by Myers, Amy
He glared at her and turned stiffly to Nollins. ‘It will be no trouble, sir,’ he said, ‘to arrange a little light supper – a salmagundi perhaps, cold meat and removes – devilled perhaps – pickles and walnut catsup and the setpieces I held in reserve . . .’
The arrival of food – and claret – diverted the attention briefly from the unfortunate events of Plum’s fiftieth parade. It was after all well into the small hours, and some of them had things to do in the morning. A visit to their tailors, for example.
At last Sergeant Stitch came in, full of his importance as an officer of the law and not over-impressed with the inside of a gentlemen’s club. It was a gloomy old place. Needed brightening up a little. Some nice flowered wallpaper now.
‘Silence,’ he bawled. Amazed, the members did as he asked. Pink in the face at his success, Stitch continued: ‘You’re free to leave now, ladies and gentlemen, but the constable here will be taking your names and addresses.’
‘What’s that young puppy doing here?’ roared Bulstrode to his neighbour. ‘Haven’t started electing barrow-boys, have we?’
Stung to the quick, his standing in doubt, Stitch pointed out indignantly that this was a case of possible murder.
The breathless hush as Grace stood poised to make his 2,000th run in ’95 was as nothing to that in the dining room of Plum’s Club for Gentlemen as this announcement sank in. Hitherto the talk had been of what drove poor old Worthington to do it. For suicide, after all, was something that gentlemen were driven to do from time to time. Getting themselves murdered was not. It was obscurely felt that it was damned bad form.
‘Murder?’ repeated Salt, shocked, to a chorus of faint cries from the ladies. ‘Are you sure?’
Stitch dithered between his pride and his conscience. It was after all not yet official. Then he blew discretion to the winds.
‘Shot through the heart with the Webley from the smoking room,’ he announced with relish.
‘Young James’s Webley?’ roared Bulstrode. ‘One he held off the Zulus with at Rorke’s Drift? Gad, the fellow’s no gentleman.’
This was, tonight, regarded as an irrelevance by the company, shocked as much for themselves as for Worthington. Plum’s was definitely not Plum’s tonight. It had revealed itself as mortal, vulnerable to the forces of the outside world. No longer impregnable, it could offer them nothing as bulwark to their own fragility.
‘My dear Inspector.’
Rose looked up from his contemplation of the scene of the crime, annoyed.
Erskine swallowed hastily. In the Folly the remains of Colonel Worthington were being put on to a stretcher, ready for his last departure from Plum’s.
‘Forgive my intrusion, but your sergeant tells us this is possibly murder. Is that correct?’
‘Probably, sir, yes,’ replied Rose, mindful of the need to have a word with Stitch. Not often did Twitch put a foot wrong, but when he did . . . Rose liked to be the one to tell him.
‘Then I was the intended victim!’ cried Erskine dramatically.
‘Indeed?’ Rose saw a chasm yawning before him; though his face remained impassive.
Sensing he had Rose’s full attention, however, Erskine swept on: ‘Someone must have seen Colonel Worthington in the Folly wearing his bicorne and mistaken him for me.’
‘Hardly likely, sir, is it? After all, if he thought it was you in the Folly there could have been the danger of his being spotted by Worthington from the smoking room, not to mention the matter of his having by coincidence a gun in his hand just at the moment he spotted you.’
‘Then,’ said Erskine, piqued, ‘pray forgive my intrusion, Inspector. I ask you to bear this in mind. I am somewhat – tired.’ So he was after his discussions with Charlie Briton and Samuel Preston. It had required a certain dexterity to convey to husband and father that suspicion might be one thing, proof another. For those in the public eye, he had murmured, these accusations were painful, hurtful – and, furthermore, unfounded. How fortunate, he congratulated himself, that he was always prepared for these encounters.
‘Well over two hundred, sir, and the staff. That’s nearly three hundred.’
‘And you’re not sure of the intended victim? That it?’
Rose slumped down in one of the armchairs in the smoking room, envisaging his meeting with the Chief Constable tomorrow. He was unduly depressed. After all, it didn’t look good, his being there while the murder took place. The gentlemen of the press would have sharp questions. Somebody had calculated that in the crowds present at Plum’s last night, Rose was no more threat to him than the Assistant Commissioner himself high in his office overlooking the Embankment. Correct, but not reassuring to Her Majesty’s subjects. And Rose took it as a personal affront.
Watching him somewhat hesitantly in the doorway was Auguste Didier who could guess what was in Rose’s mind, since it was written on every line of his lugubrious face.
Rose looked up and saw him. His expression did not change. ‘I thought you’d have prevented this, Didier.’
Auguste stiffened, and said nothing. He was mortified. There was a heavy silence. Then he said with difficulty: ‘One cannot prevent murder, Inspector, with a determined, careful murderer. But we will find him, hein? It is definitely not by his own hand?’
Rose looked at him sharply. ‘I shouldn’t have said that, Mr Didier. It was my job. I was there to guard against it. And I didn’t. Wrong of me to blame you.’
‘You were there to guard Erskine, monsieur,’ said Auguste, only a little mollified. ‘Not Worthington.’
‘I should have seen it. As to suicide, from what I hear of him, if Worthington committed suicide he’d want everyone to hear about it. If he didn’t make a speech about it beforehand, he’d certainly have left a forty-page letter.’
‘But who would wish to kill Colonel Worthington? You do not make a pie aux truffes out of the humble rabbit. One requires more exotic ingredients like Mr Erskine.’
‘Ah well, according to our Mr Erskine, this was an attempt to kill him. Confused the hats, he thinks. Can’t be, of course. Yet he certainly seems more likely to have been cut out to be murdered. After all, Worthington seems to have been an everyday sort of chap.’
‘Yet apparently, monsieur, this simple everyday chap had such a fright earlier last evening that everyone rushed in here to see what was wrong. Is that not so?’
‘By crikey. I’d almost forgotten that. The mysterious stranger – someone he knew, he said. You’re right. I came in myself. Looked quite pale. Mind you, I daresay that’s quite natural, after the richness of that meal,’ said Rose slyly, with a sidelong look at Auguste, who puffed up indignantly, but was inwardly relieved. Rose was himself again. ‘A touch too much lobster perhaps.’
‘Not my lobster,’ muttered Auguste fiercely, ‘He’d rushed into the conservatory. Was it to see someone who had lingered from the end of the parade?’
‘I was at the end of the parade with Erskine,’ Rose pointed out shortly. ‘In any case, there was a ten-minute gap at least before Worthington came on to the scene. I grant you, anyone could have left the parade after we’d re-entered the house.’
‘Then how would he reach the conservatory again, unless it was after you had all gathered in the dining rooms?’
‘Or perhaps it was one of your staff, Monsieur Didier.’
‘One of my staff would not wander off into the conservatory where they had no business to be,’ said Auguste loftily. ‘Except perhaps,’ he added, ‘the temporary staff.’
‘Temporary?’
‘Hired for the evening, monsieur, to cope with the extra numbers.’ He had an uncomfortable jolt as he recalled the curious matter of the forty-fifth man.
Rose sank into further gloom – more problems. An indefinite number of possible villains – that was all he needed.
Reluctant to concede that any of his staff – however temporary – might be concerned in this matter, Auguste suggested, ‘It was someone entered from the garden perhaps?’
‘Too dark surely.’
‘No, because there was little light in the conservatory or the smoking room. It would be quite possible to see a person in the garden, especially if the face were suddenly pressed up against the pane.’
‘But what happened then? He gave Worthington a fright. But he wasn’t shot till long after that.’
‘He could have come into the Folly after we had left Worthington alone, and called to him.’
Rose did not seem overjoyed at this simple explanation, perhaps because the chances of finding an anonymous person in the garden were even less than finding a villain among the 300 or so people in the club. They were at least a defined group.
‘It is motive we seek, monsieur. Though it is hard to see a motive for murdering Colonel Worthington.’
‘You would be surprised, Didier. All sorts of offal comes out when you start gutting the rabbit, eh?’
‘But is it not more likely that Erskine was the intended victim?’ asked Auguste. ‘It is after all strange that there should be two persons of murderous intent in Plum’s.’
‘Unless it’s someone with a grudge against Plum’s, of course.’
‘Then we deal with a madman,’ said Auguste forthrightly. ‘But I do not think this man mad, monsieur, or if he is then but mad nor’-nor’-east, as your good Prince Hamlet remarks.’
‘No, I don’t think we’ve a madman here – any kind of madman,’ ruminated Rose, disregarding Auguste’s erudition. ‘Of course, I suppose our chap in the garden could have come in to kill Erskine and found Worthington in his way.’
‘Very careless,’ commented Auguste. ‘Perhaps, monsieur, this Worthington knew who was threatening Erskine and so he had to be killed first?’
‘Now that’s a thought,’ said Rose. ‘Though it don’t explain why he didn’t tell us who the man in the Folly was. Or woman,’ he added.
‘Colonel Worthington would not rush outside for a mere woman,’ said Auguste laughing. ‘Or if he did, he would have told everyone with much anger. He hated women.’
‘Misogynist, eh? That rules out jealous mistresses then. Not that he exactly looked the Casanova type. What else do you know of him? What sort of chap was he?’
‘He was—’ Auguste paused. What had Worthington been like? Had Plum’s known anything of the real man? ‘He was just the club bore, Inspector. He sat in his chair; he talked and talked. He had been a member for many years and, since his retirement, I heard he came in every day. He is – was – looked after by a housekeeper. He fought at Chillianwallah. Everyone knew he fought at Chillianwallah.’
‘That was a fair time ago,’ observed Rose. ‘Before the Crimea, wasn’t it? What’s he done since, I wonder?’
Erskine went to meet his wife as she came out of the temporary cloakroom. He put his arm around her and solicitously helped her arrange her light summer cloak. ‘Come, Amelia, I am safe.’
‘Oh Gaylord, suppose it had been you,’ she wailed to the sympathetic glances of the other ladies.
‘There, there, my love, Inspector Rose will ensure that nothing happens to me.’
Inspector Rose himself, still furiously making notes in the smoking room, was not so sure.
‘Jorrocks’ Atkins metaphorically hung up his boots and went to bed. Gad, what a day. Plum’s Passing and old Worthington dead. He hadn’t quite taken it in yet. But he would, just as soon as he returned to Warwickshire and sat a horse again. The old scores were settled now all right.
One of Auguste’s temporary waiters took off his evening dress with a sigh of relief. What an evening. He wouldn’t have missed it for. the world. Better than anything at the theatre.
Weary after the day, Emma stretched out lazily in her silk-quilted bed. She wasn’t used to so much physical labour nowadays – nor to quite such an emotional experience. Her Frenchness came to the fore. But it had all gone well – all of it. Glorying in the luxuriousness of her single bed, she purred to herself, turned over and went to sleep.
Chapter Six
Plum’s had an uneasy calm about it. A few stalwarts came for coffee, perhaps in curiosity, perhaps in defiance, as if to prove that nothing would change old Plum’s. Even a phalanx of policemen. In contrast, Gwynne’s was humming with life. Auguste peeped out at the crowded foyer from Emma’s private office. He closed the door and sank into an armchair.
‘Dearest Emma, thank you for your help yesterday.’
‘Nothing at all,’ she murmured.
‘Watcher, cock,’ contributed Disraeli, alighting proprietorially on Emma’s shoulder.
‘Ah, but yes,’ commented Auguste, ignoring this intervention, ‘for a great cook, to put oneself under the command of another – I know what that means.’
‘You’re very kind,’ she said, keeping a straight face.
‘It is not often that I say of a lady cook, magnificent. But of you, I do. Your charlotte de pêches—’
‘It’s your day off,’ she pointed out. ‘And you talk about food? With a murder to discuss instead?’
‘Naturally. Food is my love, my great passion—’
‘I thought Tatiana was your great passion,’ she said tauntingly.
‘The Princess Tatiana is the great unattainable passion of my life,’ he retorted gravely. ‘Food, fortunately, is more attainable.’
‘So apparently is murder,’ said Emma, determined to drag the subject back to the more immediately engrossing of the two. ‘Didn’t I say there was something odd going on at Plum’s?’ she crowed.
‘Yes,’ said Auguste shortly. ‘We both did. Now it is murder.’
‘And we’ll both solve it,’ said Emma happily.
‘Ma mie, you are a cook not a detective.’
‘You always say they need the same skills.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Auguste, nettled.
‘Now who,’ said Emma, happily settling down, ‘would want to murder old Worthington?’
‘This is not proved yet. The intended victim might be Erskine.’ Auguste was not going to share his detective role without a struggle.
‘Oh no.’ Emma dismissed this. ‘Worthington without doubt. What about that person he saw in the Folly? It’s clear they came back and did him in – and that’s what I was going to tell you. I saw someone in the garden just after I arrived. Waiting, hiding. A man.’
‘But that could have been our forty-fifth waiter perhaps. Ah, but Emma, pray think. If the murderer were someone entering from the garden, how did they get the gun from the wall?’
‘That’s where the waiter outfit comes in. ’E takes the gun earlier and then goes into the garden till ’e lures Worthington into the Folly. But Worthington cries out and so ’e dodges back into the garden in case anyone sees ’im.’
‘Why not just come into the smoking room and kill Worthington?’ said Auguste simply.
‘I don’t know,’ said Emma, annoyed. ‘But ’e didn’t.’
‘Ah,’ said Auguste loftily. ‘When you have investigated as many murders as I have, you will know the best sauce is the simplest.’
‘Then ’ow is it,’ retorted Emma, ‘that you choose Francatelli’s chevreuil sauce for game and not Soyer’s orange sauce?’
‘I,’ said Auguste, firing up, ‘do not need to avail myself of anybody’s recipes for game sauce. And particularly not that of Monsieur Soyer. I use Didier’s sauce. The sauce created by Auguste Didier.’
‘Not particularly simple, is it?’ taunted Emma. ‘Red-currants, mace—’
‘And you,’ shouted Auguste, deciding to bring war to the gates of the enemy, ‘with your boar’s-head sauce, Emma. You speak to me of simplicity—’
The door opened.
‘Charlie,’ said Emma, pained. ‘This is my private office.’
‘Yes, but it’s only me.’ A frown crossed his face. ‘Aren’t you Plum’s cook?’
Auguste flushed. ‘I
am—’
‘Monsieur Didier is the maitre chef,’ said Emma, ‘and you can either come in and be civil or be on your way.’
‘That’s what I like about you, Emma,’ said Charles Briton happily, coming in. ‘Welcoming. Anyway, you don’t know what a beastly day I’ve had. Gertrude in floods of tears because of a “nasty murder and will the Inspector think I’ve done it?” Why on earth he should think she decided to shoot an old colonel, I’ve no idea. Then on top of that, that Inspector chappie – I say, Emma, is it all right to talk in front of him?’ He broke off.
‘Yes, Charlie, if you mean Auguste.’
‘Grills me about Erskine. Seems to think I saw old Worthington off because Erskine was – um – making eyes at my wife. Couldn’t follow his logic.’ Yet for all his innocent mystification, Charles’ eyes were surprisingly sharp, Auguste noted with interest.
‘That’s because Erskine might ’ave been the intended victim,’ explained Emma patiently.
‘Oh, is that it?’ said Charlie. ‘Well, that gives quite a few of us a motive, doesn’t it?’ He looked meaningfully at Emma. ‘Even the cook.’
Emma’s eyes flashed dangerously. ‘You’ve been drinking, Charlie. Out.’
Charlie took one look at her and decided he had an appointment elsewhere.
‘What did he mean, my love, about my having a motive to kill Erskine?’ Auguste asked suspiciously.
‘It’s none of your business, Auguste,’ said Emma shortly. ‘None of your business at all.’
Egbert Rose perched uncomfortably on the fragile balloon-backed chair and tried to avert his fascinated gaze from Juanita Salt’s ample curves overflowing the sides of her companion balloon-back chair. Peregrine Salt, his more dapper frame fitting the furniture without problem, was the only one of them at ease.
Juanita clearly was not, whether because of her seating or for another reason; her glances from her black eyes flashed at her husband, and even the ‘Pewegwine’ that had floated out across the air as Rose was announced was extra shrill.
‘Poor James’s Webley, Inspector? Of course I knew it was there,’ said Salt easily. ‘We value our heritage at Plum’s. Particularly of our successes. Rorke’s Drift was a triumph for the British. Not like poor Mortimer’s—’