Murder At Plums

by Myers, Amy

  ‘But my Charlie wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ she pouted.

  ‘Nevertheless, dearest, someone tampered with the rapiers and put poison in my food. In the club.’ The horror of this slightly exaggerated statement was lost on Gertrude.

  ‘But I love you,’ she hiccuped.

  The repetition of the word ‘but’ was beginning to irritate Gaylord. He had thought Gertrude a most biddable little thing when she first caught his eye, and so convenient for those afternoon meetings when he knew the Honourable Charles Briton to be ensconced at Plum’s or at Gwynne’s. Recently, however, she had shown a distressing tendency to challenge his every decision, and in particular this one.

  ‘Dearest,’ he said gently, ‘I have your reputation to think of.’ Then, ‘Somebody knows,’ he thrilled in the awful tones he had used in Lady Ponsonby’s Secret. ‘It may be that the unfortunate events at Plum’s are directed against the club, rather than myself. Nevertheless, my beloved, it would not be right of me to involve you in this campaign of hate. I alone must take my chance. Your honour must not be compromised. No hint of scandal.’

  Gertie pouted. A spotless reputation seemed a dull alternative to her afternoons with Gaylord.

  ‘But—’ she began.

  ‘And so, beloved, we must part. I can stay no more, lest I weaken—’ and pressing her hand to his lips, he rushed off in an excess of emotion (chiefly relief) as yet another ‘but’ floated pitifully after him.

  In Gwynne’s Hotel, her Charlie was agonising over his woes in Emma Pryde’s office. Only from her current favourite would she have permitted this behaviour. ‘And now I have to see the swine every day in Plum’s. These actor fellows. Never learned how to behave like gentlemen. I even tried to have a chat with him, man to man, to tell him I knew and all that, and dash it, it wasn’t done now he was a member of the same club and I knew. Fellow backed away from me as if I had the plague. I tell you, Plum’s isn’t the same with these yellowy-greenery fellows round the place. First that painter chappie, then Erskine. Think they’d be a bit more careful after Wilde. Can’t trust them. Not in a place like Plum’s. No idea of how to behave. But I’ll have my revenge, Emma, oh yes. The fellow more or less accused me of being the club joker. Me! A Cavalryman.’ He stared at her with hurt, wide-open, guileless eyes.

  Colonel Worthington waited impatiently in the morning room, with only Lord Bulstrode for company. If company was the word, for Bulstrode was immersed in The Pink ’Un.

  ‘Eleven fifteen,’ he muttered to Bulstrode’s newspaper, its reader being totally obscured.

  ‘Eh, what’s that?’ Bulstrode had forgotten the matter of the moment and was astounded that anyone, particularly old Worthington, should interrupt him while reading The Pink ’Un. It was well known that Bulstrode never addressed anybody before 12 noon and a stiff whisky and soda. Preferably 12.30 and two whiskies and soda.

  Even Worthington baulked at the ferocity of Bulstrode’s expression, though not for long. When it came to self-interest he was a match for the honourable lord, especially after that certain incident.

  ‘No one has yet arrived,’ Worthington pointed out unnecessarily.

  ‘Good Gad, sir, why should they? No one ever arrives before luncheon time in this room. Try the smoking room if you must chatter.’

  ‘But the meeting,’ Worthington burst out, hurt.

  ‘Meeting? Dammit, I forgot, sir. Well, where is everyone then?’ Bulstrode glared, as if Worthington were himself responsible.

  The colour mounted in Worthington’s face, his body heaving with emotion. ‘They should have been here at eleven. I called it for eleven,’ he said querulously.

  ‘Daresay you made a mistake,’ said Bulstrode irritably.

  ‘It was quite clearly for today,’ said Worthington obstinately.

  ‘Got to face it, then,’ said Bulstrode, not without relish. ‘No one’s coming.’

  Worthington stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘No one coming? But it was agreed. A protest. Everybody was in agreement. Of course they’re coming.’

  ‘Changed their minds,’ said Bulstrode gleefully. It was time old Worthington got his come-uppance. Perhaps he’d take the hint and resign now. One way of getting rid of a club bore. He remembered now what Daphne had been trumpeting on about last night.

  A hundred or so wives were sipping coffee with an air of quiet satisfaction at a job well done.

  Auguste dragged his thoughts away from more desirable topics, such as the menu for dinner, and concentrated on Plum’s problems.

  First he must put his thoughts in order as he would arrange the ingredients for a coq au vin. Then he would extract the essential simplicity of the dish – the reason behind it – and concentrate upon that.

  Ingredients? Anonymous letters to Mr Peeps, Mr Preston and Mr Erskine. The Times defaced, books torn up, lethal rapiers – and an emetic in food he had prepared, probably in the dessert, the doctor had told him. He compressed his lips. The tampering with the swords had most definitely been directed against Mr Erskine. But the dessert? Who could have guaranteed the brandy cream would reach Mr Erskine? Luncheon being served en buffet, anyone could have eaten it. Or could they? Erskine was early in to lunch, the second or third. And the tray of brandy creams was brought in to the side tables well after the beginning of the meal. Easy enough for someone to calculate when Erskine would be ready for dessert and to doctor the soft cream dessert next on the tray. And if he took the wrong one, or dallied longer than usual between courses, someone else would take it. No harm would be done: It was not a lethal dose of poison – merely an emetic. Auguste’s heart sank – there was no way of discovering a day later who had preceded whom at the buffet. He could question John, who had been on duty – but why should he remember? No, he must try another tack. Another ingredient.

  The ingredient he picked upon was hardly pleased to see him. Alfred Peeps and Auguste had never been on cordial terms, since Peeps accorded little honour in his scheme of things either to foreigners or to cooks. Those that walked below stairs were a lower species as far as Peeps was concerned – very worthy, very necessary, but not part of life as he saw it.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said severely, ‘and no one who isn’t a gentleman comes past my office, Mr Didier, do not go round purloining other gentlemen’s belongings. Not purposely that is,’ he added hastily, remembering the unfortunate incident of Lord Bulstrode’s top hat. Another member had accidentally removed this article, and the noble lord had retaliated by leaping up and down on the offender’s own headgear. ‘Therefore,’ Peeps continued, ‘there is no need for me to keep an eagle-eyed watch over the cloakroom in case someone may decide to pop in and tamper with any swords they may see lying around. Things may be different downstairs in your domain, of course,’ and he returned to his perusal of The Times. (This was only perused in Plum’s. It had never passed the portals of his Holloway home.)

  Auguste bit back a retort in the interests of Plum’s.

  ‘Mr Peeps,’ he said, ‘I appeal to you. Let us together try to stop these outrages.’ Peeps took off his glasses to deliver a crushing retort, but Auguste leapt in quickly. ‘From my position downstairs I can only discover so much, but here, you, in your important central position, could tell me so much.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ said Peeps, mollified but suspicious, ‘but I don’t hold with no foreigners doing detective work.’

  ‘But am not I better than a bowler-hatted sergeant?’ asked Auguste innocently.

  Peeps paled, poised between two alternative horrors. The devil he knew was the better – by a small margin in this case.

  He blew out his cheeks and harrumphed.

  ‘Very well, Mr Didier, I don’t hold with it. But I will agree we have to stop all this nonsense. Why, some gentlemen are talking of resigning.’

  This had never happened in the history of the club – not by the gentlemen’s own choice, that is.

  ‘Besides,’ said Peeps heavily, letting his guard down, ‘I don’t mind telling you, Mr
Didier, these letters are getting me down. Very upset, I’ve been. Very.’

  Worthington paced. Time was he would pace with sword in hand and subalterns would tremble. No one trembled any more, except the occasional housemaid. Housemaids were not so satisfying as subalterns. Even his housekeeper took no notice of what she plainly dismissed as tantrums. And her niece Rosie never trembled. Colonel Worthington was a frustrated man. And never more so than this morning, when a hundred or so subalterns and other ranks had for some inexplicable reason failed to fall into line.

  ‘Dammit!’ he shouted, making Bulstrode jump, thus spilling a drop of the precious liquid. ‘I’ll go myself. I’ll show Nollins what the Twenty-fourth Foot are made of.’

  Auguste stared at Mrs Raffold’s recipe for tansy pudding with unseeing eyes. He was for once not thinking about food. The matter was serious indeed. Having let down the drawbridge of his confidence, Peeps had not merely stayed to welcome his foe but advanced to meet him.

  Alfred Peeps was the fount of all knowledge, just as Nollins was the recipient of all complaints. He was the friend to all, just as Nollins was enemy to all, though in fact the members had nothing against Nollins personally. It was just that he was the secretary, and thus responsible for the lack of caviar included in the 1s 6d lunch, the lack of lavatory paper in the lavatories, the ash found on the billiard table, the cancellation of the subscription to the Pall Mall Gazette. No matter that it had never been opened; it had always been taken at Plum’s and therefore was part of it.

  Alfred Peeps had started his fifty years’ service as a bell boy. Bright-eyed, alert, he had caught the eye of the then porter, who had been there since Plum’s opened, and reckoned that something could be made of young Peeps.

  ‘Such things I hear, Mr Didier, you’d never believe. They don’t think I’m human, you see,’ he explained. Auguste had sympathised. How often had he, anonymous in white tam-o’-shanter and apron, stood while conversations were carried on oblivious of his presence. How many of the gentlemen had even noticed his presence in the morning room yesterday? His was merely the hand that offered the coffee or the brandy. It had no human body, no personality at the end of it, so far as the recipients were concerned.

  ‘A symbol, that’s what I am,’ pronounced Peeps, half proud, half sad at this self-confession. ‘But I’ve got thoughts of my own about who’s behind this. And do you know what I think, Mr Didier?’

  Auguste shook his head, looking suitably impressed.

  ‘I think that the Colonel’s behind it all,’ said Peeps.

  Auguste blinked. ‘Colonel Worthington? But why?’

  ‘I’ve seen it before,’ said Peeps gravely. ‘Retired, you see. When they don’t get enough attention, they think they’ll make people attend to them. He’s just the type.’

  ‘Why the Colonel, not General Fredericks?’ enquired Auguste with interest at this unsuspected depth of reasoning.

  Peeps regarded him in scorn. ‘He’s a general, Mr Didier. Generals don’t need to do that kind of thing. Besides, he has a lady wife.’

  Auguste was fascinated. ‘I did not realise you were an admirer of the ladies, Mr Peeps.’

  ‘Only in their place, of course,’ added Peeps. ‘I don’t hold with letting them in here. The end of Plum’s. That’s what that will mean.’

  Auguste hastily diverted him from this side alley. He had heard enough about the admission of ladies to Plum’s to last him for quite a while. ‘But what proof do you have about Colonel Worthington?’

  ‘I saw him, Mr Didier. There weren’t many people in the cloakroom that luncheon time when poor Mr Erskine’s swords got tampered with. But the Colonel went in. I remember that in particular – he looked furtive when he came out. Furtive.’

  ‘Does he have any reason to dislike Mr Erskine?’ asked Auguste.

  ‘He don’t hold with play-actors being in the club. Old-fashioned is the Colonel.’

  ‘But that is no reason to try to kill—’

  ‘Ah, but it didn’t kill him, did it?’ crowed Peeps. ‘Mind you,’ he added in an effort to be fair, ‘other folks don’t like Mr Erskine, too. That Sir Rafael Jones.’

  ‘But I thought he proposed him?’ said Auguste slowly.

  ‘Maybe, but that don’t mean he likes him, do it?’ said Peeps smugly. ‘I never see ’em talk if they meet here in the lobby. Sir Rafael always turns away.’

  ‘Yet, Mr Erskine is popular, is he not?’

  ‘A very nice gentleman, Mr Erskine, even though he does have an eye for the ladies.’

  ‘Which ladies?’ Auguste was on familiar ground now.

  Peeps eyed him disapprovingly. ‘We don’t bandy ladies’ names about in England, Mr Didier.’

  Auguste sighed to himself. ‘Naturally, Mr Peeps. I just thought if by any chance the ladies were connected with any of Plum’s gentlemen, it might provide a motive for Mr Erskine to be attacked.’

  Peeps thumbed a corner of The Times, a habit he reserved normally for Holloway. ‘That young Briton fellow’s got a pretty wife, they say,’ then flushed at this betrayal of his humanity.

  ‘That is so, Mr Peeps,’ said Auguste gravely.

  ‘Mind you, it’s all some madman, you’ll see,’ Peeps said hastily. ‘And something to do with that Colonel Worthington, I reckon.’

  Auguste gave up. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mr Peeps.’

  ‘Hrrumph,’ said Peeps, settling down to his duties once more. ‘Mind you,’ he flung in a spirit of truce at Auguste’s departing back, ‘Mr Preston don’t like Mr Erskine.’

  ‘Antimony,’ remarked Rose gloomily, gazing out of the kitchen window on to the unprepossessing basement area beyond, where Auguste’s parsley boxes were sprouting with spring enthusiasm. ‘’Course, it’s doctors mainly like this sort of trick. Got any doctors in Plum’s?’

  ‘One, yes,’ said Auguste, busily stirring the provençale sauce. ‘But he is a highly respected nonagenarian, who attends upon Her Majesty. I think it highly unlikely he stole into the luncheon room to put poison in a fellow member’s food.’

  ‘Overdose of emetic that’s all,’ said Rose, disregarding Auguste’s statement. ‘He threw it up before it could do any harm. No, it’s a joker all right. Not a job for me. I might put someone on to getting to the bottom of these letters. Twitch perhaps.’ Rose thought malevolently of his underling, Sergeant Ambrose Stitch. Serve him right. It wasn’t really a CID sergeant category crime either, but with all these lords and what-nots around, McNaughten of the Yard would need to impress.

  ‘Ah, no, Inspector, not Sergeant Stitch,’ Auguste pleaded. He had had little to do with the sergeant, but what he had so far seen of him did not propel him to improve his acquaintance.

  ‘Don’t want Stitch, eh?’ Rose said idly, eyeing the lobster pie wistfully.

  ‘That is for luncheon,’ said Auguste firmly.

  ‘Ah. Well, Monsieur Didier, if you disdain my best sergeant, you’d better hurry up and solve the mystery yourself to get him out quick, eh? How far have you got?’

  ‘I have certain trains of thought, monsieur. Not yet complete, you understand,’ replied Auguste guardedly, desperately wondering how best to disguise the fact that these trains of thought provided a mere garnish to a dish at the moment consisting of little more than the equivalent of a few unpeeled potatoes. Had Peeps been present he would have been gratified to hear his theory being given credence.

  ‘We had to decide, mon cher Inspecteur, whether Mr Erskine is the main ingredient of our villain’s recipe or whether he is but one.’

  ‘I can’t say I follow, Mr Didier. Let’s stick to simple facts, shall we? Most crimes start out that way.’ It was true. When Polti, the Italian anarchist, had been arrested back in ’94, they’d picked him up because he’d been to buy the ingredients for a bomb. After that it was easy. Sergeant Sweeney followed him around till he caught him with the bomb in his possession. On top of a London bus. Simple, clear-cut. ‘Now the fact here is that we have a practical joker, that’s all. One with
a nasty sense of humour, I admit. But no sign that he’s out to kill, or he’d have done so by now. None of this hocus-pocus. This joker is either someone who’s trying to scare Mr Erskine or someone who’s got it in for Plum’s and reckons Mr Erskine’s his best target, being in the public eye.’

  ‘In either case I believe you are wrong, Inspector. There may well be some sour sediment at the bottom of our claret. And this sediment may lead to murder.’

  ‘No. You mark my words, Didier. Your murderer doesn’t advertise his intentions in advance. Just a practical joker. Twitch will find him,’ he added meanly.

  ‘I will find him, monsieur,’ said Auguste simply.

  Agnes was breathless with excitement. Here she was alone in Monsieur Auguste’s private sanctum and since she could think of no sins she had committed recently, save for over-salting the gratin dauphinois, the reason for her summons could only be good. His eyes would be fixed on her alone. She began to read all sorts of hidden messages in their dark, eloquent depths. In her dreams last night he had swept her into his arms in the midst of her raising the pork pie, and murmured sweet words against her mouth, praised her eyes, her hair, her Victoria pudding . . .

  This morning he did not sweep her into his arms, but he was asking her help, the next best thing, she supposed, a little wistfully.

  ‘Anything strange, Mr Didier?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘I don’t know, I’m sure. There was that young man kissing Mary—’

  ‘No, no, ma petite, nothing like that. In the club.’

  Agnes racked her brains, anxious to please, and came up with gold. ‘That book – the Suggestions Book. There was some pages ripped out.’

  ‘Yes.’ This did not interest Auguste. The question of the admission of ladies was irrelevant beside the other matters.

  ‘Well,’ said Agnes, deflated, ‘I saw who did it. It was that Member of Parliament, Mr Preston.’

  ‘Samuel Preston,’ repeated Auguste thoughtfully. True, he had thought the question of the admission of ladies irrelevant, but the name of Preston following Peeps’ last cryptic remark was too much of a coincidence. But what did it mean? Did it mean it was Preston’s suggestion of which he later repented? Or did it mean something more sinister . . .?