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

know, an authority on this subject.
    ‘What with the war in South Africa . . .’ Cyril’s voice trailed off miserably.
    ‘I hear the unions are flexing their muscles in Colorado too,’ Carstairs rescued him.
    ‘Didn’t your brother have something to do with gold out in Colorado, Priscilla?’ enquired Miriam innocently.
    Priscilla glared at her. Oscar was not a subject she wished to discuss, and dear Mother-in-Law was well aware of the fact.
    ‘Pheasants,’ emphasised the King loudly, annoyed at this tangent. ‘
Pheasants
.’
    ‘Was it a good bag this morning, Your Majesty?’ventured Didier, bravely coming to the aid of the party.
    ‘Splendid,’ he roared cordially, glad that Didier was taking life seriously – without, he noted approvingly, losing his old skills at cooking. That chop had gone down very nicely, as also the
soufflé de cailles
, not to mention several other dishes. ‘Few dozen ducks as well as partridge.’
    In this spirit of goodwill towards all, even Priscilla, the rest of the dinner proceeded tranquilly.
    ‘Shall we adjourn, gentlemen?’ George cleared his throat as the last rustle of black taffetas and silks returned to the drawing room just before eight. Oddly, Auguste noticed, George was definitely avoiding the eye of his monarch.
    Auguste had looked forward to the moment when, relaxing in an old armchair watching others play billiards, he might light up a cigar, drink a brandy – surely the essence of the small pleasures of being a gentleman, though, true, not ones he had expected to indulge in so early in the evening. It was greatly to his surprise that he found himself being almost frog-marched behind the monarch, not towards the billiard room but into the dark cold night air. Here Lord Tabor and his monarch climbed into a trap, leaving himself, Cyril, Alfred, Alex, Harold Janes, and Oliver Carstairs on the steps.
    ‘
Monsieur
,’ Auguste asked, puzzled, addressing his companion as they set off at a spanking pace into the murky blackness. ‘Where are we going?’
    ‘To the smokehouse,’ declared Oliver cheerfully.
    ‘But is the smoking room not where the billiards are?’
    ‘Good heavens, no,’ Alexander told him blithely. ‘Not at Tabor Hall.’ He glanced at Auguste’s bewildered face. ‘You’ll get used to it,’ he assured him. ‘My reveredmother-in-law-to-be doesn’t care for tobacco smoke, you see. She has this quaint idea it ruins furniture, tapestries, paintings and health. And while she doesn’t mind about health too much, she does mind about the Tabor heritage.’
    ‘But it is not her own heritage,’ Auguste hissed to Oliver, hoping Alfred was out of earshot.
    ‘No zealot like the convert. She guards each blob of paint more fiercely than George, Laura, Cyril and Miriam put together! Now Miriam
is
, or rather
was
, a hostess. Couldn’t care less what was done in the house provided her guests enjoyed it, but Priscilla is a different matter.’
    ‘Blasted walkies,’ Auguste heard Janes mutter to himself in front. ‘Must think we’re bulldogs.’
    ‘But most hostesses simply have a room in the house appointed for smoking. Why not here?’ Auguste shivered as, hemmed in by dark hillsides, they joined a path lit by oil-lamps leading to a wood.
    ‘This smokehouse is Lady Tabor’s very own invention,’ Alexander told him. ‘As it’s so far away from the house, she argues that it’s a test of resolve to go to her smokehouse after dark.’
    ‘But for the King surely—’ Auguste said, horrified, seeing an ever-longer path unwinding before him.
    ‘Priscilla wouldn’t change her mind for George Washington, let alone the King of England,’ her brother-in-law told him with less than his usual joviality. ‘You note she does provide a trap for him, but the rest of us can jolly well walk. There it is now.’ He pointed to a building that seemed to arise before their eyes at the edge of the wood.
    Through the half-open door as they approached Auguste was