The Curse Of The Diogenes Club

by Anna Lord

  The Countess adjusted her glued on eyebrows and tried wiggling them to make sure they weren’t about to fall off. “I understand strangling is a male modus operandi but I don’t think we can dismiss a female. It is more likely for a woman to have picked up a length of torn petticoat unnoticed than a man, or even to have torn it from her own undergarment without anyone seeing, and if that woman caught the photographer from behind by surprise, she could quite easily have choked the life out of him. If that woman was strong and the man was puny, as our studio photographer was, then we cannot ignore it.”

  Sherlock nodded. “I presume you’re talking about Mrs Klein?”

  “Yes. What’s more, soon after she organized all those young men to relay buckets of water from the lake, Xenia told me Mrs Klein disappeared but her carriage was still in the carriage park.”

  “What else did your maid see?”

  “She was frantically searching for me and couldn’t find me anywhere so she went down to the carriage park to check if the troika was still there and she said she saw a man seated in Mrs Klein’s carriage and that it was rocking violently.”

  Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up. “I don’t suppose she recognized the man?”

  “It was too dark. She tried to get a closer look but several carriages rolled past and one of them almost knocked her over. She came back to the pavilion and began helping Miss de Merville patch up the injured.” The Countess stood in front of the cheval glass and spun round several times. “Well, what do you think? Shall I pass muster as a butler?”

  “Marvellous!” said Dr Watson, amazed at the transformation. “Try out your butlering skills on us,” he suggested enthusiastically. “Serve us some perfume on that decoupage tray.”

  “The only problem will be Major Nash,” warned Sherlock, watching as she moved about with agility but not the litheness of the female of the species. “He used to work for the Foreign Office abroad. He has a canny eye for fakery. Try to avoid being in the same room, especially the Stranger’s Room. Don’t make eye-contact with him at all. What time did Mycroft tell you to arrive?”

  “Prior to midday - in time to serve luncheon in the dining room.”

  “Good luck,” said Dr Watson.

  “I would wish you luck,” said Sherlock dryly, “but I don’t believe in it. While you’re gone I will fill Watson in about what you imparted earlier – specifically regarding the dead photographer and the weekend in Kent. We are making steady progress. I envisage a role for Mr Dixie in the Longchamps stable as a groom and I can be his dithering stable-hand; mucking-out has always been my forte. How are you finding Mr Dixie?”

  “He earned his money last night. I foresee a positive future.”

  “Excellent! Excellent!” Sherlock pocketed the six business cards which had been deposited on the dressing table. “Watson and I will follow these up after we’ve had a bite to eat at Simpson’s on the Strand.”

  Card number one – the rival photographer proved a waste of time. The man turned out to be a woman who took photographs of ladies in burlesque poses which were later made into post cards and sold in tobacco shops. The studio was on the Fulham Broadway in Fulham, and several plump beauties in various stages of undress were on hand to have their flesh immortalised.

  The second card led them to a shop on the Uxbridge Road in Shepherd’s Bush. The supplier was in fact a camera repairer and an elderly gentleman, half deaf and almost blind. He worked with his widowed daughter who did most of the technical work while caring for her three young children.

  The third, who called himself a photographic specialist, sold new and used cameras. His shop was on Churton Street in Pimlico. The shop was closed and the milliner next door said the young man had not been seen for several days. He thought the young man might have gone on holiday because he had recently bought himself a fine new beaver top hat – the most lustrous in the shop - a fine new coat, a pair of new leather boots and a large suitcase.

  “That sounds promising,” said Sherlock as they proceeded to number four. “I think he might be our man but we are obliged to follow up all leads.”

  Number four, on Theobolds Road in Clerkenwell, was another supplier of photographic equipment, plus he had a dark room where camera enthusiasts could develop their own negatives or for a fee have him do it for them. He was middle-aged and worked with three apprentices, none of whom remotely resembled the roaming photographer. The shop was prosperous and business was brisk. Sherlock and Watson thanked the man kindly and left to track down number five though they both felt certain number three was the man they were after.

  Number five worked from home. He sold magic lanterns or, as they were also known, camera obscuras from the attic of his house on Stepney Green in Stepney. He was a portly man with a ruddy complexion and several chins. His wife conducted séances every Saturday evening at eight o’clock in the front parlour of their home.

  Number six on Broxash Road near Clapham Common was a fashionable camera shop which featured the latest in folding Kodak cameras as favoured by the roaming photographer. The owner was happy to demonstrate how weightless the new cameras were and how easy they were to operate; he readily showed them his book of sales which listed a certain Mr Myles Trotter who owned a camera shop in Churton Street, Pimlico. Mr Trotter had purchased two folding Kodak cameras only last week and had paid in full. He was dressed very smartly and he did not attempt to haggle about the price. He appeared to be flush with funds and he knew his way around a camera.

  “Mr Myles Trotter of Pimlico is our man,” concluded Sherlock as they hailed a hansom and returned to number 221B Baker Street ahead of the depressing fog which dropped its sooty mantle over the city every afternoon at about four o’clock. “First thing tomorrow the Countess can put her gang to watching the shop in Churton Street, alas, I fear the bird has flown the coop.”

  10

  Undercover Butler

  So much for not being caught in the same room as Major Nash! It was the major who vetted all the new faces who stepped through the door of the Diogenes Club. He cornered her in the butler’s pantry, a long and narrow room like a corridor with cupboards running either side. It had connecting doors to the kitchen, scullery, bar, wine cellar, tea and coffee making room, china room and silver vault.

  “I see you’ve already got your uniform. Good, that saves time. You can start in the dining room. They’ll be serving lunch in fifteen minutes. Pettigrew, the maître d’ will be in charge. He manages all the butlers. Has he spoken to you about what is expected?”

  She kept her eyes glued to the floor and shook her head.

  “Members help themselves to the starters and the soup from a sideboard. The principle course is always a choice of three roast meats and seasonal vegetables. It comes on a trolley. The diner will point to what he wants and you will serve. It is the same for the dessert trolley. The cheeseboard is on a separate sideboard with a selection of breads. A sommelier takes care of the wine. You are aware there is a no talking rule observed at all times?”

  She nodded; eyes still glued to the floor.

  “Good,” he said, glancing down at the list of names in his hand. “Well, good luck, Grimsby, and try to keep your back straight and your head up. Looking confident is half the trick to conquering shyness.”

  He reached the door that led to the bar and paused. She had just breathed a huge sigh of relief and dropped her guard when his voice propelled her to swivel round and meet his gaze.

  “By the way, I’m Major Nash. I have an office at the top of the stairs, first door to the right. You can bring me a gin and tonic before you report to Pettigrew. No ice.”

  Her heart was beating fast. Did he notice? Did he guess? Was the directive to bring him a gin and tonic genuine or did he want to scrutinize her at close quarters? This would be the first test of her grand deception. If she could pull it off in front of him, she could fool anyone.

  A brisk rap of knuckles five minutes later had her in his office balancing a tray with a gin and tonic she h
ad measured herself – first time ever. She erred on the side of too strong rather than too weak and hoped there would be no complaints as she placed it on a corner of the desk.

  Two large Georgian windows gave onto Pall Mall. A built-in bookcase lined with law books was set with a jib door, slightly ajar. It probably led to his private apartments. She had not considered the question of his place of habitation in London but it would have made sense that if Mycroft resided in the dome room at the top of the Diogenes Club then his ADC also resided on the premises.

  Major Nash was seated at a large writing desk in the style of William IV with four turned legs and a tooled leather surface. Twin desk lamps had been electrified and a brass inkwell with two glass pots added to the symmetry. He finished perusing an official looking document and used a dip pen to put his signature to it. His voice caught her at the door.

  “Always use a coaster, Grimsby. You don’t want to stain the antique leather surface of the desk. Same goes for the furniture downstairs in the members’ rooms. Nerves are no excuse for sloppiness.”

  Whew! She had pulled it off! At the base of the stairs she paused to draw breath and noticed Mycroft going into the dining room with a newspaper tucked under his arm. Tables were set for one and all faced a lacquered Chinese screen, Corinthian column or oak-panelled wall. None were placed near the window. Privacy was paramount at most gentlemen’s clubs but at the Diogenes it was taken to extreme.

  Pettigrew proved a real martinet but any faux pas during the serving of the meals went unobserved simply because most of the diners had their noses in a book or newspaper. If she slopped some gravy on the lip of the gilt-edged plate or carved the roast beef a little too thickly no one seemed to notice. She did not have the honour of serving the primus baro - that honour was reserved for Pettigrew - but she understood Mycroft would have come downstairs for his midday meal to make sure she managed to pull off the charade.

  He had been vehemently opposed to her going undercover at the club – A woman of all things! Are you mad! Have you lost your senses completely! – but Sherlock whispered some sort of threat into his brother’s ear and Mycroft relented. What the secret threat was no one knew but it seemed to put the wind up Mycroft and he turned white for a brief moment.

  Throughout lunch, which lasted from midday until two o’clock, she had been dreading the arrival of Major Nash. But he did not make an appearance in the dining room and she presumed he had decided to take lunch elsewhere.

  From two o’clock onwards there were the inevitable whiskies and brandies to be served and she was kept busy, running backwards and forwards from the bar to the reading room, library and billiards room where one of the members appeared to be playing a game of snooker with himself. The Diogenes Club, she concluded, was a luxurious lunatic asylum where the inmates had the keys to their own cells.

  After lunch, a majority of the members retired to their rooms to avail themselves of a nap. It was the job of the longest-serving butler to remain in the butler’s pantry where a set of small electric lights flashed for each bedroom. Since he knew everyone’s tipple, once the light flashed he wrote down the room number and the respective tipple required. No words were exchanged and whichever butler was available took the drink upstairs to the appropriate sleepyhead. It was during her fourth trip up the stairs that she bumped into Major Nash as he was coming out of his private office.

  “Grimsby,” he said in a lowered tone “I had some paperwork to finish and completely forgot about lunch. Bring a tray up to my room. No starters, no soup, a slice of roast beef with duchesse potatoes and buttered parsnips, and if there is any apple pie left I will have a serve of that with clotted cream. No need to heat any of it up. I will eat it cold.”

  He remained at the top of the landing and she could feel his eyes watch her traipse manfully down the stairs.

  She went straight to the kitchen and asked the cook for the requisite meal, mentioning that it did not need to be heated up.

  The matronly cook, wearing a mob cap, looked put out. “Bollocks! Are you new?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s wrong with your throat? Sounds like you swallowed a hornet’s nest.”

  “Laryngitis,” she rasped.

  “Gargle with warm water and salt, morning and night. Lunch is finished. This isn’t an all-day restaurant. Who requested this meal?”

  She made an exaggerated swallow and added a painful wince. “Major Nash.”

  “Why didn’t you say so? I wouldn’t do this for any other man. This place is a loony bin and he is the only one here who isn’t a loon. When you deliver this up to his room come back down and I will have a nice cup of hot tea and a thick slice of my special ginger cake fresh from the oven ready to go. What’s your name?”

  “Grimsby.”

  “Grimsby, ma’am,” corrected the cook with asperity.

  “Do you know where the Major’s rooms are, Grimsby?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she returned snappily as she snatched up the tray.

  So far, so good, but several hours had disappeared and she had learned nothing new except that butlers were grossly underpaid. She really needed to get to the Stranger’s Room since it was the only room that permitted speaking. She had spotted General de Merville in the dining room but had lost sight of him after he mounted the stairs. She wondered if it was worth searching his room. She wondered how likely it might be that a man would store something in the private bedroom of his club that he might not want to store at home.

  Hmm, worth following up.

  The door to Major Nash’s office was closed but she could hear his voice clearly. Strangely, there didn’t appear to be a second voice. It was as if he was talking to himself. The words were muffled, barely audible, but she got the impression they were throbbing with understated anger. When she gave a knock – no easy feat whilst balancing a food tray – his voice immediately ceased and when he opened the door there was only one person in the room, and that person was him. The jib door which had previously been ajar was now closed.

  With an abstract wave of his hand, he indicated for her to place the tray on a drum table. As she was closing the door she could have sworn she spotted a Matryoshka doll on his desk poking out from under a sheaf of papers that had been haphazardly placed over the top in a clumsy attempt to conceal it.

  At the top of the landing she saw General de Merville hurrying down the stairs and yet the landing had been vacant when she came up and there were no other doors opening off from the landing apart from the two doors leading to Major Nash’s suite of rooms. There had been no time for anyone to emerge from their bedrooms, cross the landing and descend the stairs. Had the general been in the room with the major and then fled through the jib door when she knocked? Or had he been listening from behind the jib door? But then who was Major Nash talking to? And where did they go?

  She reached the base of the stairs in time to see General de Merville slip into the Stranger’s Room. She pretended to be adjusting the limp tapers on the Christmas tree that centred the entrance hall and a few moments later her malingering paid off. Sir James Damery and Mr Blague arrived and were ushered by the hall porter into the same room, the room for visitors, the only room where talking was tolerated.

  Completely forgetting about the major’s cup of tea and ginger cake she raced to the bar, located the most expensive bottle of Scotch whiskey she could find, grabbed six glasses, not three, and put them on a tray. Not many men would look a double-matured single-malt gift horse in the mouth. Hopefully they would put the ambrosia down to a mistake by the new butler and have a laugh about it afterwards. Three glasses would have appeared suspicious but six would hint at the six founding members of the club who probably held board meetings somewhere sometime.

  She didn’t bother to knock.

  “There’s too much damn saddlery,” General de Merville was pontificating. “A horse lasts less than six weeks in the Transvaal.”

  “I can probably provide a hundred horses,” offered Mr Bl
ague generously. “How will that go over with the committee?”

  “Good fellow!” praised the general. “That will definitely improve your membership chances once that amendment goes through.”

  “Will it go through?” asked Damery dubiously. “I heard…”

  “What the blazes is this!” interrupted the general, spotting the butler with the tray standing by the door. “We didn’t order whiskey!”

  “You must have made some sort of mistake,” said Damery with more tact, noting the six glasses.

  De Merville rolled his eyes. “It’s the new butler. Take it away and bring…”

  “Don’t be too hasty, gentlemen,” intervened Mr Blague. “Have you seen the label? I’ve been hankering to sample that Scotch for years. Cannot be got for love nor money in Charleston or Florida.”

  “Who instructed you to bring that in here?” asked Damery abruptly.

  She adopted a throaty timbre. “I was told to bring it to the meeting room, sir, by the old butler in the pantry, sir.”

  “That’s old Colchester,” explained de Merville. “He’s seventy if he’s a day and long past it. Very well, leave it here and we’ll deal with it. What’s your name?”

  “Grimsby, sir.”

  She was ready to leave the room when she decided to pour the whiskey instead. A measure of two fingers was considered sufficient, so she made sure to make it three. No one quibbled.

  “Cheers, gentlemen!” said de Merville, raising a glass. “And don’t worry about that amendment; it will go through like a shot unopposed.”