by Myers, Amy
He broke off and continued: ‘I myself had the honour to donate a South American blowpipe and the assegai used by Cetshwayo at Mathambo – the Place of Bones. Perhaps you noticed them?’
‘I didn’t know you were an army man, sir.’
‘I am not, Inspector. There are other reasons for visiting Africa. I am an explorer, Inspector. Of today and of the past. My early travels brought me into acquaintance with Shepstone and Durnford, before the Zulu war took place.’
‘But Pewegwine was a fwiend of King Cetshwayo—’ interjected Juanita proudly.
‘Hardly a friend, my dear,’ Salt said hastily, seeing Rose’s shocked expression at this admission of consorting with heathen enemies of Her Majesty.
‘Fwiend,’ said Juanita, eyes flashing dangerously.
‘Yes, well. Of course my travels in Troy—’
Rose was not interested in Troy.
‘You said I was your Helen,’ offered Juanita. ‘He put a necklace wound my neck. Helen’s necklace.’
Salt visibly shuddered; that was many years ago, and the bosom had broadened. ‘The Inspector is not interested in Troy, my dear.’
‘Very nice indeed, I’m sure,’ said Rose hastily. ‘But I’m more interested in last night.’
‘Poor Colonel.’
‘Did you know the deceased, madam?’ This casual question produced an interesting response. Her answer was clear enough, but he could swear the tension in the room increased and that the black eyes flashed briefly to her husband.
‘I have met the Colonel once or twice at soiwees, Inspector, but I did not see him last evening. I was in the dining woom with my husband.’
‘And Mr Erskine, ma’am,’ Rose suddenly asked, ‘you know him?’
This time there was no mistaking the flash. ‘He, too, I know, Mr Wose. I do not like him. I see him last night. He was wude to me.’
She shut her mouth obstinately, unwilling to reveal the nature of this rudeness which had consisted of his thoughtful eye on her ample curves, and a certain smile . . .
‘Did you both remain in the dining room all the time, sir, between the end of the parade and the time Colonel Worthington was heard to cry out?’
‘I believe so, Inspector. Where else was there to go?’
‘The lavatowy, Pewegwine. That’s where I went.’
Salt managed a sickly smile at the Inspector. ‘Ah yes, Inspector. I did not, but um, my wife—’
‘Commodes,’ said Juanita. ‘I do not like them. But Pewegwine said ladies must not go downstairs, so they put these things—’
‘My dear,’ murmured Salt weakly. ‘It is not fitting—’
‘No, it is not fitting,’ agreed Juanita. ‘It is much, much too small. But—’
Rose cut across this fascinating discussion with, ‘So you visited the ladies’ – er – retiring room which was to the left of the dining rooms. You did not go into the garden at all, or to the smoking room? Or see anybody else do so?’
‘I do not walk backwards, Mr Wose. I see nobody behind me.’ She rose with an imperious sweep of five yards of purple satin. The interview was at an end.
‘Fifty-four, Monsieur Didier.’
‘No, this is impossible, John. You mean forty-four.’
‘No, fifty-four, Mr Didier. I counted them.’ John was annoyed at having his integrity challenged. He’d been at Plum’s a lot longer than Mr Didier, and that entitled him to some respect.
‘But—’
‘There was the côtelettes de mouton à la purée d’artichauts, those oyster patty things, the—’
‘No, John, pas les entrées. The staff.’
‘The staff, Mr Didier?’
‘Yes, the extra staff. Did you count them?’
‘Didn’t think to. Too busy.’ Indeed he had been, rushing here, there and everywhere showing these temporaries where to go, what to do. Last thing he wanted to do was count them.
‘Someone’s murdered Colonel Worthington, John,’ explained Auguste unnecessarily. Plum’s buzzed on all floors with talk of nothing else.
‘And you think it may have been one of these extras?’ asked John, frowning. ‘Doesn’t seem likely, if you’ll excuse my saying so. What would a stranger want to be doing that for?’
‘Perhaps one of his enemies masqueraded as a stranger.’
John thought this over. ‘How would he have known there was a gun on the wall?’ he asked brightly. Auguste stared at him nonplussed. He hadn’t thought of that, so how dare his underling think of it? ‘No, if you ask me,’ said John, proud of the result he had achieved, ‘it must have been one of the guests. Each to his own, that’s what I say. Nob killed, look for another nob who did him in.’
‘But why was he not seen?’
‘True enough, everyone was in the dining rooms, but with all us waiters running around, all the gents running down to the urinals, them not being able to use the pots, anyone could have done it. All the ladies running in and out, too,’ he added more delicately. ‘Half of them didn’t know where it was, neither. Saw at least one of them going the wrong way out of the dining-room door.’
‘Who?’
‘Wouldn’t know, Mr Didier. Too dark to see with the gas turned down that low. Anyway, I thought the Colonel were killed in the Folly?’
‘That is correct. He rushed out to the Folly to talk to someone, then returned. Then went out again later and was shot.’
‘Well, Mr Auguste, it weren’t no man. It were a woman, first time at any rate. I heard her. I was in the well of the stairs, next to the smoking room, where I’d put my service trolley, and I heard this voice through the window coming from the Folly. Just before you all came rushing out to see what were happening. She were calling, “Please come. Come back to me, darling.” Low and mysterious-like. “Darling, I need you.” He will be pleased, I thought to meself.’
‘Are you sureit was from the Folly, John?’
‘Oh yes, Mr Didier, definitely from the Folly. Or the garden, perhaps. ’Course, nothing to say she came back later to shoot him, is there?”
Auguste went into the Folly, and stood outside the French windows, looking into the smoking room. He satisfied a little theory of his. From the windows the deep wing chair facing the fire in which the Colonel always sat would not show his face. But the bicorne would be clearly visible.
Miss Sylvia and Mrs Mary Preston sat side by side on the sofa. They looked to Samuel for their inspiration. Identically dressed in high-necked blouses and plain blue daytime skirts, hands folded neatly in laps, they seemed more like obedient staff than personalities in their own right.
‘We were talking to Mr Erskine,’ said Preston easily. ‘And who else, my dear, do you recall?’
‘Lady Fredericks, Sir Rafael—’ came the quick response.
‘And when the shot rang out?’ asked Rose.
Preston frowned. ‘I cannot – ah yes, I believe we were with each other, were we not? Yes, Mrs Erskine was talking to her husband behind us; Lady Fredericks was by my side – speaking rather loudly to someone; I recall that for when the shot came I was near the door and collided with her ladyship as we attempted to see the cause of the disturbance. I had, I believe, my dear, been trying to tempt you to another delicious confection of Mr Didier’s.’
After a pause, Mrs Preston replied brightly, ‘Yes, Samuel.’ She relived again those awful moments: ‘I’m going to speak to him myself, Mother. Tell his wife.’ Their earlier encounter had not been productive, and Sylvia had announced her intention of speaking to that man again. She had been talking wildly; she had seen far too many lurid plays and was talking of better death with honour than life with dishonour. Whose death had not been clear.
‘Of course I wasn’t in the dining room, man. Couldn’t expect me to stay in that mob. Waiters milling around everywhere. Over two hundred people. Heaven knows what old Plum would have said. I said it would ruin the Passing having women on the place. Wife agrees with me, don’t you, Daphne?’
‘No, dear,’ replied Lady Buls
trode placidly.
‘There you are, you see.’
‘Then where were you, sir? In the smoking room?’
Bulstrode snorted. ‘The smoking room? With that old bore? No, in the drawing room, across the corridor, dammit.’
‘Then you must have been closer to what happened than anyone else.’
‘Had the doors closed. Peaceful brandy, without all those women all over the place. Have enough of it here, what with Daphne and her damned Fallen Women’s Aid Society. See Worthington’s point. Can’t think how I ever got inveigled into it.’
Lady Bulstrode did not comment on this, but contributed: ‘I believe someone went into the smoking room – at least two people from the corridor, Inspector. In addition to when the Colonel cried out and everyone came to see what happened. We had the doors shut, but I did notice lights shining under them at times as if the smoking-room door were opened and shut at least twice.’
‘The waiters, perhaps, ma’am. To clear the dishes.’
But all the same he made a note.
‘Jorrocks’ Atkins fumed. He paced up and down, hands behind his back. Old Worthington dead. A day or two before he thought nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to see the gallant Colonel sprawled lifeless at his feet. Now he was not so sure. Who was he going to fight with now? What would happen to Melissa the cat? Would Plum’s ever be the same? Perhaps he’d been too hasty after all . . . and now that Inspector fellow was asking him a lot of questions. He didn’t take kindly to that. Not at all kindly.
It was a castle behind locked gates, a Gothic fantasy difficult to connect with St John’s Wood. In this castle lived Sir Rafael Jones, knighted by Her Majesty for services to art. This house was a temple to his genius.
Beauties in distress adorned the stairs, mostly having lost their clothes in the course of their suffering. Ladies in Paris fashions and elegant coiffures adorned the studio where Inspector Rose was taken. An eminent titled lady was departing. Dear Sir Rafael. Such a charming man. What a pity he had never married. Or was it a pity? Her niece now . . . Rose gazed at the artistically arranged welter of painter’s paraphernalia, and found himself perched uncomfortably on the model’s chair on a small platform, hemmed in by potted aspidistras on both sides. He recalled what Auguste had passed on to him about Jones’ habits with his models, and looked at the painter with distaste. Some day he’d be investigated . . . that’s if he wasn’t on a murder charge first.
Jones waved expressive hands. Artist’s hands, they proclaimed.
‘Dear Colonel Worthington,’ he murmured. ‘A staunch Plumsonian. Tragic, tragic. And murder at Plum’s. How very unfortunate.’
‘Very, sir,’ said Rose stolidly. ‘Can you think of why anyone should want to murder Colonel Worthington?’
He shuddered. ‘Definitely not, Inspector. Dear Mr Erskine, of course, makes enemies – there have been unfortunate occurrences at Plum’s since he joined, at my suggestion in fact.’ (Indeed he made enemies, hardly surprising, he thought bitterly.) ‘But Colonel Worthington, no—’ He looked Rose straight in the eye.
‘You feel it possible, sir, that Colonel Worthington might have been shot in mistake for Mr Erskine, then?’
‘I hardly think I’m qualified for your job, Inspector.’ He smiled blandly.
‘A woman’s voice was heard in the Folly when Colonel Worthington apparently received that shock before he died.’
‘Now if it were Erskine murdered that might make a difference. He is very attractive to the ladies.’
‘Who in particular, sir?’
‘Ah, well.’ Rafael did his best to look reluctant. ‘Since it’s a matter of murder, Inspector . . . I did see him talking, shall we say animatedly, to several ladies last night. Mrs Briton, Mrs Preston and her daughter, Mrs Salt – though I hardly imagine there was any amour impropre between them.’ His nose wrinkled in distaste at the thought of Juanita Salt posing as Beauty in distress. ‘And other women too. The staff.’ And in some malice he proceeded to give an excellent verbal portrait of Emma Pryde.
‘And who were you talking to last night, sir?’
‘I was talking to the dear ladies, too, Inspector. Many of them.’ And a couple of nice commissions he’d received as a result. More purple satin to paint. All in all, it had been a most satisfying evening. His little problem had been settled for good.
‘One of your staff, Didier,’ Rose said thoughtfully after Auguste had read all his notes.
‘Madame Pryde was not one of the staff.’ Auguste’s cheeks were pink.
‘But she was present that night.’
‘Yes, Inspector,’ he said reluctantly, ‘but it was Worthington murdered, not Erskine. Not that Madame Pryde has any reason to dislike Erskine – he is one of her clients at Gwynne’s Hotel,’ he added more confidently than he felt.
‘I don’t forget it, Mr Auguste. But don’t you forget that if the man was killed by mistake, then our Mr Erskine needs to take care. And so do we.’
‘He is the live turtle, perhaps.’
‘Pardon?’
Auguste laughed. ‘My apologies. I thought of the vaults at the London Tavern where turtles were kept alive till required for the banquet. And I thought perhaps for Mr Erskine the banquet fast approaches.’
Chapter Seven
‘Coriandre! Garlic.’
‘Rosemary.’
‘Pah. You will next say mint.’
‘And what’s wrong with mint?’ enquired Emma belligerently, hands going to her brown, silk-covered hips.
Auguste shuddered. Not brown for Emma. Really, she had less idea of fashion than her kitchenmaids. At least she had given up wearing those peculiar aesthetic flowing Liberty dresses, so unflattering to the figure even when in fashion. But now – her attire rustled, bristled, just like Emma herself.
‘It is too harsh, too blam-blam. I am surprised at you, Emma, trained at the French court as you were—’
‘I never ’eard the Empress say blam-blam when eating a fine leg of lamb with mint sauce at Chislehurst,’ retorted Emma, mimicking his disgust.
Disraeli chortled, digging his claws further into Auguste’s shoulder.
‘To the pot au feu with you, my friend,’ said Auguste grimly, pushing him off. Disraeli with an indignant shriek flew off to more fertile fields, the handle of the trolley bearing their late supper.
‘Don’t you touch Disraeli.’
‘I do not touch that monster!’ shouted Auguste. ‘It is he touching me. And my best smoking jacket.’
‘You’re just in a bad temper,’ said Emma, ‘because you can’t solve the murder.’
‘And who would not be in a bad temper at the unfaithfulness of woman?’
‘Which woman?’ asked Emma without much interest.
‘You!’ he said injuredly, goaded beyond endurance at the sight of Emma chopping the mutton in the wrong way, not the way of Auguste Didier. ‘And please, gently. You will lose the tenderness.’
Her whole body stiffened, her eyes gleamed. ‘Oh yes,’ she said dangerously, plunging her knife into the roast. An evil smile came to her face. ‘To be unfaithful, you ’ave to be faithful first. Who do you think I was faithful to?’
Auguste exploded at this insult to his honour and the dish before them. ‘Ma foi, Grimod was wrong when he said there are more sympathiques ladies in this world than tender jambes de mouton. It is much, much easier to find a sympathetic mutton than a woman of tenderness.’
A badly carved slice from the joint under discussion hit Auguste on the forehead, its juices running down his face. There was an appalled silence from both adversaries. Auguste broke it.
‘Very well,’ he replied with dignity. ‘Then I ask you as an official investigator into this murder, whether you had anything to do with it—’
‘You mean did I inveigle myself into Plum’s just to murder an old colonel, because I used to go to bed with Gaylord Erskine? Now why would I want to do that?’ she asked, amiably enough, honour having been satisfied by the slice of m
utton.
Auguste had no answer.
‘I’ll tell you,’ said Emma loftily, ‘about Gaylord and me. ’E used to come to Gwynne’s quite often; ’e’s an attractive man. ’E wasn’t always so well off. I used to give ’im free dinners – ’e was amusing, ’e gave the place atmosphere if you know what I mean. Lines of patter ’e could rattle off, went down well with the duchesses—’
‘And not just the duchesses . . .’
‘Auguste!’
‘I am sorry, ma mie, pray continue this fascinating story.’
‘That’s all. I gave ’im some of ’is dinners in the public restaurant and some up here, that’s all.’
Auguste glanced round the rooms where he had thought himself king. ‘I see,’ he said quietly.
She regarded him amusedly. ‘Going to tell me I’m the only woman in your life?’
‘The present lady is always the only one,’ he said pompously, but under her steady eye he began to smile at himself. ‘But tell me, Emma, who concluded this happy arrangement. You or he?’
‘Oh I did, naturally. I always do,’ but she was studying the redcurrant sauce as she said so, not looking him in the eye.
‘That looks a homely dish, Mr Didier.’ Rose watched Auguste rolling up anchovies and pieces of meat and popping them inside a suet-paste-lined basin.
‘Even Mrs Marshall gives a recipe for Beef Pudding with Anchovies, and I am forced to follow in her footsteps for such things are popular at gentlemen’s clubs for luncheon. Yet in my hands it becomes a masterpiece – provided I omit the coralline pepper of which Mrs Marshall is so fond.’
‘I wouldn’t mind a piece of that in due course.’ Rose’s nose twitched in anticipation.
‘Ah, Inspector, I can produce delicacies for you that will give you no need of suet puddings. Perhaps a red mullet en papillote?’
‘On a what?’
‘Papillote? Cooked in paper. It is something of which I am doubtful, but in this case I feel Monsieur Soyer may be correct. Now his grandson, at present chef to her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Newcastle, experiments with cooking everything in paper bags. He talks, so I hear, of nothing but paper bags.’