Murder In The Motor Stable: (Auguste Didier Mystery 9) (18 page)

‘And would you have done so?’

He considered. ‘Possibly.’

‘Very loyal of you,’ Egbert commented sourly.

Pierre took it at face value and inclined his head in acknowledgement.

‘Did you see Miss Hart the evening she died?’

‘No, monsieur, I wish I had,’ he said vehemently. ‘But by the time I knew she intended to guard the car, I also knew Fred Gale would be there. I was working in the kitchens all the evening – Monsieur Didier will confirm that.’

‘He left shortly before Tatiana and I did, at about twelve thirty,’ Auguste confirmed.

‘And this morning?’

‘I arrived early to let the staff in and then worked until it was time to go.’

‘A pieful of motives,’ Egbert commented after he’d gone, ‘presented to us on a plate. She must have died in the early hours, anyway, as you told me the body was cooling, so it’s immaterial if Pierre was in the kitchen alone early this morning.’

‘Powerful motives, too, Egbert. All recorded in those diaries. Did Twitch check to see if there had been any callers at Miss Hart’s house before himself?’

‘He didn’t say but I’d wager Mr Pinpole’s best joint that he asked.’

‘What about her servants there?’

‘Hannah Smirch, cook-general, and a general handyman called Peters, both hired along with the house when Hester Hart returned to this country in April. They don’t seem as enthusiastic about their mistress as this Pierre of yours.’

‘Then they might be bribed not to mention any other visitors yesterday.’

Egbert considered. ‘Possible.’

‘And Pierre suspects Luigi of being a paid informer for members of the club.’

‘One way and another, that club of Tatiana’s seems to be nurturing quite a few vipers in its bosom.’

Many of these vipers were circling in stately fashion on the
dance floor to the strains of a merry waltz played by a German band from Margate overcome at the honour of playing for His Majesty, even if that Majesty was nowhere to be seen. When Auguste returned to the ballroom, he found it hard to believe that only last evening these people dancing the night away to Strauss were concentrating their hate on Hester Hart, an evening that had ended in her murder.

Isabel circled complacently in the arms of her cousin Hugh. Maud Bullinger overwhelmed a slightly-built lad, doing his best to enjoy his duty. Agatha bobbed and jerked in the arms of Roderick Smythe, Phyllis danced with a reluctant John Millward, blissfully happy in the knowledge that her beloved was restored to her. Miss Dazey chatted brightly to her partner while wondering jealously where Leo might be, and Hortensia discoursed on the merits of her new mare to Sir Algernon Bullinger who found his evening unexpectedly enlivened. Thomas Bailey, in disgrace, sat in a corner of the servants’ hall with a notebook and pencil, feverishly scribbling mathematical calculations which intimately affected the Brighton Baby, and an ashen-faced Harold Dobbs moaned over the injustice of it all at home after a whole day at Scotland Yard.

All motorists were mad, Auguste decided, and lady motorists were the maddest of all. He had come out to find Leo, but was arrested by the spectacle outside the Martyr House stables on the Friday morning. Unlike Milton House, these stables housed motorcars along with horses with whom they had settled down to an ill-assorted but companionable partnership. The horses, Isabel had informed him without a glimmer of humour, were periodically sent to Coventry to learn the ways of motorcars in that home of manufacturing. This morning, however, the horses’ noses were decidedly out of joint. The Earl’s Lanchester was already drawn up in front of the main entrance of the house waiting for His Majesty’s appearance (it would have a long wait, in Auguste’s experience; it was only ten o’clock) while the horses’ yard was entirely full of the motorcars belonging to those who had stayed overnight in Martyr House, together with those of the outboarders who had come to rejoin their comrades for the cavalcade home. Luncheon was to be served before their departure, for which the ladies had Auguste’s full sympathy. Even with income tax at 5½d in the pound, the Earl could surely afford better staff.

The yard seemed to have become an open-air garage, batteries were being reinstalled after charging, oil was being
checked, water tanks filled, a queue waited for the benzine house, and Leo was rushing from car to car (his faithful Miss Dazey trotting at his heels). The Duchess, to Auguste’s dismay, was sitting in the driver’s seat of their Léon Bollée with ominously proprietorial pride. Last night all these serviceably-clad ladies were delicate flowers in satin and silks on the ballroom floor. Now they were an Amazonian army.

Egbert had been responsible for delaying departure till after luncheon, to Isabel’s great displeasure. Had His Majesty remained, she would not have objected, but to entertain her fellow club members, she had intimated to Egbert, was an imposition. Egbert, however, had not been amused at being made a monkey of last night, and blandly ignored all cries of protest when he informed the party at breakfast that the boot was now on the police’s foot and they would await his convenience. Cries of complaints to the Commissioner were also ignored; the nearer you rose to the top of the pyramid, Egbert reflected, the less pressure could be applied from above.

Tatiana was taking breakfast with His Majesty, a rare honour which Auguste did not regret missing. Auguste could imagine Bertie’s guffaws as they swapped stories of the royal families of Europe, especially those of Russia. It was Bertie’s opinion that they were riding for a fall more injurious than anything Hortensia Millward’s horses could inflict if they failed to acknowledge that the Czarist empire, too, had entered the twentieth century. Auguste disliked guffaws at breakfast and much preferred taking breakfast with Egbert to enduring the company of the Martyr House breakfast room – despite the fact that Egbert, quartered in the housekeeper’s linen room, was in sour mood after missing a great deal of sleep. Footsteps had creaked up and down the passageway all night.

‘I remember,’ Auguste observed with a straight face, ‘that the corridors of Stockbery Towers were equally busy at night.’

Egbert was, once again, not amused. Auguste was instantly sent to check his own staff’s movements on the Wednesday night. By the time he returned to inform Egbert that only two of them had visited the far larders near the entrance, and ten visits had been paid to the privy, all of them before twelve o’clock, the kedgeree was cold and the coffee lukewarm.

‘Twitch has had the pathologist’s report now. She was killed between about twelve thirty and two thirty, and Tatiana can vouch for her being alive and quarrelling with Smythe just before one. He says he only stayed fifteen minutes or so, which as he knows full well wouldn’t have given him time to quarrel with Hester, kill her, and smash the car.’ Egbert paused. ‘Apart from him, looks like you were last on the scene, Auguste.’

Egbert looked well-breakfasted, Auguste noted grumpily. He disliked interrupting his digestion. In his opinion life processes went on in three main areas of the body, one of which was irrelevant at the moment, but all should be allowed to finish their course uninterrupted. This morning his brain and his stomach were alternating in a fashion highly detrimental to both. What’s more, Egbert knew it and was enjoying it.

Auguste had come out to the stables to settle his temper and his stomach and to find Leo before seeking out Luigi in accordance with Egbert’s demands. He dragged Leo away from an eight horsepower Wolseley, despite his protestations about compression leaks. He was holding a lighted taper aloft like Florence Nightingale’s lamp, but Auguste had no compassion on this particular errand of mercy and promptly blew it out.

‘While you were guarding the Dolly Dobbs, Leo, did you notice anything or anyone odd that you haven’t told us about?’ Auguste asked.

‘Nothing.’ Leo didn’t mention Miss Dazey. ‘They just came to collect their cars, that’s all. And that horse lady turned up looking for her husband,’ he suddenly remembered.

‘Mrs Millward? But why should her husband be there?’ Even as he spoke, Auguste had a vision of John Millward on the ballroom floor with Phyllis Lockwood last night.

‘She didn’t say. But he was there. He came to collect Miss Lockwood’s car. I didn’t tell her that.’ Leo looked worldly-wise.

‘Very sensible, Leo.’ What was Phyllis Lockwood thinking of? John Millward surely would not look at any woman younger than three hundred years old apart from his wife. Would he?

In a somewhat more spacious bedroom than Chief Inspector Rose’s, another shared breakfast was in progress. The boiled eggs under their dainty cosies were, however, of little interest to Maud and Agatha. Agatha had summoned her sister-in-law to a conference, one to which Maud raced as keenly as in the Paris-Bordeaux of ’99.

‘Now dear Hester is no longer with us –’ Agatha poured tea carefully into Maud’s cup – ‘what are we going to do about you know what?’

‘The diaries?’ Maud never appreciated delicate china.

Agatha nodded. ‘The police will be searching for them, I fear. That policeman looks as indefatigable as Edward’s bloodhound.’

‘I told you we should have gone to see him last night, Agatha.’

‘Do try the toast, Maud. I really cannot recommend dear Isabel’s eggs. That would have looked over-eager on our part. He is a public servant; it is his place to request an audience of
us
. Now we know Hester cannot have progressed far with her memoirs, it is the diaries that are at issue.’

Maud ruminated. ‘Roderick will know what to do.’

‘Excellent. Burn them, I suggest,’ said Agatha thoughtfully. ‘Really, I do feel Isabel’s kitchen could have peeled this peach. What is happening in this world?’

‘This murder is a terrible thing,’ Luigi informed Egbert sanctimoniously, as if the chief inspector might disagree. He had not been pleased to realise Auguste was to remain in the room, and Auguste decided to leave all the talking to Egbert.

‘You knew Miss Hart well, did you?’

‘Naturally. In the restaurant I saw her on many occasions.’

‘As maître d’ you must hear quite a lot, too.’

‘If so, I am discreet. I am from an old-established family of the Milan aristocracy.’

Egbert grunted. Pedigree was no way to his heart. ‘Did you talk to Miss Hart in the dining room on the evening she was killed?’

‘Only polite courtesies. Monsieur Didier will confirm that Miss Hart was not in a happy mood, having had a public altercation with her fiancé and broken her engagement to him.’ He glanced confidently at Auguste, who nodded.

‘How late were you at the club that night?’

‘The restaurant closed early since there were few diners, at twelve. I must have left about,’ he considered, ‘twelve thirty.’

‘Through the kitchens?’

Auguste’s last remaining amiability towards Luigi vanished as he replied, ‘I am not a menial. I left through the main
entrance. The night porter will vouch for that.’ He hesitated. ‘When was she killed, please?’

‘Between one and two thirty.’

‘Ah.’ He looked at Egbert’s unfriendly face. ‘I hope the night porter will confirm the time I left. He is not always at his post, and I cannot be certain I saw him.’

‘That may be your misfortune.’

‘Why should I wish to kill Miss Hart?’ Luigi burst out, injured. ‘Or smash the Dolly Dobbs? I have no interest in motorcars.’

‘An interest in money, though, so we’ve heard. That right? We’re told you passed information on to Miss Hart, and I daresay for other members too. All out of the kindness of your heart, was it?’

‘That peasant Pierre!’ Luigi’s face took on the colour of his beloved Chianti. ‘He goes too far. This time I will tell you something about him. Did you know—’

‘That Pierre Calille was Miss Hart’s dragoman on her travels?’ Egbert finished for him. ‘Yes, he told us. Rather more forthcoming than you.’

‘He
told
you?’ There was a blank surprise on Luigi’s face.

‘So now you can be just as frank. You don’t want us to think you’ve something to hide in a murder inquiry, do you?’

Apparently he did for he said nothing for a few moments, then virtuously declared, ‘Miss Hart had many enemies at the club. I felt I should keep her informed of anything she should know.’

‘And how grateful was she?’

‘She gave me presents from time to time,’ he replied a little less eagerly.

‘How many other ladies gave you presents?’

He was slower to answer now. ‘Lady Tunstall, Lady
Bullinger, the Duchess of Dewbury, and Miss Lockwood.’

‘Very generous of them.’

Luigi was shaken from his usual poise. ‘I have done nothing criminal. I merely passed on innocent information – who was dining with who, where. That sort of thing.’ He proceeded to give some examples in his sudden anxiety to help.

‘Did Miss Hart give you anything for safekeeping on her behalf?’

‘What sort of thing?’ he asked cautiously.

‘Her diaries, for instance. They’re not at her home.’

‘Diaries?’ he repeated. ‘No. She might have given them to Pierre – no,’ he changed his mind, ‘he is a peasant; she would entrust nothing of value to him.’

‘We’ll be searching your home, of course.’

He flushed. ‘Do you refuse to take the word of a gentleman?’

‘Always,’ Egbert informed him heartily. ‘Now if it is not too ungentlemanly for you, you can go away and write me a complete list of all the information you passed on and to whom.’

‘Arrogant blighter, isn’t he?’ Egbert remarked when he had left.

‘He was smirking with relief, I think.’

‘It may be short-lived.’

‘Miss Lockwood is innocent!’

‘No doubt she is. Come in, Mr Smythe.’

The racing driver was poised dramatically, if sulkily, in the doorway, a lock of his black hair falling over his forehead in blatant defiance of his macassar oil. Gone was the cowed man Auguste had seen being led off to Welling Railway Station.

‘And so am I,’ her defender added. ‘Phyllis is the dearest, sweetest little thing that ever walked this earth.’

Auguste blinked. This was somewhat of a departure for a man who was only too eager to turn a cold shoulder on Miss Lockwood while providing the other for Miss Hart to lean on.

‘And Miss Hart no longer does walk this earth.’ Egbert cut his tribute off sharply. ‘I want you to tell Mr Didier the story that you told me at the Yard yesterday.’

Roderick cast Auguste a look of intense dislike. ‘After that quarrel with Hester which you overheard,’ he began meaningfully, ‘I took Phyllis to dinner at the Carlton, and afterwards decided I should go back to the motor stable, make up the quarrel with Hester, and guard the car in her place.’

‘So although Phyllis is the dearest sweetest little thing, you preferred to marry Hester Hart?’ Egbert asked.

‘I respected Hester greatly,’ he replied with dignity. ‘My feelings for Phyllis are quite different. I believed I had let down Hester badly by my behaviour and that as a gentleman I should apologise. I went back and we did resolve our quarrel. Hester quite understood that I still felt affection for Phyllis, and admitted she had been overhasty in speaking to us the way she did. We were reconciled, but she told me there was no need for me to lose my night’s sleep as she had every intention of remaining there herself, and it would not be proper for us both to be there. She had only agreed to let Fred Gale stay because Mrs Didier had insisted on it. Now she was insisting on staying there alone, so I came away.’

‘And next morning you went straight to Miss Lockwood to ask if you could drive down with her?’ Auguste asked.

‘Only because my own motorcar was incapacitated.’

‘The funny thing was, Auguste, that when our sergeant went to see this incapacitated motorcar, the engine started up like a dream. Mighty pleased with himself, he was, for being able to drive a motorcar which had defeated the famous Roderick Smythe.’

There was a moment’s pause. Then, ‘Dirt on the spindle,’ Roderick cried with a glad shout. ‘Of course. And it cleared itself.’

‘Most obliging of it. You say you left Miss Hart, alive, at about quarter to one. Tell him, Auguste.’

‘My wife heard you quarrelling with Miss Hart,’ Auguste said quietly, ‘and that far from agreeing to marry you, she absolutely refused to. That was at one o’clock, so my wife must have been mistaken, if you are right.’