Murder In The Motor Stable: (Auguste Didier Mystery 9) (27 page)

‘“Tomorrow,”’ he read out, ‘“I take the P and O liner to Cairo. I still have not been able to find out who spread those terrible rumours about me. But if it takes for ever I shall do so. I think he is quite young . . .”’

‘And Roderick Smythe,’ declared Egbert with satisfaction, ‘would have been twenty or so at that time. There’s my motive. Thank you, Auguste.’

‘But he couldn’t—’ Auguste stopped. He
could
.

Egbert actually laughed. ‘The trouble with you, Auguste, if a theory doesn’t have as many twists and turns as old Minos’s labyrinth you think it can’t be right.’

Auguste applied logic. ‘If it was Smythe, then Hester would hardly get engaged to him now, would she, unless she still didn’t know. And if she didn’t know, then he would have no reason to kill her.’

‘She was a tricky woman, Auguste. She might well have known and decided to humiliate him by agreeing to marry him and then rejecting him. And, I remind you, she might only just have discovered the truth.
Phyllis’s
revenge. Moreover, it does explain one thing that’s been troubling me.’

Reluctantly, Auguste began to see his point. ‘What’s that?’

‘Why she got engaged to him so quickly. She’d obviously
known him earlier in her life, and it had to be someone she knew spreading the rumours or the story wouldn’t have held water. So whether she suspected him of being the traitor or not, she naturally sought him out on her return.’

‘I suppose, too,’ Auguste conceded, ‘it would be natural for Lady Bullinger to turn to someone she knew well, like her godson, to help in her plans fifteen years ago.’

‘Auguste, you’re right. Hester was going to have her revenge on them
all
, and she told Roderick so when he turned up at the Dolly Dobbs motor house.’

Auguste thought of Hester in the club that evening, hurling abuse at Roderick: ‘I’ll have my revenge on the lot of you. I’ve waited long enough.’

Yes, it fitted, like an anchovy and mint stuffing for a leg of lamb.

‘Shall we all drive to Goodwood?’ Tatiana asked hopefully.

‘For myself, I would be delighted,’ Auguste replied tactfully, ‘but for your sake I feel we should take a railway train in the interests of arriving punctually. You know what Bertie is like over that.’

‘But my motorcar is perfectly reliable.’

‘His Majesty only concedes a puncture as a reason for unpunctuality when it is his own motorcar,’ Auguste said firmly.

‘You could stay at Goodwood House too,’ she suggested, having yielded on this point.

‘I think not. Bertie might be reminded of murder.’

‘I suppose you’re right. Alexandra told me that ever since the murder of the King and Queen of Serbia in their bedchamber last year, he’s been looking under his bed every night.’

How does she know? was Auguste’s instant thought, but he refrained from voicing it for fear of upsetting Tatiana.

She laughed. ‘His valet told her.’

‘Egbert and I will stay in Chichester,’ he told her hastily. ‘Is he going to make an arrest?’

‘Possibly.’

‘That means Bertie
will
be upset because it will be someone he knows. Poor Bertie. He was so looking forward to tomorrow. He has two horses running, one in the Cup and one in the Halnaker Stakes. I’m tempted to do some nobbling to make sure he wins.’

‘You’d better not, with Egbert around.’

‘I’d rather face Egbert’s wrath than Bertie’s bad temper. And he’s certainly going to be bad-tempered if you arrest one of the most famous racing drivers there is.’

‘How did you know?’ Auguste asked, amazed.

‘I didn’t, Auguste, but you’ve just told me. Shall I take the broderie anglaise gown or the pleated muslin with the hand-painted motorcars on it?’

Auguste eyed his wife grimly. ‘Take the muslin, then I can throw you to Hortensia’s mob.’

‘Unsettled. That’s what the forecast is for today.’ Egbert lowered the newspaper, having enjoyed a muffin for breakfast that could have given Hannah Smirch pause for thought. Muffins might be part of an old Dickensian England that had now vanished into a more turbulent century, but there was no reason why they should not travel into the future as well, in Egbert’s view.

The day ahead indeed looked unsettled to Auguste’s jaundiced eye – he had mistakenly chosen mushrooms and bacon for breakfast, and was by no means sure that the
mushrooms had been picked by someone who knew the difference between a chanterelle and an
amanita phalloides
. Time would tell. With luck, he calculated rapidly, he would have time to bid farewell to Tatiana before he relapsed into coma.

The drive by motor cab to the racecourse in drizzling rain did nothing to cheer him, and even Egbert was remarkably silent until a crowded road degenerated into a solidly packed and stationary mass of traffic, at which point he exploded into volubility on the subject of the preferability of (a) horses and (b) foot as a means of transport.

There was one thing the congestion had in its favour. By the time they were admitted into the grounds, the drizzle had stopped. Umbrellas were cautiously being lowered to reveal a display as colourful as a flower show. Here and there skilfully wielded skirt-lifters revealed neat ankles; above them floated muslin, silks, voiles and lace, some gowns still covered with light dust cloaks, doubling up their duties as mud coats.

The noise of the crowds round the bookmakers deafened them, all an incomprehensible jumble of jargon to Auguste. He comforted himself that this was because English was his adopted not native language, but was uncomfortably aware he was at a similar loss at Longchamp. Tatiana had offered, rather enthusiastically, to teach him, but had added it hardly seemed worthwhile since they would visit very few horse races but a great many motorcar races. It had been her intention to teach him motorcar jargon instead, an offer he had so far managed to postpone
sine die
.

They made their way to the new grandstand where Tatiana was sitting with His Majesty’s party; the royal party had not yet arrived in its canopied royal box, but Auguste hastily looked the other way in order to avoid the royal eagle eye in
case it rushed in at the last moment. He was interested to see that Tatiana wore neither the broderie anglaise nor the accordion-pleated muslin but was clad in bright sky-blue silk shot through with mauve – he believed that was the correct term, unfortunate reminder though it was of the still unexplained gun at Luigi’s side.

‘The numbers are up for the Corinthian Plate,’ Tatiana informed them, shooting her lace parasol up in excitement and then remembering she was in a grandstand. ‘I’ve put money on Rightful. He’s got a professional jockey, whereas three of the runners – naturally it would be Agatha who told me – are gentlemen.’

‘I’d sooner back a horse,’ Egbert informed her gravely, and she giggled.

It lightened the mood, for all three were aware of what they were gathered for, and tense because of the shared knowledge.

‘Have you seen Smythe in the grandstand, Tatiana?’ Egbert asked, for Auguste had somewhat shamefacedly told him of the slip of confidentiality.

‘No. I did see Phyllis earlier, and asked very casually after Roderick, but all she said was that she hadn’t yet met him. I’m not sure I believe her, but I
am
sure she didn’t suspect my motives.’

There was a stirring in the grandstand and a band broke into ‘God Save the King’ as the royal party arrived and took their places in the new box.

‘Bertie was complaining last night that the royal box isn’t big enough to swing a cat – or the Duke of Sparta,’ Tatiana whispered to Auguste.

‘Why him?’ Royal ‘jokes’ often flummoxed Auguste.

‘That’s the Duke of Sparta with them now. Next to Princess Victoria. He was Bertie’s guest in London and he was
supposed to go home on Monday, but he keeps hanging on, trailing everywhere after them. He’s driving Bertie mad.’

Despite his lack of interest in horses and his preoccupation with watching for Smythe, Auguste found his attention was on the race now about to begin, and on the spectators. The sun was trying to come out now, and parasols of lace and chiffon were tentatively appearing by the track, like eschscholtzias opening up their petals to the sky. They were needed only to protect the delicate flora and fauna of the hats, which in themselves successfully shielded their respective complexions. The hat in the row below him fascinated him; coloured bunched ribbons and flowers adorned the crown, tiny horses made of feathers chased each other round the outer edge of the wide brim. He wondered if the lady would mind if he perched his binoculars on the brim too; it provided a most handy shelf. The roar of the crowd suddenly rose to fever pitch as the barrier was lifted and the race began. He was aware of Tatiana pulsing with excitement beside him – and also that Egbert had vanished. He could not follow, he was hemmed in, and was forced to wait several minutes until the race was over.

‘I won, I
won
!’ Tatiana declared happily.

‘The horse won.’

‘I won,’ she insisted. ‘My judgement. Now I shall put it all on Chatsworth, Bertie’s horse,’ she added for those unfamiliar with the
Pink ’Un
.

Auguste excused himself and anxiously went in search of Egbert. He did not find him but did find another familiar face.

‘I hear Tatiana’s here, Auguste. Made a convert, have I?’

Auguste doffed his hat. It was Hortensia and John Millward.

‘Made an arrest yet, have you?’ John inquired awkwardly.

‘Not yet. It is near.’

‘Ah.’ He shifted anxiously. ‘Have those diaries turned up yet?’

‘They have. In fact some are in the hands of a publisher already.’

‘She can’t do that,’ he stammered, horrified.

‘Why not, John?’ inquired Hortensia.

Auguste hastily intervened. ‘She appears to have put nothing in them that would be detrimental to her reputation. They seem to me very carefully edited for her readers.’ That was true, he reflected.

‘What about my reputation?’ John hissed plaintively as Hortensia turned to speak to a friend.

‘Miss Hart seems to have taken care to say nothing that might be disprovable. She was seeking approval from the professional world as well as the general reader.’

John brightened up a little. ‘But what about the private side of the journals?’

‘There does not appear to be anything in the journals that affects you.’

‘That’s not like Hester.’

‘Did you hear that, John?’ Hortensia turned back. ‘No backers for Tankard. Out of Kissing-Cup, too.’

Auguste tried to look knowledgeable and to slip away quietly. Hortensia’s iron grip descended on his arm. ‘How can you match this, eh? I heard you were stuck in a wretched motorcar unable to move while we were galloping in a carriage and four down the lane through Birdless Grove, nothing but the sound of hooves and clattering carriage wheels. No petrol fumes, no clouds of dust, no punctures. Why don’t you join the Hams, Auguste?’

‘Delighted,’ he agreed fervently, seeing Egbert ahead of him at last.

‘Good,’ cried Hortensia approvingly. ‘Do you hear that, Tatiana?’

His wife was standing right behind him.

‘Where the blazes is he?’ Egbert was getting worried. By lunchtime Roderick Smythe still had not put in an appearance. ‘I think he’s hopped it, and that young lady Phyllis has helped him to do it.’

‘I doubt it,’ Auguste said. ‘I don’t think she’d have the courage. I suggest we go to take luncheon ourselves. If he’s going to watch any race, it will be the Cup, and that’s after lunch.’

‘I thought you’d be in favour of eating.’

His Majesty and the Queen had repaired to their private dining room in Goodwood House and their party, including Tatiana, were taking lunch on the terrace. Auguste and Egbert walked to the luncheon tents and tables set out in the plantation. It was crowded with ladies in fluttering muslins and voiles and their immaculately suited escorts, though here and there a coat was slung over a tree branch which gave the place a sporting air. For once, Auguste was slightly torn. He had some interest in accompanying Tatiana, for he wanted to see whether Mr Tschumi from the Buckingham Palace kitchens had come to prepare the King’s food while he was here. Bertie always brought his own chef and entourage to avoid ‘putting out his hosts’, as the press claimed, but in fact was owing to his determination not to risk strange cooks. Tschumi and Auguste might not be English, but they understood the King’s stomach and that was enough for Bertie.

‘At least all our chickens are together,’ Egbert remarked. ‘Look at that.’

At one table beneath an oak tree sat Maud and Agatha, their
husbands, Isabel (without her husband but with her cousin Hugh), and in the midst, brimming over with charm and loveliness, Phyllis Lockwood.

‘All except Roderick,’ Auguste pointed out. ‘Unless he’s hiding in the branches of that tree.’

‘Really, Inspector.’ Agatha looked up with a frown as he approached. ‘This is a private luncheon.’

‘And I’m on a public murder inquiry, Your Grace.’

‘But it’s Goodwood Cup Day.’ Agatha was shocked. ‘Even Scotland Yard must realise that.’

‘Crime sometimes races quicker than horses.’

‘That,’ she agreed, ‘is so true. The racing today has been disappointing, don’t you agree?’