A Gentleman's Murder

by Christopher Huang

  Avery said, “This is all very well, Eric, but shouldn’t we have started by looking up Emily Ang’s actual disappearance? I hope you did that, at least!”

  That brought Eric back to the here and now. “Oh, I did. Of course I did. But here’s the thing, Avery: there wasn’t anything in the London papers about it. Not one word at all.”

  “How curious! Do you know, Eric, I could barely find a word about that new murder at your club, either? I went looking for it when we got back from Sussex yesterday, and all I found was a single paragraph in the Times, saying that a Mr. Benson had been found dead in his London club, and that police were making routine inquiries. I wouldn’t have known it was the Britannia Club, or even that it was murder, if you hadn’t told me. Do you suppose someone was trying to keep that quiet too?”

  A RICHER DUST CONCEALED

  THURSDAY MORNING. The little church in Wexford Crossing was called St. Julian’s, after St. Julian the Hospitaller—patron of innkeepers and repentant murderers. Its exterior was faced with flint: jagged black and bone white, like broken seashells sunk into mortar. Inside, the walls were smooth plaster. Stained-glass windows over the sanctuary, depicting the crucifixion, the resurrection, and the final judgement, cast coloured light down onto the simple casket containing Albert Kenneth Benson, late of the Britannia Club. The rest of the windows were tall lancets of clear diamond-paned glass; through them, you could just see the tops of the churchyard yews swaying in the wind. Above them, fleecy white clouds sped across a bright blue sky.

  It was a modest country church, boasting perhaps twenty ancient pews polished smooth by generations of worshippers, but it was barely a quarter filled. Benson didn’t have much in the way of family. There was, apparently, a sister in America, who could not reasonably be expected to make the journey in time. She’d telegraphed, instead, instructions for the ordering of an especially elaborate funeral wreath, and that was the extent to which she was allowed to convey her grief.

  The Britannia Club was represented by just Wolfe, Saxon, and Eric himself.

  Some of the local villagers made an appearance, more for his widow’s sake than for Benson himself. Eric got the impression that most of them regarded Benson as an interloper at “the big house,” though none were so crass as to speak ill of the dead. Mrs. Benson, pale as alabaster and straight-backed in her mother’s black dress, simply stood alone in the front pew throughout the service, a respectful distance between her and everyone else. No one expected her to speak, and she said nothing. There was no eulogy.

  The funeral was part of a requiem service. Mrs. Benson had insisted on it, even though it appeared that Benson himself had been a Quaker. That meant the sacrament of Holy Communion, and Eric came forward dutifully to receive it. Wolfe and Saxon followed, the first studiously expressionless and the second with his head deeply bowed. Turning to return to his pew, Eric caught sight of a figure at the back of the church, half hidden behind a column: Inspector Parker, on his knees, watching the proceedings with beady eyes. Light from the clear lancet window above made his scar shine like a thunderbolt on his cheek. He did not rise to receive Communion. Perhaps he was only here on duty, but if so, why kneel when he could sit?

  Saxon, Eric noticed, remained on his knees until the end of the service when everyone rose for the interment.

  There was a blast of light and wind as they opened the doors to the churchyard and carried the casket through. The wind had grown significantly stronger while they’d been inside at the service. It tore at the vicar’s vestments and whipped swirls of autumn leaves through the mourners. The sky overhead was still a bright blue, but there was a line of slate grey in the clouds speeding in from over the Channel, turning steadily blacker as it approached.

  Eric found Saxon and Wolfe afterwards, standing by the front doors of the church. They were partly sheltered by the steeple. Ivy crawled up the flint beside them and trembled against the gathering wind. Most of the village mourners had already departed for the public house across the village green.

  “I’m surprised Bradshaw didn’t come,” Eric remarked. He was equally surprised that Wolfe and Saxon should be the ones to make an appearance, though he did not say so.

  “Bradshaw’s a busy man, Peterkin.” Wolfe lit up a cigarette and blew a smoke ring into the air. The wind shattered it immediately. “Far too busy to attend the funeral of every club member with the bad taste to drop dead on his watch.”

  “He came to my father’s funeral.”

  “Ah, well, that was the passing of an era: your father was the last of the Peterkins.”

  Eric swallowed the temptation to punch Wolfe’s smirking face into the rough flint wall of the church. Wolfe just grinned and took a long drag on his cigarette.

  Saxon, focused on devouring an apple, seemed not to notice.

  “What about Aldershott?” Eric asked, pretending not to grit his teeth. “As the club president, you’d think it would be his responsibility to make an appearance.”

  “Aldershott’s responsibility is to the living,” Saxon remarked. He was still munching on his apple, and gave no indication of being part of the conversation at all. Eric wasn’t sure if he meant it as an excuse, that Aldershott was busy with the still-living members of the club, or as a criticism, that Aldershott really ought to be here to support Mrs. Benson in her grief. Hadn’t Mrs. Benson said that they had a business relationship outside of the club?

  “And then there’s Norris.”

  Here, Wolfe gave a bark of laughter, and Saxon looked around. “God forbid Norris see anything so unpleasant as death,” Wolfe said. “I don’t know how the little bounder survived the trenches. By playing the clown, no doubt. There isn’t a responsible bone in his body.”

  “That’s not quite fair,” Saxon rumbled, frowning.

  “Oh, isn’t it? Don’t forget, dear Saxon, that the first thing he did after we were elected to the board was to do a flit … to Italy, as I understand it. ‘For his muse.’ Bradshaw had to cover his duties for the next three months while he ‘amused’ himself.”

  “What exactly are the duties of the board of officers?” Eric asked, curious.

  “Never you mind!”

  Saxon stuck the remains of his apple into the ivy covering the church wall. “I think we’re done here,” he said. “Are the two of you staying around much longer?”

  “I think I’d better have a word with Mrs. Benson,” Eric said.

  “Ever the respectful gentleman,” said Wolfe. “Suit yourself. I see the motor coach approaching, but if you’d prefer to wait for the next one, be my guest.”

  “I can give you a ride to Chichester,” said Saxon, indicating the green Crossley he’d motored down in. “But you’ll want the train if you’re going back to London. I’ve got some business to take care of in Southampton.”

  “And sit among all your rotting apple cores, in seats sticky with spilled lemonade? Thank you, but I’d rather suffer the smell of the provincial motor coach.” Wolfe strode swiftly off to where the coach was waiting, and in another minute, he was gone.

  Saxon shrugged, and trudged off to get into his motorcar. It coughed, backfired once, then zoomed off down the country roads with a little more speed than was wise.

  Mrs. Benson was standing alone in the churchyard, watching the gravediggers from a distance as they finished filling in her husband’s grave. Black was the expected colour among mourners, but Mrs. Benson still seemed out of place in the bright sunlight, with a carpet of golden autumn leaves underfoot. The black fabric of her skirt flapped as more of the red and gold leaves danced in the wind. She looked up at Eric’s approach, and a small smile flickered across her pale features.

  “Mr. Peterkin. This doesn’t paint too unpleasant a picture for you, I hope.”

  “Not at all. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Everybody’s ‘sorry for my loss.’ I don’t know if Albert was ever really mine to lose.”

  This was awkward. Eric changed the subject. “I thought Aldersh
ott would be here,” he said. “I thought you had some business dealings with him outside of the club.”

  “Yes. He was renting the old groundskeeper’s cottage from us, and … well, it’s not important.”

  Ask no further, in other words.

  “I wasn’t expecting to see him,” she continued, “so you can rest easy on that score. It was only business: impersonal and terribly mercenary. Though he did give us the idea of what to do with the house, for what it’s worth now. I wonder if I should continue. It won’t be easy for a woman on her own.”

  Aldershott was the reason the Bensons were able to afford those renovations, Eric realised. He said, “This idea of a rest home, is it what you want?”

  She didn’t have to say anything. There was a resolute set to her shoulders that hadn’t been there two days ago.

  They turned to walk back together to the churchyard’s lychgate. The other mourners had all gone: the villagers back to their daily work, and the very few outsiders, like Saxon and Wolfe, home by whatever means they had at their disposal.

  “You won’t have much time for your painting,” Eric remarked.

  “It might be worth it to be part of things again. I know Albert would have agreed.” She was silent a moment, then said, “I’ve been thinking, you know, about our last conversation. I said then that Albert shouldn’t have run off to chase after whatever happened to Emily, but he thought it was the right thing to do, and … I think perhaps it was. And now you’ve taken it on yourself to finish what he started, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve been looking into things, yes.”

  “I hope you find the truth, Mr. Peterkin. About Albert … and about Emily, too. Mr. Bradshaw’s been very helpful about keeping things discreet and respectable, but I’m not sure anymore if that’s what I want. We can’t close our eyes to unpleasantness if it means living with lies. And I’ll admit there’s a far less noble part of me that simply wants to see someone pay for what they’ve done.”

  The sky to the south and southeast was a roiling darkness, though the churchyard was still bathed in bright sunlight. They were just rounding the back of the church now. Overhead was one of the sanctuary’s stained-glass windows, and Eric thought it must be the one depicting the crucifixion. It occurred to him that the scene was more terrible than anything Mrs. Benson had put on canvas, though centuries of familiarity had blunted its visceral impact.

  “We are alike in this respect, I think. We both need to finish something that Albert began. I need to finish what Albert started at the house, and you need to finish what he started at the club. I don’t know why it had to be you, specifically, but I’m glad somebody’s taken up the torch, as it were.”

  “This business with the house … I hope it’s not only because Benson wanted it.”

  Mrs. Benson shook her head.

  They continued on in silence until they reached the lychgate. Stopping in its shelter, Mrs. Benson suddenly turned to Eric. The low lychgate roof made it dark, and the bright daylight outside made it seem darker still. Mrs. Benson’s black dress and finger-curled hair melted into the shadows, turning the pallor of her face into a white blaze.

  Eric remembered the rustle of her crepe dress against his shirt front, and he took a step back.

  “You’ve been very kind, Mr. Peterkin,” she said. “And I really would like to paint you one day. Promise me you’ll call … not today, perhaps; I—” She glanced, searchingly, over Eric’s shoulder to the green outside the church, then turned back to him. “Soon. Not too long from now.”

  Her fingertips, cold from the October wind, brushed lightly against Eric’s jaw and touched his neck. Then Mrs. Benson turned and hurried away.

  The daylight was fading quickly with the approaching storm clouds. A drop of rain hit Eric as he emerged from the lychgate, and then another. He had better hurry to put the top up on the Vauxhall, he thought, or motoring back to London would be a miserable experience indeed.

  Looking around, Eric realised that not all of the mourners had departed after all. Inspector Parker was watching from the shade of a nearby tree, his scar rendering his expression unreadable. Before Eric could hail him, the inspector’s eyes dropped to check his pocket watch, and then the man strode away to his own waiting vehicle.

  BROLLY’S

  ERIC DIDN’T REALLY want to spend Thursday evening out on the town with his sister. Mrs. Benson’s continued desire to paint him, and the intensity with which she expressed that desire, had an unsettling effect. That Parker had been watching them unsettled him still more. Regardless of Parker’s motivations and Eric’s own intent, any appearance of intimacy with the new widow could be seen as indicative of motive. After whetting his appetite on the London newspapers, it was the most irritating thing in the world to wait for the Sussex papers to be delivered. He didn’t feel he could sit down long enough to enjoy a night’s entertainment in the meantime.

  He applied to Patrick Norris for help in finding that entertainment, and Norris, on hearing that the outing would involve Penny, was more than happy to oblige. “I’ll help anyone into their cups,” he said, “but getting out again will be your own problem. And I know just the place for you: Brolly’s. It’s a music hall, and I promise you it’s the most fun you could have without a one-way ticket to Bow Street and gaol. Bradshaw goes there all the time—it reminds him of the way things were done when he was a boy. Say what you like about this modern age, sometimes it’s the older generation that knew how to live.”

  That did sound promising. Norris insisted on joining them, and Eric felt relieved to have him: Norris, he thought, would distract Penny and allow him to mull over what he’d learnt so far about Benson’s murder and the disappearance of Emily Ang.

  Brolly’s had an unassuming entrance on a fairly quiet street that didn’t especially inspire confidence, but the lobby inside was much closer to what one expected. It had plush carpeting and velvet hangings, and there were posters for all the current acts attractively plastered across the walls. The auditorium was up a flight of stairs and consisted of a high-ceilinged space with a stage at one end and stairs up to a shallow gallery above. The floor was crowded with tiny tables and bistro chairs, which seemed like a novelty. The last time Eric had been to a music hall, it had been set up with stalls like a regular theatre; but Norris assured him that the setup at Brolly’s was how music halls were done in “the good old days.”

  “Well,” said Penny, “I know exactly which table I want.” She pointed to a table right by the stage and a little to the left. “It’s absolutely meant to be ours.”

  “You’ll be heckled by all the comedians,” Eric warned, “and every magician will want you for their assistant.”

  “Isn’t that the whole point of a music hall?”

  Norris laughed and elbowed Eric. “That’s the spirit! I say, Peterkin, your sister really is a sport. I think I’d like to keep her for myself.”

  “Please do,” Eric replied, still taking in his surroundings. “She’s an unholy little terror.”

  From their table, Eric noticed a set of swinging doors in the shadow of the gallery. A waiter in a black tailcoat had just gone in, and another similarly dressed man had come out with a tray of glasses. No doubt those doors led back to wherever the alcohol was stored and prepared. Alcohol had supposedly been banned from the London music hall auditorium, and knowing this gave the whole experience a certain added spice.

  “What’re you having, Peterkin?”

  “What?” Eric looked back down, and found Norris looking at him expectantly. One of the tailcoated waiters was standing at his elbow.

  “I’m having a gin and tonic,” Penny said. “I expect you’re having the same?”

  “You know me too well.” Eric laughed. A fig for the police, he thought. If they were going to pay this place a visit, he planned on being properly fortified against it.

  Norris ordered a beer, and the waiter moved on to the next table.

  “I say, this is exciting,” said Penny, watc
hing the waiter. “I feel like I’m in one of those American speakeasies, and that at any moment a gang of toughs is going to walk in and start threatening people with tommy guns.”

  “It sounds romantic until it actually happens,” Eric replied, pretending he wasn’t thinking the exact same thing. “It’s more likely your gang of toughs will turn out to be a squad of bobbies.”

  “No fear of that,” said Norris. “Bradshaw’s friendly with the manager, and Bradshaw takes care of his friends.”

  Bradshaw’s connections smoothed the way for many things at the Britannia Club, that was true; it stood to reason that they smoothed the way for others as well.

  Their drinks arrived. Norris took a long pull of his beer and turned to Penny. “It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Miss Peterkin. Your brother, that great stick-in-the-mud, speaks of you frequently. It’s good to see someone in the family’s got a sense of humor.”

  “Idle gossip,” said Eric to Penny. “Nothing that’s actually true.”

  He could see Norris shifting into a more playful, less formal approach. “Then we’ll all have fun discovering things about one another. Has Peterkin warned you about me yet?”

  Penny smiled. “He tells me you’re an incorrigible liar.”

  “Oh, well, that’s true. Creative types generally are. But your brother knows all about that: he’s one of the big, bad men enthroned on high, ruthlessly ripping our life’s work to shreds. You should hear him, Penny: ‘Away with this drivel! It is unworthy!’”

  Penny laughed. She did not seem to notice or mind that Norris had so quickly fallen into the familiarity of her first name.

  “Eric’s been quite distracted by this murder at the club,” she told Norris. “Haven’t you, Eric? I’ll bet you’ve been too busy making inquiries to even look at the manuscript you’re paid to read.”