Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 131, No. 5. Whole No. 801, May 2008

Murder of a Distressed Gentleman by Amy Myers

Amy Myers’s best-known sleuth, Auguste Didier, is back this issue on a case that pairs him with the lugubrious Inspector Rose. Ms. Myers’s two most recent novels — Murder and the Golden Goblet (Severn House, July 2007) and Tom Wasp and the Murdered Stunner (Five Star, October 2007) are both entries in other series (the former Marsh and Daughter, the latter Tom Wasp). We hope to see another Didier novel soon.

“My dear sir, I am to be murdered myself. I am sure of it.”

The distressed gentleman raised piteous eyes to his increasingly reluctant host. Auguste Didier, torn between this unlikely pronouncement and fear that the glories of the sole au Chablis he had just set before the gentleman might be ignored, decided to humour him.

“Could it not be,” he replied gently, “that the exigencies of your profession have led you to be unduly nervous?”

The role of distressed gentleman was hardly a profession, in Auguste’s view, merely a form of begging, but he had an affection for this old rogue. The distressed gentleman, clad in shabby top hat and frock coat, periodically took up his pitch in London’s Strand outside Romanos, the restaurant known for its popularity with famous diners from the stage and high society. This evening, however, he had inexplicably moved across the road to stand outside the Galaxy Theatre, where Auguste was chef to its restaurant.

This winter of 1894, however, was a cold one, and pity for some-one down on his luck had prompted Auguste to ask him inside to eat after the last of the late-night revellers had left. He felt he knew the distressed gentleman in a way. After all, Auguste had seen him at varying times and locations as a distressed soldier, veteran of Rorke’s Drift; as a distressed clergyman, veteran of various vicissitudes; and as the distressed heir to a dukedom, veteran of vile villainies. In each case a small sum rapidly restored his fortunes.

As distressed gentleman in the Strand, however, he offered his public something in return: a continuous patter of anecdotes about this ancient London thoroughfare, chiefly centering on the innumerable murders that appeared to have taken place here over the centuries. Stranglings, swordfights, shootings — it seemed one would be fortunate to escape the countless would-be assassins who lurked unsuspected under its bright lights.

Auguste decided to say no more about the distressed gentleman’s no doubt overdramatic forecast of his own fate. Probably the wine — which Auguste could not help noticing was disappearing at a faster rate than the sole — had confused him.

The distressed gentleman, however, momentarily set down his glass and raised his mournful eyes to Auguste, as he replied with dignity, “My days on the Albion stage as an actor—” the last syllable boomed out over the empty restaurant “—have brought me into contact with many vile murders.”

That, Auguste could believe. The Albion theatre was not far from the Galaxy, and had been well known for its strong dramatic taste for many years.

“But none so vile,” the distressed gentleman continued briskly, “as the murders that have taken place here upon this, our noble highway. The Strand is stained with their blood. You have heard me speak of them, no doubt, Mr. Didier, in my professional capacity?”

“I have,” Auguste said hastily, but there was no stopping his guest.

“Are you aware, Mr. Didier, of the evil room in the house now part of Myton’s hotel? A room left locked and untouched for forty years. A disappointed bridegroom, abandoned by his prospective bride just moments before the wedding, locked up the bridal banquet room and forbade it to be opened ever again.” The distressed gentleman spoke in hushed tones. “No doubt Mr. Dickens based Miss Havisham’s chamber in Great Expectations upon the incident.”

“I know it very well,” Auguste lied firmly, in consideration of the hour, now creeping towards two a.m.

“Never to be opened again, Mr. Didier. When the hotel bought the house ten years ago, and finally penetrated the ghastly secrets of that room, what did they find?”

Auguste shuddered at the waste of such a banquet. “Rats.”

“A corpse.” There were tears in the distressed gentleman’s eyes. “A woman’s decayed body. I knew the man well in his later years at the house, little guessing what terrible secret he held in his heart.”

“You’re worried that he might wish to kill you?” Auguste was relieved. This was merely melodramatic patter. It was hardly likely that the perpetrator of a crime fifty years ago would fear the ramblings of a distressed gentleman, especially one who could barely have been born at the time the crime was committed.

“Who knows, Mr. Didier, the ways of a wicked heart? I have seen evils in this beloved street of ours that would shock, nay, horrify you.” He looked at the sole au Chablis, took a bite, and then pushed the plate away. “No. What is food, beside such human tragedy?”

Quite a help, in Auguste’s practical experience, but as he opened his mouth to speak, he lost his opportunity.

“Tragedies such as that in ‘seventy-two on the corner of the Strand and Southampton Street,” the gentleman swept grandly on. “Ah — would there be any cheese?” he asked hopefully.

Auguste sighed. “A little Brie?”

His guest looked doubtful. “I would prefer Stilton. A gentleman’s cheese, you understand. And a glass of port, if you please.”

“Certainly,” Auguste said through clenched teeth, as he turned to fetch the board.

“No doubt I have related to you the murder of Miss Gabrielle Flower?”

“You have,” Auguste replied snappily.

“Mistress to the Earl of Dover. ‘Return to me,’ quoth her former sweetheart, a clergyman, I recall.” The distressed gentleman rose to his feet to do justice to the occasion, and clasped his hand to his bosom. “‘Come live with me and be my love.’ ‘No, no,’” he squealed in a falsetto. “‘It cannot be. My plight is trothed—’” The distressed gentleman stumbled, both physically and verbally. “I do beg your pardon, Mr. Didier. I am unaccustomed to wine. ‘I have plighted my troth,’” he resumed squeakily, “‘to the Earl of Dover. I can never be yours.’ ‘Then I shall die,’” he informed himself, placing an imaginary pistol to his head. “‘But first you shall answer to God, oh most treacherous of women.’ And then he shot her.” The distressed gentleman half tumbled, half sank into his seat and took the glass of port at a gulp to revive himself.

“And he shot himself, too?” enquired Auguste.

“No. The villain ran away into the crowd that had gathered. But a few years ago I recognised him as he returned to the scene of the crime. He was a country clergyman and admitted all to me. Unfortunately that was—” he paused delicately — “while I was under a different guise, and therefore bound by the secrets of the confessional. The burden is heavy, and this week I sensed him near at hand.”

“Who is he?” Auguste was torn between genuine curiosity and amusement at the seriousness with which his unobliging guest appeared to take the responsibilities of his job.

“Alas, my lips must still be sealed, Mr. Didier. I am, you must remember, a gentleman,” he answered gravely. “Another, if you please.” He held out his glass expectantly, but Auguste pretended not to see it, busying himself with clearing the table. He was growing very tired, especially of distressed gentlemen — and of distressed clergymen.

“A cigar?” the distressed gentleman enquired hopefully.

“The restaurant is locked at two a.m.,” Auguste said meaningfully. “There are but ten minutes—” His protest was quelled by a mournful sigh.

“Did I tell you of the sad murder of Adolphus Bracket?” floated the distressed gentleman’s voice behind him as Auguste wearily set off to fetch the best Havanas.

“Yes!” he howled. He was ignored.

“At the height of his career. I came to the Albion only days before that tragic occasion. Adolphus Bracket, that darling of the gods, strode the stage like a Colossus. Never, never shall I forget his interpretation of Eugene Aram. Dead, Mr. Didier, dead, killed by a mere envious underling, not fit to walk the same stage as he graced.”

That murder, too, Auguste had heard of. Early in 1875 Bracket’s body had been found stabbed in an alleyway off the Strand beside the Albion Theatre. He had been an actor universally applauded and greatly mourned. “Was the murderer ever caught?” he enquired.

“He fled the scene and the theatre. An Italian. I knew him well for I had worked with him in the provinces. Naturally, I was First Gentleman, and he merely the villain. He resented it greatly, just as he resented the great Adolphus Bracket. I would know him anywhere.”

Auguste tried to clear his tired brain. “Have you seen him since?” He supposed he should at least pretend to take these ramblings seriously.

“The terror by night, Mr. Didier. It is always with me,” the distressed gentleman informed him gravely.

Auguste tried again. “You believe that one of these three murderers wishes to murder you? Which one?”

The distressed gentleman bowed his head. “This very week — but no, my calling forbids me to speak.” A pause followed. “A brandy, perhaps?”

“Mr. Didier?”

Auguste looked up from his careful construction of a meringue swan. The voice was familiar, but what could have brought Inspector Egbert Rose of Scotland Yard to the Galaxy restaurant?

“A cup of warm chocolate, Inspector? An almond pastry?”

“Too rich for me, thank you.” The inspector eyed the proffered plate suspiciously. “I like a nice salmagundi myself — a little bit of everything, and you can be sure what you’re eating.”

Nevertheless Auguste noticed a wistful look on his face, as he conducted him to a table where they could converse.

“Did you know a Montague Phelps?” Egbert Rose continued.

The name meant nothing to Auguste.

“Beggar outside Romanos. Top hat, frock coat, good line in patter—”

Light dawned. “The distressed gentleman,” he exclaimed.

“Very,” Egbert Rose commented drily. “He’s dead. Found stabbed in the small hours near his lodgings in Henrietta Street.”

Only the night before that, Auguste realised with shock, he had watched at the restaurant door as the distressed gentleman walked out into the darkness, his top-hatted figure and cane briefly silhouetted in a pool of light from a gas standard. Then he had stepped briskly out of it, and disappeared forever. Auguste was filled with remorse as he remembered his impatience to be rid of a guest who had merely outstayed his welcome.

“A random robbery?” he asked, appalled. Even as he did so, however, he recalled the distressed gentleman’s “I am to be murdered myself, sir.” A terrible thought struck him: Had he indeed had reason to fear for his life? Had a murderer returned, determined to silence a witness? Had he, Auguste Didier, dismissed a genuine fear as melodramatic patter?

“Perhaps,” came Egbert Rose’s noncommittal reply.

“But why are you here, Inspector?” Auguste frowned. Despite his help to Egbert Rose on one or two cases in the past, he was hardly a substitute for the entire Metropolitan Police detective department when it came to solving crimes.

“Your Mr. Phelps was still alive when he was found. He managed to say a few words to the constable who found him.”

“And what were they?”

“The constable took them to be the name of his killer. They were: Mr. Auguste Didier.” Egbert Rose’s gimlet eyes fixed themselves firmly on him.

“You cannot believe that,” Auguste stammered in shock. Surely the inspector knew him well enough not to think that he, a master chef, could be guilty of murder?

Egbert Rose relented. “Knowing you, Mr. Didier, no. But I need some explanation of why you should have been on the victim’s mind.”

What had earlier been a delightful meringue and Chantilly swan began to look extremely unappealing. “It was because he had dined here, not last night but the evening before. I had offered him a free dinner since it was cold outside. He told me he thought he might be murdered. I did not take him seriously,” Auguste replied miserably, “as his patter was always about local murders.”

“Perhaps someone did take him seriously,” Egbert grunted. “Tell me what he talked about.”

Auguste promptly did so, and then, for the next few days, was forced to agonise in frustration. The inspector had left to “look into it” after Auguste had faithfully recounted all the three stories to him; Egbert Rose had also informed him he would be returning. To arrest him, perhaps? Did he really think that only a day after that fateful meal Auguste would have pursued Phelps into the darkness to kill him?

Auguste felt he was in danger of becoming a Strand eccentric himself. Surely nothing could link him to this terrible crime? He would have been only fourteen when even the most recent of the murders was committed. Nevertheless, he realised it was only his word as to what Montague Phelps had claimed might be the danger facing him.

At last the inspector returned, a week after his first visit. The waiting was over, and that at least was a relief.

Not quite over, it seemed. “One of those almond pastries wouldn’t go amiss, Mr. Didier.”

Auguste speedily obliged and then he could wait no longer. “Did you discover anything that would help clear me, Inspector?”

“Not enough,” was the far from cheering reply. “The owner of that house with the locked-up chamber, Joseph Taylor, has been dead for thirty years.”

Auguste had mixed feelings. “So Montague Phelps couldn’t have seen or heard of him in London recently.” If this applied to all the cases, then the answer would lie between a random assailant and Mr. Auguste Didier. And he knew which would have to receive priority from Scotland Yard.

“Agreed,” the inspector said drily. “But he left his house to his brother on condition that the room should still remain locked. Eventually, as Phelps told you, the hotel bought it, and lo and behold there was the skeleton of the missing bride, large crinoline and all.”

There was something odd there. Auguste did some quick arithmetic. “But the bridegroom locked the door fifty years ago, in eighteen forty-four. I’m sure there were no crinolines then.”

Egbert Rose looked mildly interested. “If so, the corpse couldn’t have been there when the room was locked—”

Auguste could not wait, but burst in excitedly, “No, but afterwards where better to hide a corpse than a room everyone is forbidden to enter?”

“You mean Joseph Taylor popped a second bride-to-be in there, not his first?” the inspector asked caustically.

“Or the brother could have put one in.” Auguste’s mind raced ahead. “His dead brother Joseph would automatically be blamed. If Joseph died about eighteen sixty-four, and his brother moved in soon afterwards, there would have been at least a few years when crinolines were still fashionable.” Auguste desperately tried to remember when the crinolines had reduced in size. Surely not until late in the ‘sixties?

The inspector ruminated. “Either of them could have done it in that case. I’ll ask for more details, but it may be too late to get more scientific evidence now. The brother is still very much alive, although a fair age. A philanthropist, I gather.”

“With or without a wife?” Auguste enquired hopefully.

“Not yet known. Now this second case, Miss Gabrielle Flower. There was another witness. Another clergyman, believe it or not. The Strand must have been crawling with them that day. That makes two real clergymen at least, plus our distressed Mr. Phelps.”

Auguste clutched at an unlikely straw. “Perhaps the clergyman witness was the murderer?”

Rose regarded him with pity. “Would he risk staying around to get himself hanged? We’ve checked. He lives near Epsom now. Incidentally, there was a statement from the Earl of Dover in the file that Miss Flower had mentioned a former admirer who was a clergyman in Warwickshire where she was born and brought up.”

Auguste began to think it was increasingly possible that witness and murderer were the same, but he decided not to press the point. “And the third case?”

“The late Adolphus Bracket. His widow is dead but his daughter’s in London. She was only ten when her father was murdered and after that she and her mother went to the west country. I’ve had a word with her — she’s on the stage herself and has just come back here to play at Duke’s in Shaftesbury’s Avenue. Well thought of. She confirmed the suspect was an Italian; his name was Giovanni Fantino, who played walk-on parts at the Albion. He was thought to have fled back to Italy, but the Italian police had no trace of him.”

“He could have returned to London recently,” Auguste suggested eagerly.

“We at the Yard managed to think of that for ourselves,” Egbert Rose replied dampeningly. “And that he might not be on the stage now.”

“Perhaps working in a restaurant,” Auguste said undaunted. “Even Romanos, which might explain why Montague Phelps moved from his usual pitch to outside the Galaxy on Tuesday.”

“With your luck, Mr. Didier, you’ll have a real salmagundi here tonight. All three murderers will come marching in to supper, and you can pick out the one that suits you. I told you I like a little bit of everything.”

Chuckling, Egbert Rose departed, leaving Auguste to contemplate the daunting prospect before him if he was to clear his name. A salmagundi indeed. All the ingredients were before him — but it seemed it was up to him to present the dish itself.

Mary Bracket’s dressing room at the Albion was full of mementos not only of her own career but her father’s as well. Auguste could see dated-looking studio photographs, playbills, even an oil painting. The late Adolphus Bracket strode over this room as a Colossus, just as he had at the Albion. He remembered once listening to the distressed gentleman in the Strand, as he imitated Bracket’s portrayal of Eugene Aram, staggering theatrically as he declaimed:

“I only saw beneath my furious blows

Some writhing vermin — not a human life.

Great God! This moment I can hear his cry—”

At that moment Mary Bracket entered the dressing room. Auguste had been expecting the dramatic entrance so favoured by her father, but she proved to be a charming, graceful woman in her late twenties, with none of the imperiousness he was used to in ladies of her eminence in the profession (except at the Galaxy, of course).

“Did your mother speak about the tragedy to you?” he asked her sympathetically.

Her face grew sad. “She was so stricken with grief, Mr. Didier, that she did not live long after my father’s death. She died when I was fifteen, but she had talked endlessly of his murder.”

“So it was she who told you about Giovanni Fantino?”

“Yes, Mr. Didier. She was sure of his guilt,” she replied quietly. “He believed my father had stood in the way of his receiving leading roles. Only he, he claimed, could effectively play Othello or Eugene Aram.”

“How old would he have been then?”

“He was about twenty-five. I try hard to feel sorry for him, for he was crazed out of his mind. He killed my father on his way home from the theatre. He was seen with blood all over his clothes, so my mother was told, and he disappeared that night. My mother made investigations of her own and confirmed it before we left for Somerset.”

As he left, Auguste considered the possibility that Fantino might be working here again, buried deep in the Italian community in Southwark or east or west London. There were several such communities. Their cuisine however seemed to consist of endless strands of tasteless spaghetti or macaroni buried under tomato sauce, or else a sort of porridge made with rice called risotto. Auguste took the view that meat, fish, eggs, even cheese should live in partnership with sauces. He did not approve of their being totally dependent on them in order to be edible, and decided to postpone his investigation of Fantino until last.

The Reverend Bertrand Watkins, living in Epsom, seemed an attractive alternative, and the likelihood of his cooking spaghetti in his rural vicarage was very small. Mr. Watkins’ proffered refreshment presented a far different problem, however. His cook had not yet understood that cakes should dance like soufflés and not lie like suet puddings upon the stomach. Nevertheless — and despite the chance that he was a murderer — the now elderly clergyman seemed a likeable host.

“My dear sir,” he explained to Auguste, “it was many years ago, and not an incident that I care to recall. That beautiful young woman killed in her prime by a madman — and one of my own calling. A great tragedy.”

The distressed gentleman had been very fond, so Auguste couldn’t help remembering, of tragic young ladies. This particular crime was one of his favourite orations in the Strand; at some stage the distressed gentleman must have played in The Duchess of Malfi — a fairground version perhaps — for Auguste distinctly remembered a mournful “Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle; she died young” concluding Phelps’s dramatic rendering of Miss Flower’s death.

“I believe you were the only witness who clearly saw his face?” he asked the Reverend Watkins.

“The young man ran up Southampton Street, into Covent Garden, and then St. Paul’s church,” came the gentle reply. “The crowd following him believed wrongly that he had then run out into the churchyard, and thence to freedom. I remained in the church, however, thinking he had sought sanctuary. I too was mistaken, but nevertheless I suddenly came face to face with him as he dashed out of a side chapel and back into Covent Garden. There he disappeared in the crowds. I gave my statement to the police and returned to my living in Lower Potwell.”

“Did you ever see Mr. Phelps in London? He sometimes begged as an impoverished clergyman.”

The Reverend Watkins smiled. “Alas, I am in no position to give alms to bogus clergyman when I could legitimately beg for them myself if I chose. We clergy are not well paid.”

Could the Reverend Watkins really be the sweet elderly parson he appeared? On the journey back to London, the distressed gentleman sitting mentally at Auguste’s side seemed to have no doubt. He was vigorously shaking his head.

As the train puffed into Canterbury station with a triumphant belch of steam, Auguste was looking forward to his last visit. So far he had apparently achieved little, but it was remarkable what could come of the most unlikely ingredients, and he was hopeful of his last appointment. The distressed gentleman seemed to be determined to accompany him on this journey, too, and indeed, in these circumstances, Auguste could hardly not bear him in mind. His most splendid rhetoric had frequently issued forth over the ghastly contents of the locked room and the skeleton found therein. His performance of this story had seemed to lean heavily on the well-known play of Maria Marten and the Red Barn for its emotions. The disappearance of poor Maria at the pitiless hands of her lover lent itself admirably to his story of the missing bride.

“Oh Heaven, deliver the murderer into the hands of justice,” the distressed gentleman had so often roared with tears in his eyes for the benefit of his audience. “Show no mercy for the bloody deed. Thy father will revenge thee, child.” His trembling voice was lowered for these last words.

Sir William Taylor, brother of the original owner of the mysterious locked room, lived in an elegant Georgian house on the outskirts of the city, and Auguste amused himself in its morning room studying the splendid oil paintings as he waited some considerable time for his host. He was admiring one of a seated young lady in a white dress with elegant draperies, when Sir William eventually arrived. He seemed in his late seventies, much older than the lady in the portrait, and not the most benevolent-looking philanthropist Auguste had ever seen.

“Your daughter, sir?”

“My second wife, Alice,” Sir William grunted. “My first wife died abroad in the ‘sixties. That’s her there.” He pointed to an inferior oil painting tucked away behind the door. A meek-looking lady looked somehow lost surrounded by her enormous blue crinoline, with one hand displaying an ornate wedding ring resting on the family Bible. “Now, what are you here for?” he barked. “That house in the Strand, I suppose.”

“On behalf of a murdered man—”

A sharp look. “My dear sir,” he interrupted, “if you are another of those ghost hunters, pray speak to the new owners. I saw no ghost while I lived there, I heard no ghost, and furthermore I have no interest whatsoever in any ghost anywhere. Clear?”

“A Mr. Montague Phelps was murdered on Tuesday night.”

“Never heard of him.”

“A distressed gentleman.”

Sir William looked surprised and then began to laugh. “You don’t mean that scallywag who used to beg outside my door in the Strand until I saw him on his way? Tall fellow in his forties, looked like Mr. Micawber without the grin.”

“It could well be.”

“Why come to me? It’s ten years since I sold that house.”

“You heard about the corpse discovered in the room after the sale?”

He looked taken aback. “Of course. Joseph’s doing. Poor fellow. Out of his mind. Brooded on his wrongs, pursued the poor woman, killed her, and put her in there. Always weird, was Joseph.”

“You were never tempted to open the door when you lived there, sir?”

A furious reply to this. “I was legally bound not to, and I didn’t. And about this fellow Phelps: If you’re implying what I think, Mr. Didier, I give to the poor. I don’t go round murdering distressed gentlemen — or distressed wives.”

Auguste decided to leave the house, with Sir William in full agreement. Whatever he might say, Auguste concluded, he was a fit man, despite his age, and one whose jaw suggested that no one and nothing would stand in his way. Especially not distressed gentlemen.

“The portrait showed a fine wedding ring.” Auguste produced a sketch he had made of it from memory on the journey home and handed it to Egbert Rose after he had completed the rest of his investigations. “Perhaps the same ring might have been found on the corpse?”

The inspector had not been pleased to hear of Auguste’s endeavours and was only partly mollified by interest in what he had discovered. “I’ll look into it,” he grunted. “What about your hunt for the Italian?”

Auguste produced his ace. The distressed gentleman would have swept off his hat and bowed in deep appreciation at such a coup — holding out the hat, of course, for tangible recognition. Auguste was particularly proud of this coup, especially as it had involved no visits to Italian communities where he might be forced to partake of their cuisine. “There is an Italian man of middle years working in Romanos. He speaks excellent English and could well by his manner have been an actor.”

“Does he answer to the name of Fantino?”

Uncertain whether this was a joke, Auguste decided to take it seriously. “No,” he admitted. “But then, he wouldn’t.”

Egbert Rose laughed, put in a good humour again. “What about our clergyman? Any signed confessions to Gabrielle Flower’s death?”

“No, but he was living at the time of the murder in the village of Lower Potwell. I have checked it, and it is not only in Warwickshire but next to the village where Miss Gabrielle Flower was brought up. He could easily have been the childhood sweetheart.”

He waited for the inspector to congratulate him, but was disappointed.

“Are you cooking up red herrings for me, Auguste?”

“Mock turtle soup,” Auguste replied automatically, flustered by the sharp note in the inspector’s voice, and then realising his mistake. “My apologies, Inspector. That is on the luncheon menu.”

Egbert Rose was unrelenting. “No real turtles around?”

He looked round as though expecting to see several turtles on their backs awaiting execution, Auguste thought crossly. Fifty years ago, in the days when Francatelli cooked for the queen, that might have been the case. This, however, was a different age, when his cookery instruction to “procure a fine lively turtle weighing about 120 lbs” had produced no problem at all for the enthusiastic cook. Nowadays, with the pace of the London life, kitchens were hard put to it to find the time to produce even mock turtle soup. Hardly progress. Even as this thought passed through Auguste’s mind, something stirred, however. He could almost see the distressed gentleman sitting at a table as he had done that evening waiting eagerly for his dinner.

“Mock turtle soup!” he exclaimed.

“So you said. Too early in the morning, thank you.”

“No, no. Perhaps the distressed gentleman was providing mock turtle soup with these three crimes.”

“Not sure I follow you,” Egbert Rose said cautiously

“I don’t yet follow myself,” Auguste admitted excitedly, “but I am tracking the turtle.”

“Well done. Perhaps you’d take me with you, if you’d be so kind.”

Auguste tried to do so. “Sir William Taylor is a real turtle, is he not?”

“Mr. Didier...” the inspector began threateningly.

“Please bear with me,” Auguste pleaded. “This soup takes time to prepare. Whether or not he murdered his first wife, as I believe he did, he remains real. Phelps also could have seen and recognised him recently.”

“True,” Egbert Rose admitted.

Encouraged, Auguste continued. “Our clergyman, too, is a real turtle. Whether or not he was also a murderer, he was present at the crime. Phelps could also have seen and recognised him recently.”

“Obviously.”

Auguste hurried on. “That leaves one candidate for mock turtle. Giovanni Fantino.”

“Because we haven’t found him yet,” the inspector whipped back crossly. “It doesn’t make him mock. He could be that waiter at Romanos or any other of the hundreds of aging Italians in London.”

“But what if he isn’t?” Auguste said.

“Dead, you mean?”

“Isn’t made of real turtle. Suppose he always was mock, and a purée of turtle herbs was added to confuse us. Mary Bracket was a child at the time of the murder. She said her mother had told her the story. Who told the mother, though? And who told Montague Phelps? Remember that after the crime, the mother made some investigations herself and then left London with her daughter, who has only just returned here.”

“So she’s a mock turtle, is she?” Egbert was getting impatient. “Get to the point, Auguste. You mean Miss Bracket saw Fantino in London?”

“No. She saw the distressed gentleman. He implied but didn’t say he’d seen the murderer he feared.” In his mind’s eye he could see Phelps nodding approvingly.

Egbert Rose clutched his head. “You mean Phelps was Fantino?”

“There was no Fantino. Did anybody at the Yard check to see if there was such an actor? Even if there was, he didn’t kill Adolphus Bracket. Once begun, the myth of Fantino just grew. Actors at his level were coming and going all the time. There was no proof in fact that Adolphus Bracket had been killed by someone at the Albion. But there was a deep suspicion in the widow’s mind which she passed on to her daughter. The daughter returned to London and saw Montague Phelps. The soup that had been simmering in her mind for nineteen years now boiled over.”

“So who did kill Bracket?”

“The distressed gentleman, Montague Phelps,” Auguste said sadly. The old rogue had been not a lovable rogue at all, but a most unlovable murderer, who had killed the man whom he believed stood in his way to advancement.

Egbert Rose looked taken aback. “So who murdered him?”

“A greatly distressed daughter, Inspector,” Auguste replied reluctantly, as he had liked Mary Bracket. “Through the need for revenge on the man who had, in effect, taken both parents from her so early.”

Egbert Rose thought about this carefully, and then sighed. “The trouble with you, Mr. Didier, is that you will complicate things. I come here about one murder, and you serve up the most likely solutions to four.”

“A salmagundi of four turtles, Inspector,” Auguste said indignantly, “and none of them is mock.”

© 2008 by Amy Myers