Murder Makes an Entree

by Myers, Amy

  ‘Broadstairs won’t like this,’ the doctor announced after the body had been borne away for post-mortem. ‘Not on their sands. Good job it happened early.’

  ‘Pegg would be pleased not to have caused too much of a disturbance,’ said Rose sarcastically.

  The doctor glanced at him. ‘Job getting on top of you, is it?’ he remarked kindly.

  ‘He could be right,’ Rose commented to Auguste after doctor, body and Naseby had departed for police headquarters. ‘There’s something even nastier about murder when everyone else is enjoying themselves in the sun. First, it doesn’t seem real, and then when it does, the sun makes it all the worse.’

  ‘If James was the killer of Sir Thomas—’

  ‘You know as well as I do he wasn’t, Auguste. And this wasn’t an accident either.’

  ‘But how could it be murder? It would require two people at least to hold him down and that would be noticed.’

  Rose disliked modern forms of communication, but telegrams were hardly the most expressive means of obtaining information. He failed to reach Miss Throgmorton by telephone on Wednesday or Thursday; now the funeral was over, surely she would be at home. Clearing his throat, he once again took off the telephone receiver in Multhrop’s office and Beatrice Throgmorton’s voice came over stridently.

  ‘Your father had a groom,’ yelled Rose – it was a long way to Buckinghamshire.

  ‘He had many grooms,’ replied Beatrice. ‘I hear you quite well, Inspector.’ Her own voice was nearly as loud as his.

  ‘About ten years ago. One who stole money in bonds from your father.’

  A pause. ‘I think I recall the matter.’

  ‘Could it have been James Pegg?’

  A long pause. ‘Who?’

  Rose groaned. ‘James Pegg,’ he yelled louder.

  ‘I do not recall the name, but—’

  ‘Lord Wittisham’s friend. Tall, thirtyish, dark, stockily built, squarish face and rather close-set eyes.’

  She cast her mind back. ‘It could have been, Inspector. I cannot remember. I do recall the man was dark and tall, or so he seemed to a ten-year-old girl. I regret I do not keep a photographic record of grooms.’

  ‘But it could have been him?’

  ‘Oh yes, Inspector, it could have been.’

  ‘It could have been,’ repeated Rose disgustedly to Auguste as he hung up the receiver with relief. ‘We’ll have to go on working on it. You’re very quiet,’ he said, glaring at him.

  ‘I have to tell you something, Egbert, that has been uncomfortably on my mind. I left the bathing earlier than the others, to see you. I left with –’ he hesitated – ‘Miss Multhrop. I had announced my intention beforehand and James said he would accompany me. I assumed he wished to speak to me not you. I think now I was wrong and that it was you he wished to give some information to. I did not tell him when I left, however, because –’ he plunged – ‘because I thought he was jealous of the partiality Miss Araminta showed me.’

  Jealous? It was clear to him now that Pegg had information about the murder. Why, oh why did he not see that earlier?

  ‘I think he was probably dead by then, Auguste. It would have made no difference,’ Rose said comfortingly. ‘The interesting thing to me is why our friend Wittisham didn’t notice his absence.’

  Gratefully, Auguste seized this stick of comfort, but all the same he continued to blame himself as he walked back to Blue Horizons. Perhaps things would look clearer in the morning.

  Sergeant Stitch descended to a more leisurely breakfast than his duties at Scotland Yard allowed for, unaware of the developments he was missing on the sands. Having consumed a large dish of kedgeree and several muffins, he repaired, mortified, to Mr Multhrop’s office to contact the Factory. There he caught Multhrop skulking pathetically in his old domain. Stitch eyed him sternly.

  ‘The Yard’s requisitioned this office,’ he pointed out unnecessarily. ‘Official business.’ His tones suggested it was now as sacrosanct as any embassy on foreign soil.

  ‘Just looking for some papers, Inspector,’ stuttered Mr Multhrop.

  Stitch looked on him more kindly as he ushered him out. When Rose and Auguste entered the office fifteen minutes later, he looked almost human.

  ‘I’ve spoken to the Factory, sir. I regret our theory is invalid.’

  Rose raised his eyebrows at the ‘our’. Twitch did not notice. ‘The chap who stole Sir Thomas’s bonds is dead. Died in France three years ago.’

  Rose grunted. It had fitted so well. Too well, perhaps. A pity, but at least they knew where they were.

  Auguste’s first reaction was pleasure. He could not see Pegg as a thief. It was a vindication of his school. The school already possessed one pupil with criminal tendencies, Algernon Peckham; another would have thrown serious doubts on Auguste’s judgement of character.

  ‘He must have known something about Sir Thomas’s death,’ said Rose almost angrily. ‘That’s why he wanted to walk back here with you. Why couldn’t the fool have told you earlier?’

  ‘He was very quiet yesterday at luncheon, almost listless as we went to the beach. He did not give the impression of one who wanted to get something off his chest,’ said Auguste defensively. ‘He said he thought the water would be good for him.’

  ‘Poor devil,’ said Rose with feeling. ‘He was wrong.’

  ‘So now we must return to our muttons. Hunting Mr Datchery,’ said Auguste without enthusiasm.

  ‘If this Datchery is so good at solving mysteries,’ said Rose sourly, ‘he can come along as soon as he likes.’

  Canterbury had been selected for a day visit for the Lionisers on several counts, the chief of which was that it was a pity to miss it, especially since many accompanying male spouses were aware that today was the second day of the cricket match between Kent and the Australians. Plans were made accordingly. The male Lionisers soothed their nagging consciences by reminding themselves that cricket could be classed as a Dickensian occupation in view of the Dingley Dell Cricket Club match against All-Muggleton.

  Other parts of Kent, notably Gravesend and Chatham, had more claim to Dickensian associations than did Canterbury, but sufficient of a case could be made to satisfy the more demanding of the Lionisers. In fact the one matter Sir Thomas and Samuel Pipkin did agree about was the importance of cricket, and it was noticeable that a sizeable amount of free time had been built into the programme: ‘An afternoon free to wander at will and absorb the delightful atmosphere of Dickens’s Canterbury.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ breathed Gwendolen, tucking her arm firmly into Angelina’s, like the Duchess into Alice’s, as she stumbled over the cobbles, ‘poor Mr Pegg was Mr Datchery.’

  ‘What makes you say that, Mrs Figgis-Hewett?’ asked Oliver sharply.

  ‘Someone was,’ she pointed out, ‘or darling Thomas would not have claimed to have seen him.’

  ‘Mr Pegg was hardly old enough to play the part. Datchery had a white beard,’ said Angelina jokingly.

  ‘My dear,’ Gwendolen looked at her pityingly, as one of the cognoscenti to a philistine, ‘Mr Datchery was in disguise. Of course,’ she breathed, since this failed to have effect, ‘perhaps I shall be the next.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’ asked Angelina, startled.

  ‘If that Mr Pegg was murdered,’ she replied shrilly, ‘it was for something he knew. He was a witness. Like myself.’ She put her finger to her lips. ‘My lips are sealed.’

  Samuel Pipkin brushed past them quickly with barely an apology.

  ‘To the murder?’ asked Oliver slowly. ‘Have you told Inspector Rose what you know?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean I actually saw it, Mr Michaels, but he did tell me about Datchery. And that makes me vulnerable.’ Her eyes pleaded with him to agree.

  Samuel was out of earshot.

  In fact he was having a somewhat difficult task as leader of the group. Only David Copperfield of Charles Dickens’s novels could claim real connections with Canterbury, and as the residen
ces described in it were less than precise, identification had proved difficult. Samuel had the happy thought, however, that the Cathedral at least was unassailable. Some Lionisers, unfortunately for him, hotly disagreed that its place in Dickensian literature merited a visit to it. Protagonists of the visit pointed out that Dickens had personally taken a group of American friends there on a summer’s day in June 1869, and moreover David Copperfield dutifully worshipped there. Dissenting voices pointed out that, though this was true, Dickens himself had been greatly disappointed by his visit, considering the standard of the service slipshod. A visit could therefore well be omitted from today’s itinerary in favour of all the inns being visited. The Ayes won.

  Mr Wickfield’s residence and Uriah Heep’s dwelling were then sought in vain, though without acrimony, there being no great evidence one way or the other, though there was a body of opinion convinced that Mr Wickfield’s residence was to be found in St Dunstan’s Street. Fruitlessly they trudged up and down seeking ‘a very old house bulging out over the road’, and a small detachment of Lionisers rushed into the Diocesan Registry, accusing that office of having harboured the gentleman. When it came to Dr Strong’s house, hostilities flared openly. One party was for setting off to Lady Wootton Green, but the opposition, their eyes on luncheon, firmly rejected the idea. Lord Beddington displayed an erudition which astonished even himself, quoting Dickens’s manager’s story of how Dickens himself had distinctly hedged when asked by his American friends where Dr Strong’s house might be. ‘It’s my belief,’ analysed Beddington, with all the weight of the judiciary, ‘that the fellow didn’t know. He’d made it up.’

  A shriek at this heresy from Gwendolen, but the majority of Lionisers decided to abandon the chore and indulge in a visit to the old Sun Inn where Mr Micawber had lodged, and then progress to luncheon at the Royal Fountain Hotel where Mr Dick had slept every other Wednesday, and where the great Mr Dickens himself had laid his head. Honour was thus satisfied, as well as the stomach.

  ‘Personally,’ said Samuel Pipkin, ruminating after his third glass of claret punch, ‘I think the fellow was drunk.’

  ‘Mr Dickens?’ asked a Lioniser, shocked to the core.

  ‘No, no, no,’ replied Samuel testily. ‘That fellow who was drowned yesterday. He was reeling around. Nearly fell down the steps of the bathing machine. I caught him by the arm just in time. Goodness knows what that Froggie cook puts in his food.’ Having delivered this speech, he clearly considered himself absolved from the matter of Mr Pegg’s death.

  Tactfully Auguste suggested that this afternoon his five remaining pupils should visit Margate. To stay and regard the sands where one of their number had met his end was hardly going to raise their spirits. The bathing attendant indeed seemed to be doing remarkably little business. Perhaps a visit to Margate by train would take their minds off yesterday, and Auguste forced himself to accompany them, feeling he might yet pick up some snippet of information – he hesitated to say clue – to the unhappy events of the last few days.

  On the way there the group was quiet. Alfred said not a word and one by one the others too fell silent. Perhaps he had been wrong after all to persuade them to come out. It was only yesterday that James had been one of them, and now he was gone, murdered. How unbelievable it seemed. Surely it would be too big a risk in front of everyone. Perhaps no, however. Did someone pretend to play a joke holding his head under? No, it would have to be someone stronger than he was to hold him down long enough. Someone strong, someone like Heinrich Freimüller. He claimed not to be able to swim though, and assuming that the two crimes were linked, what possible reason would Heinrich have to kill Sir Thomas?

  They came out of the railway station and the vista of Margate Bay was before them. As far as the eye could see, there were holidaymakers; it was Broadstairs ten times enlarged. They set off down the slope to the seafront with mixed feelings, and were swallowed up in the crowd. They looked at the remains of the shell grottos on the sands laid by the children over two weeks ago in honour of St James de Compostella, though the reason for the old tradition had been lost in the mists of time. They listened for a few minutes to Uncle Bones and his Minstrels, and some discussion then ensued as to whether Uncle Bones’ or Uncle Mack’s rendering of ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’ was superior, but it remained desultory. As a way of both discovering evidence and cheering the spirits of the innocent, the afternoon looked like being a dismal failure. James Pegg may have been a shadowy figure in his life; in his death he dominated.

  At three they attended the Variety Show at Lord George Sanger’s Grand Hall by the Sea. This was more of a success: Emily liked the performing monkeys, Alfred took to the acrobatic dancers; Alice laughed at the comedy sketches and Algernon pronounced the songs ‘capital’. Alice was particularly taken by a duet ‘I Love Thee’. Heinrich liked the band. Sid liked the toffee apples. Companionable again, they strolled off in ones and twos to see the menagerie.

  ‘Emily, you are very quiet this afternoon.’ Heinrich handed her a 4 ½d bottle of Eiffel Tower lemonade.

  ‘Am I, Heinrich?’ she asked in an artificial voice, paying great attention to her straw. ‘I suppose we are all rather subdued. Poor Mr Pegg.’

  ‘But you did not like him, did you, Emily?’

  ‘I don’t know why you say that, Heinrich,’ she retorted quickly. ‘I had little to do with him. Why, I hardly spoke to him after we got down here. But you seemed quite chummy with him. I saw you talking to him only yesterday morning.’

  ‘You are mistaken, Emily,’ he said gravely.

  They fell uneasily silent and walked slightly further apart as they passed Lord George’s big cats. Not for the first time, Heinrich thought that Emily’s face was a little feline. His worries grew.

  ‘Alfred, I really am sorry about poor Mr Pegg. He and I didn’t always agree, but I know how much you will miss him.’

  ‘Alice,’ said Alfred, relieved that at last he could talk. Life stretched bleakly ahead, without relief. He and James were going to do such jolly things. They were going to open a restaurant together; with his name and James’s cooking – my word, it would have been a jolly place. A club for those who liked good food. And now he was left alone again. First Beatrice had gone, though he was coming to think that that might be no bad thing, and now suddenly James was gone. What was he going to do? He needed someone, or he was liable to do the most stupid things. He looked at Alice feeding the monkeys. ‘I suppose,’ he went on awkwardly, ‘you wouldn’t feel like being my partner, would you?’

  ‘Oh, Alfred, yes of course I would.’ Alice threw herself into his arms. ‘I’d been hoping you’d ask me.’

  He blinked. He hadn’t had a lot of time since yesterday. ‘It won’t be easy,’ he told her. ‘You don’t have James’s hand with meat, and although your fish cookery is better, I can do the—’

  ‘Alfred,’ she said in alarm, ‘what are you talking about?’

  He looked at her in surprise. ‘The restaurant, of course. The one James and I were going to run.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, deflated. ‘I thought you wanted to marry me.’

  Alfred stared. He had a one-track mind. Why not settle both things at the same time, after all? ‘Of course,’ he said speedily. ‘I thought you knew that. But we’d better get the restaurant settled too.’

  Alice kissed him gravely. ‘Yes, Alfred, of course I will.’

  Alfred kissed her with mounting enthusiasm, dismissing from his mind altogether the thought of what poor James’s reaction would have been.

  Sid was having an animated, less romantic, chat with Algernon. ‘What were you on about with Pegg that morning?’

  ‘The weather,’ said Algernon, leering.

  ‘Come orf it. Bloke’s done in—’

  ‘What do you mean done in? It was an accident,’ said Algernon in alarm.

  ‘Nah,’ said Sid with scorn. ‘Leastways, funny sort of accident.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me, anyway.’

  ‘Y
ou can swim,’ Sid pointed out. ‘Whatever yer say, I saw yer out there.’ Belatedly he realised it was hardly in his own best interests to reveal his knowledge. If Peckham had removed first Sir Thomas from the scene and then James Pegg, he wouldn’t have any qualms about removing Sid. Sid began to inch away, shortly vanishing round the back of the monkey cages. Auguste’s company suddenly seemed very desirable.

  ‘I’ll tell Inspector Rose what you say, Sid,’ Auguste offered. ‘You are sure it was he? He claims not to swim well.’

  ‘It was ’im orl right,’ said Sid. ‘Know ’im anywhere, even in that green striped bathing costume.’ Auguste grinned. ‘Not that you know ’im, if you knows what I mean. I mean, you see ’im cook one of them sauces, see ’im bake a pie. But you don’t know ’im. Not like what you’d invite ’im to your granny’s house and get the silver teapot out.’

  Auguste smiled. ‘There you are right, Sid.’

  On their return to Broadstairs, Auguste walked alone to the Imperial, not sure whether it was Rose or Araminta he hoped to see. He toyed with the idea that he didn’t really know Araminta either, that possibly she had killed Pegg somehow in a crime passionnel. He sighed. His brain was getting dull. What a ridiculous notion that was.

  He waited some minutes in the foyer, but neither Araminta nor Rose appeared. Sitting down, he closed his eyes, and as he did so a glimmer of an idea flickered for a moment and faded. He grasped after it without panic. He knew it would flicker again into life, if it had merit. Oil must be added drop by drop as in mayonnaise. Force it and the whole sauce would curdle and be ruined. Slowly, slowly. When he opened his eyes, the idea had not returned, but Rose was in front of him.

  ‘I’ve news for you, Auguste. This was either murder or the weirdest suicide I’ve ever come across. I’ve had the PM and the preliminary comments from the analyst.’

  ‘Analyst?’ he echoed with foreboding.