Murder in The Smokehouse: (Auguste Didier Mystery 7) by Amy Myers Read Free Book Online

Into slow focus came the face of his wife, leaning over him, her eyes full of terror in the light of the candle she was holding. He tried to force himself awake. ‘What iswrong? And why—?’ His eyes went to her dress. She was still in her black evening gown with a cloak around her shoulders.
    ‘There is a body in the smokehouse. Darling, you must come, please.’
    He shut his eyes thankfully again. For a moment he thought she’d said . . .
    ‘Wake
up
.’ Reluctantly he opened them once more.
    ‘A body? Someone is drunk?’ Confused by dreams, it did not occur to him to question his wife as to how she came to be discovering drunken gentlemen in smokehouses.
    ‘No, Auguste.
Dead
,’ she told him quietly. This was one new experience she did not relish.
    Save for his wife’s obviously confident belief that he was well competent to remove such horrors as dead bodies from smokehouses, he would still have thought this part of his nightmare.
    ‘An accident? A joke?’ he asked without hope, seeing any chance of nestling down beneath these inviting bedclothes with an equally inviting wife vanishing rapidly.
    ‘No, Auguste. It is a
real
body.’
    At last he believed her. ‘No,’ he shouted firmly. ‘No more dead bodies.’
    Then he heard the real fear in her voice. ‘Please,
daragoy
. Someone must do something and I told Alexander it must be you.’
    She began to drag Auguste out of bed. He contemplated the thought of going in his nightwear across that murky blackness to investigate a body, and decided against it. He lit the oil lamp and clambered into clothes. Should he wear deep mourning, he thought, still slightly confused. No, because doubtless, he told himself, this was some mistake. Men did not die in smokehouses. They got drunk in smokehouses,they were sick in smokehouses, they fell asleep in smokehouses. They did not die there.
    Five minutes later, he followed Tatiana down the main staircase and towards the kitchens. So she knew, he noted automatically, that this was the only exit after Lady Tabor had supervised the locking of the doors.
    In William Breckles’ prized domain, Alexander was sitting slumped at a table, as scrubbed and empty as if it had never seen the passing of a hundred sumptuous dishes that day. For once, however, Auguste had little interest in the trappings of his art.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked wearily as Alexander leapt up. ‘And why—?’
    ‘Please. Later, Auguste. That is not important. We must go. Quickly,’ Tatiana said, tugging at his arm.
    He looked at her. He hardened his heart. If he had to look at a dead body – though he was still sure this was some hoax – he must forget this was his wife for the moment.
    ‘How did you discover it? When?’
    Alexander shrugged, looking at Tatiana.
    ‘I wanted a smoke,’ she said quickly. ‘Because of Priscilla, we had to go to the smokehouse.’
    ‘The path lights were out. Why bother?’
    ‘There are house rules. There are lanterns,’ she said, her cheeks pink.
    ‘It’s also a house rule not to smoke after eleven-thirty.’
    Tatiana stared at him and did not reply.
    ‘You’re wasting time, Auguste. Let’s go,’ Alexander said quietly. ‘I didn’t want her to call you in the first place.’
    Auguste swelled with anger. And why not? He was her husband, he was a detective, and he was
here
. Moreover it was three-thirty in the morning, on a coldSeptember night. Convinced in righteous anger that there was some foolish mistake, he seized the lantern at Alexander’s side, and marched out in silence. They followed him, picking their way in the dim light along the track to the smokehouse, avoiding the slugs relishing the dark damp air.
    He ran up the steps and paused, anger gone now, senses sharp – just in case,
in case
they were right and this was violent death.
    ‘Was this door unlocked when you came here?’
    ‘Yes.’ Alexander’s flat monosyllable came out of the darkness behind him.
    Auguste flung open the