Murder Under The Kissing Bough: (Auguste Didier Mystery 6) (32 page)

‘To where?’

‘Brussels.’

‘Ah.’

‘Where,’ Rose went on, ‘a particularly efficient network has sprung up linking not only to East Europe, but to Africa. The Belgian police can’t pin the headquarters down precisely, but they know the man that’s running it. It’s an East Europe-run venture, by a man called Hajo. Hungarian. There’s a woman in it too, though there are no details.’

Cranton’s at Christmas. Auguste began to think rapidly, as he left to return to the hotel. Hungarian? A woman? Had he once again been so easily deceived?

‘’E’s come to give himself up, but ’e won’t talk to me, sir!’ Twitch was indignant.

‘I want to see
you
,’ Danny Nash said belligerently, his arm comfortingly round a young, shabbily-dressed girl. ‘And I haven’t come to give myself up. I haven’t done anything.’

Rose sighed. ‘It’s a bad afternoon, Nash. Make it quick before I hand you over to the Sergeant. What’s this about?’

‘Solving your crime,’ said Danny grandly. ‘This is Elsie Tree. Come along, Elsie. He won’t bite you.’

The girl looked unconvinced and retired behind his stalwart back.

‘Elsie was a friend of Mary White. She met her at a place called The Ferns. I don’t think Nancy was murdered because of the Prince of Wales at all, sir,’ he said importantly. ‘I know this will surprise you, but—’

‘Oh no it won’t,’ said Rose grimly. ‘Got your notebook, Sergeant?’

‘Best day of the lot,’ Carruthers grunted. He was in his element. This Christmas idea wasn’t so bad after all, and the benefits of its being organised by a woman, particularly a Lady, were now apparent. The Shrine
was only open by personal introduction to the Duke and she had obtained permission to tour No 1 London for them. True, Apsley House showed more relics of the present Duke than the one he was interested in, but nevertheless it was something to be here at all. Even if there were only a few pictures to see. He thus dismissed Velasquez, Correggio, Breughel, Reubens and Murillo among others. Yet Wellington had lived here, that was the main thing. He too had stared at that repulsive naked object by the stairway, the huge Canova statue of Napoleon. He wouldn’t have liked to live with it, but if the Duke had chosen to dwell with his old enemy so close, it was all right as far as he was concerned. He contemplated Allan’s painting of the Battle of Waterloo for some time.

‘Of course,’ he cleared his throat, taking it for granted that Dalmaine would be at his side, ‘I don’t suppose you’re down in the West Country much?’ he said offhandedly. ‘Pity, otherwise you could come and see my reconstruction of Quatre Bras.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Dalmaine, his eyes carefully on the painting, ‘as soon as this damned war is over, I thought of retiring there. Get married . . .’ His eyes strained hopefully to Rosanna, who had not yet forgiven him. That’s if he could afford it, he thought desperately. De Castillon was still hovering, quite sure he’d succumb in the end. Well, he
wasn’t
so sure.

Gladys trotted happily up the staircase, chatting to the twins. She found it very strange. No one appeared to mind that she took, well, just the occasional strong liquid refreshment. Indeed, it was almost as if they approved, she thought, quite shocked.

Thomas Harbottle squeezed his wife’s hand, as bored with Wellington as with Rorke’s Drift, Marlborough, the Battle of Hastings and every other army manoeuvre he’d had rammed down him, all his life.
The reason he’d chosen to go into banking. Half of Eva’s attraction had been that she didn’t want to talk about South Africa. All the same, he wondered uneasily what was going to happen about these murders. Surely they couldn’t be going to let the guests all leave, just like that?

Bella, walking sedately by her husband, was wondering much the same thing. It would be pleasant to travel without a police escort again, she thought ruefully. What a strange Christmas this had been. Most unexpected in all directions. She was not used to failure. But it was not yet too late. There was yet one more night. Should she? No, on the whole she knew what she had set out to discover, albeit unasked. Her friend would be horrified, had she known.

Marie-Paul and Thérèse Lepont were beaming, as though no such thing as murder had marred their Christmas. After all, they reasoned, with suspicion of plotting the murder of the Prince of Wales removed, what a tale they would have to tell.

And thus, on the whole well satisfied with their various lots, Lady Gincrack’s Christmas party returned to Cranton’s for tea.

‘We cannot arrest anyone at tea time. Not in England,’ Auguste pleaded feebly, arranging the walnut bread on a plate. ‘And surely he will suspect?’

‘Perhaps. What’s he going to do about it? Can hardly go skipping out, can he?’

Tea. It was as much a ritual here as in Japan or China, thought Auguste, as one by one the guests entered the drawing room to partake in its mysteries. He remembered the pleasures of afternoon tea at Stockbery Towers, the women in their delightful tea gowns or, if gentlemen were present, in elegant dresses. The corsets would have to struggle all the
harder after
his
tea. Auguste eyed the array with satisfaction. Wafer-thin sandwiches, seed cake, victoria cake, chocolate cake – how his mother would approve. She had tried in vain to make him appreciate the proper importance of tea in a day’s diet.

Auguste surveyed his guests. The Harbottles, talking earnestly to themselves, wrapped in young love; Miss Guessings, clearly recovered from her indisposition; the Marquis de Castillon
and
Bella, with all the charms of maturity, and the Pembrey girls with those of youth. Madame Lepont, Mademoiselle Gonnet, Sir John Harnet, Carruthers, Dalmaine – how could one believe that murder had touched their lives so recently and so nearly?

And into this peaceful scene marched Egbert Rose and Sergeant Stitch. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, if I might have your attention.’

The company looked decidedly more interested in seed cake than this pronouncement.

‘Are you still in pursuit of this terrible person who wishes to have the Prince of Wales’s blood?’ enquired Bella interestedly.

‘No, madam,’ replied Rose evenly. ‘That little matter is concluded now. We have Signor Fancelli in custody and he’s confessed to planning to kill the Prince, and with being in conspiracy with Alfred Bowman. Nothing happened, of course, so he’ll be on a light charge, fortunately for him.’

‘This cake is stale,’ remarked Carruthers critically.

‘Dry, monsieur, it is meant to be so.’

‘Yesterday’s,’ Carruthers maintained.

‘The chef is not here,’ explained Auguste, while Rose waited patiently.

‘Not too good at keeping your chefs, are you, Didier? You employ a damn sight too many murderers.’

Rose maintained a straight face at Auguste’s impotent fury. ‘The murders had nothing to do with the plot to kill the Prince,’ he explained patiently, ‘except by mistake, in a way. Alfred Bowman, Fancelli’s contact, was killed. Fancelli got scared when Bowman didn’t turn up as arranged at Paddington early that morning, so he gave the plan up and decided he might as well take a nice safe job at the Carlton out of the way. Then Mr Didier here came along and spoiled that plan for him too.’ He averted his eyes from Auguste’s indignation.

‘Fancelli and Bowman had a very simple plan and an effective one. The Field Marshal’s train carried cooks for light refreshments. Fancelli had in mind to catch a train for Southampton early that morning, work his way on to the train, wearing his uniform so to speak, then shoot the Prince from the train. We were all looking for someone
outside
the train; we never thought of anyone on the train itself. And it might have worked, too. Fancelli could have got away in the confusion.’

‘But who did the murders then?’ asked Evelyn, a note of disappointment in her voice.

‘And why?’ added her twin querulously, annoyed that they, the two Sherlocks, should have to enquire of others.

‘The murders had a quite different motive behind them,’ said Rose. ‘Organised crime, you might say.’ His tact employed for the purpose of not upsetting young ladies was wasted.

‘White slavery. Opium,’ the twins offered in unison.

‘Not opium, miss, so far as we know. This pair stuck to the white slaves.’

‘Pair?’ asked Bella sharply.

‘Yes, ma’am, a man and a woman. Thérèse Lepont, I must ask you to come with me to answer questions
regarding the murder of Miss Nancy Watkins.’

Her face was quite unmoved as she shrugged. ‘You have proof, I presume?’ she asked coldly.

‘We have, madam.’

‘And my male accomplice is who, Inspector?’ she asked scornfully, dismissively.

‘Paul-Marie Gonnet, I must ask you to accompany us to answer questions regarding the murders of Miss Mary White and Mr Alfred Bowman.’

By common consent the wassail bowl was left untouched. These traditions were all very well in their place, but enough was enough, especially of what was essentially cooked beer. Sunday or not, the vote was unanimously taken in favour of champagne. Secure in the knowledge that one more Didier-supervised meal awaited them, Cranton’s guests waited for the seal to be set on their unusual Christmas. Lady Gincrack, resplendent in pink velvet, was present, as well as Edith Rose, once again in her best blue.

A curious contentment reigned, perhaps born of the knowledge that the party would soon disperse to face their own worlds again. Safe in the armchairs and sofas of Cranton’s they listened to Rose’s explanation of the white slave traffic of Europe and the darker side of Christmas at Cranton’s.

After he’d finished, Dalmaine nodded gravely. ‘I have heard of such matters,’ he pontificated, with a glance at Rosanna. Before dinner, in the billiard room, Rosanna had done him the honour of accepting his proposal of marriage, and all the might of family responsibility now devolved on him. But it had settled one thing: Rosanna had declared she’d be happy to starve in a garret with him (though looking at her ornate dress, he had doubts) and so he had decided against revealing the whereabouts of a certain golden
object to de Castillon. After all, he was British, and had no desire to go sailing through a metaphorical traitor’s gate.

‘I still don’t see the Baroness running a business in fallen women,’ said Bella defiantly.

‘Alas, she is ruthless,’ said Auguste sadly. ‘Charming, but only superficially. Her husband was behind the organisation, and she ran the hotel and the staff agency as a cover with her so-called companion’s help. We soon discovered that her adoption of the name Baroness von Bechlein was false – as she intended us to do, should she come under suspicion. What took us longer to realise was that the name Lepont was also false. She is by birth Thérèse Karol, born of Hungarian parents living in Belgium, hence her expertise in French, and married to a notorious trafficker in women, called Hajo. His speciality is English girls – or rather was, for now he will operate no more. The girls would arrive in Brussels assuming they were to be embassy staff and were then sent all over Europe, as would be natural, to embassies. By the time they discovered embassies had nothing to do with it, some of them sank back into their old way of life, and those that were, er, new to it, had no possibility of escape.’

‘I don’t think this is fit for young ladies’ ears,’ declared Sir John angrily.

‘Oh, Guardian, I’m so glad you think murder is,’ said Evelyn. ‘And the Baroness, or whatever we call her now, was a murderess, wasn’t she, Inspector?’

‘Oh yes. She killed Nancy Watkins. But the other two, the young lady killed last November, and Alfred Bowman, were killed by her companion.’

‘Poor Nancy,’ observed Gladys. She had assuaged her conscience now. Those harsh unladylike words she had flung at the girl when she teased her about her little weakness could be forgiven in the light of what she,
Gladys, had suffered this Christmas.

‘When did you first suspect, Mr Didier?’ breathed Evelyn.

‘The Baroness called him
chat
, not
chatte
, on one occasion, referring to him as her cat that scratched, your worm that turns. In France we notice such matters. It was little indeed, but later I wondered why. Either the Baroness had insufficient command of French or there was some other reason. Moreover, there was a distinct Hungarian influence in her cooking, as well as Belgian – she was particularly fond of paprika,’ he announced severely. ‘Or coralline pepper. And it fitted. Madame needed a “companion” for protection. The girls needed a courier.

‘In November Paul-Marie Gonnet came here to take a group of girls to Belgium, one of whom was Elsie Tree. But Elsie escaped and made her way back to England and contacted a newspaper – a woman reporter, thinking she would probably take up the case more vigorously than a man. Elsie told Nancy to contact her friend Mary, to try to find out more, which she duly did. And Mary obliged, thus sealing both their fates. For Paul-Marie was on Elsie’s track; she managed to escape by leaving London and going to Maidstone where she had an aunt. When she saw Mary’s picture in the newspapers, she wrote to the
Examiner
, too scared to go to the London police. They sent young Master Nash to see her. It was Paul-Marie who killed Mary and of course Alfred Bowman, as well as helping Thérèse Hajo with Nancy’s body – a murder they had come here prepared to commit.’

‘But why kill Bowman?’ asked Thomas Harbottle, bewildered, suddenly glad of the quiet life of a banker.