Murder in The Smokehouse: (Auguste Didier Mystery 7) by Amy Myers

it, rather reluctantly so far as Priscilla herself was concerned. No Tabor in their right mind would choose the day of the King’s visit to commit murder. One of the guests, now. Suppose Priscilla suspected one of them? She would go to any lengths to minimise scandal . . . Yet the carriages and occupants had all been counted out by the constable at the gate before the Hall had been locked up for the night.
    When he reached the New Street police station, conveniently set next to the Court House, he found Egbert Rose already on good terms with Cobbold. Not perhaps surprising, he reflected. There was something similar about their faces, albeit Rose resembled a bloodhound more than a terrier, but their eyes had the same alert, wary look.
    ‘Hah,’ Rose announced, well pleased at seeing Auguste and coming to greet him. ‘Never thought to see Auguste the country squire.’
    Auguste followed the direction of his glance to the mud on his elegantly polished country brown boots. ‘There has been much to do today.’
    ‘Seeing His Majesty off, no doubt?’ Rose said resignedly.
    Auguste nodded. It was not the first time that His Majesty had removed himself from an unfortunate situation with all the dexterity of a lady from a box in one of Maskelyne and Cooke’s magical devices.
    ‘Right, I’m ready for Tabor Hall.’ Rose paused.
    Auguste picked up the unspoken question. ‘You will be lodged there.’
    ‘That’s decent of them.’
    ‘Not really,’ Auguste replied honestly. ‘I suspect it was preferable to your inspiring local gossip if you took rooms in one of the Malham inns.’
    ‘So I’ll be in with the lampboy, will I?’
    ‘Not at all. I persuaded Lady Tabor that the royal wing would do very nicely for you, since it is now vacated.’
    ‘The King’s bed?’ asked Rose, highly diverted.
    ‘That of a junior equerry.’
    Rose grunted. ‘Why should a stranger go to that smokehouse to shoot himself?’
    Auguste had heard that question too frequently today. ‘I suspect he did not.’ Auguste glanced at Cobbold, who seemed about to object to his presence.
    ‘Remains to be seen whether the Coroner’s enquiry agrees with you. Cobbold does.’
    ‘No powder tattooing. Suggests he was shot at a distance greater than about fifteen or sixteen inches,’ Cobbold pointed out.
    A fact he must have registered in the smokehouse, Auguste thought ruefully, and had had no intention of passing on to Auguste.
    ‘Pockets,’ Cobbold said tersely to Rose, and tipped out the contents of an envelope on the table. One handkerchief, unmarked. Box of matches, a key.
    ‘No money,’ Auguste pointed out.
    ‘Not unusual for house guests,’ Rose countered.
    ‘But he wasn’t a house guest. So he had to get toTabor Hall somehow. He would probably have needed money.’
    ‘Must have sprouted wings,’ Cobbold told them. ‘We’ve got thirteen constables here and not one of them has been able to turn up anything. Neither the Golden Lion nor the Ashfield Hotel claims to have had a guest of that description. Nor the Victoria at Kirkby Malham nor the Buck or Lister Arms at Malham. And not the Temperance Hotels either. He doesn’t seem to have come by train, or omnibus, or even carrier. If he leapt on a stolen horse, we’d have found the horse. I’m spreading the enquiries wider into the dales, but so far it looks as if he could only have come in a suitcase. Strangers stand out round here like currants in a Yorkshire pudding.’
    ‘What about His Majesty?’ asked Auguste hesitantly. ‘It might have been an assassin.’
    ‘As soon as we have photographs developed, I’ll send a man up to Balmoral to see if the King or his entourage recognise our corpse,’ Cobbold said dourly. ‘That aide-de-camp he left behind is as much help as clogs to a mermaid.’
    ‘If I know His Majesty,’ Rose ruminated, ‘we’ll have every blasted equerry, plus Silver Stick, Gold Stick, and the Lord Great Chamberlain, demanding to know of the Yard whether