Murder in The Smokehouse: (Auguste Didier Mystery 7) Read Online Free PDF Page A

the Galaxy Girls chorus line.’ He had been charmed to make this discovery the previous evening, courtesy of Alfred.
    Gertie giggled. ‘You were the restaurant chef, weren’t you? Before I was there, that must have been.’
    Auguste thought back to those days of ’94, only seven years ago but like a different lifetime. Then he looked at Tatiana and regretted not a single change. (Or very few.) Gertie’s reign in the chorus line had been brief, so Alfred had told him, before she succumbed to the blandishments of the Honourable Cyril who, faced with the meltingly beautiful and innocent face of Miss Gum, had found himself strangely unable to offer the lure he had intended and proffered marriage instead – which had resulted in the entire satisfaction of both participants, if not of Priscilla Tabor.
    Drawn by fellow feeling, Auguste had gravitated to her side under the sparkling chandeliers of the salon as the company, dressed in deepest mourning, awaited the arrival of His Majesty for dinner. This was promptly at seven, unusually early for His Majesty who favoured dining at nine, but his easy-going nature let Priscilla have her way. One usually did. Priscilla had strict views on the Sabbath and the desirability of early retiring. So did His Majesty when Mrs Beatrice Janes was unaccompanied by her husband, but unfortunately the King had been disgruntled to find he was very much with her on this occasion. He liked old Harold, but expected him to do the decent thing and stay at home. Harold was, Tatiana had confided to Auguste inbed last night, anxious to remind His Majesty of his existence, with the first November Birthday Honours List in mind, and was either oblivious or ignorant of other factors.
    ‘Lady Tabor has given them adjoining rooms,’ she whispered, ‘and is making sure Harold has a lot to drink, otherwise the King will not be amused.’
    There were some benefits, Auguste had thought, highly diverted, to Tatiana’s tea-parties. She learned the most intriguing pieces of gossip. Cyril, he was told, was thought to be over-susceptible by his sister-in-law. His first wife having died, he had spent several years searching enthusiastically for replacements, most of them temporary. There had been a lady called Alice, with a peppery father in the Indian Army, for example. It always fell to George Tabor to extricate his gullible brother, but he had failed to act in time over Gertie. Priscilla had not forgiven him.
    ‘There’s only one has any time for me in this house, and that’s her Ladyship,’ Gertie confided to Auguste, who was appreciative of her entrancing bosom, none the worse for its black lace covering, pressed right up against him. She had daringly broken the rules of mourning by flaunting a white rose, he noticed, when only pearls were permissible. Full marks to Gertie for courage. His Majesty was unlikely to object, but Priscilla . . .
    ‘Our hostess?’ Auguste asked startled, since he thought the Valkyrie sadly lacking in rapport with Gertie. He glanced round to see where Tatiana was, just in case she might be watching. She was not; she was chatting to a pink-faced footman. Much as he approved of this democratic behaviour, he doubted if Priscilla Tabor would be so impressed.
    Gertie giggled. ‘No, Miriam, the Dowager. Haven’t you met her? I’ll introduce you. Mother to Cyril, Lauraand old George and the scourge of Priscilla’s life. She lives here in the north wing.’
    The Dowager Baroness Tabor was a diminutive figure, but the first thing to strike Auguste were her eyes, clear, blue and remarkably lively for her years. So was her pink and white complexion, complemented by white hair, and she had a grace of quick movement that made Priscilla seem a battleship to her graceful sloop, a Chelsea bun to her
petits fours
.
    ‘Ah, Mr Didier, what fun to have a chef in the family. For you will be in the family, will you not, once Alexander marries Victoria? Now you must tell me about Paris. So clever to