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

it
over
,’ Priscilla demanded again. ‘Do you expect me to do it myself? George, you do it.’
    ‘We should wait for the police,’ Tatiana supported Auguste, seeing his appalled face. ‘If it should be His Majesty—’
    ‘It is not,’ Priscilla interrupted scornfully. ‘His Majesty would not commit suicide. Not here. Turn it over, George.’
    Nothing short of physical force could prevent it. Auguste’s usual authority in such situations had met its match in Priscilla Tabor. But at least he would mark the original position of the body. Quickly, he took matches from the Vesta cases provided on the mantelpiece, while Priscilla impatiently watched.
    Then George knelt by the body, gingerly rolling it over. Auguste gagged at the repulsive sight, and Tatiana uttered a choked sound of distress. The man had shot himself full through the eye, half obliterating his face and spattering shirt front, waistcoat and tie with blood, as well as the carpet. Enough of the faceremained to bring Auguste some relief. It was not that of the King.
    George broke the silence. ‘Who the devil is it?’
    ‘I have no idea, George.’ His wife’s flat voice was as unemotional as if such annoyances were a regular feature of life in Yorkshire. ‘I have never seen him before. He is nothing to do with Tabor Hall.’
    ‘But he is clad in full evening dress, even to black mourning tie and waistcoat,’ Auguste pointed out, flabbergasted. He had fully expected it to be Harold or Cyril.
    ‘I repeat, Mr Didier,’ Priscilla’s voice grew cold, ‘he is a complete stranger to us, and why he should have found it necessary to come here to shoot himself I have not the slightest idea. I suggest now, Mrs Didier, you accompany us back to the Hall where I presume we must await the arrival of the police. Such as they are. You will remain here, Mr Didier.’
    Tatiana obeyed without a word.
    Auguste kept an uneasy vigil, his brain struggling to make sense of the night’s events. Suppose the police thought this man had committed suicide because Tatiana had had a tryst with him here? And even worse, suppose it were not suicide? The cold hand of terror fastened on his shoulder once more. Alexander would testify that there had been no assignation of course. But suppose he had lied? Why should he? asserted reason. Because Tatiana had asked her cousin for help, came needling suspicion. No, she would have come to him, her husband. Or might she have feared to do so because of his association with the police?
    Should he try to blot out any signs of her presence? No, he knew too well that that was the path to disaster.
    Auguste glanced round at his claustrophobic surroundings: the semi-nude ladies seemed to be leering down at the unpleasant sight in their midst. His eyesfollowed their gaze. This wasn’t the King. This man had a definite look of one used to the outdoors; his hands were tanned as though he had lived in sunnier climes than England. His hair was sleekly oiled. He wasn’t wearing gloves; that was strange if he were a dinner guest. He looked around. The gloves were on the arm of that leather armchair. Now why would he have taken them off?
    Too late he was aware his detective instincts were once more being aroused. Why me? an inner voice yelled at him, aggrieved. Why should he, Auguste Didier, be singled out by fate to cope with these horrors?
    He still didn’t like the position of that gun. Didn’t the scene look just a little posed? He forced himself to examine his fear: suppose it were murder? Suppose this stranger (assuming the Tabors were not lying) had come to meet someone here. Who?
    There was but one way to prove to the police it was not Tatiana: he must find out the truth himself. His heart sank, but he forced himself methodically to absorb every detail of the room, every bloodstain, every sign of occupation, worried not least at what a thankfully live King would say when awoken at breakfast-time to the news that once again Auguste Didier and a