her following him, though not with any sign of contrition. The air was icy between them as they reached the carriages. He turned to escort her to a carriage, only to see her staring in rapture at Alexander. For a moment, he was about to erupt in fury, then he realised it wasn’t Alexander that held her attention. It was his motorcar.
Forbidden by her father to ride in such contraptions, she was consequently as drawn to them as to Mr Marx, and to this one, it appeared, in particular.
Alexander, seeing her bemused expression, swept her a deep bow. ‘Would you care to accompany me,dearest cousin? Victoria has been commanded to ride in the family carriage.’
‘I would.’ All trace of the tigress was gone, as she climbed with alacrity into the undoubtedly graceful green two-seater. It chugged into life and juddered along the Tabor drive. Auguste’s own carriage, shared with Mr Richey, the butler, a footman and the King’s aide-de-camp, the first two commanded by Cobbold to attend in case they recognised a visitor to the Hall, followed in its wake. A definite smirk had crossed Richey’s face as Auguste climbed in, as if confirming some private opinion of his own. Auguste gritted his teeth and proceeded to ask questions about visitors to the Hall. They could hardly not tell him. He was a guest, and whether they liked it or not, a gentleman.
It was with great satisfaction that, as their carriage turned to climb the hill out of the nearby village of Kirkby Malham, Auguste saw a stationary motorcar. De Dion Boutons, it appeared, found the incline too great and would have to take the lower much longer road. He did not wave.
At Settle Tatiana greeted her husband with enthusiasm as though motorcars oiled all troubled waters.
‘Just think,’ she informed him, ‘the front axles are separate from the drive shaft. Isn’t that exciting?’
‘What does it mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted, and Auguste meanly laughed. ‘But I’m going to find out,’ she added under her breath as he walked off to greet Cobbold at the Settle mortuary.
‘Is it really necessary for the ladies to have to undergo this ordeal?’ Harold Janes demanded ponderously of the inspector.
‘Yes, sir. We still have no identification.’
‘It’s quite outrageous.’ What he really consideredoutrageous, Auguste suspected, was Beatrice bewailing the fact that she had wanted to stay behind with His Majesty.
Auguste watched the group’s varying reactions as they inspected the corpse, which now awaited the arrival of Chief Inspector Rose before undergoing post mortem examination. Laura showed no emotion at all, her mother Miriam, who had insisted on attending, looked merely curious. Victoria was the most visibly affected, clutching Alexander’s hand for moral support. Harold Janes registered annoyance, Oliver looked shaken, Gertie refused to look, burying her head in Cyril’s shoulder. Cyril was more concerned with Kitten than with the corpse.
‘I’m so sorry, Inspector,’ Miriam informed him graciously. ‘I wish we could have identified him for you. But I’m afraid not one of us knows who he was.’
At the very moment that King Edward VII, congratulating himself on a lucky escape, was enjoying a hearty luncheon of oysters, truffled mutton chops, and
soufflé de chocolat
on the royal train, which had soared triumphantly over the spectacular viaducts of the Ribblesdale Valley line on its way to Scotland, Chief Inspector Egbert Rose was enjoying a rather less grand luncheon of tripe and onions on the Great Northern railway to Leeds. His train was dutifully chugging rather than soaring. Its cook must know Edith, he thought sourly and unusually disloyally, not to mention Mr Pinpole; he chewed his way on through the tripe with the determination of a Stanley in search of Livingstone.
Luncheon at Tabor Hall, while by no means comparable with Rose’s tripe, also fell short of the standards which His Majesty was now enjoying. Haute cuisine
Forbidden by her father to ride in such contraptions, she was consequently as drawn to them as to Mr Marx, and to this one, it appeared, in particular.
Alexander, seeing her bemused expression, swept her a deep bow. ‘Would you care to accompany me,dearest cousin? Victoria has been commanded to ride in the family carriage.’
‘I would.’ All trace of the tigress was gone, as she climbed with alacrity into the undoubtedly graceful green two-seater. It chugged into life and juddered along the Tabor drive. Auguste’s own carriage, shared with Mr Richey, the butler, a footman and the King’s aide-de-camp, the first two commanded by Cobbold to attend in case they recognised a visitor to the Hall, followed in its wake. A definite smirk had crossed Richey’s face as Auguste climbed in, as if confirming some private opinion of his own. Auguste gritted his teeth and proceeded to ask questions about visitors to the Hall. They could hardly not tell him. He was a guest, and whether they liked it or not, a gentleman.
It was with great satisfaction that, as their carriage turned to climb the hill out of the nearby village of Kirkby Malham, Auguste saw a stationary motorcar. De Dion Boutons, it appeared, found the incline too great and would have to take the lower much longer road. He did not wave.
At Settle Tatiana greeted her husband with enthusiasm as though motorcars oiled all troubled waters.
‘Just think,’ she informed him, ‘the front axles are separate from the drive shaft. Isn’t that exciting?’
‘What does it mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted, and Auguste meanly laughed. ‘But I’m going to find out,’ she added under her breath as he walked off to greet Cobbold at the Settle mortuary.
‘Is it really necessary for the ladies to have to undergo this ordeal?’ Harold Janes demanded ponderously of the inspector.
‘Yes, sir. We still have no identification.’
‘It’s quite outrageous.’ What he really consideredoutrageous, Auguste suspected, was Beatrice bewailing the fact that she had wanted to stay behind with His Majesty.
Auguste watched the group’s varying reactions as they inspected the corpse, which now awaited the arrival of Chief Inspector Rose before undergoing post mortem examination. Laura showed no emotion at all, her mother Miriam, who had insisted on attending, looked merely curious. Victoria was the most visibly affected, clutching Alexander’s hand for moral support. Harold Janes registered annoyance, Oliver looked shaken, Gertie refused to look, burying her head in Cyril’s shoulder. Cyril was more concerned with Kitten than with the corpse.
‘I’m so sorry, Inspector,’ Miriam informed him graciously. ‘I wish we could have identified him for you. But I’m afraid not one of us knows who he was.’
At the very moment that King Edward VII, congratulating himself on a lucky escape, was enjoying a hearty luncheon of oysters, truffled mutton chops, and
soufflé de chocolat
on the royal train, which had soared triumphantly over the spectacular viaducts of the Ribblesdale Valley line on its way to Scotland, Chief Inspector Egbert Rose was enjoying a rather less grand luncheon of tripe and onions on the Great Northern railway to Leeds. His train was dutifully chugging rather than soaring. Its cook must know Edith, he thought sourly and unusually disloyally, not to mention Mr Pinpole; he chewed his way on through the tripe with the determination of a Stanley in search of Livingstone.
Luncheon at Tabor Hall, while by no means comparable with Rose’s tripe, also fell short of the standards which His Majesty was now enjoying. Haute cuisine
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