corpse were together on the premises.
Forty minutes later, Alexander reappeared, now accompanied by three representatives of the Yorkshire police force, and inevitably George and Priscilla Tabor, though without Tatiana, Auguste was relieved to see, and without the King’s bodyguards. Clearly Priscilla was hoping this could all be cleared up before breakfast while His Majesty peacefully slept on. He doubted this very much. One of the policemen was the constable who had been guarding the main entrance to the Tabor Hall estate and was torn between indignationthat his profile had not hitherto been higher in this event and apprehension as to whether or not he could have been expected to prevent it. The second was a small terrier of a man with intelligent darting eyes, and the third a silent bulldog sergeant of huge stature who hovered protectively over his superior.
The constable gravitated to Auguste’s side, apparently hopeful of making an immediate arrest.
‘This is Mr Auguste Didier,’ Alexander informed the police. ‘I called him when I found the body.’ Slightly to Auguste’s indignation, this made no impact on the terrier, Inspector Cobbold. ‘He is a guest in the house and a detective.’ Auguste was torn between modest pride and awareness that this was hardly a trump card in his hand when faced with unknown professional competition.
‘Special Branch?’ Cobbold’s tones were noncommittal, and fortunately less heavily accented than he had expected, yet he looked as shrewd a Yorkshireman as Auguste had yet met.
‘No.’ How could he convey he was a highly reluctant amateur detective? ‘But I am known to Scotland Yard,’ Auguste compromised.
Cobbold stared at him without commenting on this. ‘On His Majesty’s Staff?’
‘No. I am related by marriage.’ Auguste saw a wall of noncommunication rapidly nearing completion between himself and Cobbold.
The inspector did not comment. Instead: ‘No one recognises him, that right?’ A jerk of the head at the corpse.
‘We do not.’ Priscilla Tabor decided to make her presence felt. ‘One of our guests may do so.’
‘Including His Majesty?’ Cobbold asked, obviously not one to be daunted, Auguste noticed admiringly.
‘It is highly unlikely that a friend of His Majestywould come here to shoot himself,’ Priscilla came back witheringly.
‘If it
was
suicide,’ Auguste incautiously commented.
‘Any reason why not?’ Auguste’s opinion of Inspector Cobbold shot up. Any man who could take such a fly in the soup so calmly won his appreciation.
‘There was something strange about the position of the gun to the body when originally found,’ he began.
‘Originally?’ Cobbold picked up instantly.
‘The body was moved.’
‘Why?’
Priscilla turned the Gorgon’s stare upon him. ‘I would remind you that President McKinley of America has just been assassinated. Suppose such a catastrophe had occurred to His Majesty?’
‘Didn’t occur to you to go to find out?’ The Gorgon’s gaze failed to turn Cobbold to stone.
‘No,’ Priscilla replied icily.
‘What was strange then?’ Cobbold turned on Auguste.
‘I have put these matches to mark the original position. It seemed too neat, too close, for the gun to have fallen like that.’
Cobbold considered this. ‘Murder, eh? No one passed PC Walters here. Not this fellow, nor anyone else. What other entrances are there?’
‘One giving access to the woods, leading to the Malham and Gordale lane, another giving on to the fells at the back.’ George came into his own. ‘The fellow could have scrambled over the drystone walls, I suppose.’
‘Not in that suit,’ said Cobbold dismissively.
Auguste’s respect grew. The black suit was unmarked.
‘Otherwise, it would have to be someone in the house.’
‘This is quite outrageous,’ Priscilla intervened. ‘It is a simple case of suicide.’
‘Or one of the other guests this evening, who left after the dinner,’ Auguste
Forty minutes later, Alexander reappeared, now accompanied by three representatives of the Yorkshire police force, and inevitably George and Priscilla Tabor, though without Tatiana, Auguste was relieved to see, and without the King’s bodyguards. Clearly Priscilla was hoping this could all be cleared up before breakfast while His Majesty peacefully slept on. He doubted this very much. One of the policemen was the constable who had been guarding the main entrance to the Tabor Hall estate and was torn between indignationthat his profile had not hitherto been higher in this event and apprehension as to whether or not he could have been expected to prevent it. The second was a small terrier of a man with intelligent darting eyes, and the third a silent bulldog sergeant of huge stature who hovered protectively over his superior.
The constable gravitated to Auguste’s side, apparently hopeful of making an immediate arrest.
‘This is Mr Auguste Didier,’ Alexander informed the police. ‘I called him when I found the body.’ Slightly to Auguste’s indignation, this made no impact on the terrier, Inspector Cobbold. ‘He is a guest in the house and a detective.’ Auguste was torn between modest pride and awareness that this was hardly a trump card in his hand when faced with unknown professional competition.
‘Special Branch?’ Cobbold’s tones were noncommittal, and fortunately less heavily accented than he had expected, yet he looked as shrewd a Yorkshireman as Auguste had yet met.
‘No.’ How could he convey he was a highly reluctant amateur detective? ‘But I am known to Scotland Yard,’ Auguste compromised.
Cobbold stared at him without commenting on this. ‘On His Majesty’s Staff?’
‘No. I am related by marriage.’ Auguste saw a wall of noncommunication rapidly nearing completion between himself and Cobbold.
The inspector did not comment. Instead: ‘No one recognises him, that right?’ A jerk of the head at the corpse.
‘We do not.’ Priscilla Tabor decided to make her presence felt. ‘One of our guests may do so.’
‘Including His Majesty?’ Cobbold asked, obviously not one to be daunted, Auguste noticed admiringly.
‘It is highly unlikely that a friend of His Majestywould come here to shoot himself,’ Priscilla came back witheringly.
‘If it
was
suicide,’ Auguste incautiously commented.
‘Any reason why not?’ Auguste’s opinion of Inspector Cobbold shot up. Any man who could take such a fly in the soup so calmly won his appreciation.
‘There was something strange about the position of the gun to the body when originally found,’ he began.
‘Originally?’ Cobbold picked up instantly.
‘The body was moved.’
‘Why?’
Priscilla turned the Gorgon’s stare upon him. ‘I would remind you that President McKinley of America has just been assassinated. Suppose such a catastrophe had occurred to His Majesty?’
‘Didn’t occur to you to go to find out?’ The Gorgon’s gaze failed to turn Cobbold to stone.
‘No,’ Priscilla replied icily.
‘What was strange then?’ Cobbold turned on Auguste.
‘I have put these matches to mark the original position. It seemed too neat, too close, for the gun to have fallen like that.’
Cobbold considered this. ‘Murder, eh? No one passed PC Walters here. Not this fellow, nor anyone else. What other entrances are there?’
‘One giving access to the woods, leading to the Malham and Gordale lane, another giving on to the fells at the back.’ George came into his own. ‘The fellow could have scrambled over the drystone walls, I suppose.’
‘Not in that suit,’ said Cobbold dismissively.
Auguste’s respect grew. The black suit was unmarked.
‘Otherwise, it would have to be someone in the house.’
‘This is quite outrageous,’ Priscilla intervened. ‘It is a simple case of suicide.’
‘Or one of the other guests this evening, who left after the dinner,’ Auguste
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