suggested, ignoring her.
‘Mr Didier!’ his hostess said furiously. ‘I fear you forget your position.’
‘There is no position, Lady Tabor,’ Auguste responded firmly, ‘where death is concerned. Only truth.’
‘They all went,’ Walter put in, full of importance. Then as everyone looked at him, he blushed. ‘I counted them. Four carriages, ten people. They was on a list that London detective gave me.’
‘Well done,’ Cobbold said briefly. ‘Suicide most probably.’ The terrier features bore a sudden smile for Lady Tabor. A smile without warmth. He leaned forward and gingerly picked up the gun – by its barrel, Auguste noted with interest. ‘Do you recognise this, sir?’
‘Of course, my dear fellow,’ said George Tabor, irritated. ‘It’s a Webley, Mark II service revolver. The butt has no pawl.’
‘Do you possess one?’
‘Of course. Kept in the gun room.’
‘Is it there now?’
‘How the devil do I know?’
Cobbold dropped the gun into a paper bag. ‘As I say, probably suicide, sir. No need to worry.’ But his eyes were more intent on the corpse, Auguste observed, than in reassuring Lord Tabor. So he did think it was murder, and if so Tatiana’s role in finding the body would come under scrutiny. There was some mystery there which she was not prepared to tell him about – and time was running out. What to do? Suddenly he knew.
‘If I might make a suggestion,’ he ventured, apparently offhandedly. ‘Since His Majesty is present,I wonder if Chief Inspector Rose of Scotland Yard should be consulted. He is used to dealing with His Majesty and murder—’ Even in his anxiety he thought how ridiculous this sounded, as if His Majesty were a Jack the Ripper in his private moments.
He was greeted by silence. Auguste was not yet used to the Yorkshire economy of words, or its pace of contemplation.
‘Aye,’ said Cobbold at last.
In Highbury, Chief Inspector Egbert Rose had long since laid aside the cares of the day, which this Saturday had involved shopping with Edith first at Mr Pinpole’s, then the Maypole Dairy, then Gamages in search of some nice toy soldiers for Edith’s younger sister’s oldest. Highbury Saturdays were not devoted to partridge shooting, though they might be rounded off with a pleasant pipe or a drink in the local public house. However, this evening had seen a rare culinary triumph on Edith’s part. Inspired by the presence of their new neighbours at dinner she had ventured to produce a creditable imitation of Mrs Marshall’s Creole Cutlets. Hitherto Rose had privately been of the opinion that Edith and Mr Pinpole the butcher were in a conspiracy to pervert the course of English justice by producing meat so tough that the resulting indigestion could be guaranteed to disturb his thought processes for days on end.
Dreaming of Auguste’s version of the same dish in which he had once indulged at Plum’s Club for Gentlemen, Egbert slept peacefully until the sharp ring of the telephone split his dream asunder. How come these operators were all so blasted cheerful at five-thirty in the morning? His ill-temper was only slightly abated by the sound of Auguste’s somewhat hesitant voice.
‘Yorkshire?’ Rose grunted. ‘Out of my area,’ and prepared to hang up the receiver.
‘But, Egbert, the King—’
The worst two words in the English language so far as Chief Inspector Rose was concerned. ‘You don’t mean to say you’ve dragged him in again.’
An indignant squawk from the other end forced a reluctant grin even to Rose’s face. ‘Now let’s get this straight. You’ve got a dead body. Shot. Not an accident. Probably suicide.’
A short silence, then, ‘Possibly.’
Rose swore under his breath.
‘You will come, Egbert?’ Auguste asked, alarmed. ‘You may speak to Inspector Cobbold if you wish—’
Rose had once made a trip to Scarborough – and what he had seen of Yorkshire convinced him that London was not only homelier, but warmer.
‘Mr Didier!’ his hostess said furiously. ‘I fear you forget your position.’
‘There is no position, Lady Tabor,’ Auguste responded firmly, ‘where death is concerned. Only truth.’
‘They all went,’ Walter put in, full of importance. Then as everyone looked at him, he blushed. ‘I counted them. Four carriages, ten people. They was on a list that London detective gave me.’
‘Well done,’ Cobbold said briefly. ‘Suicide most probably.’ The terrier features bore a sudden smile for Lady Tabor. A smile without warmth. He leaned forward and gingerly picked up the gun – by its barrel, Auguste noted with interest. ‘Do you recognise this, sir?’
‘Of course, my dear fellow,’ said George Tabor, irritated. ‘It’s a Webley, Mark II service revolver. The butt has no pawl.’
‘Do you possess one?’
‘Of course. Kept in the gun room.’
‘Is it there now?’
‘How the devil do I know?’
Cobbold dropped the gun into a paper bag. ‘As I say, probably suicide, sir. No need to worry.’ But his eyes were more intent on the corpse, Auguste observed, than in reassuring Lord Tabor. So he did think it was murder, and if so Tatiana’s role in finding the body would come under scrutiny. There was some mystery there which she was not prepared to tell him about – and time was running out. What to do? Suddenly he knew.
‘If I might make a suggestion,’ he ventured, apparently offhandedly. ‘Since His Majesty is present,I wonder if Chief Inspector Rose of Scotland Yard should be consulted. He is used to dealing with His Majesty and murder—’ Even in his anxiety he thought how ridiculous this sounded, as if His Majesty were a Jack the Ripper in his private moments.
He was greeted by silence. Auguste was not yet used to the Yorkshire economy of words, or its pace of contemplation.
‘Aye,’ said Cobbold at last.
In Highbury, Chief Inspector Egbert Rose had long since laid aside the cares of the day, which this Saturday had involved shopping with Edith first at Mr Pinpole’s, then the Maypole Dairy, then Gamages in search of some nice toy soldiers for Edith’s younger sister’s oldest. Highbury Saturdays were not devoted to partridge shooting, though they might be rounded off with a pleasant pipe or a drink in the local public house. However, this evening had seen a rare culinary triumph on Edith’s part. Inspired by the presence of their new neighbours at dinner she had ventured to produce a creditable imitation of Mrs Marshall’s Creole Cutlets. Hitherto Rose had privately been of the opinion that Edith and Mr Pinpole the butcher were in a conspiracy to pervert the course of English justice by producing meat so tough that the resulting indigestion could be guaranteed to disturb his thought processes for days on end.
Dreaming of Auguste’s version of the same dish in which he had once indulged at Plum’s Club for Gentlemen, Egbert slept peacefully until the sharp ring of the telephone split his dream asunder. How come these operators were all so blasted cheerful at five-thirty in the morning? His ill-temper was only slightly abated by the sound of Auguste’s somewhat hesitant voice.
‘Yorkshire?’ Rose grunted. ‘Out of my area,’ and prepared to hang up the receiver.
‘But, Egbert, the King—’
The worst two words in the English language so far as Chief Inspector Rose was concerned. ‘You don’t mean to say you’ve dragged him in again.’
An indignant squawk from the other end forced a reluctant grin even to Rose’s face. ‘Now let’s get this straight. You’ve got a dead body. Shot. Not an accident. Probably suicide.’
A short silence, then, ‘Possibly.’
Rose swore under his breath.
‘You will come, Egbert?’ Auguste asked, alarmed. ‘You may speak to Inspector Cobbold if you wish—’
Rose had once made a trip to Scarborough – and what he had seen of Yorkshire convinced him that London was not only homelier, but warmer.
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