Murder At Plums

by Myers, Amy

  ‘Seems his swords were tampered with yesterday, when they were left in the club. Dangerous trick, I understand.’

  ‘The committee said there’d be trouble if we let him in,’ Nollins said worriedly. ‘He was blackballed once, Inspector. An actor, you see. Not quite, well, one of us. They’ll say he ought to resign, I’m afraid, poor fellow.’

  Rose looked puzzled. ‘Resign? Because someone might be trying to murder him?’

  Nollins seemed surprised at the question. ‘Oh yes, Inspector, Plum’s isn’t used to this sort of thing you know. The members won’t stand for it.’

  ‘So he’s not what you might call popular here, sir?’

  ‘Oh, very popular, Inspector,’ Nollins reassured him. ‘Very popular indeed. But it’s because Mr Erskine’s an actor, you see. Not thought quite . . . Of course, now that Mr Henry Irving has been knighted and it’s rumoured Mr Erskine himself might be honoured shortly, things are easier. But some of our older members are a little shocked, broadminded though Plum’s is. To have a palate and to be a gentleman: the two qualifications for Plum’s.’

  ‘And to pay the subs,’ murmured Rose wickedly.

  ‘Quite,’ said Nollins shortly.

  ‘Do you know of any reason why any members here might wish to get rid of Mr Erskine in particular? These incidents’ – Useful this Yard jargon. Weird carryings-on, he’d call them – ‘Some of them seem to be directed against him in particular.’

  Nollins looked hunted. ‘I, er – one of the servants—’ he offered.

  ‘Seems unlikely, sir. This portrait that was damaged for instance—’

  ‘Portrait of Gaylord Erskine by Sargent. Of course there was some opposition to our hanging it initially. But what can I do?’ Nollins spread his hands almost pleadingly. ‘If a member donates an oil painting of himself by someone of Sargent’s status one cannot hang it where no one can see it. But there’s no doubt there was some opposition – yes. But,’ he said, rallying slightly, ‘hardly cause for m—’ he could not get the word out and changed it rapidly to ‘extreme measures, Inspector.’ He looked defiant.

  ‘All the same, sir, Mr Erskine’s asked us to look into it. Keep an eye on things in the club. Just in case you’ve got a murderer here.’ It was meant as a light-hearted remark, but even Rose quailed before the look of horror on Nollins’ face.

  ‘In the club, Inspector? Here, in Plum’s?’ Nollins’ voice rose to a shrill squeak. ‘The members,’ he wailed, ‘oh dear me, no, Inspector. You don’t understand. This is Plum’s! A club for gentlemen, Inspector. Gentlemen don’t murder each other.’ Never so fervently had he wished he had accepted the offer of the Northumberland pig farm. ‘After all,’ he said, resorting to a rare cunning, ‘nothing violent has happened on the premises yet. Merely destructiveness.’

  ‘Not yet, sir,’ said Rose mildly, meeting his eye. Nollins’ fell. ‘But very well, sir. We can’t insist. All the same, we’ll have to look round a bit. Talk to the members – I’ll send a constable along.’

  Nollins’ eyes bulged. A police constable with big boots, helmet and truncheon on Plum’s premises. What would Peeps think? What would anybody think? Plum’s, that archetypal palace of respectability, would be ruined. ‘No,’ he said, unexpectedly firmly for him. ‘No, Inspector, we shall make our own investigations. We shall discover the cause of these outrages ourselves. I shall talk to Mr Erskine. We cannot have a constable here. Not at Plum’s.’

  ‘In that case, sir, I’ve a suggestion . . .’

  Nollins listened with a growing sense of horror at yet another departure from civilisation as he knew it.

  ‘The cook?’ he bleated. ‘But . . .’

  Auguste hummed an air from his native Provence, as he inspected the oysters for the ragout for the steak à la conti.

  ‘This,’ he said didactically to the adoring Mary by his side, ‘this is a ragout. The relish, the sauce if you like. Here in England you give the name to the meat – ragout of mutton. Alors, you will look hard in France for a ragout of mutton, Marie.’

  Mary, who was unlikely ever to be in a position to look for anything at all in France, nodded wisely, then changed it quickly to a shake of her head when Auguste demanded: ‘And do you know why? Because, Marie, this word became changed in time in France to haricot. Haricot of mutton. But then came the beans. Confusing, hein? So, the bean won, and the stew became navarin, after the all so important turnip, and the somewhat less important battle. But here in England you do not understand navarins, ragouts, even stews. Here in England you behave so – so brusquely towards your materials. You have the best in the world, and men do not value it. As,’ he paused, noting the curl that escaped over Mary’s brow from beneath the little white cap, and pushing it back gently, ‘they do not appreciate their women. No,’ reverting speedily to his theme, seeing the adoration in her eyes, ‘you throw them straight into the boiling water. Poof. Too harsh. What a shock for the meat. It never recovers. It is good for the roast, this quick sharp shock from your hot coal fires, as de La Reynière points out, but not for the stews. In France we reverence our meat – as our women—’ Mary brightened again but Auguste did not have his attention on her. He was thinking momentarily of Tatiana, his dark-haired beautiful Russian princess, lost to him for ever . . . he patted Mary’s hand affectionately; no matter: the ingredients were to hand, the meal must be prepared.

  ‘Now, ma petite, this recipe of the good Mrs Marshall. A good cook, Mrs Marshall, but no imagination, no flair. So English. Look at this receipt. A pint – she means a pinch – of Mrs Marshall’s coralline pepper. Everything, every receipt, she recommends this coralline pepper. It is an abomination. A crudity. No subtlety. Alors, you have the delicate white veal? Throw some coralline pepper on it, Mrs Marshall would advise. You have the chicken? Throw some coralline pepper on. The fish? Coralline pepper. No doubt, the oeufs a la neige also – throw some coralline pepper on. This pepper, she used it’ – warming to his theme – ‘like the bad Duchess in Mr Carroll’s so-inspiring work. Put a little pepper on his nose till he sneezes.’

  ‘Morning, Mr Didier.’

  Auguste stopped abruptly in mid-Gallic gesture, whirling round to greet his unexpected visitor.

  ‘Cher Inspecteur Rose. This is a delight.’

  ‘A comedown, isn’t it, Didier? After Stockbery Towers and the Galaxy?’ Egbert Rose gazed innocently round the whitewashed brick walls and the undoubtedly cramped kitchens of Plum’s.

  Auguste laughed, not at all put out. ‘A comedown, Inspector? You must not let the members hear you say that. Plum’s is an institution. I am honoured to work here. It is cramped, yes, but to the great cook – as I am,’ he added modestly, lest Rose be in any doubt despite their five-year acquaintance, ‘it matters not. True, the great Soyer insisted on designing the kitchens of the Reform Club himself, but then it was a new building. Me, I come here when the traditions are established. Plum’s was converted from two old houses, built in times when cooks’ – he glanced around ruefully – ‘were not always accorded the honour that they are today. Now tell me, Inspector, why you have come here?’ Auguste poured a sherry cobbler for the Inspector and handed it to him.

  Egbert Rose took off his hat, sat himself down at the table and eyed the offering with interest. ‘Duty, Mr Didier, duty.’

  Auguste gave him a quick glance, and despatched Mary to the scullery. ‘Help Monsieur John with the grouse salad, child.’ He seemed about to speed her on her way with a pat on her full-skirted behind, but realising Rose’s eyes were upon him stopped the hand in mid-action and carelessly twirled a spoon in a basin of lobster mayonnaise instead.

  ‘I heard tell you’d left the Galaxy,’ said Rose. ‘I had cause to call into the Savoy and that Mr Escoffier told me you were here running Plum’s. Now why’s that, Mr Didier?’

  ‘Why?’ Auguste’s eyes gleamed. ‘Because, cher Inspecteur, the challenge. To rival Soyer at the Reform, now it is Didier at Plum’s. This Plum, Inspector, he was in love with French cooking – w
hich shows intelligence in an Englishman. He had read all volumes of the Almanach des Gourmands, he had read the works of Careme, he was a devotee of the work of Brillat-Savarin – he had devoured every word of the Physiologie du Gout, he had tasted the creations of Francatelli when he was the chef to Her Majesty. Then Francatelli went to the Reform. And Madame Rosa Lewis to White’s. It is a necessary step, Inspector, to be a chef at a club. But one day, ah one day, I shall have my own restaurant, my own hotel perhaps . . . But until then, it is my task to please the members – and the committee. It is not easy, monsieur, to provide the dishes of the gods out of the pennies of Cerberus the Treasurer. No, it is the steak-and-oyster-pudding fare.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound very French to me.’

  ‘Plum’s is the home of good food, monsieur. Not necessarily French. My steak and oyster pudding is superbe.’

  Rose eyed the amount of claret being poured into the ragout, and suppressed a comparison with Mrs Rose’s liberal adding of Cock’s Reading Sauce to her own. ‘This meat’s as tough as your young policemen’s boots, Egbert,’ she’d remarked only yesterday. ‘We’ll have to change Mr Pimple.’ Rose had privately doubted whether it was the much abused, but never changed, butcher’s fault as much as that of the meat’s cook, but held his peace as he had held it through twenty years of happy marriage. But all the same he eyed the ragout wistfully. Acquaintance with Auguste over two of his most important cases had awakened more than a passing interest in cuisine.

  ‘So, Inspector, you have come about the mysterious doings in Plum’s?’

  Rose eyed him innocently. ‘What mysterious doings might those be, Mr Didier?’

  ‘I do not yet know the full story,’ said Auguste just as innocently. ‘But I have to find out. It is a matter of honour, you understand.’

  ‘Not quite, Mr Didier.’

  ‘A friend of mine, a lady of much prestige and respectability,’ said Auguste, wishing there to be no mistake, ‘tells me that a gentleman of her acquaintance, a member of the club has told her that odd things are happening here in Plum’s. She has charged me with the mission of finding out why.’ His expression was almost as lugubrious as Rose’s own habitual one.

  ‘Tearing up of books, anonymous letters, that sort of thing?’ enquired Rose.

  ‘Yes, Inspector. And a dead rat on a dining table for which I am responsible.’ He quivered at the thought of the insult. ‘Here in the basement it is not easy to tell what goes on amidst the members. I have my staff, there is gossip, but seldom fact. But now I will sniff the soup of this case, Inspector. I will beat the hollandaise, I will—’

  ‘Stir the stew,’ added Rose helpfully.

  ‘Non, Inspector, not stir. It must stay as it is, or its delicate harmony will be ruined.’

  ‘Like Plum’s, Mr Nollins would say.’

  ‘Plum’s,’ said Auguste, diverted. ‘These English. Only in England would gentlemen rush to seek out the company of other men. Imagine that in France, Inspector. Men choosing to eat and even sleep where women are excluded. Not merely excluded, but deemed not even to exist past the front door. No man mentions his wife, it is not done. Occasionally the wives of others, perhaps. But one’s own – no. Yet, here great matters of state may be decided, careers and reputations made and unmade.’

  ‘You know Mr Erskine? Gaylord Erskine?’

  ‘But yes, it is impossible not to know Mr Erskine in this club. His charm descends even to the kitchens, monsieur.’

  ‘Popular, is he?’

  Auguste considered. ‘He is not unpopular, monsieur. He was blackballed at first, you know, simply because he was an actor. Once he was elected, he set about charming everyone. He is witty, kind, considerate, generous, always ready to help, how could he not be popular?’

  ‘Someone might be trying to murder this popular gentleman.’

  ‘Ah!’ Auguste was torn between triumph at his perspicacity and depression as he realised that now he had no option. He, Auguste Didier, must detect.

  ‘Now it may be nothing at all,’ Rose continued. ‘Just a member who doesn’t like the world much, and Mr Erskine less. But on the other hand, it could all be leading somewhere. Somewhere very nasty. There was a little accident with the rapiers on stage last night. They’d been tampered with, and it looks like they were tampered with here.’

  ‘So, Inspector, it seems I must look very hard indeed to see what is wrong at Plum’s.’ Auguste’s dark eyes gleamed in anticipation.

  ‘Seems like you’ll have to. Mr Nollins don’t want my police constables lowering the tone of the place, says he’s going to play detective himself. I thought you might want to give a hand.’ Rose’s face lit up with a rare smile.

  Auguste almost visibly puffed up. ‘I shall not fail you, Inspector. Master cook, master detective. People talk of the wonders of Mr Sherlock Holmes. That is nothing. That is reasoning from A to B. Why, any cook can follow a recipe if the orders are given clearly. But it takes a maitre to deduce the final touches, that can turn a dish into an artistic triumph.’

  ‘Or an incident into a murder,’ commented Rose, draining the last dregs of his sherry cobbler with relish.

  The man pressed himself back against the basement wall. That cook in the tam-o’-shanter had come perilously close to the window then. Inspectors, eh? Scotland Yard? Gaylord Erskine? His eyes gleamed with excitement. But he mustn’t be seen. Silently he slipped away along the basement area, up the steps and out through the tradesmen’s gate into York Street.

  ‘But you’re a cook,’ pointed out Nollins, and it says much for his transparent ingenuousness that Auguste took no offence.

  ‘Evidemment,’ he murmured. ‘But the good Inspector Rose must have told you that I am also endowed with great detective powers.’

  Nollins eyed him doubtfully.

  ‘Mais oui, monsieur,’ said Auguste, hurt at this clear vote of no confidence. ‘You can ask him. At Stockbery Towers – at the Galaxy Theatre—’

  The Galaxy Theatre did not impress Nollins, but mention of Stockbery Towers did. It occurred to him that better Auguste make himself unpopular with the members than he himself. Then a thought struck him.

  ‘But you’re a cook,’ he pointed out again. ‘You can’t question the members. They wouldn’t like it.’

  Auguste inclined his head gracefully, hiding the involuntary wry smile. Only in England . . .

  ‘In England, monsieur, you have a proverb. More ways of skinning the cat. Not une belle phrase, but correct.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Now, monsieur,’ said Auguste firmly, ‘which is best: for me tactfully to find out what is happening here? Or for the police to do so?’ Nollins shuddered. ‘Or for a murder to take place first?’

  Nollins blenched. ‘Very well,’ he said unhappily, ‘but find out soon!’

  And with this heartfelt plea ringing in his ears, Auguste Didier sallied forth, metaphorical Gallic spear in hand, to rescue Plum’s in distress – after luncheon, naturally.

  Luncheon at Plum’s was a less formal meal than dinner. This meant that the food did not (necessarily) have to be dissected and discussed as minutely as though the recipients formed one of Grimod de La Reyniere’s grand juries. It was permitted merely to enjoy a swift luncheon, it being recognised that one or two at least of the members might have business appointments during the daytime. Luncheon was taken, as was dinner, at the long tables, seats being occupied in order of arrival – even if one’s neighbour was Worthington. Usually it was not well attended. Today was different, however. The news of the infamous ruling about the admission of ladies had travelled fast and members were scurrying to the scene to check the truth of this scandalous proposal for themselves.

  When Sir Rafael Jones entered the table was already half full, Gaylord Erskine in full spate, he noted with irritation. Erskine’s popularity annoyed him, as well as his other reservations about him. Before his arrival Jones had been virtual king of Plum’s artistic world, now his crown was in danger of being taken from him. King in
the sense of public achievement only, he had never been popular. Worthington in particular had opposed his membership. Quite what Colonel Worthington’s objection was against Sir Rafael was not clear. Nollins had pointed out to him, however, that he had been honoured by Her Majesty, albeit if the more malicious of his opponents claimed that this was because he was the one painter in London who displayed no interest whatsoever in painting Lillie Langtry (all that bosom! he explained to friends in private). In his youth a fervent Pre-Raphaelite, he had turned in middle age to society portraits, and having amassed status, wealth and his knighthood was now indulging himself with suitably classical subjects of beauty in distress, always young and generally unclad but without Ingres’ objectivity of portrayal. Plum’s was at a loss; Jones was so very respectable but his ladies, even if so unrealistically unbosomed, were so very naked, and often without the requisite coyness of expression that one could have hoped for. Yet how could one ascribe base motivation to one whom the Queen had honoured? That he had been elected at all had maliciously been ascribed to the fact that one of the bathers in his ‘Pool of Wisdom’, the most blatant of the three, bore a striking facial resemblance, much to the amusement of her friends, to the wife of one of Plum’s members, and the committee, fearful of seeing their own wives in the same predicament, had hastily changed their minds about his suitability.

  Plum’s was not one of those clubs where meals were taken in silence. After all, it was for its food that the club had been formed, and comment was necessary. If men can enjoy food together, then they can get on and rule the world together, Captain Plum had reasoned. Captain Plum had been an incurable optimist. A portrait of his revered master, the Duke of Wellington, one of the founders of the club, hung in the billiard room, which amused Auguste since it was well known that the good Duke, admirable though his attitude to the necessity of a good diet for the fighting man was, was hardly a gourmet.