Murder In The Motor Stable: (Auguste Didier Mystery 9) (23 page)

The front door of Luigi’s lodgings was opened by a thin, truculent woman of forty-odd, who appeared determined not to rejoice in the Lord’s sunshine. ‘Mr Peroni’s out.’

‘I’ll see for myself, if you don’t mind.’ Egbert displayed his badge, and with the air of one who had suspected it all the time she led them up three flights of stairs to the top floor, and flung the door open triumphantly to prove her point.

Luigi had two rooms, one a bedroom, the other a living room, both small, crowded and stuffy. A small statue of the Virgin Mary and an unlit candle in the bedroom revealed a new side of Luigi; several bottles of the club wine store revealed a more familiar side and suggested devoutness stopped short of the Ten Commandments.

‘Do you know where Mr Peroni is?’

‘Out with his lady friend.’ His landlady snorted with disdain.

‘And who might she be?’

‘I don’t know, I’m sure. She doesn’t cross this threshold, that I do know. This is a respectable house.’

Auguste looked round the two rooms. Even the briefest glance was enough to show him that no chest was hidden here, nor even a pile of diaries. If Luigi had them, they were elsewhere.

Luigi was evidently primed by his landlady for by the time they caught up with him at the club just after six o’clock, he did not look surprised to see them. ‘This is a busy time for me.’ He inspected a table, rearranged napkins, and picked off a wilting bloom from the floral decorations.

‘I can’t believe you’ll be run off your feet on a Sunday evening in late July,’ Egbert replied. ‘We could go to the Yard. You might not feel so busy there.’

Luigi cast a longing look at his safe territory, and decided his mammoth tasks could wait.

‘You didn’t tell us you’d ever called at Miss Hart’s home.’

Luigi looked hurt. ‘You did not ask me, Inspector. It is natural, after all. I admitted I gave her regular information, and it would be difficult to talk frequently here without arousing suspicions. I called to see Miss Hart once a week, more if I had urgent news for her.’

‘And this money she gave you, how highly did she rate your services? Information, that is.’

Luigi flushed. ‘I am not proud of it,’ he said angrily. ‘An Italian aristocrat should never be reduced to accepting money from ladies. But it is not cheap to live, and I wish to marry – for
bambini
,’ he explained virtuously.

‘And who’s the lucky young lady?’ Egbert inquired. ‘The one you were with this afternoon?’

Luigi was shocked. ‘She is only one of the servants. My fiancée is high-born. Her father owns a hotel.’

Auguste began to like Luigi even less. ‘On the Riviera?’ he asked.

‘Woolwich.’

Not quite so fashionable, but nevertheless it must be a prosperous hotel if it attracted Luigi, Auguste decided, feeling sorry for the mere ‘servant’ he had been with this afternoon.
Which servant? he wondered, as Egbert produced the copy of the
Rubáiyát
.

‘Seen this before?’ he asked. Luigi shook his head. ‘Take a closer look.’

He obeyed, and opened it readily enough. ‘The
Rubáiyát
,’ he remarked.

‘You’ve heard of it?’

‘Florence, where I worked, is home to many English people, and it is a popular poem.’

‘Any idea who gave it to her?’

‘It was not me,’ he said apologetically; his smile was meant to charm. ‘I cannot afford leather bindings.’

Egbert was impervious to charming smiles. ‘You could if you used those diaries for blackmail. That is why you went to her home, isn’t it?’

The smile rapidly disappeared. ‘
Me?
Inspector, information is one thing, blackmail quite another.’

‘Even more lucrative,’ Egbert agreed. ‘Where have you hidden the diaries? In a bank? Railway station? Lost property office at New Scotland Yard?’

‘Why do you think I have them?’ He shrugged as though the matter was of little concern. ‘Pierre was her dragoman, Mr Smythe her fiancé. Either of them could have them.’

‘Pierre didn’t go to Miss Hart’s house, according to the housekeeper. You did.’

‘And so did Mr Smythe. He went far more than I did.’

‘Good of you to be so helpful,’ Egbert said grimly. ‘But I’m asking
you
where the diaries are. I know they’re not in your rooms, I’ve looked.’

Luigi looked as if he was about to protest, then changed his mind. ‘Why should I not tell you?’ he cried. ‘You think I
want
to be suspected of murder?’

‘You could be taking up a new career in blackmail. While those diaries are lying around, quite a few people might feel the need to give you little gifts.’

Luigi stared at him, then suddenly grinned. ‘That is a splendid idea. I’ll bear it in mind.’

‘Morning, Stitch. I’ve got a job for you.’

Stitch was instantly wary. Cordiality at this time on a Monday morning was unusual from the chief and seldom bode well.

‘Somerset House.’

Stitch’s worst fears came true. The last time this had happened he’d been made a monkey of by that Frenchie; he remembered it bitterly. He wouldn’t put it past Monsieur Didier to have invented some reason to send him off on another fool’s errand to get him out of the way on an interesting case. The chief wouldn’t do it to him but that foreigner would. He didn’t behave like an English gentleman, for all he was related to His Majesty now.

‘Hester Hart, father Herbert Hart, born in Blackburn in eighteen thirty-two, mother Maria Trotter, born in Blackburn eighteen thirty-six. See what you can find out.’

‘About what, sir?’ Twitch inquired woodenly.

‘Nearest living relatives.’

‘That’s before registration was officially compulsory.’

‘Always ready for a challenge though, aren’t you, Stitch?’

‘I am, sir,’ Twitch answered despondently. He left the Yard with the feeling that H. M. Stanley had been allotted an easier task when he set off to find Livingstone in the heart of Africa. A few million jungle trees and rivers were as nothing compared with the mighty tomes of Somerset House and the prospect of hunting down parish registers in Blackburn. He
thought wistfully, instead of with his customary resentfulness, of the two weeks’ holiday ahead at Margate-on-Sea with Martha, when a Panama hat would replace the accustomed bowler, a shrimping net his notebook, and a penny for the ‘Burglar Jack’ slot machine his entire acquaintanceship with crime and criminals.

Lady Bullinger greeted Monday morning with the same determination as her Napier had greeted Porlock Hill. This was Goodwood week. The fact that horses would necessarily take pride of place there made her arrival by motorcar all the more important. This morning she was to visit the Motor Club of Great Britain headquarters to discuss her representing the country in the International Women’s Race in October. This afternoon she would join Agatha for tea at her house, where they had equally important matters to discuss.

After a highly satisfactory morning, she approached her afternoon assignment somewhat later than intended but with equal confidence in its successful outcome.

‘Maud, darling.’ Agatha flitted in hand-painted silk with apparent delight to greet her.

‘Business first, Agatha,’ Maud said briskly, once sunshade, goggles and dust coat had disappeared along with the butler. ‘What have you discovered about those diaries?’

‘They’re not with Roderick, so he informs me. He knew of them, but they disappeared.’ The Duchess took a delicate sip of China tea.

Maud exclaimed in annoyance. ‘And does Roderick not know where they have gone?’

‘No. It does seem rather careless of him, Maud. I suppose he can be relied on when he says he doesn’t have them himself?’

‘How dare you, Agatha. Roderick is my godson. He wouldn’t lie to me.’ Maud thumped down her teacup, determined to forego the usually rather good seed cake if need be.

‘I dare, Maud, because it seems to me that you have got entirely your own way in this terrible affair.’

‘Just what do you mean by that?’ This was not going the way Maud had planned, yet she couldn’t walk away now. Or even drive. Maud, always one for looking facts in the face, acknowledged that she and Agatha were as much bound together over Hester Hart as they had been fifteen years before.

Agatha gave the tinkling laugh that had always annoyed her sister-in-law. ‘If I were objective like, say, that police inspector, I might notice that due to Hester’s death you are going to drive in the October race as you wanted, and that you have rid yourself of Hester as a god-daughter-in-law – a result which I do appreciate is entirely desirable.’

‘Rid myself?’ Maud was belligerent. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Whatever you think I mean, dearest. There is no doubt that you have emerged from this terrible affair rather splendidly, whereas I am a laughing stock on account of that terrible motorcar. Seldom have I been so mistaken in a man as in Thomas Bailey.’ She paused. ‘It now turns out the Dolly Dobbs and the Brighton Baby are
identical
.’

‘But you knew that, Agatha.’ Maud was astonished. ‘You told me at Martyr House.’

Her Grace’s eyes arched upwards. ‘I did? I fear you are mistaken, Maud. I cared very little about the Dolly Dobbs and Hester Hart.’

Maud saw no reason to take a hint. ‘You cared a lot, Agatha. And you wrote those threatening letters. Do the police know?’

There was a pause, as the steel that had ensured the survival of the British aristocracy for so many hundreds of years came to the Duchess’s rescue: when in trouble, unite. ‘I suggest, dear Maud, that on the whole our best course is to find those diaries, as I said to Roderick. We don’t want the whole world knowing what dear Hester wrote in her private diaries for herself alone.’

‘I doubt if we can prevent it,’ Maud said stiffly. ‘I would remind you there were three of us involved.’

Agatha paused. ‘Destroying the diaries is
essential
. And we know where to start, don’t we?’

‘Not that housekeeper again,’ Maud declared. ‘The woman was positively rude.’

‘No. I believe Luigi has them. So does Roderick. It is most unfortunate; he is not the most discreet – or cheapest – person in the world.’

Hortensia was engrossed in studying form for Goodwood.

‘I must say it’s a rotten field. I think His Majesty’s horse, don’t you? Chatsworth.’

John Millward could raise little enthusiasm for horses; he was rather more interested in remaining in London this week but knew that the odds on Hortensia allowing him to do so were considerably longer than on the King’s horse. Goodwood always bored him. It was true that the archaeological world in London was closing down for the summer and after that he would be starting a long trip to Cairo. He always endeavoured to miss Newmarket and Lincoln, with a vague promise of being back for Christmas. This year was different, however. He felt uneasy about leaving with those diaries of Hester’s floating around. Whatever she had said in them, it would be pure invention but that never stopped people from believing
it; furthermore, he had met a publisher this week who told him he wanted to publish Hester Hart’s travel diaries since he had lost the chance of the memoirs. John was all too well aware that he would be figuring in them, including, if he were really unlucky, coy references to their imaginary love affair. Hortensia, he was still convinced, simply would not understand, especially after his dinner with the fearful Phyllis last week. No, he had to find those diaries before they were handed over for publication, and he thought he knew where to start.

‘Good legs,’ Hortensia continued.

John Millward looked enthusiastically at the chicken limb on his plate.

‘Very tasty,’ he agreed bleakly.

‘Where do you think those diaries are?’ Hugh lounged back on the cushions spread on the grass in an entirely private part of the grounds of Winter House.

‘They’re not at her home,’ Isabel replied despondently. ‘Have a cherry.’

He obliged, watching the way she daintily expelled the stones from her mouth. They appeared to glide out of their own accord in order to avoid over-sullying Isabel’s fine white hands. In a fit of absent-mindedness he reverted to his childhood habit of spitting his own out as far as they would go. He chortled as one hit an oak tree, and Isabel looked pained. He didn’t mind; he felt he had struck a small blow for the freedom of the male of the species.

‘Where else could they be?’ Isabel fretted. ‘I suspect that maître d’ would know; she was always very chummy with him,’ she observed superciliously. Typical of Hester to consort with the servants.

‘They might be with a publisher already.’

‘That’s an alarming thought.’

It was indeed, Hugh thought uneasily, wishing he hadn’t had it. This whole affair of the diaries and Hester Hart was beginning to get out of control. He was going to have to get involved in the search without a doubt. Once the matter of the diaries was satisfactorily settled, perhaps he’d separate from Isabel, delightful and beautiful though she was. She was his cousin unfortunately, so it wouldn’t be easy. He would have to keep on reasonable terms with her; perhaps he could make her think she had broken it off. It was always difficult to know what Isabel was thinking about but he was quite sure that she didn’t like being thwarted. Meanwhile, the diaries had to be found.