Murder At Plums

by Myers, Amy

  Quickly he continued on his course of logic. Having finished arranging the ingredients for the jambon he turned to those for the pineapple cake. Rum, sugar, the dough, take a pineapple – from the West Indies? Exotic, like Juanita Salt herself. Could that be it? Could she have been Worthington’s wife once? Perhaps his regiment had been stationed there. Suddenly he recalled Rose mentioning Worthington’s earlier career. The 24th Foot had served in Gibraltar. What more obvious place to meet a Spanish beauty? But what had happened? He had divorced her? No, Juanita was a Catholic, so that was not possible. He had not divorced her? But that would mean . . . a rising sense of excitement took over, the sense of excitement as when one opened the stove door to see the soufflé risen, just as one had predicted, but with that final question mark still to be ascertained. It would give the Salts a reason for murdering Worthington. No, his hopes deflated quicker than an ill-cooked soufflé. He would have no shock at seeing Juanita. Salt was the brother of Worthington’s sister-in-law. They must have already met. Or had they? Had Salt always kept them apart until the fateful evening when women were admitted to Plum’s?

  He laid down his allspice firmly on the table. There was but one way to find out. Somerset House. But before or after luncheon? He eyed a reproachful-looking turbot. He would be loyal. He picked up his knife again. It would be after luncheon.

  Inspector Rose clapped his bowler on his head with such firmness that it denoted as much excitement in him as the discovery of a sauce did in Auguste. ‘I think this deserves a shilling’s worth for a hansom, Mr Didier,’ he announced, a sure sign that Rose was as eager to see the results of Auguste’s theory as Auguste could have wished.

  The bootblack outside Somerset House sought their attention in vain, despite the condition of Mr Rose’s shoes.

  ‘’Course, the certificate might not be here. They could have been married in Gibraltar. And likewise if we find one for the Salts, it don’t mean it’s legal. Could have been bigamous.’

  ‘This is true,’ said Auguste, dampened, ‘but if we do find one it might help rule out one line of enquiry.’

  ‘Seems to me in this case we rule out one line of enquiry only for a hundred more to spring up.’

  It took them all day to find the marriage of Colonel Mortimer Worthington duly recorded at the parish church of Wihncote in Warwickshire. And what they found there caused them both to pause.

  ‘By cripes, Mr Didier, so now we know. Needs a bit of thinking about.’

  Over a glass of porter and a glass of vin blanc in the Cheshire Cheese, they talked long and earnestly.

  ‘But I still don’t see,’ said Rose after a while, ‘how they managed to kill Rafael Jones.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ said Auguste honestly. ‘But I think first we pay a visit, do we not?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Didier, I think we do.’

  The next day Inspector Rose sat in front of Oliver Nollins explaining just why it would be necessary for ladies once more to invade the sacred portals of Plum’s.

  ‘But why?’ Nollins’ voice rose querulously. ‘Could you not try out this experiment elsewhere?’

  ‘No, it must be where the Colonel met his death.’

  ‘What about in Erskine’s house, where Rafael Jones met his death?’ Nollins was not going to give up without a struggle. The battle for Plum’s sanity was on, not to mention his own. He put aside the grievous matter of the proposal for membership of a musician, albeit a rich one. He had visions of permanent piano strumming and consequent grounds for dissension. Rather to his surprise, demand for membership had increased rather than diminished as the result of the unwelcome notoriety of the club. Publicity, however, was not what Plum’s desired. It chose to escape attention, not court it. Now the shadow of murder was about to descend again over Plum’s – and worse, ladies. Look what had happened when they were invited in: murder. What would happen next time?

  ‘I suppose there is no alternative?’ he asked without hope.

  ‘None, sir. We have to flush the fellow out.’

  ‘And you know who it is?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We know.’

  Auguste was still uneasy. They knew who, and unbelievable as it seemed, they knew why. But they did not know how. The murder of Colonel Worthington, yes, but that of Rafael Jones, no. How had they worked it? Perhaps it was not necessary to know? But yes, the maitre chef demanded every little detail be right, and this was not even a detail: this was one of the bases of the dish itself.

  He eyed the coralline pepper, once almost banned from the kitchen, now a valued ingredient. Pepper. ‘It’s all done with mirrors.’ How simple the ghost illusion had been, once explained. How simple every illusion was, once explained. And how seemingly impossible to explain to the viewer. His mind went back . . . He stopped still, the pepper in his hand. He had a memory of an evening not so long ago . . . he smiled to himself in pure joy. It was all so simple.

  ‘Je vous remercie, Madame Marshall,’ he said softly, replacing the pepper on the table. He took off his apron. He had another visit to pay – and as the result of this visit, Mr Peeps was destined to be most seriously annoyed.

  ‘Pewegwine, I don’t want to go.’ Every quivering pound of Juanita Salt said no.

  ‘My love, we must.’

  The jaw stuck out mutinously. ‘Suppose they think you murdered Colonel Worthington to get money for your expedition to Knossos. Suppose—’

  ‘Don’t suppose anything,’ said her husband curtly, oblivious for once to the storms that might follow. None did. Juanita donned her shawl, and much in the manner of sallying forth on the Charge at Talavera they set out for Plum’s.

  Gertie Briton was also mutinous. She saw no reason why she should be dragged off to that horrid old club again, until she realised that Gaylord Erskine would be present. Then she cheered up.

  Her sudden enthusiasm was not lost on her husband. Women were the devil. He was damned glad Plum’s was a gentlemen’s club. When this was over he’d put up a recommendation in the Book never to let another woman in. Moreover, he’d arrange a posting to India as quickly as he could. Let Gertie exercise her charm on the fellows out there.

  Lady Fredericks dressed in silence. Then she broke it:

  ‘I suppose this is necessary, Arthur?’

  ‘Quite, my dear. We are, I presume, two of the suspects.’

  She looked him straight in the eye. ‘I understand, Arthur.’

  Amelia and Gaylord Erskine were similarly discomposed. He was, after all, missing one of the rehearsals for The Tempest. His mind was full of Prospero, not of Colonel Worthington. So far as he was concerned the matter was over, the annoying incidents had stopped, he was in no danger. Yet the Inspector had insisted on their presence. What, he wondered, was in store for the evening? Women, too. Now that was a nuisance. With a sigh, he thought of Gertie Briton, Juanita Salt, Sylvia Preston. Perhaps Emma Pryde too.

  The Prestons, including Sylvia, were also making their way to Plum’s. Sylvia was now a newly married woman, and would much have preferred not to be present and not to have to face Gaylord Erskine. The Inspector had insisted, however, despite all the threats by her father of complaints to the Chief Constable.

  Lord Bulstrode was annoyed. This wasn’t his evening for the club, but that Inspector fellow couldn’t get it into his head.

  One more, this time invited, a guest was making his way to Plum’s. Then Philip Paxton took up his place in the garden to keep an eye on his idol.

  The rest of the membership of Plum’s was highly indignant at being banned from the premises for the evening; there was talk of resignations, but in the end the majority managed to make do with their other clubs, the rest found succour at their wives’ tables. Emma Pryde arrived at the kitchen door in her best evening dress, the bodice of which was cut considerably lower than Plum’s members were accustomed to seeing outside the promenades at the Empire Theatre. Since Emma’s bosom was not of such proportions as the patrons of the Empire it failed, fortunately, to create as much stir. Auguste
was not pleased to see her. Emma had a habit of stealing the limelight – in this case literally. He informed her of the level of her décolletage. She took no notice.

  He felt as tense as if he were about to embark on the final touches of a grosse pièce. Would everything go well? Would the garnish delude as intended? Everything would depend on the presentation. Suddenly he was glad of Emma’s confident, if demanding, presence.

  By 8 p.m. everyone had gathered in the smoking room. Inspector Rose stood by the fireplace, Twitch guarded the door.

  ‘You’re here, ladies and gentlemen, as a sort of experiment,’ Rose began. ‘We believe we know how Colonel Worthington was lured to his death, but not by whom. It’s my idea that if we replay it, it might jog someone’s memory. Might produce a few ideas so that we can get to the bottom of this nasty business and you can return to normal.’

  Heavy sigh of longing from Nollins.

  ‘Now, Mr Erskine here being an actor has nobly offered to assist me by acting Colonel Worthington complete with his Napoleon’s bicorne.’

  ‘Provided we don’t take this too far, Inspector,’ said Erskine, looking ill at ease for once. ‘I’m in no mood to be murdered tonight.’

  ‘I doubt if it will get to that, sir,’ said Rose blandly. ‘Mrs Pryde here will be playing what you actor fellows call the Fair Temptress. Now I want the rest of you in that corner there behind Mr Erskine.’

  His audience stirred uneasily as they huddled together, and the gas was turned down low. Only the candles on the mantelshelf flickered dim light on their faces. Gaylord Erskine sat in the armchair, hands tensely on the arms, and regarded the fire.

  Suddenly the door was flung open and a figure outlined by brilliant light stood on the threshold out of the sight of the audience in the corner.

  ‘Please come,’ said a woman’s voice from the conservatory. Agnes, too, had a role to play in this drama.

  Gaylord gave a theatrical start, pressed hand to bosom, and turned towards the Folly. There clearly standing in the Folly was the ghost figure of Emma Pryde. Someone screamed, the rest gasped. In the garden Paxton watched puzzled as his hero flung himself headlong into the Folly, gave another theatrical cry and stood supporting himself on the doorpost. The apparition had vanished.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr Erskine.’ Gaylord bowed and came back in. ‘Don’t move, ladies and gentlemen!’ Rose shouted over the babble of conversation.

  Erskine took his seat again. ‘I must say, Inspector, this is easier than Prospero.’ He forced a jest.

  The door was thrown open again, and once again Emma’s ghost appeared in the Folly. Once again Gaylord Erskine flung himself towards it, and the ghost vanished. But this time a figure sprang out from behind the statue of Captain Plum. Sergeant Stitch had at last a major part to play in the drama. Inefficiently clutching a gun, he aimed it at Gaylord Erskine who, fulfilling his part to the end, collapsed in a graceful heap. Only to resurrect himself, examine his evening clothes ruefully, and return to the smoking room, as Rose turned up the lights.

  ‘Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. And there you see how Colonel Worthington was murdered. Every schoolboy’s heard of it. Dr Pepper’s Ghost. Only a year or two back Dr Pepper wrote a whole book about it. The trouble is that it got too popular. Everyone knew how it was done, so no one used it any more. So everyone forgot about it. Except our murderer. It’s all based on angles. You shine a bright enough light on to a figure and bounce the reflection through glass – and there you have your ghost. It’s a question of angles and distances.’

  ‘I must say, Inspector,’ began General Fredericks, ‘this is all very interesting, but I entirely fail to see—’

  His voice was cut short by a cry from outside. A cry of anguish and terror.

  The group rushed into the corridor towards the entrance hall to find the sound coming from the telephone cabinet placed there for the convenience of members. Inside Auguste Didier was sitting on the stool slumped against the back wall, the telephone dangling from his limp hands. Rose, keeping everyone back, rushed in to bend over him, snapping out orders to the uniformed constable behind him.

  Keeping at a respectful distance but unable to tear themselves from this new unscheduled drama, his audience watched impotently. Then from behind them came a fresh horror. A scream. They turned as one. But they saw in the corridor behind them not another body, but Emma Pryde, who seemed – perhaps through shock – to have taken leave of her senses.

  She was performing an Irish jig, skirts flying, hands flailing.

  They watched her bemusedly for a few seconds. Then again a scream. This time a male one from the telephone box. Once again they swivelled, only to find that Rose and Auguste had vanished from the telephone box into thin air.

  ‘He’s gone, Auguste,’ shouted Emma into the empty telephone box. Turning once more to glance at her, they looked back again and doubted the evidence of their own eyes when they saw Rose and Auguste rushing out of the telephone box that had been empty a second before.

  ‘Where?’ Auguste shouted, showing no signs of the ill-health that had apparently overtaken him in the telephone cabinet.

  ‘Through the smoking room – I couldn’t stop him,’ she yelled. ‘He’s taken one of the pistols – and his wife,’ she added for good measure.

  Rose pushed his way through the crowd standing open-mouthed, incapable of movement. But minutes had been lost. Gaylord Erskine and his wife would have escaped, had it not been for Philip Paxton, who barred the gate, his life’s dream shattered.

  Erskine saw him, looked at the gun, glanced back at Rose coming through the Folly. ‘Go back, Amelia,’ he cried. Then he threw his arms to heaven. ‘This rough magic, I abjure,’ he laughed, put a gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

  A woman’s sobbing was the only sound heard.

  The gun, as befitted the wall of a gentleman’s club, was unloaded. Only an actor could have forgotten this. As Plum’s had always suspected, he was no gentleman.

  ‘No, Inspector, quite definitely, no.’ Oliver Nollins was unusually firm. ‘Every time we let women into Plum’s someone shoots either himself or someone else. Not a lady crosses this threshold while I’m secretary.’ And that wouldn’t be long at this rate, he thought to himself. One more little upset . . .

  Emma arranged delightful refreshments, chosen with taste and decorum, for the gathering in her private room, the alternative venue for Plum’s. The only flaws were the presence of Disraeli – and the choice of gâteau fourrée and éclairs. A trifle too frivolous for the occasion, in Auguste’s opinion.

  Inspector Rose cleared his throat. Very tasty, Mrs Pryde’s confections.

  ‘You’ll all be wanting to know, ladies and gentlemen, the meaning of our little show last night. I’d no idea it would end the way it did, but we had to do it that way. We knew all right who was responsible, but we had no means of proving it. In theory it might have been any of you.’ His eye roamed over General and Lady Fredericks, all three Prestons, a tearful Gertie Briton and a furious Charlie Briton, a relieved Peregrine Salt, who when he saw the role of the magic lantern had feared the worst, Juanita who wondered what all the fuss had been about, Atkins who had no idea he’d ever been a suspect, and the Bulstrodes.

  ‘We gambled on telling Erskine about the magic lantern so that he would think himself free of suspicion, in the hope he’d betray himself later. So it proved.

  ‘There was only one thing that meant it couldn’t have been any of you – apart from motive. The woman’s voice. You see, there was nothing to attract Worthington’s attention to the Folly in the first place – except the woman’s voice. But there was no one there in fact, it needed, as Mrs Pryde pointed out earlier, only we didn’t take too much notice, a ventriloquist. Now Dr Pepper’s Ghost is a well enough known illusion, but to throw your voice you need training.

  ‘So we went to see our friend here—’ He looked at Mr Paxton who still looked shaken. Disraeli had chosen his shoulder, which added to his disc
omfort.

  ‘Mr Paxton told us he had known Erskine all through his career. But, as Mr Didier pointed out to me, Paxton was a music-hall performer, not an actor. And Mr Paxton confirmed that years ago Gaylord Erskine was a music-hall performer at the Wigan Variety Theatre. He was, it is now obvious, a magician, hence his interest in Prospero. And his partner on stage, as well as off it, was Mrs Amelia Erskine. Or, as we know now, Mrs Amelia Worthington. No record exists of a marriage between Mr Erskine and a lady called Amelia. Of course, they might have been married abroad, but from what Mr Paxton’s been able to tell us of their earlier lives, that don’t seem likely. And Colonel Worthington’s sister-in-law managed to find an early photograph of Amelia Worthington which settles the matter. The same lady.’

  Bulstrode looked blank. What was the fellow on about?

  ‘That was the whole reason for the crime. The Erskines weren’t married. It didn’t matter, so long as Worthington never saw her. Most of his army career was spent out of the country; indeed she has told us she thought he had died at Isandhlwana. Most officers did. Then Erskine was elected to Plum’s – only to find out that Worthington was a member. Worthington had never met the man Amelia ran away with so Erskine was safe for the moment, but sooner or later Worthington was going to see pictures of the assumed Mrs Erskine. And so Erskine began to lay plans for the future centring on himself as the victim of a vicious enemy. Drawing attention to himself in the time-honoured way of all magicians.

  ‘The proposal to bring women into the club was both his Nemesis and his opportunity. He could hardly not present his wife, so he had to make sure not only that Worthington did not see her that evening – but that he never did. So Worthington had to die, for Erskine was hoping to be knighted at the end of the year.

  ‘First, he stepped up the attacks on himself. Then, with his wife, he planned the murder, carefully orchestrated so that it should either look like suicide or that it should appear that Worthington was killed in mistake for Erskine. The gun he secreted earlier in the evening from the smoking-room wall, having provided himself with ammunition, and at the same time, prepared the magic lantern in the junk room with the limelight; then while he chatted in the dining room Amelia slipped out, opened the junk-room door so that the magic lantern shone on to the wall of the corridor (as we know now from the good Sergeant Stitch), flung open the door to the smoking room, at the same time throwing her voice into the conservatory so that Worthington’s attention immediately was drawn there, and not behind him to the doorway.