Murder At The Music Hall: (Auguste Didier Mystery 8) (19 page)

A most delightful smell suddenly hit his nostrils. He could detect basil in it, and found he was passing the Italian eating-house. The plump signora within looked invitingly at him. He followed his nose.

It was a long and delightful luncheon. The use of basil with aubergine and tomato was exciting, more used as he was to the
herbes
of his native Provence. The slice of polenta with mushrooms was equally enjoyable, and the ravioli was a revelation. It danced to his stomach rather than dropping as so often with a heavy thud.

Auguste poked his head guiltily down in to the Old King Cole kitchen, fearful of Lizzie’s reproachful eye. No Lizzie. True, everything seemed ready. The luncheon debris had vanished and the evening food appeared ready for cooking. A swinging lady’s leg of eel swayed gently in the breeze he himself made in descending the steps to the basement. Otherwise all was still. Postponing the desire to experiment immediately with the bunch of basil he had acquired from the signora, Auguste put duty first. He should report to Egbert immediately, who should surely be back by now.

He hurried through to the entrance to the music hall and up the stairs to the first-floor at the front of the building, once Percy’s hideaway and which had now been commandeered by Egbert. Suddenly he stopped. The same intuition that came to his aid in cooking came
now. Something was not right, and he advanced more cautiously. The door to Egbert’s office was open, yet somehow he sensed Egbert was not within, and nor was Twitch. There was, however, a low murmur of voices. Stealthily Auguste moved forward, puzzled. The door would surely be locked if Egbert were not there, so whoever was within either had his permission to be there, or had broken in. He crept to the door and peered through the small gap by the hinges. He could not believe such villains were there by permission. There were two of them, in loud checked trousers and waistcoats, bowler hats, and gaudy scarves round their necks. What he noticed first, however, to his horror, was that one Bowler Hat, the plumper, taller of the two, was clutching the package containing the cross of Prince Henry the Navigator.

They were turning to come out. Auguste stiffened. He had no chance to get away; he could only try to pretend he was just arriving. There was a sudden silence from within, and he applied his eye once again to the crack.

They were reading Egbert’s notes! No time now for subtlety. Auguste rushed into the room indignantly, shouting the while for Egbert. Even Twitch would be a welcome arrival.

Something hit him across the head; to Auguste it felt as if he were falling into a vast bowl of black soup which he welcomed eagerly. When he next opened his eyes, and managed to struggle to a sitting position, he saw four pairs of feet surrounding him, two clad in boots, two in shoes. The shoes were Egbert’s and Twitch’s; the latter were guarding the door, Auguste noticed, wincing
with pain and deciding not to touch his head incautiously again.

‘Fools rush in, eh, Mr Didier?’

‘Enough, Stitch,’ Egbert cut in sharply. ‘Anyone care to tell us what the blazes is going on and why my assistant was out cold on the floor?’

Auguste distinctly heard Twitch snort.

‘This ruffian attacked us,’ the plump Bowler Hat said sullenly.

‘And who might “us” be?’

‘New turn for tonight. This is the manager’s office, ain’t it?’

‘They were stealing the cross,’ Auguste almost squealed in indignation.

Rose studied the check-suited turn. To Auguste’s surprise and indignation, he suddenly grinned. ‘Fine turn you are. I’ve seen your ugly mugs before. Special Branch, aren’t you?’

‘Special Branch?’ repeated Auguste and Stitch together.

‘Now, what could you be doing here? Didn’t know my report was as fascinating as all that,’ Rose mused thoughtfully. ‘Couldn’t at long last be in pursuit of anarchists, could you?’

‘We’ve come for the cross,’ plump Bowler Hat announced. ‘It’s in here, you told us.’

‘I found it. Suppose I say I want to return it direct to His Majesty?’

‘We can make life difficult for Chief Inspectors,’ thin Bowler Hat unwisely threatened.

‘I’m going to make it even more difficult for you,’ Rose retorted amiably. ‘Open that package you’re clutching.’

Bowler Hat number one looked at him suspiciously, and reluctantly began to unroll the package. Inside was a copy of Dan Leno’s memoirs.

‘Early Christmas present for His Majesty,’ Rose chortled. ‘Wish I’d let you take it.’

‘Where is it?’

‘What you’re after is here.’ Rose opened a brown carrier bag and tipped its contents unceremoniously on to the table.

‘Egbert!’ Auguste scrambled to his feet, wincing but shocked at this treatment.

Bowler Hat lunged for the cross and held it piously to his chest.

‘Sure you want to take it to His Majesty, are you?’ Rose inquired gently.

‘Yes.’

‘That won’t get you the Order of the Garter.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s a fake.’

‘Fake?’ four voices cried together.

‘This is what we found in Will Lamb’s dressing-room. I thought it wise to check it this morning. A pretty bauble but a fake. And I don’t run a fake-shop in my cellar at home, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

The Bowler Hats almost blushed. And no wonder, Auguste thought. After all, the fate of the true cross must now be in doubt. The newspapers had screamed their disapproval of the reckless gang who had stolen the cross to return it to Portugal. What would they say when they knew that the cross could be anywhere in this country, Portugal, any part of their far-flung Empire, or in a cooking pot in a South Sea Island?
Auguste, still dazed, wondered idly whether such pots might contain herbs and spices as yet unknown in the Western culinary world.

‘From now on,’ – plump Bowler Hat had decided on menace – ‘stay out of this, Rose. You and your men. And that fellow, Grey’s. And whoever this bloke here is.’

‘Mr Auguste Didier. And I have a case to solve,’ Rose informed them.

‘Not any more, you don’t.’

‘Oh yes. Next I’m seeing Miguel Gomez.’

‘You’ve been warned off,’ Bowler Hat said injudiciously.

‘Have I? I’ve got two murders to investigate, including that of Will Lamb. You taking responsibility for that?’

A pause as they considered this matter. ‘All right. We’ll work with you,’ plump Bowler Hat said reluctantly.

‘Very good of you,’ Rose said cordially. ‘Keep that fake, and find out who made it.’

A tentative knock at the door was followed by Percy Jowitt’s face appearing round it. ‘Ah. I thought you gentlemen might like to show me your turn.’

‘No,’ came both Bowler Hats’ reply.

Percy was shocked at such lack of professionalism. ‘I am afraid I must insist, gentlemen. The Old King Cole is used to a certain standard of performance. Music hall may not be your main profession, but all the more reason for me to see it.’

‘What is your main profession, gentlemen?’ Rose inquired with interest.

‘We’re bailiffs.’ They glared at him. ‘Remember that.’

‘What names do you work under?’ Percy asked briskly.

We don’t;

‘Really
, gentlemen. This is hardly good enough,’ Percy bleated.

‘Cherry and Black,’ plump Bowler Hat offered at last.

‘Not very euphonious,’ Percy commented severely. ‘But I suppose it must do.’ He scuttled away, taking them with him – or so he thought. Footsteps were heard returning, and Cherry came in again, grinning. ‘You say his name was Didier?’

‘Yes, and I am,’ Auguste said firmly, ‘not accustomed to being hit over the head.’

‘If that’s the worst that happens to you, you’ll be lucky,’ Cherry chortled.

‘You threatening him?’ Rose asked sharply.

‘Me? No.’ He roared with laughter. ‘Fellow called Gregorin is, though.’

Gregorin? Auguste paled. Pyotr Gregorin, member of the Czar’s dreaded secret police, the Okhrana, and, more importantly, half-uncle to Tatiana, whose sole mission in life now appeared to be to kill the cook who had dishonoured his family by presuming to marry into the Romanov family, albeit a remote member of it. In other words, Auguste Didier. ‘He left the country a year ago,’ he pointed out.

‘Thought you’d like to know he’s back,’ Cherry crowed as he left again.

Stitch wisely took the smirk from his face.

‘How are you feeling, Auguste?’ Rose asked gravely.

‘Like a salmon stunned by a poacher.’ He made an effort at levity.

‘Take care, Auguste. We’ll keep as many eyes on Gregorin as we can – no use leaving it to Special Branch
– but he’s as slippery as an eel.’

‘May be hard to
collar
him.’ Stitch could restrain himself from mirth no longer.

‘If you’ve no need of me, Egbert,’ Auguste said coldly, ‘I shall return to look after my own collared eels.’

‘Not yet. Stitch, be a good chap and do me a list of everyone’s precise movements yesterday, together with who they remember seeing and where in the first half.’

Stitch glowered, and unwillingly retreated.

‘Anything strike you as odd, Auguste?’ Egbert asked, when they were alone.

‘It seems to me there is more in this soup than vegetables and meat. There is a murky stock whose ingredients you would do well to discover.’

‘It begins to make a pattern,’ Egbert said reflectively. ‘I get information too late to search the ship. Special Branch gave me the information, I’m told to keep Special Branch informed of progress though the case is all
my
responsibility, whether the villains are Portuguese Royalists, Republicans, anarchists, Charlie Peace, or Jack the Ripper come back to haunt us. Until I find the cross, when all of a sudden instead of gratitude, I’m treated like yesterday’s gravy. Why do you suppose that is?’

‘And why do you suppose, Egbert, Will Lamb had a
fake
cross in his room? I could understand someone giving him the cross to hide, assuming he would be above suspicion, but why a fake?’

‘Perhaps the beautiful Mariella pinched it from Gomez and hid it there, not knowing it was a fake, hoping to make off with it at the end of the week when she eloped with Lamb.’

‘If she were going to elope with Lamb, she wouldn’t
be needing the cross. He must have been a rich man,’ Auguste pointed out. ‘Perhaps the ransacking of Will’s room was not to steal something, but to plant the fake.’

‘You’ve got something there, Auguste. Seems a bit far-fetched, though.’

‘And why plant a fake? The thieves can’t have thought it would deceive the Palace for long.’

‘Perhaps it was the fake that was stolen from Windsor?’

‘HM’s little game? Have a fake made in case it’s stolen? Why not tell me? And why were Special Branch so upset at the news it was a fake?
They
thought it was genuine.’

Auguste caught Egbert’s eye. ‘This is an even murkier stock than you thought, Auguste, if what we’re thinking is true. And
how
do we find out?’

If he were capable of such brilliant detective work after being hit over the head, Auguste thought wearily as he returned to the kitchens, what shouldn’t he be capable of under normal circumstances?

He went down to the basement, hoping that Lizzie had either returned or that there was nothing for him to do. He was disappointed on both counts. He realised to his horror it was five-thirty, and that the food had to be cooked if it were to be ready in time. Never had he felt less enthusiasm for pursuing his vocation. He removed potatoes from their water, and placed them on a tray to take upstairs. One dropped on the floor and he had to crawl under a table to retrieve it. His head was aching miserably, as he emerged, and saw before him a pair of feet daintily shod in kid shoes. Not
Lizzie’s. His first thought was: where is she? His second was to wonder whose feet they were. His eyes travelled up the woollen skirt, and his head jerked painfully.
There was nothing above it.
Nothing, that is, but two perfectly formed women’s breasts on their naked chest, only too eager, apparently, to make his early acquaintance. He could manage only horror, as his eyes flew further up to see the lustrous red hair of Mariella Gomez and her blue eyes smiling down at him.

‘Here?’ was all he could manage to croak. He was thinking of the inappropriateness of such a scene in something that he temporarily thought of as his beloved kitchen, however undeserving of the name.

‘My dear Auguste – I may call you that, may I not? – you are very eager. I’m so flattered.’ The breasts were thrust out a shade more aggressively and he quickly clambered to his feet, eager for escape. ‘Where had you in mind?’ she asked. ‘The table?’

He stared at her, hypnotised. Was the woman mad? The kitchen
table?
If anything were guaranteed to ensure that desire remained firmly under his control, together with all parts of the body connected to it, that was. It would be sacrilege; a desecration of furniture devoted so intimately to his art of cuisine. The kitchen table, whether used to create the finest achievements of an Escoffier, or the humblest eel pie, was nevertheless in the relationship of temple to devotee. In his indignation, Auguste could speak nothing but the truth, forgetting his French diplomacy due to a lady in such an embarrassing situation. ‘Madam’ – why did his voice suddenly emerge as a squeak – ‘I have to attend to my potatoes.’