Murder In The Motor Stable: (Auguste Didier Mystery 9) (12 page)

‘This is what I’m going to do,’ Hester peremptorily announced. ‘I’ll throw the door of the motor house open but stay inside until all the motorcars have gone. You keep out of the way. I want to talk to my fellow competitors. After that, I’ll sleep and you can take over.’

‘Open? But the motorcar’s a secret, ain’t it?’

‘That’s my business. Yours is to get on with your work until I’m ready.’

Fred, his views on women drivers unprintable, disappeared into his basement where he took pleasure in hammering very loudly, and Hester sat herself on the rear seat of the Dolly Dobbs from which she had a splendid view through the open doors of the motor house. She waited for her ‘friends’.

Lady Bullinger marched round the corner of the main building into the yard and noticed the door of the Dolly Dobbs motor house was open. There was no one about and temptation was too great. She hurried to the open doorway.

‘Something you wanted, Maud?’

‘That woman’ was seated inside the monstrosity, grinning out at her like Medusa. It gave her the fright of her life, and she rapidly changed her plans.

‘No,’ she said baldly. ‘Just curious about the Dolly Dobbs. No harm in that, is there?’ She stared fascinated at the vehicle.

‘Not at all. I’m delighted to see you. I was feeling a little lonely after my tiff with Roderick.’

There was a pause. ‘I can probably help,’ Maud eventually said gruffly. ‘We’re friends, after all.’ It might have sounded like a plea. If it was, it was misplaced.

The viper struck. ‘After what you did to me, Maud?’

Isabel crept up more silently, somewhat annoyed that Hugh had not insisted on collecting the Royce for her. However, it gave her an opportunity to peer in at the Dolly Dobbs. She jumped as she saw Hester Hart’s face grimly glaring at her.

‘Goodness, Hester. You quite frightened me. I thought the motor house seemed to be unguarded.’

‘How kind of you to be concerned, Isabel dear.’

‘I was going to guard it myself.’ Isabel was eager to please.

‘I’m sure you were, Isabel. Just like you always guard and care for everything and everyone.’

‘I admire motorcars.’ Isabel never recognised sarcasm.

‘And their drivers, I’m sure. Like Hugh – or is your preference still for coachmen?’

Isabel lost colour. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You must have a short memory, Isabel dear. I shall enjoy a chat with His Majesty tomorrow.’

Agatha tripped confidently and excitedly up to the open door. At last she could gain access to her own car, the Dolly Dobbs. And then decide her plans.

‘Good gracious, Agatha, you have a starting handle in your hand. How very violent.’

Agatha was speechless, staring first at the Dolly Dobbs’s occupant and then at the Dolly Dobbs herself.

‘Interesting, isn’t it?’ Hester went on, disappointed at receiving no reaction. ‘Of course, you haven’t seen it before. Such a pity since you gave Harold the money to build it.’ Still she received no real reaction. ‘What’s wrong with it?’ she demanded suspiciously.

‘Nothing,’ Agatha said slowly. Then she began to laugh, managing to hiccup, ‘It’s beautiful, quite beautiful. I wish you every success with it, Hester.’

‘I’m sure you do. Just as you’ve wished me success in everything in life.’

Agatha stopped laughing.

By twelve twenty Hester Hart had locked the doors of all the motor houses, including her own, and Fred had taken up his station outside the repair house, wrapped in a rug. He had been settled perhaps five minutes when he looked up to see he was no longer alone and struggled to stand up, tripping over the rug as he did so.

‘So you’re on guard duty, Fred.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, you can go. I’ve decided to come after all.’

‘Mrs Didier told me to stay.’

‘She’s not here, and she didn’t know I was coming back. I
am
Miss Hart’s fiancé, it’s my duty to be here as arranged.’

True enough. Fred thankfully took his leave since there was no one left in the club to ask. Mrs Didier must be long since gone, and Mr Didier with her.

‘Leave your keys,’ Roderick said.

‘Spare set in the left-hand drawer, sir.’

Smiling his thanks, Roderick went into the workshop and through the adjoining door. ‘Hello, Hester.’

Tatiana, emerging with some cocoa for Fred and Hester,
was just in time to see Fred leave, much to her surprise. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Mr Smythe came to stand guard after all. He told me I could go, and I didn’t know you were around, ma’am. I didn’t think you’d object.’

She had no grounds for objecting, so she let him go. After all, if Roderick and Hester had made up their quarrel, it was no business of hers.

She looked at the two mugs of cocoa on the tray, uncertain what to do. She decided to take them to the stable. Roderick must be inside but she wanted to be reassured he was still there. The door to the repair house was open. As she approached, she could hear Hester and Roderick talking in the adjoining motor house. Obviously what had happened earlier in the evening was under animated, even acrimonious discussion, and discretion being the better part of valour, she retreated. She would return on her mission at a more convenient time.

By the time she returned to the kitchen, Pierre and the staff had vanished, and she went to find Auguste. He was deep inside one of the larders in the passageway to the rear door, investigating a refrigerator. He grinned shamefacedly. He had assured her he would be finished by the time she returned.

‘I just wanted to be sure the curry sauce was of the right consistency.’

‘How long will you really be?’

‘Twenty-five minutes,’ he suggested cautiously. ‘I shall have to grind coffee and whisk the egg whites for meringues, purée the—’

‘Very well.’ She fidgeted in the kitchen, lifting lids and covers until Auguste could bear it no longer. ‘What is wrong, Tatiana? Are you impatient to go?’

‘No. I suppose I’m anxious about Hester Hart still. Fred has gone and Roderick has come back.’

Auguste considered. ‘Let them sort out their quarrel. They’ll hardly attack the Dolly Dobbs themselves, and if they are both there, no matter whether they are speaking to each other or not, no one else will attack it. And if anyone comes to attack
Hester
, he’ll stop it. The last thing he’d want to do is attack her himself.’

‘All the same I’ll take some more cocoa over before we leave.’

‘You’re right. Cocoa is soothing for the stomach. No one could quarrel over cocoa.’

It seemed Auguste’s belief was to be tested. As Tatiana set off across the yard at one o’clock, she realised the discussion had developed into a full-blown quarrel. She heard Hester’s shouting, shrill voice, ‘Marry
you
? You fool, as if I ever would,’ and instantly retreated. Cocoa could do little here, and lovers’ quarrels had nothing to do with the Dolly Dobbs or, therefore, with her.

Thankfully she escaped with Auguste five minutes later out into the peaceful starlit night of Petty France.

Today presented a sartorial problem: was he cook or gentleman? Auguste pondered. Gentlemen were not called upon to present themselves in kitchens at six thirty in the morning, which suggested working clothes were called for, but on the other hand cooks did not have to be presented to His Majesty King Edward VII five hours later. He compromised with his new grey flannel lounge suit, swathed in the white protective clothing of his trade, and sending more formal clothes by train. He must remember, he told himself, to change hats; a terrible vision of His Majesty being presented with the sight of a bowing suit from Savile Row topped with a chef’s hat propelled him from bed so that his brain could occupy itself with more practical matters. Even so, as he bathed, soap and sponge were mingled with visions of huge jellies wobbling into splintered fragments and hayboxes soaked with sauces and gravies from inadequately sealed containers.

Motorcars and His Majesty – the combination was far from attractive, and combined with the onerous duties of the banquet, and supporting Tatiana, he had to suppress a craven desire to creep back under the sheets and forget all about Thursday. Tatiana was already up, and from the cheerful noise in the dressing room the daily battle had begun between Eloise’s wish for her mistress to do her credit and Tatiana’s to
jump on to or under a motorcar at the earliest opportunity. Eloise had insisted on travelling to Kent with the other ladies’ maids, where arrangements were to be made at Martyr House for them to repair the ravages of road travel to their mistresses’ toilettes before luncheon, and for the ball this evening.

Pierre would already be at Milton House together with his staff – and, unfortunately, Luigi. Auguste had a pang of uneasiness, but surely nothing could erupt between them at such an important moment. Pierre could be depended upon in a crisis – such as the time the ortolans had overcooked at a dinner held in Monsieur Louis Renault’s honour. Luigi, however, struck Auguste as the kind of man who would stick like marzipan during fine weather and at the hint of a storm vanish like oysters from a July menu.

At six thirty Auguste walked through the gates of Milton House, leaving Tatiana busy preparing the Bollée in their own motor house with Charlie Jolly. Eloise had insisted on the latter’s presence to prevent her mistress inspecting the underside of the Bollée’s frame dressed in lilac foulard and white linen.

A satisfactory sight met Auguste’s eye. Baskets, hampers and boxes were already being packed into waiting motor vans, and three hired Napier station buses awaited the accompanying staff. He entered the kitchen where a lingering smell of venison stew delighted his nostrils; the hayboxes were being packed with (well-sealed) casseroles. Jellies and ice creams, still in moulds, were conveyed as tenderly as new-born babes in baskets and ice cabinets to the vans. In the midst of the kitchen Pierre superintended his charges with an expert eye.

‘Are there any problems?’ Auguste asked anxiously.

‘
Non, monsieur
.’

‘And the
salade
?’ A particular point of concern if their delivery from Covent Garden had failed to arrive. ‘It is ready?’

‘
Oui, monsieur
.’ It was obvious from Pierre’s taciturnity and grim expression that Luigi had arrived.

Pierre could in any case be forgiven some gruffness for this was no ordinary shooting party luncheon or picnic, and the resident servants at Martyr House could probably be counted on to gloat rather than assist in a crisis. Their moment of glory would then appear the more brilliant at this evening’s ball supper, which was their responsibility. By that time Auguste would definitely have made his appearance as a gentleman, for even Bertie, King and Emperor, had reluctantly conceded Auguste could not present both meals without offending his hosts. This morning he was a chef, however. The transposition between the two worlds pleased him; he was sometimes acutely aware he was now fully accepted by neither, but there were virtues in detachment.

Luigi, Pierre, Monsieur Bernard and the rest of the staff in the royal train (in the baggage wagons) would be leaving Victoria Station at eight; the cavalcade of motor vans was to depart from Petty France at seven thirty to allow time for unpacking under the suspicious eyes of the King’s detectives – in case, Auguste supposed, of explosive strawberry
bombes
. He himself was planning to leave at about eight o’clock for a solitary walk to Hyde Park Corner for the eight-thirty departure of the Ladies’ Motoring Club. Fortunately Tatiana was taking his all-enveloping coat, cap, goggles and mask with her; a walk through London streets clad like Count Dracula did not appeal to him.

At twenty past seven Luigi strolled into the kitchen. ‘Are you not ready?’ he inquired solicitously of Pierre. ‘My part is
done, so is Monsieur Bernard’s, and the vans are able to leave.’

Luigi was an excellent connoisseur of wines, Auguste grudgingly conceded, but he dominated the elderly Bernard; however, he displayed only the slightest tendency to favour Italian over French wines. Today he and his staff were in charge of table decoration and service, and his task was not a light one. Nevertheless Auguste had firmly scrutinised the final choice of wines.

‘Naturally I am ready, dog,’ Pierre informed his enemy curtly.

Auguste’s heart sank. ‘Today, gentlemen, we work
together
; tomorrow you may kill each other.’

‘I shall be happy to oblige, monsieur.’ Luigi shrugged amusedly, as Pierre shot by him with a scowl and a sauce hamper.

When they had left, Auguste relaxed. He had half an hour in which to ensure with the aid of two kitchen maids and one under meat chef that those ladies not participating in the run could, if they wished, dine at the club. It would be plain roast beef—
horseradish
. There on a side table was the prepared horseradish sauce for luncheon today. Pierre had overlooked it.

Auguste rushed up the steps into the courtyard to see the last of the vans driving merrily round the bend of Petty France. The King would never forgive this crime. It was almost treason since the King had specifically demanded the presence of pressed beef on the menu. What to do? Run to Victoria? Tatiana would worry if he was late. He must take it himself on the Léon Bollée. Oneself was the only person who
never
let you down, Auguste told himself bitterly.

By eight o’clock he had finished his duty by tonight’s menu and hurried to the water closet and lavatory stand to prepare himself for the journey ahead. He passed the larders and
scullery on the way but resisted the temptation to check that no other forgotten treasures lay within. He refused to nurse a ham in his arms all the way to Martyr House. He was halfway through the call of nature, however, when it struck him that it was remarkably quiet. Although the club would not yet be open, he would have expected to hear some kind of activity from the motor stable across the yard, even though Fred and Leo were going straight to join the cavalcade in case of mishaps. The Dolly Dobbs must have left while he was in the kitchen – after all, it ran silently, and the sound of voices in the rear yard would not have carried to the kitchen with so much noise going on. Would it?

Auguste found himself running up the steps to the rear yard instead of back to the security of the kitchen, just to reassure himself. He found the stable closed and deserted. Dolly had left for her maiden voyage. Nevertheless he walked quickly over to the motor house, just as Harold Dobbs came rushing round into the yard, shouting bitterly and wildly of the inefficiency of the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway.

‘Where is it?’ he cried querulously, breaking off from his diatribe.

‘What?’ Auguste asked fatuously. What else, after all, could Harold Dobbs be interested in?

‘The Dolly Dobbs. Has it left already? Without
me
? Is that woman planning to drive her
alone
? Is she bent on ruining my debut?’

‘I don’t know.’ One answer sufficed for all questions.

Harold threw himself at the door and rattled it in vain.

‘It’s padlocked,’ Auguste pointed out helpfully. ‘I expect they all are,’ he added as Harold worked his way down the row with the same negative results.

‘Get the key,’ Harold howled.

‘I don’t have one.’ Auguste might be cook as well as gentleman, but he was
not
a motor mechanician.

‘You must. Its Motor Club trial begins in twenty minutes.’ Harold was as white as a floured pastry board. He rushed back to the Dolly Dobbs door and, bending over, applied his eye to the keyhole. Auguste regarded his plumpish bottom with intense dislike. Motor designers were worse than motorcars. Harold stood up, trembling.

‘She’s in there,’ he whispered.

‘
Who?
’ Alarm now shot through Auguste like a wave of nausea.

‘Dolly Dobbs, of course,’ Harold moaned. ‘But there’s something wrong with it. Are Miss Hart and Thomas Bailey conspiring against me?’

All Auguste’s former forebodings, superseded by the demands of the banquet, swept back. ‘Why should Miss Hart—’

‘I see it all,’ Harold interrupted, following his own thoughts. ‘That’s why she—’ He stopped short.

‘Why she?’ Auguste prompted sharply.

‘Wanted to drive it,’ Harold finished unconvincingly.

‘Then where is she?’ Presumably she and Roderick would have needed to take it in turns to return home to change, but they were leaving it very late to join the run. Auguste knew from bitter experience just how long it took to check a motorcar before one set out on a journey, and even if the battery had been changed earlier this morning, twenty minutes would not be enough for the final check. All thoughts of Hyde Park Corner and the run vanished, as, commanding Harold to stay where he was, Auguste rushed back into the kitchen shouting for a screwdriver. The two kitchen maids and the underchef gazed at him blankly, wondering what
marvellous new dish might require a screwdriver to achieve perfection. Fortunately the solid figure of Charlie Jolly ambled into the kitchen, for once as welcome a sight as his mother. ‘Padlock,’ Auguste shouted. ‘Need screwdriver.’

Charlie’s brain worked a great deal faster than his body, so when he moved it was with agonising slowness.

‘Hurry, Charlie,
hurry
.’

This word always disagreed with Charlie. Nevertheless he flourished a screwdriver within moments and followed Auguste back to the stable.

‘There.’ Auguste pointed to the door hinges. ‘Off with them.’

Charlie had the feet and hands of an artist, and he worked deftly and swiftly. One of Charlie’s great qualities was that he never asked why. Mrs Jolly never wasted time asking why steak and kidney pie was demanded in July; she just provided it. Charlie took after her. Even so, Auguste danced up and down with impatience, while Harold, apparently in a state of collapse, moaned softly to himself, at intervals inspecting his pocket watch like Mr Carroll’s White Rabbit. At last the door of the motor house swung free and Auguste pushed past Charlie. ‘Keep Mr Dobbs away,’ he instructed him.

‘Why?’ Harold cried, hurling himself at Charlie. Charlie was the stronger, but Harold was the taller and could see past him to his beloved Dolly Dobbs. ‘
What’s that?
’

The first thing Auguste saw was that something large and heavy now adorned Dolly’s steering and driving area. As he ran forward it was immediately obvious that Dolly would be driving nowhere today and probably never again. The huge iron block and tackle equipment had been swung with sickening force across Dolly’s bows, destroying steering pillar and wheel, levers and voltmeter, damaging both far hood and
windmill, and smashing the nearside hood, windmill and dynamo, up against the remains of which the iron block now rested. Behind him, Charlie, with eyes for more than the Dolly Dobbs, gripped Harold firmly in an armlock, as with the strength of ten he tried to hurl himself on Dolly’s corpse.

But Auguste had no time to waste in sympathy for a motorcar. He was concerned with what lay sprawled on the ground behind it. Nausea welled up in him as with sickening fear all his premonitions proved justified. It was an inert body, the body of a woman.

‘
Silence, s’il vous plaît
,’ Auguste shouted with such force that even Harold was hushed. Would there be life in that still body? Would it be smashed like the motorcar? Heart in mouth, Auguste walked closer, trying to still his pounding heart so that his eyes could take in all he needed. There were, to his relief, no smashed brains or pulped flesh, only blood round the body. And, he now noticed, splashes of dried blood on the walls and the floor by the doorway. Alive? How could she be? Hoping against hope that he was wrong, he knelt down gingerly to touch the body. It was already cooling but not yet cold, and as far as he could tell from looking at the face and jaw, rigor mortis was just setting in.

Hester Hart had not gone home to change, she was lying dead, face down, still in the warm walking skirt she had obviously donned for her vigil.

Now that the nightmare had proved reality, Auguste desperately tried to call all the instincts of the detective to his aid and not those of the man. Had Hester died by a glancing blow from the iron block? Out of the question from the position of the body. He dared not move the body to search for other cause of death. Egbert would not be pleased. Then with fresh horror he remembered: Egbert was not sitting in his office at
Scotland Yard but with Tatiana in the Bollée, waiting patiently for Auguste to arrive at Hyde Park Corner. There was no possible way he could now reach Hyde Park Corner in time, Auguste realised, feverishly hauling out his pocket watch; it was twenty-five minutes past eight already. Thoughts raced chaotically through his mind like meat through a mincer, and like minced meat had to be organised for use.