Murder At Plums
Page 11
First the basement. The ritual demanded that all parts, all rooms of the club should be visited.
Auguste shut his eyes, and prayed that they would not think it essential to go right round his kitchens. He had visions of female prying hands in his precious books of receipts, inspecting his game larder. Fortunately, as he was leading the procession he was able to make the tour of the kitchens brief indeed, and a similarly brief glimpse was permitted of the corridor to the gentlemen’s lavatories, in the interests of lip-service to hygiene apart from decency. Fortunately the lighting everywhere in the club was turned down to its lowest, in order that the candlelit procession might be the more dignified. The procession consequently emerged from the basement fairly rapidly to pass on to the upper and more interesting parts of the building. The bedrooms, the linen closets, where much feminine discussion took place on the inferior quality of the bedlinen and the need for vigilance over staff in the matter of bedmaking. In the library the first ceremony took place: the salute to the Duke of Wellington. The Duke’s own lack of interest in the finer touches of cuisine was legendary and he gazed down from his portrait upon his meringue and cream soldier below and his old adversary with supreme indifference as Nollins called for three cheers for the Duke.
Downstairs again, the Dragoon nearly met an end as unpleasant as his real-life counterparts in the Peninsular War when he was turned rather too smartly into the path of a sword being waved by Nollins. Not an army man, he was unhappy bearing arms, even though it was for such a noble purpose: the oath of allegiance to the traditions of Plum’s. For some reason this took place in the morning room under the hippopotamus relic. For today, the relic had been removed and the ladies wondered why their menfolk were cheering a small print of Grace Darling – a master-stroke on Nollins’ part, so he had thought.
And so to the drawing room. A rather bad portrait of a simpering Captain Plum hung opposite the door and above the fireplace, where a small fire still glowed despite the month, was the club’s greatest treasure, the oil painting of ‘The Charge at Talavera’. The Dragoon came to a halt below it – not too near lest his cream melt and his strawberries fall out.
Nollins began the loyal speech of devotion to the traditions established by the Captain (or rather by his widow). It was a long speech, and Auguste’s mind wandered. It wandered to all the work put into the making of this Dragoon, only to be—
‘Huzzah! Forward the Dragoons,’ cried Nollins, ineffectually plunging his sword, said to be Plum’s own, into Napoleon’s heart, but slicing off the arm buried in his coat instead. Instantly a dozen or so swords followed his, plunging into the Emperor’s soft innards.
Instantly Auguste sprang into action. Plates appeared from nowhere, stewards appeared as if by magic to scoop poor Napoleon into serving dishes for those who wished to partake of him after the parade. The Dragoon received more reverent treatment, being respectfully disembowelled with Auguste’s best knife. According to custom, the last in the queue – in this case Gaylord Erskine rather than Egbert Rose – removed Napoleon’s bicorne and planted it firmly on his silver head.
And now the Passing song began. Raucous and tremulous voices alike, old and young, joined in as the procession surged in no order whatsoever out of the drawing room across the corridor, into the smoking room, for the last stages of the parade. The singing of the song would bring them through the glass doors into the Widow’s Folly, as the conservatory was known, then back into the house by the garden door at the far end of the building into the billiard room, then to the dining rooms for the last loyal toast to Her Majesty. Ten minutes behind them, Colonel Worthington was saluting the place where Plum’s Trophy normally hung, resolutely ignoring the fact that the hallowed place was occupied by a blasted lady.
For some obscure reason Rose was worried. He, Auguste and Erskine brought up the rear as the crowd surged across the dimly lit smoking room, the remains of Worthington’s meal, including the King of Prussia’s favourite pudding, still uncollected, Auguste noted disapprovingly. Then they passed doggedly through the glass doors into the conservatory, unlit, save by a solitary candle. The sculpted head of Captain Plum to their right on its plinth was crowned with flowers; a series of small statues of naked nymphs that made Rafael Jones green with envy every time he saw them, looked up at the gentlemen idolisingly. As each member passed through the conservatory, he bowed deeply to the Captain, turned round three times, the reason for which was lost in obscurity, and followed his predecessors into the garden, then back in through the garden door, and thence to the dining rooms. Their spouses, trying hard to take the events with the same seriousness as their menfolk, followed suit. It thus took quite a time before Rose and Erskine bringing up the rear passed through the doors into the Folly to make their obeisance. Or rather Erskine did. Rose did not. There were occasions when he saw absolutely no need to conform.
Instead, as Erskine proceeded on his gyrations Rose’s eyes peeled the darkness outside, and caught a vague glimpse, a shadow, nothing more definite. Then it was gone. A trick of the light perhaps, he thought tiredly, or rather the dark, but the sooner they were back inside the happier he would be.
Yet it was fully twenty-five minutes before they were all through the billiard room and back in the dining rooms. They were sipping their brandies there, the tables cleared and moved back now, when a piercing scream rang out. A man’s scream. Not of pure fright, not of horror, but something between the two.
Instinctively Rose gripped Erskine’s arm to reassure himself that his charge was safely by his side.
‘What was that?’ frowned Nollins nervously. Clearly it could not be ignored, and he started for the source of the scream. Rose was quicker, propelling Erskine with him – just in case. Auguste from the kitchens was quicker still. They arrived together at the door of the smoking room. In the semi-darkness Worthington’s face peered at them. Even in the gloom they could see how pale it was. He was standing at the doorway to the Folly, holding on to the open glass door, panting heavily, his face white under the Napoleonic bicorne.
‘My dear fellow,’ said Nollins, shocked, turning on the lamp. ‘Let me help you. What’s wrong?’
Others were fast behind them now, and a small crowd soon surrounded him.
‘Sorry about that,’ muttered Worthington, ‘bit of a shock. Heard something. Thought I saw someone I knew in the Folly. Wrong, that’s all. No one there.’ Half shamefacedly at causing a disturbance he subsided into one of the armchairs.
‘Weak tea, that’s the thing.’
‘Sal volatile,’ said Erskine, bustling forward, his own bicorne knocking Worthington’s twin accidentally over the Colonel’s forehead. ‘That’s the thing for sudden shock.’
‘Clear off,’ said Worthington testily. ‘I’m not an exhibit in the zoo. Brandy, I’ll have my brandy.’ He picked up the glass on the table. Then he noticed the awful truth. His eyes bulged. ‘Women,’ he exploded, seeing the interested group all offering good advice. ‘Get them out of here. Isn’t a man safe even in his own club? Leave me alone, the lot of you.’
They did.
‘Mrs Pryde, is it not?’ enquired Erskine, with some amusement.
Emma, in the midst of pouring coffee, and giving the task her complete attention, did not look up.
‘Come, Emma, this modest uniform cannot disguise the great Mrs Pryde.’
‘I’ve nothing to say to you, Gaylord,’ she said shortly. ‘Nothing at all.’ But all the same she talked to him earnestly for some moments.
‘Gaylord, do you like my dress?’ enquired Gertrude artlessly.
He jumped, looking round anxiously as if to ensure that Amelia were nowhere around. ‘Ah, quite beautiful, Mrs Briton. As beautiful as its wearer,’ he resonated in artificial tones, sweeping off his bicorne.
‘Gaylord, I’ve something to say to you,’ said Gertrude, looking meaningfully at Inspector Rose, who tactfully left their side. Erskine looked after him as if in appeal, but Rose had gone. Only Charles Briton hovered near. Very near.
Rafael Jones, standing by the door as Auguste’s staff milled in and out, surveyed the packed room and pondered the rights and wrongs of allowing women entrance. Not that it concerned him. There was never going to be a woman in his life that he could escort to Plum’s. Many of the women here had been his sitters. Juanita Salt – he shuddered at the memory. Amelia Erskine, chattering away nineteen to the dozen nearby, helping herself to coffee, no matter if anyone were listening. He’d been right not to paint her. Alice Fredericks – good bones, might be worth approaching. Gertie Briton – he grimaced. Those Preston women surrounding Samuel with their slavish devotion – boring, totally boring. His eyes moved on to the men. Perhaps he should start exploiting this fertile field. Once his problem was solved he’d think about it.
Oliver Nollins relaxed in a corner with a glass of port. Evening almost over, and all had gone well. Thank heavens. Plum’s wasn’t such a bad place to be after all.
‘Monsieur Didier, what shall I do—’
Whatever it was that John wished guidance on would have to wait. For at that moment came the unmistakable sound somewhere in the distance of a pistol shot. All conversations ceased abruptly, the room became a tableau, as everyone froze. Rose was the first to move, plunging out of the door towards the source of the sound, followed by as many of 200 people as could squeeze through the door at the same time. Pressed against the wall by the crush of bodies, by the time Auguste emerged the corridor to the smoking room was jammed.
‘Gaylord!’ screamed Amelia Erskine behind him. ‘Thank heavens you’re safe.’
So no harm had come to Erskine – Then who?
‘Pewegwine,’ yelped Juanita, ‘what is it? Is it the Fuzzy-Wuzzies?’
‘It’s the Anarchists,’ bayed Atkins, more realistically.
It was neither. Or if it was they had chosen an odd target. Colonel M. Worthington lay dead on the floor of the Widow’s Folly, shot through the heart, a Webley by his side.
Auguste’s first emotion, as he pushed his way through to the Folly to join Rose and a stunned white-faced Nollins, was of surprise. Worthington? When all their thoughts had been concentrated on the possibility of sudden death coming to Erskine, it was difficult to assimilate the fact that Worthington, so long the butt of club jokes, was lying before them dead. He swallowed hastily, overcome by emotion for the pity of it all, the wasted years, all the words that would not now be poured out of that garrulous mouth.
‘Keep the ladies out,’ was Nollins’ first stray thought. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted that. And,’ more sensibly to one of the stewards, remembering one member who could assist despite his august status as physician to royalty, ‘fetch Dr Hasleton. I think he’s still here. Then get some light in here.’
Inspector Rose bent over the dead man, then straightened. ‘Get Peeps to telephone my office, will you, Mr Nollins? Ask for Sergeant Stitch.’
‘Suicide surely,’ faltered Nollins, a slow dread creeping over him.
‘Good God,’ said Bulstrode, astonished. ‘Poor old Worthington. Knew he was boring, but never thought he’d take it to heart like that. Suicide, eh?’
‘Perhaps, sir,’ said Rose, meeting Auguste’s eye. ‘Or murder.’
‘Murder?’ cried Erskine indignantly. ‘But it was I who should have been murdered!’
Chapter Five
Nollins’ normally cherubic face displayed a combination of emotions: horror, terror, disbelief, and pathetic hope – this last a plea – that his own predicament would somehow be understood. He was conscious that he should be thinking of the sadness of sudden death, the unpredictability of life, of the virtues of the late Colonel Worthington. In fact his thoughts were occupied exclusively with how the members would react to the exiting of the corpse and the news of the reason for it, whether he would have to attend the funeral, and how it would affect the reputation of Plum’s Club for Gentlemen. A suicide perhaps. That was to be expected, if frowned upon, on club premises. But the unthinkable – a murder?
Why, a murder implied that . . . no, that thought he resolutely pushed from his mind. Why, oh why, had this torment come upon him? He felt like the Lady of Shalott. And goodness knows what Jessie would say to him when – or rather if, for it looked like being a long night – he returned home. That’s if – with a start he remembered that his wife must still be here, waiting placidly to be taken home.
He would take this monstrous bull by its horns: ‘No one, Inspector, would wish to murder Colonel Worthington. I regret to say he was not, perhaps, our most popular member, but he was part of Plum’s. Murder is out of the question.’ His tone of voice was the one with which he had with considerable bravado quelled the incipient mutiny over the rise in the luncheon prices.
Inspector Rose was not easily quelled. ‘No letter, Mr Nollins. Usually there’s a letter of some sort. Besides, he is hardly likely to come here to shoot himself, is he? Unsporting, wouldn’t you call it?’
Nollins definitely would. But less unsporting than murder. ‘Does this mean you’ll want to keep everyone here, Inspector?’ he enquired, spirits plummeting even further.
‘Police Constable Peek will take the names and addresses of those who want to leave,’ said Rose. ‘But not yet. Not till after my lads have been. Your members and their good ladies will have to stay where they are for the time being.’
At that moment ‘the lads’ arrived. Nollins shrank back at the panoply of bowler hats, helmets and large black boots. It was as though Plum’s had succumbed to enemy occupation. The word ‘lad’ did not precisely fit Sergeant Stitch.
‘Evening, Twitch – er, Stitch,’ Rose greeted him morosely.
Stitch’s eyes gleamed as he took this well-worn bon mot on the chin. Only his nose twitched slightly in acknowledgement. One day . . . But not yet. He had his career all mapped out – in his mind, at least.
‘Good evening, Inspector.’
‘Make a few notes, Stitch.’
Stitch produced a large notebook, a thick pencil and adopted the pose of keen sergeant awaiting promotion, as the doctor examined the body.
‘Deceased,’ he announced formally, if unnecessarily. No one had doubted it for an instant after seeing the sprawled body, the red mess that used to be Colonel Worthington’s evening wear, and the staring eyes.
‘This the weapon?’ Rose enquired equally formally.
The doctor glanced at the old Webley revolver in Rose’s hands. ‘You found it here?’
‘By his side.’
‘It certainly could have been,’ said the doctor cautiously.
‘Then it must be suicide,’ broke in Nollins with relief. ‘That’s the Webley young James used at Rorke’s Drift – it hangs on the wall of the smoking room.’ He almost ran to check this vital point and with relief reported his theory correct. There was a gap amongst the hundred or so weapons from assegais to rifles adorning the smoking-room walls.
‘I doubt this is a suicide,’ remarked the doctor. ‘No powder burns visible. I’d say he was shot from a few yards away.’ Their eyes travelled to the end of the Folly, cast in darkness now, to where the head of Captain Plum gazed down in indignation at this desecration of his life’s achievement.
Rose looked down at the revolver in his hands. According to that book he’d read, this piece of metal could give him all the answers. Fingerprints. But no one yet had devised a method to make use of them. It was an intriguing idea though. Meanwhile—
‘Murder,’ said Rose glumly. He had after all been on duty here, and he didn’t appreciate being made a fool of. ‘Murder without a doubt.’
‘You were right, ma mie, without a doubt,’ remarked Auguste soberly to Emma in the kitchen. A stal
wart policeman guarded the door, while the staff, torn between duty and excitement (and fear of Auguste’s wrath), bustled around in the pretence of being busy, but in fact to coordinate themselves into an ever-changing series of groups discussing various facets of the evening’s proceedings.
Emma raised an eyebrow. Auguste, diverted for a moment as he speculated on whether the nougat aux amandes had really met his standards, did not notice it.
‘There was something wrong at Plum’s, hein? Something that led to murder,’ Auguste went on. He felt dejected as well as shocked. It had been his task to prevent this murder. He had suspected it might come – though not to this victim – and he had failed to prevent it.
‘You don’t know that,’ pointed out Emma. ‘It could be someone taking advantage of the joker’s tricks to carry out ’is own dirty work.’
Auguste forgot the nougat at this uninvited intrusion into his domain. He was the detective. His retort, however, was forestalled by Nollins appearing in the kitchen in person – a sign of the unusualness of the situation.
‘Mr Didier,’ he began unhappily, ‘most unfortunate I know, but ah, there are some signs of unrest’ (as usual, an understatement) ‘as no one is yet allowed to return home. I wondered, ah – I wondered whether a few light refreshments might not come . . .’ His voice trailed off as he saw Auguste’s gaping face. ‘A few light refreshments,’ he repeated weakly, looking round at the carnage after the battle strewn around the kitchens. Only half of it had yet been cleared by the skivvies in the sculleries. Half-eaten plats lingered unappetisingly on every surface. Despite Auguste’s admonitions, sudden death had dented everyone’s zest for clearing up.
‘Come on, Auguste,’ said Emma cheerily. ‘Why not? You aren’t going to be beaten, are you? Remember they’re ’ungry, Auguste. You always say it is against your principles to allow folk to go ’ungry. ’Course,’ she added offhandedly, ‘I could always get something sent round from Gwynne’s—’