A Gentleman's Murder

by Christopher Huang

  Penny struggled to go to the window, and Eric held her back. “Don’t,” he told her. “It won’t be pretty.” He remembered the suicide of another fine, funny fellow, brains and blood soaking into the parapet sandbags.

  “I have to see,” Penny sobbed. “Let me go, damn it! I need to see!”

  Reluctantly, Eric went to the window with her. Coloured light showered down from above onto the dark woodblock street where Lieutenant Patrick Norris lay in a crumpled heap. The impact had blown an island in the low fog, and it swirled around him where he lay. The fog parted as Detective Inspector Horatio Parker swept through, misty tendrils sliding off his trench coat, to kneel beside the body. Parker checked quickly for a pulse, though both he and Eric knew full well there would be none. He looked up and met Eric’s eyes, his face as grim as the day they’d met.

  AFTERMATH

  ARMISTICE DAY, the eleventh of November, began with rain in the early morning that darkened the pavements, but the clouds cleared before midmorning. A magnificent cornflower-blue sky arched above and was reflected in the puddles below.

  Eric joined the sombre crowds at the Cenotaph on Whitehall for the service in remembrance of the War at eleven o’clock—the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. It began with two minutes of silence: one for the fallen, and one for the survivors. After that would come wreaths and remembrances and men marching by with grim salutes … boots on rain-glossed pavements, artificial poppies blooming blood red on black lapels, tears in the eyes of men who never cried. But first, there were two solemn minutes of silence. England held her breath.

  London, the heart of an empire, was still for two minutes.

  A minute for the fallen.

  Benson hadn’t been a soldier, technically. His convictions opposed the War, but he hadn’t run away. He hadn’t taken the easy way out, and that, in Eric’s opinion, was true courage. As much as any gentleman at the Britannia Club and perhaps more than most, Benson had earned his spurs doing what he believed to be right in spite of the cost to himself. Twice.

  He could have sat back and let things be, when he realised he held evidence of Parker’s innocence in his hands. But he stood up for a man he barely knew, and paid the price with his life.

  And what of Emily Ang and Helen Benson? They’d served too, in their own way, but their lives weren’t supposed to be on the line. Nobody expected tragedy to befall them on the home front. They were, in many ways, the civilian casualties of war, and their stories were all the more tragic as a result. As Mrs. Aldershott said, Emily was supposed to have been safe. Helen Benson was supposed to have been safe.

  In spite of himself, Eric found his thoughts turning next to Patrick Norris. Norris had murdered three people and tried to pin the killings on a fourth. There was a part of Eric that revolted against the idea of including him in this solemnity after that, but Eric also remembered the jolly fellow who loved life, who laughed, who just wanted to be your friend. That hadn’t been a mask, but a shadow. As Norris himself had said, he’d actually died in the War. Some scars weren’t visible. And some deaths weren’t physical.

  Eric bowed his head, not for the Norris who’d tumbled out of his window on Bonfire Night, but for the Norris who’d gone off to Flanders knowing nothing of the Army apart from what he’d read in Kipling.

  A minute for the survivors.

  Frost dusted the ground at St. Tobias, crisp white over the green. Winter was coming. The church, grey and immutable, caught the stark morning sun on its stones and stained glass; its steeple gleamed like a beacon. In the churchyard, Eric picked his way through the colonies of monuments and gravestones to the two he loved best: the one with the phoenix, and the plain rectangular slab. He sat down beside them. His warmth melted the frost so the damp soaked his trousers, but he didn’t much care about that.

  “Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad. I’ve missed you.”

  He drew a pair of Haig Fund poppies from his pocket and placed them, one each, on his parents’ graves.

  “I missed All Souls’,” he said. “Sorry about that. A lot’s happened since we last spoke.” And then the whole story came pouring out.

  The Colonel, of course, listened quietly. Eric imagined him in a sunny room, feet up on an ottoman, shaggy brows shifting in response to each new revelation.

  “Penny will be all right, I think,” Eric concluded. “As long as she has her horses. She spends nearly every day on horseback, scouting the countryside and visiting the farms. It’s made her quite popular with the rural community. I wouldn’t be surprised if they made her a Member of Parliament now, like Lady Astor.”

  A gust of wind ruffled the petals of the Haig Fund poppies. Eric traced the gravestone inscriptions with his finger. Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out, and Matthew 10:39—He that findeth his life shall lose it: and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it. He thought them strangely appropriate.

  “Well, I’m still at the Britannia. Saxon tore up that letter of dismissal before I could touch it and declared they’d expel me over his dead body. The Britannia … it’s not quite what I’d always imagined as a boy. It’s less the company of heroes and more the company of survivors, I think. There are times when I’m still there, Dad. I wonder if your experience was very much different.”

  Eric looked up from the stone and took a moment to drink in the blue sky with its wintry-grey edging, and the green yews spreading over the churchyard monuments.

  “Norris was right about one thing, at least: the world is still a beautiful place.”

  The nearest stained-glass window gleamed as the sunlight hit it. It was made to be seen from the inside; from the outside, one saw only the lead-lined shapes of Tobias and Raphael journeying to Media.

  “I was thinking about escaping for a while. It turns out that Wolfe was serious about that antique collector in Churston who wanted someone to go to China for him. Unfortunately, he’s already given the job to his brother, which might be just as well. I don’t know that it would be much fun going about in a place where they expect you to speak Chinese because of how you look, only you don’t know a single word aside from ‘umbrella.’ Eh, Mum? Getting from Limehouse Causeway to Pennyfields was harrowing enough; this would be mortifying. So, I’ll carry on as I have before.”

  Eric leaned back against the cold marble of the gravestone. The sun was in a position now to fall directly on his face, a shaft of warmth through the seasonal cold. Just a few minutes more, he thought. Then he’d get back home, and return to his normal life. His employers were quite peeved at him for taking as long as he did on the last manuscript; the author had accepted an offer from another publisher in the meantime. But Eric had a new assignment to read and review, and he’d do a better job of it this time. The document was sitting in the passenger seat of the Vauxhall right now. So far, Eric had seen only the title: The Menacing Mandarin.

  Eric really, really hoped it was about oranges.

  The thirtieth of November was the first Sunday of Advent. Eric had been excited to spot a few flakes of snow as he left his flat in the morning, but by the time he reached the Britannia Club, it had turned to a bleak, freezing rain. The skies were dull and overcast; but for the bright lights of modern London, the world was painted in a palette of drab greys.

  The posters had come down from outside the St. James Theatre. Eric didn’t miss the leering yellow face of the play’s Oriental villain, but he did miss the colour it lent to the street. Posters for the Christmas pantomime would be going up soon, though. Eric was looking forward to that.

  Eric was greeted by a blast of warmth as he passed through the door of the Britannia Club. Avery, coming in with him, stopped in the vestibule to look around in wonder.

  “So this is the Britannia,” Avery said, eyeing the roster of fallen soldiers. “It certainly isn’t anything I’m used to. I’ll bet the ladies here have never even heard of patchouli.”

  “It’s gentlemen only, Avery. And no, it isn’t always like this. We’re setting up
for Christmas, you see.” Eric scanned the roster for his Peterkin cousins, then paused at the Ns. He imagined Patrick Norris listed there, and wondered how much longer the roster would be if it were to include the walking dead.

  The grey was left outside the door, and the lobby was bathed in warm light. The marble floors glowed, and the walnut panelling was polished to a high shine. Looking straight up from the middle of the lobby, one could see the rain splashing harmlessly against the glass barrier of the skylight. Wreaths of holly had already been woven around the balustrade of the first-floor gallery and the stairs.

  “Morning, Lieutenant Peterkin, sir,” said Old Faithful from behind the front desk. “Got a guest with you today, have you?”

  “Oh yes,” said Eric as he signed the register. “Avery Ferrett’s an old friend.”

  Avery had wandered to the foot of the stairs and was peering curiously up at the Arthurian Knights painting on the landing. Eric had told him often enough about how King Pellinore was modelled on a Peterkin ancestor, and about the sense of kinship he felt with Sir Palomides, the one dark face among the pale Britons.

  Old Faithful called out to him, “Sir, upstairs is members only.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about Avery,” Eric said quickly. “Pretend he’s a prospective member, and I’m showing him the amenities.”

  Old Faithful looked doubtful as Avery flashed him his most ingratiating smile. “Oh, all right,” the old retainer said at last, “but only because it’s you, sir. You’ve got mail, by the way. Rather a lot of it.” He set a stack of letters on the desk, and Eric was delighted to recognise the handwriting and return addresses of his men in the War. Reaching out to them had been the right thing to do. It would be good to know how they were getting along on civvy street.

  “And Mr. Bradshaw wants to speak with you,” Old Faithful added. “At your earliest convenience.”

  “Oh.” Eric didn’t know what this could be about, but he preferred to get it over with as quickly as possible. On the other hand, there was Avery to consider.

  The front door opened, and the familiar figure of Horatio Parker strode in, shaking the rain from his hat and trench coat. Eric waved Parker over.

  “Avery, you remember Inspector Parker from Patrick Norris’s inquest? He’s our newest member. Parker, this is my friend Avery Ferrett.”

  Parker reached out to shake Avery’s hand. “A friend of Peterkin’s is a friend of mine,” he declared. He was smiling and quite without his old haggardness. The last time Eric visited him at his Scotland Yard office, he’d had his Victoria Cross polished and proudly mounted in a display case on his desk.

  “Really?” Avery replied. “Some of the friends Eric makes scare me to pieces.”

  “I’ve got to see Bradshaw about something,” Eric told them. “If you’re not doing anything else, Parker, I wonder if you’d show Avery the members’ lounge and try to keep him out of trouble until I get back.”

  “It’s no bother at all. Come along, Mr. Ferrett. The bar there is quite excellent, and Peterkin tells me that the dent in the woodwork comes from his grandfather having once tossed the club president over it in a brawl.”

  Eric watched the pair climb the stairs as Old Faithful pretended to be too busy with something else to notice any trespassing non-members. Then Eric made his way to Bradshaw’s office.

  The porcelain tortoises were all gone. Only the children’s book print of the tortoise on a bicycle remained. Bradshaw was in the act of tidying as Eric came in.

  They hadn’t spoken since the night of Eric’s so-called “hearing.”

  “I’ll be brief,” Bradshaw said, once Eric had seated himself. “There’s been something of a coup on the board of officers. Aldershott has been kindly encouraged to step down both as club president and as an officer of the board. I’m sure you can guess why. Wolfe will be taking his place. And I’m stepping down as well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Eric said.

  “Don’t be.” Bradshaw put down his papers and stared out the window. There was nothing to see there but the rain falling into a dark brick-walled side passage. “The world’s begun to move too quickly for an old soldier like me, Peterkin. It’s time I moved on before I get turned onto my back.”

  “Moved on? Are you going somewhere?”

  “I don’t think I could stay here and not be club secretary. Those duties have been so much a part of my membership that I don’t know how to separate them now.” His beard twitched as he continued, “Bradshaw has friends across the Empire, doesn’t he? It’s time to see if that’s still true. I’ll be travelling … looking for a place that’s still a bit like yesterday, where an old soldier like me still knows what’s what. South Africa, perhaps. It’ll be good to see the grass growing over the old battlefields of my youth.” He looked back at Eric. “Perhaps one day you’ll look at Flanders in much the same way.”

  Eric thought of the blood-red muck of no-man’s-land. He knew better.

  Bradshaw said, “I’ve asked for you to take over as club secretary, if you’re willing. I’ll be around until the New Year to show you the ropes.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you,” said Bradshaw with a gruff nod. He seemed to have regained his equilibrium as the wise old man of the Britannia: his dark eyes were calm, if more sombre than before, and not a hair was out of place on his beard. He sat down, at ease despite the absence of tortoises, and picked up his newspaper. Then he looked at the sheaf of envelopes in Eric’s hands and asked, “What’ve you got there, Peterkin?”

  “This? Letters from the men I used to have under me. I thought I’d check in on them, see that they’re doing all right.”

  “Berkeley would be proud. Now get out. This is still my office, and I have the paper to read.”

  The holly wreaths had only just begun to make themselves known in the club lounge. As the Advent season progressed towards Christmas, the staff would drape more over the fireplace mantels and the windowsills. Already, the red berries offered a touch of festive contrast to the grey misery outside the windows. Saxon was sitting at one end of the bar, like a black blot on the escutcheon, with a dusty tome on his lap and an apple core floating in someone else’s beer. He glanced up briefly to nod a greeting to Eric before turning back to his reading. Some things, Eric thought, didn’t change. And he wouldn’t want them to.

  A cheery fire crackled in each of the fireplaces, including the one beside Eric’s Usual Armchair. Parker and Avery were there, as Eric expected. Wolfe had joined them, and was looking with some doubt at the Tarot cards Avery had spread over the low table between them. Eric waved to them and went to sit down in his spot, only to find it occupied.

  “Hullo, Eric.” Penny was sitting in his Usual Armchair and smiling mischievously up at him. Her pleated plaid skirt and matching jacket were as much a sharp contrast with the solid greys and blacks of the gentlemen around her as the holly berries against the rain-spattered windowpanes.

  “Penny. You’re not supposed to be here.”

  “If your new club president doesn’t mind, I don’t see why you should.”

  Eric shot a look at Wolfe, who smiled playfully and said, “There have always been Peterkins at the Britannia, after all.”

  “If we weren’t in mixed company,” Eric replied with equal good humour, “there’s another Peterkin legacy, involving the bar and the reigning club president, that I’d be happy to uphold. Congratulations, by the way. Bradshaw told me what happened.”

  “Thank you. I assume you’re taking him up on his offer? Halpern and Merridew have threatened their resignations if you do.”

  Eric couldn’t pick those two members out of a crowd if his life depended on it. They’d evidently been avoiding him all this time.

  “What offer?” asked Avery, looking up from his cards.

  “Bradshaw wants me to take over as club secretary,” Eric told him.

  “Oh, I say,” Penny exclaimed, leaping out of the armchair to give him a hug. “They’ll never be rid o
f you now!”

  Avery and Parker congratulated him as well. Parker said, “Of course, if I were a suspicious man—and you know I am—I’d wonder if you orchestrated this whole thing to get rid of him so you could take his job.”

  Eric opened his mouth to protest, but Parker was grinning humorously at him. The police inspector seemed very fond of putting people off balance, and now he was free to inflict his humour on the innocent.

  Wolfe grinned. “Wonderful! You’ll be my secretary. I’ve been wanting a new batman.”

  “Pshaw,” said Penny with a laugh. “Everyone knows it’s the secretary who holds all the power around here.”

  Wolfe’s grin vanished. “Miss Peterkin, I believe the club lounge is gentlemen only.”

  Penny said, “All right, then. I just came for Horsie, anyway. They were going to send an attendant to fetch him, but I told them I could do it myself.”

  Eric was puzzled. “Horsie? Who’s—”

  Horatio Parker stood up and linked his arm with Penny’s. “If you mention that name within a hundred yards of a policeman,” he told the group, “remember that there exists such a thing as the Yanks call ‘police brutality.’”

  As the pair left the lounge, Parker glanced back at Eric and winked.

  Openmouthed, Eric sat down and dumped his collection of letters on the table, scattering Avery’s careful Tarot layout. Wolfe’s lips curled up in amusement as Eric, fumbling for something to do, picked up the first envelope and tore it open.

  “I do think you could be more careful,” Avery grumbled, collecting his cards from under the mess of correspondence. “That’s ruined the reading, and the spirits never answer the same way twice.”

  Wolfe turned to him. “Still on about that rubbish? I suspect most spirits will have better things to do than associate with a clutch of mawkish spiritualists. I wouldn’t be caught dead in their company.”