by Myers, Amy
‘Tell him, Mary.’ Agnes had her blushing colleague firmly by the wrist.
‘Alors, what, mes petites, is this?’ Auguste enquired, somewhat irritated. True, luncheon was now served, but he had been in the midst of concocting an entirely new sauce for this evening’s turbot.
‘You said to tell you anything we found out unusual,’ said Agnes, a little hurt that her god was clearly out of sorts. ‘Well, Mary has, only she won’t tell you.’
‘In the club, ’e said,’ offered Mary weakly.
Agnes treated this as of no account and merely reiterated, ‘Tell ’im.’
‘It ain’t proper,’ whispered Mary.
Agnes sighed. ‘It’s not like ’e’s a man,’ she pointed out. ‘Mr Auguste’s more like a doctor. You got to tell ’im.’
Auguste took this slur against his manhood nobly. ‘At the moment, I am,’ he conceded, in the interests of his detective art. ‘Now tell me, petite Marie, what ails you?’
‘Not me,’ said Mary, shocked. ‘I wouldn’t do a thing like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like what Cissie’s cousin does.’
‘Cissie?’ repeated Auguste blankly.
Agnes took charge. ‘Cissie’s ’er friend. Cissie told ’er, ’er cousin goes round to this painter’s house and is a model.’
‘And?’
‘She don’t have no clothes on,’ whispered Mary, emboldened.
‘So, mothers may disapprove,’ said Auguste, losing interest, ‘but—’
‘’E does other things,’ said Mary desperately, shutting her eyes against Auguste’s reaction.
‘I thought you ought to know, Mr D,’ said Agnes virtuously. ‘’Cos this Sir Jones is a member ’ere. So’s that Colonel Worthington who Rosie’s aunt does for, and she’s so pally with. And so’s Mr Erskine who Cissie works for. And someone’s trying to do Mr Erskine in.’ Her eyes grew round in the excitement of her detective abilities.
‘Lamentable, but Cissie’s cousin is a grown woman and not known to me. I cannot—’
‘But she ain’t, Mr Didier. Rosie’s only twelve.’
‘Gentlemen,’ Worthington’s voice trumpeted down the luncheon table, ‘we may have lost the battle, but I at least do not consider the war lost. When I was at Chillianwallah . . .’
Five minutes later the table was shifting uncomfortably and Samuel Preston’s fleeting admiration for the stalwart British bulldog vanished. He let his thoughts wander to what would happen in the House if members reminisced on their past careers. Not that there was much temptation; they were usually all too anxious to keep them hidden. He wasn’t the only one . . .
‘Then, gentlemen, there are the lavatories,’ Worthington ground on, inexorably trumpeting over anyone else’s efforts to speak. Worthington, baulked of his moment the other day, would now be heard.
Every member’s mind went immediately to the invitation blazoned over the gentlemen’s conveniences in the basement, for adulterers to absent themselves forthwith, and another ripple of unease ran through the company. ‘We cannot expect ladies even for one evening to use the – urn – conveniences provided in our basement. Nor’ – Worthington intoned grandly – ‘the chamber pots.’
These were discreetly kept in cupboards in the drawing and dining rooms so that members did not have to endure the walk along the cold corridor below.
‘The secretary’s water closet then.’
‘At the top of the building?’
‘Commodes,’ suggested Briton, blushing slightly.
‘And where will these commodes be placed? Has Mr Nollins thought of that?’
Pleased with the results of his first broadside, Worthington continued.
‘Furthermore, gentlemen, there is the parade to consider.’
Slowly those members who had not already done so, began to realise the full purport of the admission of ladies to the Passing. Not just the dinner: they would be present on the Parade. The secrets of the ceremonial were jealously guarded amongst themselves; no murmur of its ritual was discussed outside the club. But with the ladies on the premises, taking part . . .
‘Exactly, gentlemen.’ Well pleased, Worthington took another bite of Auguste’s grouse pie. There was a buzz of discussion.
‘They’ll be wandering damn well everywhere,’ said Salt, with relish. ‘Juanita can’t keep her nose out of . . .’ He stopped, abruptly conscious of letting the side down.
‘We can’t take ’em through the smoking room, the lavatories—’
‘Can’t change the route,’ said Worthington almost smugly. ‘It’s the tradition.’
‘What about the Etty?’
Rafael Jones stirred interestedly. Etty? He had never seen that.
‘We’ll have to put a curtain over it,’ said General Fredericks.
‘Daphne would look behind it,’ grunted Bulstrode. ‘Mind you, she won’t be shocked by a gal with no clothes on.’
It occurred to Charles Briton this was the only time he could recall that the great rule had been broken – wives had been mentioned in the club. Things had come to a pretty pass, he realised.
‘Now, gentlemen. Shall we not contain the ladies in the dining room? Keep the parade to ourselves?’ Worthington was triumphant, thinking the battle won. But Worthington in his bachelor state was unaware of the obstacles.
‘I’m afraid, Worthington, Lady Fredericks would never stand for being contained in the dining room,’ said the General politely but firmly.
‘I’d like to see Daphne being told she’s to stay behind while we went out,’ snorted Bulstrode.
‘I don’t see why,’ said Salt reflectively. ‘After all, they leave us to – um – refresh themselves, and leave us to our port. Why don’t we have the parade then? Perhaps a magic-lantern show for the ladies?’
‘I think you’re being optimistic, Salt,’ laughed Erskine, his wounded wrist lying obtrusively on the chair arm. ‘I don’t see the ladies being content with magic lanterns. They’ll all be far too curious about the parade.’ There were murmurs of reluctant agreement. Slowly eyes slid away from Worthington.
Worthington was apoplectic though unfortunately not speechless. ‘Plum’s will never be the same again,’ he barked. ‘Once a woman has set foot in the door, it’ll not be the place we know.’
‘I agree with Worthington,’ said Gaylord Erskine smoothly. ‘Devoted as I am to the ladies, I feel there is something uniquely British about this institution. However we must face reality. Now the committee’ (he emphasised the word) ‘have agreed to their admission, we cannot leave them while the ceremony takes place.’
Worthington glared. He didn’t want support from vagabond actors. Pansies all of them, he had little doubt.
Slowly he stood up. ‘If the ladies join the parade, I shall not.’ He looked round, but no one seemed unduly impressed by this statement. ‘I,’ he said stiffly, ‘shall hold my own parade. Those who wish may join me.’
There was a great shout of laughter from ‘Jorrocks’ Atkins, who hitherto had been silent. ‘Stubborn as ever, you old fool.’
Worthington ignored this pleasantry.
‘You’re with me, Erskine?’ he said almost pleadingly.
‘Alas, I fear in any case I would make myself too conspicuous a target, Worthington—’ He held up his arm to display Mrs Hoskins’ bandage to the company. ‘I’m afraid my enemy grows impatient.’
Amid the welter of comment that broke out, the explanations, the descriptions and the growing unease of the company, only Worthington stood aloof, determined not to be deflected by a mere attempt at murder from the all-important business.
‘Well,’ he barked at last, unable to hold back any longer. ‘Who is with me?’
A silence, an avoidance of his eye.
‘Very well,’ he said slowly. ‘I shall walk on my own. With,’ he added, hurt, in case anyone should mistake his meaning, ‘my own Dragoon. And Napoleon.’
Chapter Four
Egbert Rose rapped to attract the atte
ntion of the cab driver. He was not at all sure that it was a wise idea to call upon Auguste Didier in his kitchen at Plum’s, where undoubtedly he would be surrounded by every known delicacy in various states of preparation, when they tended to look considerably less appetising. Especially to one who had breakfasted on Mrs Rose’s mutton chop. This was not their normal fare at their Highbury home, but Mrs Rose, a dedicated wife, had been reading her Lady’s Magazine and had decided Egbert needed A Good Breakfast before starting out on his day’s work, better, that is, than the greasy sausage and cold toast to which he was accustomed. Whether the magazine would have recognised the pale lump that greeted Egbert on his descent to the Highbury dining room is in some doubt, as indeed his stomach now appeared to be.
He was returning from the scene of a Mayfair burglary and decided that he was near enough to St James’s to warrant a visit to Plum’s. Young Constable Peek standing stolidly in the square on observation duty could cope well enough. After all, no one had died yet, even the knifing could still be the work of a joker, hardly enough to demand an inspector’s attention. Gaylord Erskine, however, had a habit of getting his own way, and the Assistant Commissioner had spelled out quite clearly that he wanted nothing to happen to Mr Erskine. He stopped the cab in York Street, electing to go in through the tradesmen’s entrance. There was no need to draw everyone’s attention to the fact that he was on good terms with Auguste, just in case there was anything to these threats. Rose was aware that he might not be entirely welcome. The Passing, after all, took place tomorrow.
‘You are late,’ rang out Auguste’s accusing voice as he entered the door. ‘Ah, Inspector, you I did not expect. But the fishman with the crayfish, yes. How am I to prepare a bisque of crayfish à l’Ancienne—’
‘I ain’t a fishman, Mr Didier.’
Auguste was standing pale of face before a huge blackboard covered with squiggles in chalk, indecipherable to Rose, but clearly of great import to Auguste.
‘It is no use, I shall never accomplish it,’ was Auguste’s judgement.
‘Not like you to admit that, Mr Didier.’
‘That is true, but in this case . . .’ Auguste shrugged dejectedly, ‘perhaps it is so. Perhaps Soyer is le vrai maître.’
‘Perhaps a little discussion of murder will take your mind off things.’
‘Suicide, perhaps,’ muttered Auguste, staring wildly at the list, as though to drag his eyes away might make his task yet more difficult.
‘Come now, Mr Auguste. It’s only a meal, only food,’ said Rose cheerily.
Auguste regarded him with horror. ‘Only? Monsieur, do you know that the chef of le roi Louis Quatorze fell upon his sword because the fish did not arrive in time? There is honour, monsieur, my honour to consider. And the scallops have, not arrived!’
‘I’ve got my honour, too, Monsieur Didier,’ said Rose firmly. No need to let these Frenchies think they were entitled to all the laurels where drama was concerned.
Auguste regarded him doubtfully.
‘I’ve to make sure that nothing happens to Mr Erskine at this parade of yours.’
Auguste’s bosom swelled. ‘You suggest once more, monsieur, that I would stoop to—’
‘No, no, no, you mistake my meaning,’ said Rose hastily. Lord knows how long it would be if he couldn’t get Auguste off that track. ‘There’s been another attack on Mr Erskine, you see. Someone tried to knife him in the middle of a crowd.’
‘So,’ said Auguste triumphantly, ‘you no longer talk of jokes, hein? Now you know there is murder abroad.’
‘Not convinced of it, Mr Didier. Why these other attempts, poison letters to Peeps, tearing up newspapers and the like, if Mr Erskine is the target?’
‘Perhaps because our joker wishes it to be thought he is mad. You do not see the bad mussel amongst the harmless ones. It is to conceal his deadly intent. And there are many reasons that Mr Erskine is not so popular as he appears. I have reason to suspect,’ he said pompously, ‘he is a blackmailer, an adulterer, and a vile seducer.’
‘No need to overegg the soufflé,’ said Rose, enjoying himself. ‘One will do. Which, that’s the problem. I think,’ he went on, eyeing the menu for Plum’s Passing written upon the blackboard, ‘I’d better be present at this parade. Seems to me that there might well be trouble . . . Sole au chablis, eh, Mr Didier?’
Gaylord Erskine was opening his morning post. He stared at one letter, the message in which though unsigned was simple:
‘Death at the Passing’.
He laid it on the table carefully and looked up to see his wife watching him steadily. She took the piece of paper and perused it carefully. Her lip trembled. ‘Oh Gaylord.’
He spoke swiftly. ‘Don’t worry, Amelia. I will show this to the police. We have to put an end to it.’
In the kitchens Auguste put the last loving touches to the pièces montées of the 23rd Light Dragoon and the Emperor Napoleon. Then to the rather more hastily concocted ones for Worthington’s private parade. Another bicorne hat had hastily been acquired from a theatrical costumier’s for Worthington’s Napoleon so that the honoured custom of the last person in the procession donning the hat might in this case be carried out by Worthington. The old custom of a chocolate bicorne had been discontinued owing to an unfortunate accident one year when the wearer stood too close to a log fire on an unseasonably chilly June night.
The Colonel would be busy, reflected Auguste wryly. He had to make the loyal toast, give the Forward the Dragoons signal, kill Napoleon, and don the bicorne all by himself. He only wished he could be present to watch it. But he must lead the main procession. Who could carry Worthington’s pièces montées? He thought briefly of Worthington’s face if he sent Emma and discarded the idea. John could perhaps do it – he would send one of the temporary staff with him to assist.
The morning of Plum’s Passing dawned bright. It was 17th June. The excitement of the Derby had passed. The delights of Ascot were not far off.
‘Tradesmen’s entrance, laddie.’
Faced with the full top-hatted might of Alfred Peeps, the youth quailed behind his huge, discreetly shrouded burden.
‘They told us up ’ere.’
‘Then go back, son, and tell Mr Didier with my compliments that I told you down there. This entrance is for members, not for baskets. I’ve ’ad four of them already. And a basket of flowers.’
Three minutes later Auguste Didier presented himself before Mr Peeps.
‘Is it not enough,’ he exploded, ‘that I have the fishman, the butcher, the vegetables, the candles – all arriving at my door? Mr Peeps, this is an exceptional occasion. This is the Passing. I will not have commodes travelling through my kitchen door.’
‘Then you can send them up through the garden passage door, Mr Didier. They ain’t coming in through my front entrance.’
Greek met Greek, but Gallic guile won.
‘Mr Peeps, do you not have the good of Plum’s at heart? I have a police constable outside my kitchen door. A large one. Would you prefer he stands on the front steps?’
Peeps’ face blanched. ‘Maybe I was a bit hasty. After all, it is the Passing, Mr Didier. Just for today then. Tell you the truth, Mr Didier, it’s these letters upset me. I’ve had another, you see. Nasty they are. Can’t be a member of course.’
‘You must show them to the police,’ said Auguste gravely.
Peeps looked shocked. ‘And bring Plum’s into disrepute? You should see the things they say, Mr Didier.’
‘Then let me see.’
Peeps clearly wished he had not spoken. Turning a deep purple, caught in a trap of his own making, he handed the letter to Auguste. At Scotland Yard, Rose at that time was reading one on identical paper. But Peeps’ did not offer death. It merely accused him of falsifying the monies left with him for racing bets and of rendering highly personal services towards the housemaids. It was difficult to refrain from laughing as Auguste handed him back the letter.
‘I think you had better show this t
o Inspector Rose,’ he said quietly. ‘It is evident that no one would believe it.’ Too late he wondered if Peeps would regard this as an insult as regards the second of the claims, but it appeared not for Peeps merely said glumly:
‘But what if he thinks I’m involved, Mr Didier?’
Auguste ridiculed the idea. Yet on his way back to the kitchens, it did occur to him that the hall porter might be ideally placed for the perpetration of many of the small incidents that had taken place in Plum’s.
Auguste descended once more into the maelstrom below. He had only been away ten minutes and already a heap of baskets adorned the kitchen floor encircled as around a maypole by five of his staff.
‘Alors, Gladys, the mushrooms,’ he rasped. ‘And where are the truffles?’
The door crashed open. ‘Paxton’s, Mr Didier.’
‘Mr Didier, Crosse and Blackwell are here—’
‘Mr Didier, where shall I put the godiveaux now I’ve done them?’
‘Mr Didier, they ain’t sent the venison.’
It was too much. He had been up since four o’clock in order to visit Covent Garden and pick out for himself the very best of their produce. In order to do this he had been obliged to forgo a rare invitation from Emma Pryde to share her bed, and was consequently torn between a sulky resentment of the demands on a maitre chef and a conscious glow of rectitude. And the blackboard seemed to grow larger and larger, dominating the kitchen with its lists of tasks to do.
‘Alors, where are the turnips for the Ducks à l’aubergiste?’ he demanded. ‘Turnips!’ he screamed, seeing the gaping faces around him. ‘Am I surrounded by imbeciles? Turnips. Is there no one who can provide me with turnips?’