A Gentleman's Murder

by Christopher Huang

  Avery glanced at Eric, who sighed and began: “There’s Edward Aldershott. He’s the club president. He seems like a humorless stick-in-the-mud, but he’s strangely anxious that I not ask any questions about Emily Ang. He’s the one who told me about Emily’s condition. It’s curious, though: he was the one who pushed Benson into that bet with Wolfe. It does seem as though he’d engineered that whole mess, now I think about it. His wife, Martha, is the cousin of Oliver Saxon and was apparently brought up right beside Emily, like sisters. They trained as nurses together, but Mrs. Aldershott—Martha Saxon as she was then—went to Flanders as a military nurse while Emily stayed behind to work at Sotheby Manor. I fancy Mrs. Aldershott can be quite the dragon when roused, and if she blamed Benson for what happened to Emily, there’s no telling what she’d do. She doesn’t care tuppence for the rules of the Britannia Club, either.”

  “A ruthless woman,” Avery murmured, positioning the Queen and King of Wands side by side on the table. “And a husband with something to hide.”

  “There’s Jacob Bradshaw,” Eric continued. Avery hesitated over the kings, then settled instead on the white-bearded Emperor. “He’s the club secretary, and he’s been in that position since very nearly the dawn of time. He’s mixed up in just about anything you could mention, because he’s the one who Gets Things Done. Benson was asking questions about him at that music hall, and I got the impression it had something to do with what sort of influence Bradshaw might have over the police. And Benson didn’t want to involve him, either, when he wanted to claim the Bruton Wood skeleton as Emily’s. It seems as though Bradshaw might have done a few unsavoury things behind the scenes to keep things running smoothly for everyone, and Benson might have found out.”

  “I remember Daddy talking about him,” Penny said. “It seems impossible to imagine him as the villain of the piece.”

  “Next is Oliver Saxon—Lord Saxon, actually, but he doesn’t use the title. He said he was fond enough of Emily that he might have married her if—well, if there weren’t the matter of him being next in line for an earldom, and her being … I assume it was because of her being Chinese.”

  “Oh, I say!” Penny was indignant. “That’s a fine bit of rot!”

  “He confirmed what Aldershott told me about Emily’s condition. He says he was helping Benson investigate Emily’s murder, and he’s horrified by what happened. He wants me to stop before the same thing happens to me.”

  Avery looked up from the stern, sullen King of Coins in his grove of apple trees and said, “Do you believe him?”

  “I think so.” Eric frowned, uncertain. “I’m not sure, but I think so. If he’s lying …” The sort of mind that broke codes for MI1b might be so given over to puzzles as to be astoundingly simple in other matters, or it might know nothing but deviousness. “He as much as admitted that he thought Benson was Emily’s lover. He might have wanted vengeance. Or he might actually have been her lover and wanted to keep it quiet.”

  “All right, then.” Avery held up the laughing Knight of Cups and said, “Next up is Patrick Norris, right?”

  “Patch!” said Penny. “I don’t think that’s possible. No one could be quite as jolly as he was this afternoon after having committed a cold-blooded murder.”

  “We have to be fair, Penny. Norris was in the building when the murder took place. They never found any traces of blood on his clothes, as far as I know, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have slipped out in the morning to dispose of his bloodied clothing, and then got in again while no one was looking.”

  “Well, I don’t believe it,” Penny said stoutly. “Old Faithful sees all the comings and goings—both you and Daddy have said so often enough.”

  “And the Knight of Cups is such a romantic figure,” Avery added.

  Eric gave his sister a stern look. “Norris may be plenty of fun, but he doesn’t seem to know the meaning of the word ‘truth,’ Penny. I honestly think you should have nothing more to do with him.”

  “Oho, so that’s what this is about!” Penny sat up in her seat and glared imperiously at her brother. “You don’t trust me at all, do you, Eric?”

  “Next suspect!” cried Avery, waving a card—the Magician—between the Peterkin siblings. “Mortimer Wolfe! He’s the very smug, superior fellow who found a way to break into the club vault, right?”

  Eric gave Penny another hard glare, then looked down at the newest card on the table. “Yes. Mortimer Wolfe. He’s an ass, but he’s a competent ass. On the other hand, that business with the … the backfiring motor shows he’s not so cool as he pretends. I don’t know that it’s relevant, but—”

  “But you never can tell,” Penny said. “Seems to me like there’s more to him than meets the eye. Do you think he could be the father of Emily’s child?”

  “It’s possible.” Eric considered the fastidious Wolfe, who’d rather die than admit to imperfection. How would he react to learning that he’d fathered a half-caste child out of wedlock? “Emily’s condition could be a motive for any of the men here.”

  Penny nodded. “That really seems to be the big issue, doesn’t it? It looks as though everyone’s best motive comes down to some variation of a reaction to her being pregnant. Oh for goodness’ sake, it’s 1924 and I’m allowed to say ‘pregnant’ in mixed company. What I mean is that whoever killed Benson must have also impregnated Emily. Unless Benson did, in which case Mrs. Aldershott killed him. Who else is there?”

  “Just Inspector Parker,” said a red-faced Avery as he added the serious, studious Knight of Coins to his spread. “We’ve heard enough about him, I think. At least, I have. He’s the treacherous villain who’s supposed to be in charge of the murder inquiry, but is twisting it to his own ends.”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” Eric said. “By all accounts, he’s a conscientious fellow. So I don’t understand why he’d go tampering with the evidence—unless it’s because Bradshaw has some kind of hold on him. Besides, he’s a VC.”

  “Which automatically makes him a paragon of virtue, a hero who can do no wrong. I think your priorities want checking, Eric.”

  Penny said, “Don’t forget, men have had their VCs taken away for things like theft and desertion.”

  The last man to forfeit his Victoria Cross had died in abject poverty just three years ago. The thought of such a fate for someone who’d been a hero once—whatever mistakes he made afterwards—chilled Eric to the bone.

  “And that’s the lot,” said Avery, sitting back. But Eric shook his head.

  “If we’re going to be fair, we ought to consider everyone connected to Benson. There’s also Helen Benson.”

  “Her? She was all the way out in the middle of nowhere!” But Avery obligingly laid out the enigmatic High Priestess for Helen Benson, saying, “That woman’s a regular horror story, Penny. And she’s got her hooks into your brother something awful.”

  Penny raised her brows at Eric, who suddenly found his collar uncomfortably warm. “She was widowed less than a week ago,” he protested. “I would never be so indecent!”

  “She has this room full of the most awful paintings—” Avery began, but Eric cleared his throat loudly and cut him off.

  “Mrs. Benson,” Eric said, adopting a dry, precise tone, “used to be Helen Sotheby, and she was rivals with Emily Ang for Benson’s affections. She might have wanted Emily out of the way for that reason, and she almost certainly was angry that Benson still thought of Emily after all these years.”

  “And there we have it,” Avery said. “All the suspects. Speaking of which …” He turned and began rummaging around in his satchel.

  Eric, meanwhile, counted the cards on the table. Edward and Martha Aldershott, Jacob Bradshaw, Lord Oliver Saxon, Mortimer Wolfe, Patrick Norris, Inspector Horatio Parker, and Helen Benson. Their eight cards—the King and Queen of Wands, the Emperor, the King of Coins, the Magician, the Knight of Cups, the Knight of Coins, and the High Priestess—fanned out around Eric’s own Knight of Swords like obs
equious courtiers, but Eric knew better. They represented what Benson was up against in his quest. “One of these people killed Albert Benson,” he muttered. “I’ve just got to find out which.”

  “Well,” said Penny, “I think we can eliminate some of them already. I know the Britannia gets locked up tight after nine o’clock, so we can drop everyone who didn’t have a key or a way in.” She took Mrs. Aldershott’s, Inspector Parker’s, and Mrs. Benson’s cards out of the spread. Then she pulled Norris’s out as well. “This isn’t me being foolish, Eric. I really think you need to prove he had a way of getting rid of his bloodied clothing—his own way in and out, in other words—before you start warning me away. As things stand, he looks innocent.”

  That left Aldershott, Saxon, Wolfe, and Bradshaw.

  “Here we go!” Avery came up from rummaging in his satchel and dropped a stack of papers on top of the cards. “I’ve been at Somerset House,” he announced, “checking up with the Registry of Births, Marriages, and Deaths. They just love me there. Every time I walk in, they say, ‘Oh God, it’s Ferrett again,’ and toast me with a swig from their pocket flasks.” He chuckled. “I hope you appreciate what I go through for you, Eric, because those registry clerks certainly don’t.”

  Avery’s papers were neatly typewritten and had all the appearance of serious military intelligence. They were, in fact, astrological reports: Avery had sought out the birth dates of everyone related to the murder, including Benson himself, and compiled an in-depth study of each based on their horoscopes.

  Eric and Penny exchanged glances. They never quite knew what to tell Avery when he did something like this. Eric obligingly picked up the first report—Aldershott’s—and skimmed through it.

  “Aldershott’s secretly a very gentle, intuitive soul who will forgive anything and everything?” Eric put down the report and gave Avery a doubtful look. “I’ll have to introduce you to him someday.”

  “Here’s Mrs. Benson’s,” Penny said. “It looks like you’ve spent more time on her than on any of the others, Avery.”

  “Well, I had to. The twentieth of July is on the cusp of Leo and Cancer, which means she’ll have the characteristics of both—”

  “Excuse me, what?” Eric snatched the document from Penny and stared at the heading. “The twentieth of July! Mrs. Benson’s birthday is the twentieth of July?”

  Penny said, “You’re a little late if you want to get her a birthday present, Eric.”

  “The birthday photograph,” Eric whispered, not listening. “This is it. This is why that photograph was important, and why Benson included it in his box. It showed Parker was present at Helen Benson’s birthday party, as a patient of the hospital, on the twentieth of July. That’s the day Emily Ang disappeared!”

  “What?” said Avery. “I thought you said—”

  “That Parker was long gone by then? Yes. Because that’s what his patient records file said. But records can be faked. That photograph proved that it was faked. Parker was still at Sotheby Manor on the twentieth, when Helen celebrated her birthday and when Emily disappeared.”

  Avery shook his head. “That seems wrong. The papers said she spent the day in Chichester. Why do that, if the other nurses were having a party?”

  “Perhaps she hadn’t been invited,” Penny replied. “Perhaps nobody told her, hoping she wouldn’t attend.” Both Peterkins knew firsthand how that sort of thing worked. “But, Eric, remember what I said earlier? It still doesn’t mean anything if Parker didn’t have a way into the club building.”

  “There is that,” Eric mused. “But if Wolfe did it, then Parker might have done the same. I just have to find out how.”

  Avery insisted that Eric spend the night at his place once Eric told him, quietly, about the shots in the fog earlier. Together, they accompanied Penny to the house of the friend with whom she was staying while in London, and Eric was half sure that Avery would give the game away at any minute. But Avery managed to hold his tongue, for which Eric was grateful.

  To tell the truth, he was beginning to doubt himself. Being shot at in the fog, in the civilised safety of London, seemed like such a thing out of a book that he wondered if he’d imagined the whole thing. In the light of the next day, it seemed utterly absurd.

  Penny was bound for Cambridge that morning, and Eric went to see her off. He apologised deeply for not having been the perfect host, but Penny insisted that she’d had a grand time nonetheless. Eric was not entirely sure if he should feel reassured, knowing that she must be referring to the afternoon spent at the London Zoo with Norris.

  “Really, Eric. If you’re going to be this paranoid of every young bachelor who wants to spend time with me, I wonder why you introduce me to anyone.”

  “Brothers are rarely rational when it comes to their sisters,” Eric admitted, rubbing his head in embarrassment. “I don’t want to see you hurt, Penny. I don’t want to see what happened to Emily Ang happen to you.”

  Penny stared off into the distance, thinking. She said, “You know, it’s a curse to be thought an exotic. It’s worse when you’re a woman, because sometimes the most seemingly decent of gentlemen turn into utter cads because of it. They think they can take advantage of you and it won’t matter because … because you’re not properly English, or some nonsense. And you know their intentions aren’t honourable, because the last thing they want is to bring a child like us into the world. I wonder if you ever really thought about the sacrifices Mummy and Daddy made for us, Eric.”

  “Of course, but … Penny! You’re not speaking from past experience, I hope?”

  “Oh, I’ve been all right. I don’t look half so exotic as you do. But I’ve learnt to spot that sudden glimmer of interest when men realise I’m only half-English, and then I scratch them right off my dance card as sharp as you please. I just don’t want you to think any less of this Emily Ang because of what happened to her. Sometimes a woman doesn’t have much of a choice.”

  It took Eric a minute to understand the implications. “Penny, a gentleman does not force himself on a lady—”

  “And a gentleman takes responsibility for his actions. But some gentlemen, Eric, aren’t really gentlemen at all.” Eyes suddenly twinkling with mischief, she gave him a peck on the cheek and said, “Speaking of not-quite-gentlemen, give my love to Patch, and tell him I’ll see him the next time I’m in London.”

  There was nothing to do then but to sputter ineffectually as Penny, laughing at his discomfiture, disappeared into the train car to find a compartment.

  As the train chugged out of the station, Eric turned and considered his next move. The previous night’s discussions had clarified things only a little, in terms of motive: Benson had been killed because of Emily, and Emily had been killed because of her pregnancy. But this hadn’t narrowed things down to a definite, single person. It was time to set aside considerations of who might have killed Benson, and consider who could have killed Benson. It was time to look at how the deed might have been done.

  THE VAULT

  THE LAST TIME Eric had a look around the Britannia, the cleaning staff was still trying to get rid of all traces of fingerprint powder, and most members had chosen to cross the street to the Golden Lion rather than dine within sight of the evidence of police activity. The powder was all gone now, and a few brave souls had returned to the dining room; but there was something brittle about the atmosphere, as though the attendants were too conscious of their silence, and the light too anxious to chase away the shadows.

  Inside, there was a faint but lingering smell in the air of something unpleasant. The fog had crept in overnight and left its taint.

  Wolfe had managed to break into the club without leaving a trace; it was the one thing Eric knew for a fact about the night of Benson’s murder. That, then, was where he should start: once he knew how Wolfe had done it, he might begin to see how anyone else could do the same.

  Stopping outside on the opposite side of the street, Eric made a critical assessment of the club buil
ding.

  It had a neoclassical limestone facade, much like the St. James Theatre and most other buildings up and down King Street. Tall windows topped with triangular pediments flanked the entrance. The front doors were very exposed, in spite of the sheltered portico. They were locked after 9 p.m., though an attendant would let one in if one were to ring the bell.

  The ground-floor windows were to the dining room on one side of the doors and a public reception room on the other. These windows were locked up tight at this time of the year. In the summer months, a high transom pane in each might be opened for ventilation. Even if those transoms were open now, getting in through them would require a significant amount of agility. The same went for the windows on the first floor above. And farther up on the second floor were windows to the club lodgings. As Eric knew from his experience last week, these had been painted shut.

  Below were the basement windows: frosted glass protected by iron grillwork. Eric had no idea what lay beyond them, but it was clear that no one could have got through them without first tearing off the bars, and no such damage was in evidence.

  A number of passages and courts bled off from King Street into the recesses behind and between the buildings, and one such passage ran up one side of the club to a narrow utility court. Once upon a time, the carriage house in the back of the property opened into this court, but today the carriage house was the Britannia Club’s gymnasium, and its access to the court had been bricked up. Now, the only entrance to the building from the court was a single door surrounded by dustbins, hidden from the street by a projection of the building. A young sandy-haired attendant, loitering there with a cigarette, was caught by surprise at Eric’s approach; he quickly stubbed out his cigarette before disappearing through the door. Eric didn’t hear a key being turned, but he found the door locked when he tried it.

  This was the back door to the Britannia Club, the one Saxon seemed to favour. Above, a foot or two out of reach, was a row of square windows, which presumably gave light to what servant spaces existed beyond the wall. The mortar was crumbling around the brickwork. Closer to the mouth of the passage were larger windows protected, like the basement windows, with iron grillwork. Eric was able to reach their sills quite easily, and then to pull himself up sufficiently to look inside: through one was Aldershott’s office, and through another was Bradshaw’s—or, rather, the president’s and the club secretary’s offices, respectively.