Murder At Plums

by Myers, Amy

  ‘I’ll go and get some, Mr Didier,’ said Mary brightly. Anything for her god.

  The venison. It was unlike Lidstone’s to forget. True, he did not always approve of their wares – this new mutton they were importing. But in most things they were reliable. He would have to telephone them from Mr Peeps’ pride and joy – the telephone cabinet in his entrance hall. That would be another battle. Diable! What was their number? Where – ah here – 8556.

  ‘Senn’s high class table delicacies,’ piped another arrival. Auguste forgot about venison and flew to the door. Their caviar was undoubtedly the best, but the truffles not always so good. Anxiously he inspected. Deep in truffle inspection he failed to see someone else arrive.

  ‘New kitchenmaid reporting for duty.’

  ‘Emma.’ He clutched her hand and almost dragged her inside. ‘Madame Pryde, I—’

  ‘Careful, Auguste. I’ve got my reputation to think of. I’m just Emma, your kitchenmaid for the day, remember.’

  And indeed she looked the part. Neatly and plainly attired in a print dress with a large apron and a mob cap pulled over her fair hair, she looked almost nondescript. Until one saw the keen mocking eyes.

  ‘Will I do?’ she asked meekly.

  ‘You will do, Emma,’ he said gravely. ‘And now, since I am the maitre, you will have the goodness to prepare me les ris de veau piques glacis d la Toulouse. You will find the truffles—’ He caught her indignant gaze and held it.

  ‘Now look ’ere, Auguste, I know I said you were the master today, but there are limits. You really think I’m going to make sweetbreads with a Toulouse ragout, do you?’

  ‘It is the Francatelli way. A traditional way,’ he said firmly.

  ‘It’s not my way,’ said Emma defiantly. ‘You know sweetbreads are my speciality. But not a la Toulouse. Breadcrumbed in tomato sauce, Sweetbreads Emma.’

  ‘In Plum’s, there are many gentlemen who still think the tomato a dangerous fruit. That it causes a cancer. They are not popular, Emma,’ he said almost pleadingly.

  ‘Dangerous,’ she snorted. She picked up a knife and said to no one in particular: ‘Til get my revenge. You’ll see.’

  For the first time her eye fell on the blackboard. She looked at Auguste accusingly. She studied it. ‘You’ve added to it,’ she said accusingly.

  ‘You think it is too much?’ he asked almost pathetically.

  ‘Twenty-four soups, twenty-four fish dishes, twenty hors d’oeuvres dishes, twenty removes, fifty-four entrées, the sideboard, twenty-six roasts, twenty-four more removes, twelve flancs, twenty-four contreflancs, and eighty entremets? Oh no, Auguste, ’ow could I think you were overdoing it?’

  ‘There are over two hundred people,’ he said defensively.

  ‘I know. And it’s more than Soyer produced,’ she said resignedly. ‘Oh well, pass me the chopping board.’

  In fashionable houses all over London ladies’ maids were rushing around with last-minute touches to the toilettes. They were almost as nervous as their mistresses, who were well aware that they were making history in being admitted to Plum’s at all, let alone to the Passing.

  Gertrude Briton was pirouetting excitedly in front of her mirror. Gaylord would be there. When he saw her in her pink silk with the darling little puff sleeves, he could not help but fall in love with her all over again.

  Daphne Bulstrode looked doubtfully at the old blue. The old blue had been a part of her wardrobe for as long as she could remember. For the first time she felt a qualm. Perhaps she should have had a new dress. Then she banished the thought. She liked her old blue. Her old blue liked her. She’d borrow Fanny’s shawl. That would smarten it up a little.

  Amelia Erskine turned her head this way and that, trying to gauge the effect as her maid did her hair. She had thought about her costume very carefully. It had to be right. This was a special occasion. After all, next year she might be a Lady. She patted the ringlets carefully and complacently. She was not an intelligent woman; she did as Gaylord told her and he had told her she would be a Lady. So she was determined that nothing should go wrong this evening. Gaylord had assured her there was no danger.

  Alice Fredericks dressed with her usual decorum and reticence, now thinking of the evening ahead with some pleasure. It might be like an army gathering again. Then her eye strayed to the photograph on their mantelpiece. Her heart lurched. Even now, seventeen years later, the pain was still there.

  Emma Pryde prowled round the club with interest. In her plain print dress and cap no one had given her a second look so far. She went through the doorway to the right of Peeps’ entrance hall. Here, leading off the corridor, was the smoking room. So this was the famous Plum’s. How dare her clients prefer this uncomfortable place to Gwynne’s. The shabby leather chairs, drab curtains, the whole place could do with a woman’s touch. Acceptable in this smoking room, but even the drawing room opposite was dingy and unwelcoming. She opened a door at the end of the corridor, the room allotted for ladies’ use, she had understood. She peered in and giggled. It was clearly not the room for the ladies, but a junk room. Apart from the usual paraphernalia, several piles of books, a gramophone and some cylinder recordings, a magic lantern, an old telescope, it had clearly been a dump for those things that the gentlemen did not wish the ladies to see. Prints of ladies in questionable bathing dresses, portraits of ladies in even less, and Plum’s Trophy itself – she did not see its sacredness as a relic, she merely saw an antiquated part of a large animal’s anatomy. She rather coveted it for Gwynne’s.

  At the other end of the club, tucked between the billiard room and reserve dining room was the room set aside for use of the ladies. Emma giggled again when she saw the four stately commodes discreetly partitioned by screens from one another, and the oval mirror placed in a corner. One of the housemaids was clearly going to have her work cut out with those commodes. She continued her explorations through the smoking room, and pushed open the glass doors into the conservatory, where she dropped a mocking curtsey to the stone head of Captain Plum. Then something caught her eye – something in the garden. An impression – a shape—?

  Oliver Nollins fussed around, in theory to check all was in order for the Passing feast and parade. In practice he was no use at all, but simply got in people’s way. He told himself he was a vital cog in the wheel, which would not turn without him.

  He entered the dining room where a maid was setting out the Venetian glass finger bowls. Colourful, he agreed, but this new fashion for every colour of the rainbow on the table did not impress him. He was a traditionalist. Still, it looked cheerful and there was no arguing with Auguste, who regarded the table decorations as part of his role as maitre chef. Indeed he seemed to regard everything to do with food as his own domain. There were times when Didier got above himself, Nollins thought despondently. He continued his amble through the establishment. Into the smoking room. He sniffed. It was automatic now – ever since a new member had been caught in the vulgarity of smoking a Virginian cigarette. There’d been an uproar, and for once he didn’t blame them. Bad enough to allow cigarettes at all, but those stemming from Virginia were a travesty of good manners that could never be tolerated in Plum’s – or in any decent society come to that. Into the morning room where a maid was just coming out with an empty coal hod. Must be a new girl. He hadn’t seen her before. Or had he . . .? Something seemed familiar about her. Where had he seen her before?

  ‘Auguste – um, Mr Didier—’

  ‘Not now,’ yelped an anguished chef as Emma Pryde erupted through the door, ‘not in the middle of the King of Prussia’s favourite pudding.’

  Emma tried to contain her impatience, as he painstakingly forced the last of the concoction through the sieve till it resembled long strands of vermicelli.

  ‘These Germans,’ he remarked. ‘This is mere nursery fare. Rice and candied sweets indeed.’

  ‘Very popular with the British, too,’ observed Emma. ‘What on earth is it?’

  ‘The King of
Prussia’s favourite pudding,’ he repeated patiently. ‘That was before the days of Bismarck, that is. It was apparently also the favourite fare of young Master Fredericks, in 1865, when the recipe first appeared here. Young Master Fredericks later followed his father General Fredericks into the army, and was killed in Zululand. General Fredericks wanted the dish served tonight.’

  ‘What a sad story,’ said Emma. ‘Though I have to say,’ she observed, looking at the finished dish, ‘that if that’s the kind of muck they were serving at the German court, I’m glad I was at the French one. Catch Eugenie feasting on ground rice and almonds.’

  She sniffed. She completely forgot to report on what she had observed in the garden.

  Walking back along the corridor dividing the smoking room at the rear of the premises from the front-facing drawing room, Nollins bumped into Inspector Rose, arrived early in time to inspect the premises before the Passing began. This created a new problem for the already anxious Nollins. Where would the Inspector partake of the feast? Not with the members surely? Or would he? Should he? Nollins reluctantly supposed he should if he were to guard Erskine against anybody intent on murder. He was relieved to see that Rose had arrived in evening dress, albeit a trifle baggy in the trousers and large on the shoulders. Evening dress it undoubtedly was, however. Unfortunately he still wore his daytime boots, but he couldn’t ask for everything, and for Rose’s gesture Nollins was truly grateful.

  ‘Evening, Mr Nollins.’

  ‘Good evening, Inspector. Er – everything in order?’

  ‘No murderers masquerading as meringue dragoons, sir. Not that I can see.’

  This levity was ill-received.

  ‘Nor, Inspector, should I expect there to be. This is, after all, Plum’s.’

  ‘Forty-three, forty-four,’ finished Auguste, distractedly.

  ‘Counting entrées again, Auguste?’ said Emma.

  ‘Non, non, I count men. First I count forty-four extra waiters, then I count forty-five, now I count forty-four again.’

  ‘I’ll count them for you,’ Emma offered. ‘I enjoy counting men.’

  ‘No doubt,’ commented Auguste stiffly.

  By 7.30, 209 stalwart club members and wives, not to mention Inspector Rose, had packed themselves into the normally spacious dining room and were eagerly awaiting the feast. The menu cards were scrutinised with more than usual interest, bets having been laid and recorded in the betting books that the menu would be a replica of Soyer’s feast for Ibrahim Pasha, with a few extra dishes to out-Soyer Soyer. Those who had laid their bets were disappointed. It bore no resemblance to that great Reform Club occasion, save in the variety of the dishes that awaited them, whose appetising smells emerged temptingly from their chafing dishes.

  General approval was given to the soups, Soyer’s spring vegetable soup and soup a la Louis Philippe being considered no match for Didier’s crayfish bisque or clear turtle soup. Auguste had in fact been in some doubt about the wisdom of the latter owing to the complexities of making the correct turtle stock – and he had certainly drawn the line at killing the turtle himself as Francatelli had considered mandatory. Perhaps Buckingham Palace’s kitchens were larger than Plum’s.

  Emma’s eyes gleamed. A hundred and twenty men, and only a third of them known to her. The rest all potential customers for Gwynne’s. What a pity she was incognito. It had been difficult to get Auguste’s permission to wait at table, for he had pointed out that she would be far more useful in the kitchens. But somehow after she had managed to put the cucumber sauce on the crab instead of the fowl, got in the way just as he was about to add the ‘eyes’ to the pieces montées, he came to the conclusion that after all the main preparations were now complete and he would be better giving orders on his own in the kitchen without Emma’s sardonic eye upon him.

  In the dining room, Gaylord Erskine picked his dishes carefully, partaking of one only after another member. He smiled reassuringly at his wife, as he recommended the jambon glacé garni de fèves de Marais to Inspector Egbert Rose, who faced with the splendour of Auguste’s feast had all but forgotten the reason for his presence.

  At another table, Samuel Preston bided his time, and Charles Briton kept a careful eye on Gertrude.

  ‘I think it goes all right, hein?’ asked Auguste anxiously, the strain showing on his brow.

  ‘A few raised eyebrows over the sweetbreads d la Toulouse,’ murmured Emma.

  He glared at her. ‘Seriously, Emma.’

  ‘Seriously, mon cher Auguste, a masterpiece. A triumph. Why, the great Soyer ’imself must be applauding up there—’

  ‘Emma, there is no need to overdo it,’ said Auguste with dignity.

  She laughed. ‘Tell you what, Auguste, I’d even give you a job at Gwynne’s. But do you really expect them to taste everything on the tables?’

  ‘Naturally,’ replied Auguste with pride. ‘Everything is irresistible.’

  ‘But they won’t be able to waddle through the parade, Auguste, after that lot.’

  ‘As Carème remarked to your Prince Regent, ma chère, it is for me to provoke their appetites; it is for them to regulate them.’

  Little regulation seemed to be taking place as dishes were passed up and down tables with more speed and alacrity than was strictly polite. Rose gradually began to relax a little; indeed he could hardly do otherwise with all Auguste’s food inside him. Even though he had left the claret severely and sadly alone, the food itself was working its magic over him. Then he steeled himself, and drank some more coffee, eyeing the passing port bottle with regret. He must be prepared. If an attempt was to be made on Erskine’s life, it would be at the parade, and that would start shortly. They would be rising to join the ladies at any moment.

  ‘Definitely forty-five,’ pronounced Emma, rushing into the kitchen.

  ‘Entrées?’ said Auguste, lost.

  ‘Waiters, Auguste. Waiters.’

  One hundred or so ladies fidgeting in the morning room and lounge awaited their menfolk.

  ‘It’s all very well, Lady Fredericks,’ remarked Mary Preston, her daughter silent at her side, ‘but they could do with nice chintz covers in here.’ She looked disapprovingly at the shabby leather armchairs.

  ‘You are wight,’ interposed Juanita, a vision in purple satin as strident as her voice. They both looked at her, outraged. She had not been addressed.

  There were, in fact, they privately thought, some decidedly strange ladies here tonight. In such a crowd there were bound to be one or two, it was unavoidable. One just had to be careful who one spoke to. Even Mrs Erskine for instance. Mutton dressed as lamb. ‘Those ridiculous ringlets,’ hissed Mrs Preston. ‘Where does she think she is? A fancy dress ball? And that dress . . . quite disgustingly low and full. She looks enceinte—’ That brought a disagreeable reminder of her daughter, and she fell silent.

  Mrs Nollins glanced at the longcase clock, conscious of what her husband would wish her to do. ‘Time, I think, ladies, for the gentlemen to join us. For the parade.’

  Auguste hovered nervously, as four waiters each lifted the two pièces montées to their shoulders. Literally pièces montées as the Napoleon and the Dragoon were borne on litters towards the dining room, flanc setpieces to end all flancs. The 23rd Dragoon was made from a base of Savoy cake covered with cream, his red coat a patchwork of strawberries, his face carved from meringue, and crowned with a shako made of chocolate as was the sword, on which he rested lightly. Napoleon, as befitted his enemy status, was a slightly less grand rival, with chocolate coat, and hired bicorne.

  Behind these imposing life-sized figures followed two other minions, with lesser burdens. These figures, a small Napoleon and an even smaller Dragoon, were only two feet high, and though one could not accuse Auguste precisely of skimping on detail, the keen observer might spot the hair was not so carefully fashioned as that of their larger brother flancs. After all, Colonel Worthington was to be the only participant in this second parade. The bicorne unfortunately, being hired,
was full size, obscuring the noble features of the Emperor.

  Reverently, as the Dragoon approached, the members stood to attention, their womenfolk somewhat uneasily by their sides. It appeared to be a solemn moment, though they could not quite see why. Gertrude was inclined to giggle, but hastily changed her mind when she saw Charlie’s eye upon her. For Auguste it mattered not if disaster followed now; the creations had now been seen and admired, his artistry given the credit it deserved. They were all the more imposing for the candlelight with which the procession was headed.

  Oliver Nollins relaxed. He always enjoyed the parade, and would this year even if women were on it. What did it matter what they thought of the ritual, anyway? Plum’s was proud of it. It was the tradition.

  ‘Gentlemen, ladies,’ he said, ‘pray raise your glasses. I give you Captain Harvey Plum, our founder.’

  ‘God bless Captain Plum.’ The chorus rent the air. Slowly, majestically, the Dragoon was turned so that he faced the doorway. Auguste and Nollins followed, leading the procession, the tables emptying behind them till a long file, two by two, had vacated the room. Even the chatter of the ladies died down a little. Could it be they were impressed by the grandeur of the occasion?

  Gaylord and Amelia Erskine brought up the rear with Inspector Rose, who deemed this the safest position. ‘I’ll tell old Worthington the coast is clear,’ said Gaylord.

  Colonel Worthington had naturally refused to take dinner in the dining rooms, contaminated with ladies as they were, and was dining in solitary state in the smoking room with its comforting mementoes of war, not women. Assegais, Martini-Henry rifles, revolvers, a standard or two, with the occasional concession to other professions, that was more like it. This was the sort of place where a chap was at home.

  ‘He’ll give it ten minutes, then follow the route himself,’ reported Gaylord, and turned to the burdened waiters. ‘Take his dragoon in in five minutes, will you?’