Murder Makes an Entree (20 page)

The landlord regarded him pityingly. ‘I can see you don’t know your Dickens, sir. Or Broadstairs. It wasn’t a ladies’ retiring
room when he was here. Part of the time he stayed in what’s now our hotel; it wasn’t even part of the hotel but a private
house. We’ve expanded, sir. Expanded very much.’ His chest followed suit. ‘It’s not everyone can see him, of course. You’re
very privileged, madam.’

Gwendolen did not agree. She fainted.

The female Lionisers left the rest of their hollands untouched and began to think in terms of returning to the hotel. The
ladies’ retiring room remained unused.

Passing through the foyer on a last check before retiring, Mr Multhrop found himself engulfed in a merry throng of post-hollands
revellers, intent on beginning a new party. His reactions were mixed. While he welcomed this newfound enthusiasm for Broadstairs
after the gloomy events of the past few days, this rowdy pink-faced band, hardly recognisable as the distinguished gathering
of Literary Lionisers, was not to his taste. Outside the hotel he would have attributed such behaviour to day excursionist
’Arrys and ’Arriets and called the police. As it was, he was forced to his usual obsequious tolerance. Summoning a bleary-eyed
waiter to serve further alcoholic beverages, he beat a strategic retreat, to the raucous sound of upraised voices trilling
‘Mid pleasures and gin-palaces . . . there’s no place like home.’ And that was where he devoutly wished them.

The inhabitants of Blue Horizons were making quieter arrivals home, one by one.

Alfred had inveigled Beatrice to take a stroll along the pier to gaze at the stars; he was in exalted mood, and felt daring
enough to ask her for her answer. The kilted Scots figurehead loomed above them, his feet busily executing all the steps of
a neat Highland fling when Alfred glanced up.

‘I’m afraid not, Alfred,’ was Beatrice’s reply.

He stared at her bemusedly. ‘What?’ he said eventually and feebly.

‘No, Alfred,’ she said. ‘I do not wish to marry you.’

‘The shock of your father’s death. You need more time.’

‘It’s nothing to do with the shock of my father’s death. I do not wish to marry you. I never have.’

‘But—’ His mouth fell open like one of William and Joe’s larger fishy wares. Then he perceived the truth. ‘You think me a
murderer,’ he cried.

‘Don’t be silly, Alfred,’ Beatrice snapped impatiently. ‘You’re not a murderer.’ Yet his expression as he looked at her and
the strength with which he seized her arm made her uncomfortably aware of their isolated position. She wrenched her arm away,
conscious of fear. What did she
know
of him after all? Alcohol can disguise, but sometimes reveal the true man. She turned, and abandoning dignity, hitched up
her skirts and ran.

Heinrich, reeling after several glasses of schnapps, held carefully on to Emily’s arm; whether for her protection or his,
he did not question. Enthused by physical contact with his beloved, he suggested a stroll in the Victoria Gardens; Emily,
unusually flushed, and equally enthused, agreed.

By the time they reached the bandstand he was even more enthused with the charms of Miss Dawson. Not since Greta all those
years ago had a woman seemed to him so desirable.
Hollands had blotted out all inhibitions and worries. ‘Emily,’ he said huskily. ‘Emily.’

‘Yes, Heinrich?’ she breathed.

But he was incapable of saying more, and instead seized her in a bearlike hug, heedless of her cry that he was squashing her.
Enthusiasm was all very well, thought Emily, but surely this agony was not the romance she had dreamed of. She struggled ineffectively
and he released her, but not because of her struggles. Like Gwendolen before him, the hollands had caught up with him. Muttering
incomprehensibly, he made for some bushes where he disappeared from Emily’s view. He did not return. He could not, for he
was lying recumbent and unconscious on the carefully tended garden.

Emily waited, disappointed, rejected – and angry. When he had not reappeared after fifteen minutes, convinced she had been
abandoned, she set off home alone.

Alice, too, was alone. She had seen Alfred disappearing with Beatrice Throgmorton and walked quickly back along the promenade.
She took a walk up to the West Cliff before returning to Blue Horizons, overwhelmed in misery. What was she to do now?

Algernon Peckham was alone. He had had the fright of his life seeing that woman in the hotel. What the dickens, so to speak,
was he to do? So he had been a gardener at the Château de la Ferté. That proved nothing, did it? There was no proof that it
was he who had taken the necklace.

Naturally, he would say, he had disappeared from the château; he was scared they’d pin the crime on him because he’d done
stir – time. Yes, that was the way to handle it. All the same, there were other problems to be thought about.

James Pegg wandered home alone. He too had seen Alfred departing with Beatrice, but unlike Alice he had followed them, and
had been witness to Alfred’s humiliating rejection.
He did not rush to console Alfred, however. He had a lot to think about, and he preferred to do it slowly and alone.

Auguste did not walk home alone to Blue Horizons. He had the exciting company of Sid. Sid was keeping a close eye on Mr Didier;
not that he thought anyone would try to poison
him
, but you never knew, when the likes of Peckham were around.

When they returned, they found Alice in the kitchen. She was crying. Man to man, Sid and Auguste exchanged glances. Auguste
nodded, Sid disappeared.

‘They’re engaged,’ she wailed as soon as Sid had closed the door. ‘He’s led me on.’

‘Are you sure, Alice?’ he asked cautiously, uncertain what he could say if she was sure.

She nodded and burst into a fresh flood of tears. ‘I feel so
silly
. He doesn’t even notice me. He doesn’t even think of me as a
woman
.’

‘
Chérie
.’ He knelt down by her chair and drew her to him. She was warm in his arms, and he felt Lord Wittisham was foolish indeed.

‘Oh, Mr Didier.’ She raised her tear-stained face to his and it seemed quite natural to place his lips on hers, and since
she seemed to welcome it, he kept them there. For some time. It occurred to him forcibly that he would have no objection at
all to extending this romantic episode further. Much further. But an irritating and inopportune appearance of honour made
him hesitate to benefit from her rejection by Alfred at least for tonight. He ordered conscience to remove itself immediately,
but it did not. Regretfully he kissed her forehead, extracted himself from her embrace and sent her on her way to a virtuous
bed.

Once in his own, he dreamed again of Tatiana, but she was far away from Broadstairs.

The night of the hollands had left in its wake the day of the doldrums at Blue Horizons. There were bright spots for Auguste,
however. The sun was shining, and an early morning trip to the pier had produced some unusually good mackerel.

Being on breakfast duty, Alice and Emily were the first two pupils down to breakfast. Heinrich was next, entering the kitchen
bleary-eyed. Emily ignored him and he slumped down in a chair, trying to catch her eye. It refused to be caught. She had been
deserted. He had left her mid-kiss and come home. Did he dislike the smell of her southernwood hair wash or her home-made
lavender perfume? She wondered what Grandmama would have advised in all the circumstances.

Few of Auguste’s pupils seemed inclined to mackerel for breakfast. In fact Auguste and Sid were the only volunteers and even
Auguste had second thoughts as he smelt them on the gridiron. Black coffee was much favoured however. So was silence. Sid
was the exception, whistling happily about daring young men on flying trapezes, the sound throbbing through Alice’s headache
and giving Emily very uncharitable thoughts.

Algernon and James came in together, requesting thin toast, and black coffee. Alice fulfilled the orders, then sat down as
far as she could from Alfred who had just arrived. Emily could serve him. Alice, slightly pink, glanced at
Auguste, and continued to avoid Alfred’s eyes which were fixed on her beseechingly.

Alfred had had a dark night of the soul. He had seen how entirely wrong it had been for him to have assumed that Beatrice
Throgmorton would look twice at him. In any case, upon reflection, did he really want her now he compared her sturdy body
and overpowering nature with Alice’s pliable warmth? He stole covert glances at her across the table. True, she was not blue-blooded,
but she was an officer’s daughter and therefore fit for a gentleman. He was suddenly and belatedly delightfully aware of her
adoration, of her devotion, of her light hand with the pastry, and even at breakfast time he could contemplate with pleasure
how jolly nice it would be to kiss her. He gazed at her ardently. When she required more coffee he leapt up, determined to
prove his newfound love and to take the opportunity the task afforded of sitting by her side. James watched aghast, toast
suspended halfway to his mouth; the rest of the table observed the manoeuvre with interest, and Alice felt surprise then delight.
Auguste, patronisingly benevolent, glowed with virtue at his sexual restraint.

As yet the sunshine could not be enjoyed for this morning the inquest was to take place. Once again the world of the sands
and holidays was left far behind as the Auguste Didier School of Cuisine and the committee members of the Literary Lionisers,
together with such other Lionisers as could squeeze into the room allotted to them in police headquarters, were once again
taken back over the events of last Saturday night. The three uninterested pressmen from the Imperial attended. After this,
they could no longer, they supposed, justify a prolonged holiday in Broadstairs; it would be back to Fleet Street. They took
desultory notes throughout the succession of witnesses that took the stand, They were profoundly bored. Until it came to the
verdict: murder.

Sergeant Stitch, formally attired in dark lounge suit, stiff collar, bowler hat and umbrella, walked out of the railway station,
prepared to show Broadstairs how things should really be done. To this end, he had not even considered packing anything that
could remotely be considered seaside wear, and as a result suppressed a pang of envy when his cab turned along the Victoria
Parade and his eyes beheld a scene that reminded him irresistibly of his annual holiday at Margate, fortunately yet to come.

‘Scotland Yard,’ he informed Mr Multhrop severely, taking him for the doorman as he marched through the doors of the Imperial
Hotel.

‘Ah, Stitch.’ Rose looked up from a Naseby-dominated desk as Mr Multhrop speedily opened the door and almost pushed the sergeant
in. Better be a butler than have policemen littering up his foyer. As far as Rose was concerned, even Stitch made a welcome
diversion from Naseby. Better the devil you know. His brain seemed to seize up when Naseby was around, whereas Stitch sharpened
it, like a whetstone. Edith was right. Albert, she had remarked – Rose hadn’t known Twitch even had a Christian name – is
like pummy stone, whereas Naseby (who had had a definite smirk on his face when he saw her new hat) is like Irritating Plaster,
he causes irruptions.

‘Seen your room yet?’ Rose enquired politely.

‘No, sir. Eager to begin work, sir.’

‘No sea view,’ said Rose absently. ‘Thought you might get distracted.’

Stitch gulped. ‘Quite right, sir,’ thinking lovingly of what he would do when he was promoted Inspector. The only problem
was that Rose would then be Chief Inspector unless some awful fate overtook him . . . Stitch’s nose had twitched eagerly as
he took in the size of the Imperial. It was going to be another of those cases with coronets that Rose was
so good at. And this time he, and not that chef, would be at Rose’s right hand. Usually he got palmed off with the Mile End
Road, stabbings in Chinatown, Lascars, opium dens – you name it, Stitch was on the case. Master Didier got Mayfair, he thought
incorrectly and unjustly.

‘Here’s my report, sir. Results of my enquiries.’

‘Pertaining to this case?’ breathed Naseby, eyes gleaming.

‘Just so, Naseby,’ said Rose blandly, eyes skimming quickly through pages of Stitch’s careful copperplate handwriting.

‘I looked up reports from the Continental police as requested, sir.’ Virtue oozed out of Stitch. ‘You were right,’ no harm
in giving justice where it was (for once) due, ‘the thief of the Château de la Ferté case was believed to be English. Jobbing
gardener, by name Augustus Poplar.’

‘Alias Algernon Peckham,’ said Rose. ‘Only a few miles in it.’

‘What, sir?’ Twitch did not follow the reasoning.

‘Anything on Poplar in our files?’

‘No, sir, not in the Metropolitan area.’

‘Keep trying. Look under Peckham. Now, Throgmorton,’ Rose said, returning to the report. Stitch had been working hard, Rose
granted him that. Like a mole was Twitch – blind, but a good digger. Rose whistled. Naseby tried hard to read over his shoulder.
Stitch stood stolidly to attention.

‘Born in 1845. Widower, one daughter. Studied London School of Economics, Heidelberg, Sorbonne, Vienna, Foreign department
of Masterman’s Bank 1870-83, President 1883 to date. Adviser to Treasury and Foreign and Colonial Offices.’

‘That’s the formal information, sir. It gets more interesting.’

‘You seem quite excited, Stitch,’ Rose commented drily. ‘Must be the sea air.’ Stitch ran a finger round his collar.

‘Rumours that he had profited from the Barings Crisis
of 1890.’ Rose frowned. Wasn’t that the time when the Bank of England stepped in to avoid the whole City suffering? ‘Interesting,
but I don’t see how it can affect this case. Still, you never know.’

‘And we were in touch with him twice at the Yard, sir,’ Stitch burst forth, eager to display the fruits of his research. ‘Once
when the Yard needed advice over a fraud case, and once over a theft!’

‘Theft again eh?’ said Rose studying the report.

‘Big one sir. Twenty thousand pounds in bearer bonds. Cashed abroad.’

‘When?’

‘About ten years ago, sir. The villain was never caught.’

‘Peckham would have been about fourteen. Pity,’ observed Rose regretfully. What would he do about that young man and the necklace?
He rather thought he’d let him stew for a while; with the murder investigation on, he couldn’t get far – or he’d be a fool
to try, and Peckham was no fool.

‘Oh, there was no doubt who stole them, sir. His groom.’

‘Groom?’ echoed Rose. ‘Name?’

‘I didn’t bring it, sir.’ Stitch’s face was crestfallen.

‘Back to the Yard, Stitch. I want everything on that case.’

‘But I’ve only just got here,’ bleated Stitch.

Rose paused. An evil look came into his eye. The sun was shining. It was holiday time, he reflected wistfully, wondering where
Edith was. He relented. ‘Get them on the telephone then.’

‘The crime’s ten years old, sir,’ Stitch pointed out. ‘Is it that urgent?’

Rose sighed. ‘Ever heard of cumulative probabilities, Stitch?’

Stitch hadn’t.

‘There’s an advertisement I read in here,’ said Rose, tapping the local newspaper, ‘for Mother Seigel’s Syrup.
This learned advertisement suggests that, just like in the Bertillon system, when you get a lot of small pieces of evidence
grouped together, it can add up to be something prodigious in the way of proof. And I’m hearing the word “groom” one too many
times for it to be coincidence. So after you’ve heard from the Factory, Stitch, we’ll –’ the ‘we’ did not include Naseby –
‘be having a word with Mr James Pegg.’

Beatrice Throgmorton saw no point in delaying her departure. The inquest was over. She had duly registered the death of her
father at the Council Offices that afternoon and the funeral had now speedily to be carried out in Buckinghamshire. She paid
her account at the Imperial Hotel, and with her maid staggering under six hatboxes, followed by a small procession of luggage
borne by sturdy footmen, she climbed into a victoria to depart for the railway station. Her cab had no sooner left the Imperial
than Egbert Rose tore out of his office, ran to the reception desk to enquire Miss Throgmorton’s whereabouts and, being told,
continued this headlong rush out of the hotel, hotly pursued by Stitch and Naseby.

There were no victorias conveniently passing, and Rose was forced to commandeer a passing donkey cart, much to the amazement
of its young driver, especially when a bowler-hatted Stitch leapt in after him.

‘Follow that victoria,’ Rose commanded.

‘’Ere, no more!’ yelled the boy, seeing Naseby about to follow suit.

‘Scotland Yard, laddie. Hurry,’ said Stitch grimly. The boy cast one horrified look at the bowler-hatted majesty and communicated
his message to the donkey. With a jerk they were off. When he left his home this morning he had not expected to be carrying
Lestrade of the Yard and Sherlock Holmes, and was by no means certain he was ready for this responsibility.

Looking by chance out of his kitchen window, Auguste was amazed to see a donkey cart with Egbert Rose and – yes – Stitch driving
past. He blinked. Was this a late hallucinatory effect of the hollands? Seeing Naseby in hot pursuit running on foot after
the cart almost convinced him it was. The donkey turned into the High Street, negotiating without enthusiasm the usual morning
traffic jams in its odd corners and narrow width.

No Miss Betsy Trotwood leapt out to bar the way to their donkey, but a large van delivering beer to the Prince Albert public
house did. A second delivery van by their side, full of interesting-looking vegetables, proved another hazard; the donkey
was unwilling to move from these Elysian fields. By the time it had been persuaded onwards the victoria was out of sight.
When they reached the railway station it was already plying for new hire and the sound of an engine gathering up steam could
be heard. They raced onto the platform, followed a minute or two later by a panting Naseby, only to see the railway train,
now bearing Miss Throgmorton, steaming slowly away, enveloping them in white smoke.

‘That’s that,’ said Rose gloomily. ‘We won’t be able to reach the lady until we can telephone tonight.’

‘’Ere, where are your platform tickets?’ demanded the ticket collector.

‘Scotland Yard,’ Stitch informed him loftily.

‘Platform tickets,’ retorted the ticket collector.

‘You know me, my man,’ said Naseby angrily. ‘Inspector Naseby, Sandwich police.’

‘Yes, I do.’ A happy look came to his face. ‘That’ll be thruppence,’ he said firmly.

‘We want to hasten the discovery of Sir Thomas’s murderer. Mr Didier, just in case the police think it’s me,’ Angelina declared
honestly.

She and Oliver were sitting side by side in the small parlour at Blue Horizons, having arrived unannounced while the Auguste
Didier School of Cuisine was in session in the kitchen. Auguste had persuaded his pupils that, having missed a lesson this
morning owing to the inquest, this afternoon would prove an ideal time to instruct them on the magnificence of the St Pierre
or John Dory. With regretful eyes on the sunshine outside, they had reluctantly yielded, though not as reluctantly as Auguste
had yielded to Angelina’s entreaties to be allowed to interrupt the lesson.

‘It is brave of you to come,’ he observed, his mind still in the kitchen where his unsupervised pupils were no doubt ruining
the John Dory.

‘Oliver persuaded me,’ admitted Angelina. ‘He felt it foolish for me to do otherwise. We may be able to help. We could investigate,’
she said hopefully, remembering ‘Lady Molly of Scotland Yard’. ‘We can talk to our fellow committee members in a way that
you can’t and not even the police can.’

‘And why come to me, not go to see Inspector Rose?’

‘My friend Lady Jane told me you were a sort of Watson to—’ She stopped abruptly as she saw the look of outrage on Auguste’s
face. ‘I mean a Sherlock, of course. How foolish of me.’

Auguste smiled weakly, then laughed at himself for his vanity. ‘I am honoured even to be thought Inspector Rose’s Watson,’
he said. ‘I try not to be as foolish as the doctor, and not to blunder in where the Inspector wishes to go quietly. Yet there
are no places I can go, things I can observe that, as a policeman, he cannot. So perhaps this is true of you also. And now,
Mr Michaels, I wish to ask you one question. Where did you obtain that delightful snake-buckle belt?’

‘
Alors, mes enfants
, how is our St Pierre?’

No one replied with glad tidings of a perfect dinner about to be served. Indeed only Algernon, Emily and Heinrich were present.
The latter two did not appear to be speaking to each other, and Sid and Algernon were prowling round each other like lean
and hungry panthers waiting for an opportunity to strike. James, Alice and Alfred hurried in guiltily a few minutes later,
glaring at each other for being thrust into proximity, the former carrying bread and milk for dinner, and the latter clutching
a treasure trove of samphire as a peace offering.