A Gentleman's Murder

by Christopher Huang

  “Inquiries?” said Norris, looking around at Eric. “Do you fancy yourself an amateur sleuth, then? Something akin to another Lord Peter Wimsey?”

  “You should see him tear a puzzle apart, Mr. Norris! He should have gone into military intelligence, but of course they won’t trust half-castes like us with top secret anything.”

  “Penny!” Eric chided his sister. “You don’t know that.”

  “You could investigate and find out the truth,” Norris said, “once you’re done with this present inquiry.”

  “Yes,” said Penny. “How is it going, Eric?”

  “Oh, it’s just been a lot of running around and asking questions. I was down at Sotheby Manor on Tuesday—that’s the place where Benson was a hospital orderly during the War—and it turned out that he was also married to the lady of the house.”

  “And you two hit it off right away, I’m guessing. Was she very pretty?”

  “I remember her quite well,” Norris said. “And yes, she’s very pretty.”

  The two of them grinned at Eric. “Get on with you!” he said. “The poor woman’s been a widow less than a week! She’s just been … very helpful, that’s all. She showed me Benson’s office, and all the files from when the place was a war hospital. If I go back, it’ll be to look up those files because I’m quite sure I’ve not found everything yet. And if she helps me, it’ll be because she wants justice for her husband—she said as much when we met at the funeral earlier today—not because she has any interest in me. She’s been through a hell of a time, and I wouldn’t push her to try to remember much more of whatever Benson’s told her until she’s ready.”

  “But she does have some interest in you, doesn’t she?” Penny asked.

  “She seems quite intent on painting me,” Eric admitted, “and I don’t know what I’m to do about that.”

  Norris winked. “Just lie back and think of England, Peterkin.”

  The appearance of the master of ceremonies onstage signalled the end of their small talk. Eric settled back with some relief, as Penny and Norris turned their attention to the show. The first act was a pretty songstress with an old, oft-adapted song.

  “Courage, boys, it’s one to ten,

  But we’ll return as gentlemen;

  All gentlemen as well as they,

  Over the hills and far away.”

  The audience joined in the chorus, but Eric was far away himself, reflecting on what he’d learnt so far.

  It did seem odd that there hadn’t been anything in the London newspapers about Emily Ang’s disappearance. A Chinese woman disappearing from an English estate … one would think there’d be some ghoulish interest there, if only for the “exotic” flavour. Eric wondered if someone had hushed up the matter and prevented it from extending outside of Sussex, assuming the Sussex papers had carried the story at all. He’d find that out tomorrow.

  He’d gone back to the British Museum earlier today to be doubly sure of his facts. In the process, he’d had another look at the articles surrounding Joseph Davis, the club member who’d supposedly fallen off the pier at Eastbourne. No one would have reported him missing if he’d only gone to Eastbourne for a bit of a holiday, Eric thought. But for that, everything about his death was clear and above board: there was the obituary, and presumably there’d been a funeral as well. The police seemed satisfied, but Eric now felt less so. It felt as though all the follow-up news had been suppressed somehow.

  Of course, the news about Benson’s murder had been suppressed as well, but that was to be expected. A club like the Britannia demanded its discretion, and Bradshaw ensured that they got it.

  Onstage, a trio of young ladies meant to represent the three main political parties of the United Kingdom began to tear the clothes off one another in a simulated spat. Eric would have laughed but for the sudden realisation that this was, perhaps, not the sort of entertainment one wanted to expose one’s darling little sister to.

  Stealing a glance at Penny, he noted that, far from being shocked, she was taking it all in good fun. In fact, she and Norris seemed to be lacing the onstage satire with satirical commentary of their own. Thank heaven for that: Penny really was quite a sensible girl. And how would Helen take this entertainment, Eric wondered. She seemed rather serious in outlook, but that could simply be because of her recent bereavement. He remembered the way her face seemed to blaze, white-hot, in the shadow of the lychgate.

  Mrs. Benson, Eric reminded himself. Not Helen. She was Mrs. Benson.

  Over Penny’s shoulder, Eric caught sight of a familiar white-bearded figure slipping behind the tables to the swinging doors. It was Bradshaw, and he was glancing around as if on the lookout for witnesses. Norris had mentioned that Bradshaw had an interest in this place, hadn’t he?

  Eric frowned. Bradshaw?

  Davis had been a member of the Britannia. Bradshaw had to have known him. If Bradshaw had hushed up the news around Benson’s death, he might have done the same for Davis. Had he done so for anyone else? Obviously not for that poor chap, Robert Unwin, who’d shot himself out of doors and been found in the river by Boy Scouts three months afterwards.

  Around him, the audience burst into applause, and the three young allegories for political infighting, wearing somewhat less than was decent, curtseyed prettily. Eric stood with everyone else to applaud. Ordinarily, he’d have done so wholeheartedly, but he was beginning to wonder at the real extent of Bradshaw’s influence and what he did with it.

  “Now that’s a body politic I prefer.” Norris chuckled.

  “I think I saw Bradshaw back there,” Eric said, affecting a casual tone. “He’s not here for the show, it looks like. I wonder what he’s up to.”

  To this, Norris replied, “Oh yes, the old man never stops to watch the show. He visits to talk politics with Breuleux, the manager. Dreadfully boring stuff; I don’t see why a music hall manager would bother with politics when he’s drowning in actresses.”

  “Perhaps he’s trying to impress a politically minded actress,” suggested Penny.

  “Then they’re both idiots. Me, I’m quite happy leaving politics to someone else. I wouldn’t even have had to vote at all if the Britannia hadn’t gone and made a gentleman out of me.” It wasn’t strictly true; as of 1918, all Englishmen over the age of twenty-one were eligible to vote. But Norris wasn’t one to let the truth get in the way of a good retort.

  Eric watched the swinging doors for a moment, then whispered to Penny, “Keep Norris occupied. I’m going to see what Bradshaw’s up to.”

  Excusing himself, Eric made his way, as unobtrusively as possible, to the swinging doors. Glancing back, he saw Penny engaging Norris in a spirited discussion—Penny, bless her, had a lot more in her head than she at first let on. Norris would have his hands full trying to keep up.

  Beyond the swinging doors was a corridor. Eric could hear the clink of bottles and glasses from an open archway at one end; at the other end was a flight of stairs leading up. Midway down the corridor and a few steps from the auditorium doors was a plain wooden door with the word “Manager” stenciled across it. Eric sidled over to the door. He could hear voices coming from beyond, and he tried to adopt a careless, idle air as he leaned against the wall outside and listened. As far as any observer was concerned, he hoped, he was just someone waiting to have a word with Mr. Breuleux.

  “It’s a great relief,” said a lightly accented voice, which Eric assumed must be that of the manager, Mr. Breuleux. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Jacob.”

  Familiar enough for first names, Eric observed.

  “Think nothing of it, Johnny.” That was unquestionably Bradshaw: genial, expansive, fatherly. “You know the last thing I want is to see this place shut down by an overzealous policeman. The fellow owes me a debt of gratitude, and he’ll stay out of your business if he knows what’s good for him.”

  “Hey!” A huge paw landed on Eric’s shoulder and spun him around. A hand closed tightly over his throat, thrusting him forcef
ully against the wall and startling him clean out of his wits. The sudden realisation of acute, physical danger sent his mind skittering off into a realm of pure instinct, and he reacted by driving his knee up into his assailant’s midsection.

  No-man’s-land. Creeping mist the colour of mildewed wallpaper enclosed him and cut him off from his mates, wherever they were. The isolation set Lieutenant Peterkin’s heart racing with anxiety, more than the fact that Jerry—faceless, malevolent Jerry—was struggling to pin him down. Lieutenant Peterkin was damned if he was going to let himself be taken so easily. He smashed his forehead into Jerry’s nose, and warm blood burst across his temple.

  Eric dropped painfully to the hard wooden floor as the bruiser who’d set upon him stumbled backwards. A moment’s confusion: for some reason, Eric had expected mud. Instead, he saw mildewed wallpaper the colour of creeping mist and badly worn floorboards. Eric shook his head to clear it, and the bruiser pounced. Instinct took control once more. Lieutenant Peterkin seized hold of his assailant, using his momentum to roll them both around. Now he was on top, straddling Jerry’s chest—

  “Peterkin!”

  Hands gripped Eric by the shoulders and pulled him to his feet. Eric shook them off, and blinked away the unbidden memories. He fumbled for a handkerchief to wipe his forehead.

  Bradshaw, radiating concern, stared back at him. Behind Bradshaw stood a dark-haired man with a pink bow tie and the sort of whiskers one normally associated with bad Chinese caricatures, though the man himself was unquestionably European. Eric’s opponent, a husky bear of a man nearly twice Eric’s size, was scrambling to his feet with a bloody nose and a surly expression.

  “Bugger went mad on me,” the bruiser growled, applying a dirty handkerchief to his bloody nose. Curious waiters had gathered at the archway farther down, and the man in the pink bow tie waved them away. This had to be Breuleux, the manager of Brolly’s, which was a music hall in London, England, in the year 1924. Yes. Eric knew exactly where he was. Didn’t he?

  “Caught him listening at the door,” the bruiser told Breuleux. “Why don’t you ask him what he was about, eh?”

  But Breuleux was eyeing Eric with mounting excitement. “You’re here to, ah, audition for the upstairs room, yes? Now is a very bad time.”

  Bradshaw affected a good-natured chuckle, though the eyes he fixed on Eric were sober. “I don’t think Peterkin’s here to audition for anything. He’s a member of my club in St. James, and probably came to speak to me. Right, Lieutenant?”

  Breuleux’s face fell. Eric eyed the bruiser, who was clenching and unclenching his fists and eyeing him right back. “Yes, that’s it exactly. I saw Bradshaw and came to say hello, and your fellow there surprised me,” Eric said, hoping he wouldn’t have to explain the rather distressing memories that had overcome him as his fighting instincts took over. “I … lost my head.”

  “Lost his head, he says!” The bruiser let out a harsh bark of laughter. “Reckon he’s more off his head than lost it!”

  “That’s enough, Frye,” said Breuleux. “The back stairs aren’t going to guard themselves.”

  Frye muttered something impolite and lumbered down the corridor. Breuleux watched him go, then turned to Bradshaw. “This is the second time in a week I’ve had someone from that snobby club of yours coming around after you. Can’t they just find you there, or have you finally given up your office?”

  “I don’t believe that first one was a member of the Britannia,” Bradshaw replied.

  “Who was this person?” asked Eric. “I mean, I might recognise the name or the description.”

  Breuleux looked doubtful, but said, “He was a tall blond man; pink in the face and stupid looking, like a fat pig. He said his name was Rex Pellinore.”

  The physical description matched a good many men at the club, but the last name was unusual. Pellinore … as in King Pellinore, the Arthurian Knight who’d dedicated his life to pursuing the Questing Beast—the Beast Glatisant. Eric thought of Glatisant, Benson’s bull terrier back at Sotheby Manor, and felt quite sure he knew exactly who this Rex Pellinore actually was.

  Bradshaw only shrugged helplessly at the description. “The world knows I don’t hold myself aloof from anyone, Breuleux. It was probably nothing.”

  Eric wanted to know what information Benson—if it had been Benson—had wanted from Breuleux, but Breuleux was in no mood to repeat anything he’d already told Bradshaw, especially not to someone who had just assaulted one of his men. He retreated back into his office with a final thank-you to Bradshaw for services undescribed, and shut the door.

  There was no sense speaking on their way through the auditorium, not with the current act trying to be heard over the rolling hubbub of drinking patrons. Eric just walked with Bradshaw until they emerged into the front lobby.

  Benson might have been interested in how Bradshaw was able to make the police look the other way, Eric thought. Come to that, Eric was interested too. He’d got used to thinking of Bradshaw as a benign, fatherly presence, but there was clearly more to him than that. There was the tough-as-nails drill sergeant, for one thing, that everyone knew about but very few ever saw. Was there anything else? Eric considered the white-bearded figure with the gentle eyes and the rosy cheeks, and tried to imagine him stern as a drill sergeant, perhaps, or crafty as a broker of favours. Once one recognised that Bradshaw had more than one face, one began to wonder what other faces existed.

  “Is there something on my nose, Peterkin?”

  “What? Oh! No, I was thinking of something else.” Eric blinked, looked away, and said, “I came across an old news story the other day, about a former club member, Joseph Davis, who’d gone missing. But I’m sure I remember there being no mystery at all about him disappearing, which itself seems a bit of a mystery. I wondered if you knew anything about it.”

  “Joseph Davis?” It took Bradshaw a moment. “Oh yes. I remember now. He was supposed to have accidentally drowned himself at Eastbourne, wasn’t he? I’m afraid there was nothing accidental about it. His widow didn’t find the suicide note until two days later, after it had got out into the papers that he was missing. I helped keep it quiet, put out the word that it was an accident. She didn’t want a scandal, you see.”

  “It wasn’t the first time you had the papers report a suicide as an accident, was it?”

  “No. It wasn’t the first time. For some of us, the War lives on in our minds.” He shook his head sadly, then checked his watch. “I’ve some business to finish up at the club tonight. It’s taken rather longer than expected to eradicate all traces of the police inquiry, and I’d like to say we are absolutely back to normal tomorrow. I understand you’ve got an invitation to Aldershott’s?”

  “Yes. Will I see you there?”

  Bradshaw shook his head. “Aldershott and I work well together, Peterkin, and he’s a fine fellow in his own way. But on a personal level, we’re not at all well suited. His wife, though, is a treasure. I hope you’ll convey my best regards to her when you see her.”

  “I’ll do that, never fear.”

  “Good night, Lieutenant Peterkin, sir.” There was a peculiar emphasis on the address, which left Eric wondering. They shook hands, and Bradshaw made his way out of the building.

  Back in the auditorium, a stage magician was performing an act of wonder, illusion, and superfluous exclamation points to an appreciative audience. Norris, grinning like a monkey, had got himself up onstage as a volunteer assistant, and was taking full advantage of the attention to play the clown. Penny barely noticed when Eric slid into the seat beside her.

  Eric recounted everything to Penny after the show, once they’d parted ways with Norris. She remarked that she had picked a very poor time to visit London. “I don’t think you were there at all for any of tonight’s show. If it weren’t for Patch—”

  “Patch?”

  “Patrick Norris.”

  “His closest friends don’t call him that!”

  “Well, then, I suppose I re
ally am special. What? He’s great fun to be around. Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly taken it into your head to disapprove. You seemed quite happy to leave me to him while you were preoccupied with your own thoughts. We’ve a date tomorrow afternoon to visit the London Zoo, in fact. No one will mind if I arrive in Cambridge on Saturday morning instead of tomorrow.”

  “What! You’re changing your weekend plans for Norris?”

  “You’d know all about it if you’d been paying attention. Why, Eric, you look positively murderous! Do you really think I couldn’t take care of myself?”

  “Famous last words, Penny.”

  Penny gave him a peck on the cheek and a bright, indulgent smile. “Don’t you worry about me, Eric. You just go to your Usual Armchair and finish reading that manuscript … or contemplate murder, if you like, as long as it doesn’t involve poor old Patch. I’ll be fine.”

  Eric didn’t mention, of course, that brief, vivid memory of being lost in the fog in no-man’s-land. One sometimes read about ex-servicemen who lost themselves in these memories—who did the most awful things without realising it. Eric had been in the trenches for only a year; others, like Wolfe or Aldershott, had been there for four, and they were as sane as you like. It stung his pride more than any of Wolfe’s insults, and Eric, making his way slowly home after dropping Penny off at her friend’s, clenched his jaw in determination. This flash of memory had been an aberration, he told himself. It would not happen again.

  THE SUSSEX PAPERS

  From the Chichester Observer, dated 23 July 1918:

  WOMAN MISSING FROM WAR HOSPITAL

  Police in Chichester are inquiring after the whereabouts of one Emily Siew Pin Ang, aged 26, who disappeared from Chichester some time on Saturday afternoon, the 20th of July. Miss Ang, a native of Hokkien province in China, was employed as a maid at Sotheby Manor. She is described by all as a hardworking, respectable young woman with a bright, cheerful manner.