A Gentleman's Murder

by Christopher Huang

  Norris grinned. “Speak for yourself, Wolfe. I was a conscript, and all I had to go on was Kipling.”

  Did conscripts get commissions, or was Norris embroidering the truth again?

  “Well, that’s all over now, at least,” said Mrs. Aldershott. “I don’t know if any war should be called the Great War. It was the war to end all wars, something so awful that no one can stomach the thought of another. We’ve paid a high price for our peace, and we’ll all work together to preserve it.”

  “Oh yes,” said Wolfe, “the League of Nations, President Wilson’s Fourteen Points, all that rot. I seem to recall a couple of Baltic uprisings and a rebellion in Jordan in the years since, so that’s going very well. Otherwise, we’ll be fine against each other until one of us explodes from the inside with Bolsheviks.”

  “Wolfe!” barked Aldershott, frowning. “I hope you’re not implying that you’d rather subject future generations to what we had to suffer.”

  “I’ve no future generations to tell fairy tales to! Besides, think of how the club membership will look after a few decades of this worldwide peace. Unless you’re saying we should also change our rules for membership?”

  “Oh, what does it matter?” exclaimed Norris, looking around the table with some bewilderment. “We’re happy now. Isn’t that enough? I never did understand why anyone ever needed to go to war in the first place. All that nationalistic talk just bores me to tears.”

  “And yet,” Wolfe observed, “you sing ‘Rule, Britannia!’ louder than anyone I know.”

  Saxon hadn’t said a word, so busy was he with his food. He was Eric’s prime suspect at the moment, and Eric would have preferred to have him in better view, directly across the table rather than diagonally.

  It wasn’t until the penultimate course was cleared away in anticipation of pudding that Aldershott stood up and said, “I’d like to get back to what we were talking about earlier: this matter of Benson’s death. None of us wants to be put under police scrutiny, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, you were being serious,” muttered Wolfe. Louder, he said, “Hear, hear.”

  “I daresay some of us have already incriminated ourselves in various ways,” Aldershott continued. “All of us have admitted to not having a decent alibi for the night. That’s got to stop. I don’t believe for a minute that anyone here is capable of murder, and I won’t have it blasted across the News of the World that we’ve gone mad and started knifing one another like a pack of savages. We’ve got to decide on what happened that night, and how each of us in our own little way can support the story. I know we can trust Parker. He’s one of us. But we still need a story to give him.”

  “Decide on what happened” could be a fine thing, and Eric would have clapped had it not been painfully obvious that Aldershott meant “agree on a plausible story” rather than “discern the truth.” What did everyone else think? Wolfe looked bored; Norris seemed fascinated; Saxon had picked up his fork again and was fidgeting with it so that it seemed on the point of breaking apart between his fingers.

  Mrs. Aldershott simply nodded placidly at her husband’s speech. She seemed to have no objections to any of this.

  “It was some outsider,” Aldershott said. “A burglar. Not one of us. Benson heard a sound, went to investigate, and was killed when he confronted the villain. I believe that to be the most likely story. Are we agreed?”

  “I think,” Wolfe said, “that you are trying to trivialise my own exploits.” He actually looked offended at the suggestion.

  “Would you rather be in the dock for murder, Wolfe?”

  “Is that a threat, Aldershott?”

  “No one’s trying to trivialise anything,” Mrs. Aldershott said. “Do be sensible, Mr. Wolfe.”

  “This is for the Britannia,” Aldershott said, looking around earnestly, his spectacles flashing under the light of the electric chandelier. His gaze settled on Eric, and he said, “Whatever happens to the Britannia, it reflects back on us. We don’t want to tarnish the reputation of the club, do we, boys?”

  “I reckon Benson would be something of a hero,” Norris piped up, “if he’d caught a burglar in the act.” He looked as though he were getting into the spirit of a creative session with his playwright collaborator.

  “Exactly!” Aldershott shot Norris a look of pure gratitude. “We owe it to Benson!”

  Eric thought Saxon looked as though he’d rather be anywhere but here.

  Aldershott caught up a wineglass. “All right, then. Gentlemen? Are we all agreed on what must be done? Then I say we raise a glass to our fallen fellow and drink a toast to Benson and the Britannia.”

  Norris and Mrs. Aldershott raised their glasses without hesitation. “To Benson and the Britannia!” Saxon, seeming to come to a decision, joined them in raising his glass, but said nothing.

  “Yes, yes.” Wolfe rolled his eyes and raised his glass as well. “To that which is well worth celebrating. To the Britannia.”

  That seemed to satisfy Aldershott. Norris, who’d already tossed back half his glass, drained the rest before realising that no one else had actually taken so much as a sip yet. All eyes turned to Eric.

  Eric raised his glass. “Yes, to the Britannia—but see here, are we quite sure this story about the burglar is what actually happened?”

  “What does it matter?” Aldershott said, looking annoyed. “It’s as likely a story as any.”

  “What I mean is, we’d be giving our words of honour, as gentlemen, that this must be what happened, wouldn’t we? What does that mean for us if it turns out to not be true?”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” exclaimed Mrs. Aldershott. “Nobody ever knows a thing with absolute certainty. The point is that you believe it to be true enough to proceed with.”

  Saxon quietly set down his glass. Eric raised his own again. “Well, to Benson: he was one of us—but look, if he really was one of us, don’t we at least owe it to him to make sure his club-related affairs are in order?”

  “Of course we do,” Aldershott snapped. “What do you think Bradshaw’s been up to all week?”

  “Those things in Benson’s box, Aldershott. They concerned some sort of business involving the Britannia.”

  “If we knew what that rubbish was all about, then certainly, we might do something about it!”

  “You really are milking this for all it’s worth, aren’t you?” drawled Wolfe.

  Mrs. Aldershott sighed and said, “Do hurry up, Mr. Peterkin. I can’t hold this glass up forever.”

  Norris, who’d drained his glass a second time by now, filled it back up.

  In the midst of all this, Eric was sure he’d caught a nearly imperceptible nod of the head from Saxon, who had yet to pick up his glass again. Interesting.

  “All right,” said Eric, raising his glass again. “To the Britannia Club. To Benson.” He considered a long moment, and added, “To Emily Ang.”

  Eric and Wolfe were the only ones to drink. Saxon just stared at Eric; Norris choked on his wine; and Mrs. Aldershott, frozen, had gone as white as her dress. Aldershott slammed his glass down on the table, spilling wine over the tablecloth, and screamed, “What the hell, Peterkin!”

  There are moments when one wants to behave as a savage and indulge in strong language—but can’t. Such a moment had apparently descended on Aldershott, and he was red with impotent fury.

  “Emily was my sister,” Mrs. Aldershott said into the charged silence, and Eric looked at her in surprise. Her sister? That was more than a step up from what Eric had been led to believe. It was a whole storey. Mrs. Aldershott continued, “What is this about, Mr. Peterkin? How did you hear about her? I don’t understand.”

  Recovering himself, Eric said, “Benson was looking for her, and Parker—”

  “Rubbish,” said Aldershott. “Benson was doing no such thing, and you are upsetting my wife!”

  “Don’t get chivalrous now, of all times,” snapped Mrs. Aldershott, before turning back to Eric. “Yes, she was my adoptive sister. We
grew up together, and we were trained together at Netley. She disappeared, you know, during the War, and nobody knows what happened to her. I know Benson was fond of her—fonder of her than she was of him—but I thought he’d have forgotten her by now. If Benson was looking for her, I’d like to know why nobody ever told me!”

  Eric was only half listening. The tension in the room was as thick as the fog outside. Aldershott looked furious, but Eric was focused on Saxon. “Saxon,” he said, “did you know Emily Ang?”

  Oliver Saxon replied, simply and directly, “Yes.”

  “Of course Oliver knew Emily,” said Mrs. Aldershott. “We were all children together.”

  Eric kept his eyes on Saxon. “Did you ever visit her at Sotheby Manor?”

  “Yes.”

  Eric had been expecting Saxon to deny it. The notepaper scraps from Emily’s file were in his pocket, and he was ready to throw them down on the table in the face of the expected lie, but Saxon’s guileless admission rather took the wind out of Eric’s sails.

  “That’s quite enough,” Aldershott barked, before Eric could ask another question. “Peterkin, you are not a policeman, and you should stop pretending you are. Solving this murder is not your business.”

  “You said we should decide what happened that night,” Eric pointed out, “and that we owed it to Benson to clear up his club-related business.”

  Aldershott snarled. “Then I’ll speak to you later. For now, you can shut your wretched, half-caste mouth—”

  “Edward!” Mrs. Aldershott shut him down with a glare, then turned to Eric. “My apologies, Mr. Peterkin. It’s clear we’ve all had a painfully long week.”

  “Amateur,” Wolfe chuckled. Aldershott just glared at him.

  Eric assured Mrs. Aldershott that no offence had been taken. He had more important things on his mind. In any case, Aldershott’s little gaffe had served to dispel some of the tension, and the pudding course was saved from a surfeit of awkwardness.

  PORT BUT NO CIGAR

  ALDERSHOTT PUSHED ERIC into his study and into a chair. He slammed the door shut behind him, locked it, and shoved the key into his pocket. All around, the glassy eyes of taxidermied animal heads stared down at them. An Andean condor spread its wings over the door and cast jagged shadows down the wall. Eric saw a glass-fronted gun cabinet in one corner, housing a trio of well-oiled rifles and a German pistol—a “Red 9” Mauser C96 with the characteristic red 9 burnt into the grip, no doubt a souvenir of the War. He didn’t think Aldershott looked like the type who hunted big game or collected firearms, but one never knew.

  There was a letter opener on Aldershott’s desk. It looked like the twin of the one that had ended up in Benson’s neck: a slim-bladed steel dagger with a decorative brass handle. Eric wanted to pick it up for a closer look, but Aldershott strode up to him before he could get up.

  “I’ll be blunt,” said Aldershott, looming over Eric. “What’s this business with Emily Ang? She has nothing to do with Benson’s murder.”

  “How did you know her, then?”

  “She worked for Sir Andrew Sotheby, who was a close friend of mine. Of course I knew who she was.” Aldershott tugged uncomfortably at his collar, then tore off his tie with a snarl of frustration. His front collar stud flew off, and the stiffly starched collar sprang wide. It would have been comical but for the full exposure of the mustard boil scars underneath: they had the appearance of melting flesh, and they never looked half so awful when his collar was in place.

  “Well, Benson was looking for her,” Eric said, his attention riveted by the scars melting down Aldershott’s neck and under his shirt. “And now Benson is dead. At this point, the two things are looking very much connected.”

  “Did Benson actually tell you he was looking for her?”

  “Not precisely, no.” Eric wondered how much to reveal of what he knew. He’d come here tonight thinking that Aldershott had nothing but the most superficial of connections to Emily Ang’s disappearance or Benson’s murder, but Aldershott’s furious reaction seemed to indicate otherwise. “Benson had a photograph of Emily,” he said carefully, “and it’s now missing. I’d say that means there’s a connection.”

  Aldershott lit a cigarette with shaking fingers and flung the match aside. “Damn it all. It’s been years. Ancient history, and I don’t like having it raked up again. Martha pretends she’s stronger than she really is. She always felt responsible for that Ang girl, and she is not going to take this at all well.”

  “There was a skeleton found in Bruton Wood—”

  “Nothing to do with Emily Ang!” Aldershott leaned down, planting his hands on the arms of Eric’s chair and trapping him there. The cigarette clenched between his teeth was inches from Eric’s face, and Eric had to lean away to avoid burning his nose on it. Below the line of Aldershott’s jaw, boil scars swam with the movement of his throat. “Have you ever considered that she left of her own accord and simply doesn’t want to be found? Sir Andrew told me she was with child.”

  “What!”

  “Yes. An unwed mother.” Aldershott seemed to relish the words. “He didn’t note it in her file, out of respect for whatever poor fool made an honest woman of her later, but he told me about her condition. If she left, it was probably to hide the shame.”

  Could Benson have been the father? Eric didn’t want to say it, out of respect for the woman who’d become Mrs. Benson afterwards, but … if what Aldershott said were true, then the identity of her child’s father could be vital to finding the murderer.

  Aldershott straightened up and sat back against the edge of his desk. Eric’s shock seemed to have restored some of his self-assurance, and he said, “Dozens of dashing young soldiers passed through Sotheby Manor. I’ve no doubt she was a great comfort to more than one of them. You know that when the Brighton Pavilion was used as a hospital for Indian soldiers, there were strict rules limiting the interactions between the Indian patients and their English nurses? Perhaps we should have had similar rules about interactions between English patients and foreign nurses.”

  Eric leapt to his feet, but Aldershott snatched up the letter opener and pointed it at him. “Sit down, Peterkin!” he barked.

  Eric dropped back into the chair, eyeing the point of Aldershott’s letter opener. Had Benson leapt to Emily’s defence, much as Eric had responded to Aldershott’s insinuations, and got the knife in his neck as a result?

  “She was as much a foreigner as I am,” Eric muttered in protest.

  “Yes,” said Aldershott, looking down at his letter opener. “I daresay she was.”

  Eric flushed red.

  “Martha still thinks of her as some sort of pure, shining angel,” Aldershott continued, shaking the letter opener at Eric for emphasis, “but she knew nothing of Emily’s condition. You are not to dig further, and you are not to enlighten my wife as to the truth about her friend. Is that understood?”

  “But—”

  “I’m warning you, Peterkin!”

  “Well, then, how is—”

  “Leave it alone!”

  Eric took a deep breath. “Horatio Parker! How is he connected to all this?”

  “He isn’t!” Aldershott stood and glared down at Eric.

  There was a knock on the door. Aldershott sidled around, not taking his eyes off Eric, to unlock the door and open it a crack. Mrs. Aldershott pushed it open farther and stepped inside.

  “I’m done with Peterkin, Martha,” Aldershott said, gesturing for Eric to leave. “What is it?”

  “Actually, Edward, I was hoping for a few words with Mr. Peterkin. In private, if you please.”

  Aldershott made an inarticulate, explosive noise, threw his letter opener down on his desk, and swept out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The letter opener skittered across the desk and fell to the floor.

  Mrs. Aldershott sighed and bent to retrieve both the letter opener and the lost collar stud. “Such a temper. It appears I shall have to be especially persuasive if you are ever to r
eturn here as a dinner guest, Mr. Peterkin.”

  “I’m sure I’ll survive.” Aldershott was terrified of something, and the thought gave Eric a small degree of satisfaction. But he remembered, too, that an animal was at its most dangerous when frightened.

  Mrs. Aldershott said, “You seem quite certain that Emily’s disappearance had something to do with Benson’s death. I wish I’d known what he was up to; I’d have liked to help. But then, I never actually saw him until that night before he died, and he left so quickly with Oliver. If you’re taking up the torch, as it were, I wish you the best of luck.”

  She went to open the drapes. Yellow-grey fog obscured the street outside, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste before closing the drapes again. Still, the act seemed to lighten the atmosphere, and Eric felt himself relax.

  “You said that Emily was your sister,” he said. “How did that happen?”

  Mrs. Aldershott was silent for a minute. She sat down in the chair Eric himself had vacated, and said, “My parents were Chinese missionaries, Mr. Peterkin. I spent much of my childhood in a Chinese village in the Hokkien countryside, the only European child in the vicinity.” She looked at him shrewdly. “I fancy you must know a little of what that’s like.”

  “My mother was Chinese, but I actually grew up in India.”

  “I meant being the odd one out, Mr. Peterkin. Anyhow, I shouldn’t presume.” Getting back to Emily Ang, she continued, “Of course, we were a little better off than the villagers we worked with. When Emily’s parents died, my parents took her in and raised her beside me. I think she was meant only to be a playmate for a very lonely English girl, but as time went by, we became as good as sisters. When we came back to England, Emily came with us; and when I went to be a nurse, Emily went with me. The only difference was that I wanted to be a military nurse, while she wanted to stay with the civilian hospitals. Then the War started. I went to Flanders, and Emily went to Sotheby Manor.”

  Mrs. Aldershott paused wistfully. If there was a party going on outside, Eric didn’t hear it: the only sound was the ticking of the clock behind Aldershott’s desk. More quietly, she said, “So many of my uncles and cousins were killed in the fighting, but Emily was supposed to remain safe. Her disappearance was … well, one more tragedy on top of many. I’m not sure I ever got the chance to think about it. That’s the cruel thing about disappearances, Mr. Peterkin: you never really think about them as deaths, so you never grieve over them as such. Then, years later, you realise you really have been thinking of the missing person as dead all along, and by then it’s too late to grieve. Looking back now, I just wonder if I should have put more effort into finding out what happened to her.”