Clubbed to Death

by Ruth Edwards

  ‘I need the free time for my poetry,’ said Amiss bravely.

  ‘A poet!’ The broken veins on the Commander’s face seemed to stand out in an even deeper purple. ‘A bloody poet?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Amiss. ‘Like the Earl of Rochester.’

  A few seconds passed before that sally connected with the befuddled brain of the Commander and then light broke through. ‘Well, you young dog,’ he said. ‘Rochester, of course, our great patron. He was a good poet, right enough. Let me remember. I used to be able to recite this when I was a younger man.’ He fell back on to the nearest bench, his eyes glazed over with the strain of concentration. Moments passed and then he erupted into a noisy gabble. ‘So bring me a seat and buy me a drink and a tale to you I’ll tell.’ There was another long pause followed by a further burst: ‘Of dead-eyed Dick and Mexico Pete and a whore named Eskimo Nell.’ He beamed proudly.

  Amiss was usually prepared to put up with the unspeakable opinions of those he needed to woo, but such an assault on his intellectual integrity proved more than he could bear. ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he said, adopting as craven a tone as he could muster, ‘but “Eskimo Nell” was not written by the Earl of Rochester.’ Seeing the Commander begin to swell like a bullfrog, he added tactfully: ‘It is of course, sir, a splendid poem, and close to the kind of thing that the Earl went in for, but he did not write it.’

  After a couple of seconds the Commander clearly decided that this was no time for a dispute about literary attribution. ‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘you’re one of those long-haired chaps. Dare say you’re right. It was just something I learned at one of the Rochester evenings that we used to have in the good old days of the club. Dear, dear. We never have any fun any more.’

  A question rose and died on Amiss’s lips. What he needed was a job. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to know, sir?’

  ‘Well, what can you do? Can you do anything? I mean dammit, what are you? Are you a waiter? Are you a valet? Can you cook? What’re you good for? Except poetry, that is. Not much call for it in the club these days.’

  ‘Well, I have experience working behind a bar, sir, and I expect I could quickly learn to be a valet or a waiter.’

  The Commander was clearly losing interest. Judging by the occasional fumes that had reached Amiss’s nostrils, he suspected his putative employer had been interrupted in mid-drink.

  ‘All right, all right. That’s fair enough. We’ll try you out now. Do you want to live in or out?’

  ‘How does it work out financially?’ asked Amiss with some trepidation. It was a pretty poor show, being a snoop who got no money from the people who asked him to do the job, while being expected to live on whatever grotty earnings he got from ghastly jobs that made him ineligible for the dole.

  ‘Makes no difference. Either way you get one hundred and twenty quid a week for a full shift with your meals. If you live in you get full board, except for weekends, when you get nothing unless you’re looking after the residents.’

  ‘You mean I get paid the same regardless of whether I live in the club or out of it?’

  The Commander gurgled with merriment. ‘When you’ve seen where you’ll be living you won’t be surprised. Now come on in here and let’s try you out in the bar.’

  He led Amiss into what was, on the face of it, a pretty straightforward club sitting-room. In fact, it closely resembled those Amiss had seen in the Repeal and the Reform. Standard-issue green leather armchairs, long velvet curtains, oriental rugs, splendid mirrors and lots of bookshelves. He realised that the occasional busts of elderly gentlemen were likely to be those of old roués rather than pillars of the establishment, but then, he reflected, if you don’t know who these old codgers are, an aged libertine looks much like an Archbishop of Canterbury any day. Standing obediently by the door as the Commander lurched over to the far end of the room, Amiss ran his eye over the nearest bookshelves. While the Reform had sported hundreds of volumes of Parliamentary reports, the Repeal had favoured Victorian novels. Ffeatherstonehaugh’s bindings resembled those in its sister clubs, but the contents were more raffish—The Golden Bough, The Decameron, The Story of O. His studies were interrupted by a hiss. ‘Come on, come on. Over here, what’syourname!’ The Commander obviously felt that he was issuing his instructions sotto voce, but their effect was to awaken a patriarch slumbering near the door. Imposingly built, mighty-domed, multi-chinned and about a hundred and forty-five years old, he shouted, ‘Yes, Father. Yes, Father. I’m coming, I’m coming.’

  ‘It’s all right, Glastonbury,’ shouted the Commander.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s only me. Go back to sleep.’ Obediently Glastonbury collapsed back into oblivion.

  Amiss sped silently over to the Commander’s corner.

  ‘Come on, come on. No time to lose. Got to introduce you to the bar wallah and see how you make out in his place. All right then, sort him out.’ And with a brief nod at the young and handsome Asian behind the table, the Commander set off at a smart pace to rejoin his glass of whisky.

  ‘Welcome aboard,’ said the youth.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Amiss. ‘D’you think I’ll like it?’

  ‘Anything’s possible. Now we’d better get a move on if I’m to show you the ropes. I’m Sunil by the way and you’re…?’

  ‘Robert.’

  ‘OK, Robert. Well now, what you’d better do is get downstairs, introduce yourself, get a uniform, get your lunch and get back here as quickly as you can.’

  Amiss looked at him apologetically. ‘I thought the Commander wanted me to learn about the bar.’

  ‘The Commander doesn’t know anything,’ said Sunil, ‘and he cares less. Come on. Follow me.’ He led Amiss out of the room and across the hall. ‘Go in to the dining-room over there and ask for Mr. Gooseneck.’

  ‘Mr. What!?’

  ‘Of course it takes some getting used to. Ask for Gooseneck, the head waiter. He’s standing in for the catering manager. He seems a bit dotty, but he isn’t really. He’ll show you where the uniforms are kept. And don’t forget to mention lunch.’

  ‘It’s a bit early, isn’t it?’

  ‘If you don’t have it before you start your shift you won’t have it at all. You must remember that the only way to get anything in this place is to demand. They’re so short of staff and the place is so frightful, they have to be a bit obliging. See you back here in about half an hour.’

  ***

  The opulent but rather seedy dining-room was dominated by portraits of voluptuous ladies. Most of the tables were small, but three were large and circular: each had an immense silver centrepiece of entwined bodies. Amiss spotted in the far distance an old person who had to be his quarry. No one could be that old and be a junior waiter.

  ‘Mr. Gooseneck?’ he enquired as he arrived at the octogenarian’s side. ‘I’m not Gooseneck.’ The old man seemed deeply insulted by the suggestion. Through his ill-fitting false teeth, he whistled, ‘What d’you take me for? An old faggot?’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry. I don’t know my way around here. I’m new.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry. You won’t last long. If you want Goose neck, try the kitchen.’ He jerked a dirty thumb towards the swing doors.

  Being little more than sixty, Gooseneck was a stripling by ffeatherstonehaugh standards. He had a certain saturnine charm, and all his hair, and he seemed to lack the malevolence of his colleague in the front hall or the irascibility of his subordinate in the dining-room. Amiss judged him a man resigned rather than soured by his fate.

  ‘I assume you have no experience,’ Gooseneck observed.

  ‘Only as a barman.’

  ‘I cannot pretend surprise. If you’re young and clean and speak English there has to be some obvious drawback. Why are you here?’

  ‘I need time for my poetry.’

  ‘You need time for your poetry. How delightful. Unfortunately I am but a simple head waiter. How should I employ a poet?’

  ‘The Comman
der said I should relieve Sunil.’

  ‘Splendid. I can always rely on the Commander to make the key decisions. Very good, young man. Come along with me. It’s getting late.’ He led Amiss into an adjoining room where several dozen uniforms hung alongside three or four frock-coats, at which Amiss looked appraisingly.

  ‘Aha. I discern that you would like the more sober garb. I’m sorry, but I fear you are required to wear the more vulgar uniform. Frockcoats are for the old guard.’

  Amiss felt depressed. He’d already taken a rooted objection to Sunil’s uniform, a red and cream affair dotted with brass buttons which was reminiscent of a bellhop in Chicago during the era of Al Capone. The only thing missing was the cap and the elastic band.

  Gooseneck was assessing Amiss’s size with a practised eye. He took two uniforms off the rail. ‘Very good, dear boy. Choose and don the better fit and then ask someone to send you to the staff dining-room. You may have lunch before you start work.’

  Amiss was deeply touched by this evidence of compassion.

  ‘Thank you. And my own clothes?’

  ‘Consign them to the corner. There is no time to waste. You will be able to retrieve them when you come off duty at five. Are you going to live in?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘There is no accounting for taste,’ said Gooseneck cheerfully. ‘May I leave you now?’

  ‘Just one thing.’ Amiss began to remove his jacket and trousers. ‘I need to make an urgent telephone call.’

  ‘Very good. Return to the main hall and Ramsbum will show you a public box.’

  ‘Ramsbum,’ said Amiss faintly.

  ‘Mr. Ramsbum to you, young man. He is, after all, the head porter.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Gooseneck,’ said Amiss.

  ***

  ‘Do you have a moment, sir?’

  Detective Chief Superintendent James Milton looked up from his depressed perusal of the latest guidelines for senior officers and smiled at his young sergeant.

  ‘Yes, Ellis. Come in.’

  Pooley bounded across the room, his face wearing that expression of pent-up excitement that always filled Milton with a mixture of amusement, curiosity and apprehension.

  ‘Sit down. What’s going on?’

  ‘I’ve had a phone call from Robert. He’s been given a job at ffeatherstonehaugh’s.’

  ‘Oh God!’ Milton ran his hands wildly through his hair. ‘You mean you went through with that mad idea.’

  ‘Well, you did say I could, sir.’

  ‘I said I wouldn’t forbid it. Ellis, but I suppose I was banking on Robert not being so malleable this time.’

  ‘It’s not so much malleable. I think he’s actually developing a taste for this kind of undercover operation.’

  ‘Does it ever occur to you, Ellis,’ said Milton rather crossly, ‘that I might feel bad about my friend being exploited and indeed possibly put in danger in this way?’

  ‘Well, he’s my friend too,’ said Pooley stiffly.

  ‘You obviously expect your friends to be made of very stern stuff.’ Then, seeing the disappointment on Pooley’s face, Milton pulled himself up. ‘It’s OK, Ellis,’ he said. ‘You’re doing your job, if in a decidedly unorthodox way, and Robert is a consenting adult. How did he sound anyway?’

  ‘Incredulous,’ said Pooley. He had already forgotten their dispute: his features were transformed with a broad grin. ‘I told him it was a bizarre set-up, but judging by the gargling noises he was making, belowstairs is as daft as above. Anyway he wants to meet us, this evening if possible. He reckons he’ll be free early evening and he needs some moral support and advice.’

  ‘I could do eight o’clock,’ said Milton.

  ‘For dinner?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Pooley, ‘Robert was most explicit on that subject. He said that if anybody thought that after a day toiling in Dickensian surroundings he was to be fobbed off with a twentieth-rate meal in a tenth-rate restaurant they could…’ He looked embarrassed.

  ‘Take a flying fuck, I imagine. You really are very proper, Ellis.’

  ‘Anyway, sir, I think he was getting a bit worked up.’

  ‘So what’s he looking for? The Savoy?’

  ‘Too public,’ said Pooley. ‘I mean, I know I took him to my club the other day, but now that he’s actually been seen in ffeatherstonehaugh’s, it would be bad news to have him spotted anywhere salubrious outside. Awfully suspicious. I suggested we meet in my place. I’ll have something sent in.’

  ‘By a bevy of Hooray Henriettas, no doubt,’ said Milton absently.

  ‘Well…I do have a cousin.’ Pooley seemed rather abashed. ‘She wasn’t awfully academic, but she did terribly well on the cordon bleu. Quite a nice little business she’s got going now with directors dining-rooms and that kind of thing.’

  ‘You cheer me up, Ellis,’ said Milton. ‘I’ll see you at eight. But make sure that you’ve got celery salt to go with the quails’ eggs and that the boeuf en croûte is rare. Now clear off and get on with some of the work you’re actually supposed to be doing.’

  Chapter Five

  Milton had just rung Pooley’s doorbell when a taxi drew up and disgorged Amiss, a large suitcase and a noisy wicker basket. ‘Hallo,’ came Pooley’s voice over the intercom.

  ‘It’s Jim Milton and friends.’

  Milton pushed the door as the buzzer sounded and held it open for Amiss. Wails and crashes sounded from the basket.

  ‘Good evening, Robert,’ said Milton, holding out his hand for the suitcase.

  ‘Good evening, Jim.’

  They made no attempt at conversation on their way upstairs, since the screams of the tormented animal had reached an earsplitting crescendo. Pooley’s smile of welcome died as he opened the door and identified the noise.

  ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘All of you.’

  Without invitation, once the door was shut, Amiss undid the straps of the basket and a great ginger creature erupted from it; it spent several minutes racing wildly round the living-room. The three men stood awestruck as the cat soared on to table tops, swung from the mantelpiece, cleared the top of the sofa, dangled from the top of Pooley’s favourite armchair and clambered up the long velvet curtains, to come finally to rest on top of the pelmet.

  ‘You remember Plutarch?’ enquired Amiss affably.

  ‘Indeed I do,’ said Pooley. ‘I hadn’t realised she was coming to dinner.’

  ‘Well, she’s not so much coming to dinner,’ said Amiss, ‘as coming to stay. They don’t let servants keep pets in the club.’

  ‘You’re expecting me to give house-room to that?’ expostulated Pooley.

  ‘Let’s have a drink and discuss this like gentlemen,’ said Milton hastily.

  ***

  ‘Sorry to have given you such an unpleasant shock,’ said Amiss, when the three of them had settled down with their gin and tonics. ‘Unfortunately, when I got back to my flat to pack my effects I found the obliging neighbour was away and there was no time to corral someone else into taking over; you were the obvious choice.’

  ‘But for Pete’s sake, Robert, how can I keep a monster like that? Damn it all, this flat isn’t like yours. It’s full of breakable objects.’

  ‘Search me,’ said Amiss genially. ‘You must work it out between you. My conscience is clear. Not only do I need a cat-sitter wholly and absolutely because of you, but I wouldn’t even have the bloody cat if you hadn’t involved me in that last hideous intrigue.* I don’t mind whether you put her up yourself, send her to an hotel, or stick her in a zoo for the duration, just as long as she’s properly fed and watered. I feel an obscure sense of duty towards Plutarch, though I can’t pretend a deep affection yet: her appetites are gross and her manners coarse.’

  ‘You seem a little sharp, Robert,’ said Milton. ‘Have you had a hard day at the club?’

  ‘More demeaning than hard,’ said Amiss. ‘I know you chaps are used to dressing up in silly clothes, but nobody ever attracts
your attention with a “hey you.” Or not without getting a swift blow with a truncheon.’

  ‘Character-forming,’ said Milton.

  ‘I don’t know why I’m letting you two dictate the pace at which my character is being formed,’ said Amiss sourly. ‘You always seem to be putting me in circumstances which do no good for either my bank balance or my career.’

  ‘But for heaven’s sake, Robert,’ said Pooley, ‘you don’t have a career. If you were still in the Civil Service I wouldn’t be trying to yank you out of it to do undercover work. I’m just providing you with challenges while you’ve nothing worthwhile to do.’

  ‘Well, you can provide me with some more gin,’ said Amiss. ‘And I hope the food’s good. They feed club servants on pig-swill.’

  ***

  The food was very good: the wine was even better. Amiss was mellow. ‘Well, I’ll give you this,’ he remarked, ‘the coppers’ charity for the care and feeding of informers has been most generous on this occasion. Long may it continue.’ He waved his glass and drank a toast.

  Pooley was getting restless, his humour not improved by his searing experiences of Plutarch’s behaviour. Not only had she hurled herself against the door of the dining-room until admitted, but she had set up such howling demands that, failing any other suitable food, she had had to be placated with substantial amounts of smoked salmon and blanquette de veau. That was bad enough in Pooley’s view, for he had firm aristocratic views on the foolishness of cosseting domestic animals, but Plutarch had then taken a fancy to him and was now stretched across his knees, purring vigorously. He stroked her reluctantly and grimaced.

  ‘She’s shedding, Robert,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed she is, Ellis,’ said Amiss. ‘You’d better give her a wash-and-brush-up in the morning. I’m sure she’ll enjoy that.’

  ‘Now look here, Robert. We’ve really got to get down to brass tacks. It’s nine-thirty and your narrative has only got as far as your arrival at the servants’ lunch. We’ve got some strategic decisions to take.’