Oliver were sitting side by side in the small parlour at Blue Horizons, having arrived unannounced while the Auguste Didier School of Cuisine was in session in the kitchen. Auguste had persuaded his pupils that, having missed a lesson this morning owing to the inquest, this afternoon would prove an ideal time to instruct them on the magnificence of the St Pierre or John Dory. With regretful eyes on the sunshine outside, they had reluctantly yielded, though not as reluctantly as Auguste had yielded to Angelina’s entreaties to be allowed to interrupt the lesson.
‘It is brave of you to come,’ he observed, his mind still in the kitchen where his unsupervised pupils were no doubt ruining the John Dory.
‘Oliver persuaded me,’ admitted Angelina. ‘He felt it foolish for me to do otherwise. We may be able to help. We could investigate,’ she said hopefully, remembering ‘Lady Molly of Scotland Yard’. ‘We can talk to our fellow committee members in a way that
you can’t and not even the police can.’
‘And why come to me, not go to see Inspector Rose?’
‘My friend Lady Jane told me you were a sort of Watson to—’ She stopped abruptly as she saw the look of outrage on Auguste’s face. ‘I mean a Sherlock, of course. How foolish of me.’
Auguste smiled weakly, then laughed at himself for his vanity. ‘I am honoured even to be thought Inspector Rose’s Watson,’ he said. ‘I try not to be as foolish as the doctor, and not to blunder in where the Inspector wishes to go quietly. Yet there are no places I can go, things I can observe that, as a policeman, he cannot. So perhaps this is true of you also. And now, Mr Michaels, I wish to ask you one question. Where did you obtain that delightful snake-buckle belt?’
‘Alors, mes enfants, how is our St Pierre?’
No one replied with glad tidings of a perfect dinner about to be served. Indeed only Algernon, Emily and Heinrich were present. The latter two did not appear to be speaking to each other, and Sid and Algernon were prowling round each other like lean and hungry panthers waiting for an opportunity to strike. James, Alice and Alfred hurried in guiltily a few minutes later, glaring at each other for being thrust into proximity, the former carrying bread and milk for dinner, and the latter clutching a treasure trove of samphire as a peace offering.
‘I know you wanted to try it, Mr Didier,’ he said.
‘Where did you get it, Alfred?’ enquired Alice anxiously. ‘You didn’t go clambering over the cliffs, did you?’
‘No,’ said Alfred shortly. He had no wish to confess that he had visited Madame Mantela, a lady palmist in Margate, in order to discover what his future might hold, the results of which had been far from reassuring.
But not even the prospect of experimenting with cooking samphire raised a sense of oppression that evening; such conversations as were half-heartedly begun petered out.
‘Tomorrow afternoon, mes amis. I see Inspector Rose again, and then perhaps he will have news for us so that we can resume our holiday,’ Auguste said optimistically. He did not believe it. But seven pairs of eyes fastened on him at this news, each with their separate thoughts.
