“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
Ms. Grimshank Regrets
by Nancy Pickard
Nancy Pickard’s most recent suspense novel, The Virgin of Small Plains, was published to rave reviews and garnered a slew of awards, including the Reader’s Choice Award, the Agatha Award, and nominations for the Edgar, Dilys, and Macavity awards. The paperback edition of the book appeared in 2007. Lately, the Kansas author has been taking time to write short stories; we’ve got another of her clever tales in store for later this year!
My dear niece Sarah,
While I do appreciate your mother’s effort to encourage you to write thank-you notes, I regret to say that your latest one was a bit of a mess. I mean this literally, not cruelly, dear. I realize you are “only” ten, but that is no excuse for sloppy work. Even a child such as yourself, with a so-called “learning disability” can surely do better than that.
Let me list the ways:
1. Wash your hands before you begin. Fingerprints, at your age, are no longer “precious.”
2. The book I gave you is en-titled Anne of Green Gables,not Ann of Green Gables.Proofreading is next to cleanliness, my dear.
3. You wrote that you read the book and “loved it,” but a few examples of things you liked would go a long way toward proving the truth of that claim.
4. Do not ask an old woman, “How are you?” The answer is rarely, “Fine.” Write, instead, “I hope this finds you well.”
I hope this letter finds you willing to do better next time.
Your loving Great-Aunt,
P.S. Please tell your mother not to waste her budget on such fine stationery next time. You are but a young girl. Dime-store writing paper will do just fine for you.
Phyllis Shank laid down her fountain pen, folded the notepaper in half, and inserted it in its matching envelope, which she then addressed, sealed, and stamped. She had only two more mailings to prepare on this lovely, sunny Saturday morning in June, and a stack of similar notes already completed. She would have looked forward to this weekly task were it not for the sad fact that the world needed so much improvement and she had so little time to devote to it, what with her gardening and volunteer work now that she was retired from teaching. But at least now that she was no longer molding 9th-grade minds — or what passed for minds — she had this opportunity to address others who might benefit from her counsel.