by Myers, Amy
Worthington seethed. He had no choice. He had arrived at the wrong moment. He would have to sit next to that fellow Jones. No getting out of it. The choice was simple. He sat in silence or he talked to him, at least half the time. He swallowed, then remembered he was a pukka sahib.
‘Damned curry on the menu again,’ he offered gruffly. ‘Reminds me of the time I was at Chillianwallah. Real curries then. Not Didier’s offerings. What you need in a real curry is cardamoms. Goes into the stuff they give you for the cholera, too. Natives don’t need that of course. Now, a fellow I once knew at Chillianwallah . . .’ The voice droned on.
Jones was an unlikely looking artist. In his youth he had undoubtedly had boyish good looks. These had not survived early middle age. Now he was merely fleshy. Tall, with a large corporation, he resembled an elongated William pear, but without its softness. He dismissed Worthington with one phrase: ‘I like curry.’
As a considered comment of gourmet to gourmet it left much to be desired; as a way of shutting Worthington up it proved effective. With a charming smile, Sir Rafael turned his attention to Samuel Preston across the table.
‘I hear they’re rising in Matabeleland again.’
‘Oh, Chamberlain will soon deal with them,’ said Samuel Preston carelessly. He was a Chamberlain man. Till the Jameson Raid few men of ambition in his party could afford not to be; now, one had a choice.
‘Did he know about the Raid, in your view?’
Preston frowned. This was going too far. True, the conduct of Jameson was the talk of London and Chamberlain’s complicity in the Raid was equally eagerly debated, but all the same, this interrogation was going too far. Nevertheless, Sir Rafael had been honoured by Her Majesty, he was a bachelor and Preston’s daughter Sylvia needed a husband. Quickly. He pursed his lips, conscious of Gaylord Erskine laughing a few places away.
‘In my view, no,’ he managed to answer pleasantly enough.
‘Come, sir, what of the timing? What of the Cleveland message?’ said Salt, eager to show that his knowledge of Africa extended beyond his exploration of their territory.
‘Damned Yankees,’ snorted Bulstrode. ‘Why didn’t they declare war on us and have done with it?’
A cry from the table.
‘Good God, don’t take it to heart, Erskine,’ said Bulstrode, appalled. ‘Daresay the Yankees are all right when you get to know them—’
‘No, no . . . pot—’
All eyes were riveted on the red contorted face of Gaylord Erskine, choking up his brandy cream dessert.
His call for a pot was not fully appreciated until signs of his vomiting all over the luncheon table were so imminent that Charlie Briton rushed a chamber pot forth from its concealing cupboard and presented it to him.
His vomiting over, fascinated eyes watched as the master actor, this time the centrepiece of a real-life drama, cried ‘Poison’ and slid gracefully from his chair to the floor.
The drawing room was heavy with awkward silence. The members were divided into those who thought they had been right all along and the fellow should never have been elected, and others with a greater sense of justice who realised that if he had been poisoned he was scarcely responsible for his actions, however anti-social. Gaylord Erskine was removed to one of the bedrooms where a doctor, hastily summoned, pronounced that he was unlikely to die of a severe tartar emetic and exited with the remains of his brandy cream and glass of wine to confirm his analysis.
The members looked at each other uncomfortably: the Rules did not provide for this kind of emergency. Some odd things had been happening; the poor chap was evidently the victim of some crank or other, but that such things should take place on Plum’s premises was so far a departure from the norm that normally divided ranks began to close. Nollins was said to be having a word with the cook – unfortunately Auguste did not hear this public appellation, or he would not have been amused. The members reacted in the way by now natural to them. They ignored the incident, as they had its predecessors, and continued with the matter in hand.
‘Gentlemen,’ Worthington began.
The gentlemen whom he eyed so firmly shrank back slightly in their armchairs. The word had the ominous tone of involvement. They came to Plum’s to escape from the outside world and the events that had just taken place bore every sign of severely transgressing the barrier. So far the members had successfully blinkered themselves to ignore dead rats, mutilated books and pictures, and even the defacement of The Times. A possible poisoning was a little more difficult. Fortunately. Worthington was of a similar mind.
‘Gentlemen,’ he began again, ‘I feel we must discuss this most serious incursion on our privacy, and what is more, take action.’
His audience grew tense. Action?
‘The ladies, gentlemen.’
A visible swell of relief among his listeners.
‘What’s the harm in it?’
It was an incautious younger member who had spoken. Thirty pairs of eyes slowly swivelled to fasten on him.
‘My dear sir, it’s the principle of the thing. When you’ve been a member rather longer you will realise the importance of such matters,’ Peregrine Salt replied gravely.
‘Add a spot of colour to the place,’ muttered the intrepid youngster, daunted but not quashed. He had been put up for and elected to the club because it was an honour to get into Plum’s, sort of thing a chap had to do, but now he was in he wondered why. Nobody under eighty to talk to and once you got over the honour and glory and all that, it was dashed boring. He put in an appearance now and then, of course. No harm being seen there. Besides, Didier’s food was worth coming for, even if the luncheon charges had gone up since he had arrived.
‘I propose, gentlemen, that we stand firm,’ Worthington ground on inexorably. ‘That’s what we did at Chillianwallah. Stood firm, gentlemen. “Bite on the bullet, old man, and don’t let them think you’re afraid.” Kipling had the right idea.’
‘And a woman is only a woman but a good cigar is a smoke.’
A ripple of nervous laughter greeted this sally from Rafael Jones, instantly quelled as his unpopularity was recalled.
‘After all,’ went on Rafael, a trifle maliciously, ‘wouldn’t we have to move the – um – object?’
Thirty gentlemen followed his train of thought instantly.
‘The Trophy?’ asked one, shocked.
‘Plum’s Trophy,’ breathed the others almost in unison.
Plum’s Trophy had been donated by some African traveller of the past and was a glass case containing a part of a hippopotamus’s anatomy not usually displayed in public, albeit in a shrivelled and withered state. The full horror of the situation struck the assembled members simultaneously, just as Auguste arrived with coffee.
‘They might not recognise them,’ said General Fredericks doubtfully.
‘They always do,’ growled Atkins. A lifelong bachelor, he was an authority on the ways of women.
‘Cover them with a black cloth?’ suggested Charlie Briton.
‘And what about the Respectful Salute when the parade passes through? Can’t salute a damned cloth,’ said Peregrine Salt. ‘No, old Nollins must be out of his mind letting this motion through. Women. Where will it end? It’s all very well talking about being one day a year, just as an experiment, but why does it have to be the feast?’ His voice rose in anguish at the thought of Juanita’s presence.
Colonel Worthington took breath, and stood in time-honoured pose with his back to the fireplace, viewing the assembled company. ‘Gentlemen, what I have to propose is a rebellion!’
Open-mouthed, his audience looked at him. Old Worthington coming out of character of club bore and proposing rebellion? They were living in stirring times.
‘We go to Mr Nollins with a quorum of members and present him with an ultimatum,’ the Colonel trumpeted firmly. ‘Either the committee rescind this order about the ladies or we ask them to resign.’ He had cast a quick eye round the room to check that none of his fellow commi
ttee members had broken with habit and entered Plum’s by day before he uttered this brave statements.
‘But,’ said Charlie Briton hesitantly, ‘you’re on the committee, Colonel.’
‘I am aware, my dear young man, that I am on the committee,’ he replied with dignity. ‘Unfortunately I was overruled. Why I do not know. It was quite clear to me that originally all the committee agreed with me. When the vote was taken, some days later, they did not. I strongly suspect—’ but he kept his suspicions to himself that the committee members’ wives were ladies of exceptional force of character. ‘So, gentlemen, do I have your support?’
‘Pow-wow with the native chief. Could have done with more of that in Zululand, eh, Worthington? I’m in favour. Don’t get far with women on expeditions.’ Peregrine Salt spoke. ‘I’m against women in the club. Can’t talk about things man to man. What’s a club for, after all? Let them in once, and they’ll be clamouring to come in all the time.’
‘Thank you, Mr Salt.’
‘Don’t agree with a word you say most of the time, Worthington. And you say a lot of them. But I’m with you this time,’ Bulstrode shouted cheerfully, unconscious of insult.
Worthington stiffened. Lord Bulstrode, had he not been a lord, would definitely not have been one of his favourite people, but in view of his ancient peerage he was prepared to overlook his eccentricities. So did Plum’s. Indeed, people were almost encouraged to indulge their eccentricities in Plum’s. It was felt in some obscure way to add to tradition.
‘I’m your man too, Colonel.’ The Honourable Charles Briton had every reason to be. Still sulking after the discovery of his pretty wife’s liaison with Gaylord Erskine, though overlooking his own amours carried out in discreet privacy at the Gwynne Hotel, he was determined not to have to endure the sight of his wife with Erskine in his very own club. She said it was over, but the smirk on Erskine’s face every time he saw him made him squirm. It almost drove a fellow to—
‘I, on the other hand,’ said a quiet voice, ‘see no reason why an invitation extended to ladies once a year should mean the end of peace in our time. Nevertheless, I am against this invitation being for the Passing, especially in view of the unfortunate incidents presently taking place in the club. On some other occasion, however—’
‘Exactly.’ Worthington pounced. General Fredericks was the one person he was not prepared to bluster down, but he seized on the fortunate mention of the club troubles. ‘Can’t endanger the little women, can we?’
Samuel Preston was somewhat alarmed at the way things were going. He was extremely glad he had taken the precaution of ripping the page out of the Suggestions Book. He had not counted on such opposition. He had merely wished to bring matters to a head. Make Erskine confront Sylvia face to face. Now he must play matters carefully, if he were not to alienate valuable support for his political career: ‘Gentlemen, much as I enjoy the company of the ladies, I am against this motion. They have their own clubs. Are we invited there? No. I say we should be careful before we open the floodgates, and let tradition die. A new century is almost upon us. It may be that John Stuart Mill’s cry for women’s emancipation may live on. British womanhood is revered the world over, for what it is. Let us keep it safe, fast within its own strongholds.’ And so on.
His rhetoric was impressive and decisive. There were murmurs of agreement, of support.
Worthington swelled with righteousness. ‘Gentlemen, I propose that a notice be posted for all members who wish to protest to gather here tomorrow morning, for a delegation to Mr Nollins. I take it I have your support in this?’
The ayes had it with a vengeance. To protect their preserve the members were prepared to go to any lengths, even, if need be, to take action, a policy alien to club life. It was pointed out that two days hence would provide better opportunity for swelling the ranks of the dissenters. This was agreed, which, it transpired, was an unfortunate decision. However, in the animation the discussion aroused, the unfortunate events at the luncheon table were completely forgotten – until there was a sudden reminder.
A pale figure stood gracefully at the open door. Gaylord Erskine clutched his head in both hands and staggered a little. Then he rallied and gazed round the company.
‘Gentlemen. Forgive me for so disrupting luncheon. But it seems, alas, that someone upon these premises is of malicious intent. Towards me, it would appear, gentlemen, towards me.’
Auguste was fuming, his moustache quivering with indignation. That he, who was ordained to play detective, should be so cross-questioned by the doctor was insupportable. Now Nollins wished to see him, no doubt to enquire why his chosen detective should apparently be poisoning the members. He managed a rueful grin when he saw Mary’s anxious eyes upon him. The doctor had not kept his interrogation private.
‘Are you all right, Mr Auguste?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Ma belle, I am not all right. This doctor, he will regret very much his words. To suggest that I should accidentally or purposely put a tartar emetic in my own creations – the man is an idiot.’
‘Someone did though,’ said Mary, ‘and poor Mr Erskine ate it.’
‘Yes, my child, and I will find out who.’
‘You will?’ asked Mary, eyes as round as saucers.
‘Yes, ma belle, I, the cook, as Mr Nollins calls me. But I will need your help.’
A long-drawn-out ‘Oh’ from Mary.
‘You will help me, will you not?’
Speechless, she nodded fervently. Then, facing reality: ‘But how?’ she managed to croak to her god.
‘Be my ears, be my eyes, when you are in the club. You are anonymous, you are a servant. They will not notice you. Observe everything, tell me everything.’
Her brow puckered in concentration.
‘What about?’ she asked simply.
‘About’ – he paused – ‘about anything, anyone, that is not as it seems.’
Chapter Three
How she hated Wednesdays. Wednesdays ruined the whole week. The most exciting things always seemed to happen on a Wednesday and yet she was obliged to remain confined to the house. It was her At Home Day. Lady Fredericks much regretted her husband’s retirement and advanced social position. She had much preferred being abroad.
And here, horror of horrors, she could see Daphne Bulstrode mounting the steps and a strange pretty young woman with her. What on earth could she find to say to Lady Bulstrode for fifteen minutes? She was nearly as mad as her husband.
With sinking heart, she arranged her features into a welcoming, dignified expression, as the door was flung open and Wilson began his poker-faced announcements. The show was on.
‘My dear Daphne, how charming to see you.’
‘Hrrumph. Alice, have you heard? What do you intend to do about it, eh?’
‘Do about what, Daphne?’ Alice Fredericks asked blankly.
‘Fiddle de dee, don’t say you don’t know – and this is Gertie Briton, by the way, Charlie Briton’s wife.’
Torn between curiosity and her duty, Lady Fredericks uttered polite platitudes to this pretty doll-like creature, who appeared very pink in the face – as much as could be seen of it in view of the ridiculously high collar on her blouse.
‘Mrs Erskine, your ladyship, and—’ but Wilson never managed the rest for a crowd of rustling, quivering ladies surged in after Amelia Erskine. Lady Fredericks rose more in alarm than politeness, and was surrounded by a crowd of clutching hands.
‘Amelia says they’re trying to keep us out.’
‘Who, what?’ Lady Fredericks took a seat in the forlorn hope her visitors would as well. But Lady Bulstrode continued to stride around the room, to Lady Fredericks’ great alarm, since she had a prized collection of delicate porcelain.
It took some time to convey the message through the babble of voices, since often the purport was obscured by side issues.
‘I had ordered a new gown,’ wailed Mrs Briton ingenuously.
‘Fiddle de dee, more to this than ne
w gowns,’ trumpeted Daphne. ‘Old one’s good enough for me.’
‘I had refused an invitation from Lady Warwick,’ despaired another, the wife of a committee member. ‘How dare they? It was all agreed.’
‘They say it’s because of the unpleasantness there has been at the club,’ declared Amelia Erskine, taking a leading role – an unusual event for her.
‘Unpleasantness?’ said Lady Fredericks, totally at sea now. ‘What unpleasantness?’
‘Practical jokes,’ said Gertie dismissively.
‘Tampering with a rapier and then poisoning my husband are hardly practical jokes,’ pointed out Amelia with quiet dignity.
The wives dismissed this as an irrelevance.
‘They twy to stop us coming,’ boomed the deep voice of Juanita Salt, bringing everyone back to the central issue.
Lady Fredericks frowned. ‘I shall inform Arthur,’ she declared forthrightly. ‘He will tell them how foolish they are being.’
Three voices enlightened her with glee. ‘He supported them, Alice.’
In the circumstances, it was entirely understandable that the At Home visit lasted more than the ritual fifteen minutes.
‘But Gaylord—’ Gertrude Briton’s china-blue eyes were welling with tears.
He held up his hand as though her sadness were too much for him to bear. ‘Don’t, little puss. It’s best for both of us, don’t you see?’
‘But I don’t see why you think Charlie’s responsible for these awful things,’ wailed Gertrude.
Gaylord swallowed. ‘When, my dear, someone is clearly trying to kill you and you are’ – he paused delicately – ‘he has such an enchanting little wife as you, who else would be trying to kill me? Besides, no one else . . .’
