Murder At Plums

by Myers, Amy

  She thrust open the door of the small drawing room, blushing as Auguste gave her a special smile.

  ‘Ah my dear,’ said Rose heartily. ‘May I present Mr Didier?’

  ‘Madame, enchanté,’ murmured Auguste, bending low over the hand that had clearly been working side by side with the girl all day long. He could smell Zambuk ointment. The Inspector Rose he knew, in some indefinable way seemed to change before his eyes; no longer the withdrawn, solitary, sharp-eyed bloodhound, he now seemed a part of an entity of two, his partner dressed in a mauve mousseline dress that did nothing to flatter the anxious face that nevertheless displayed an underlying serene self-confidence. Her eyes watched him warily; shorter, stouter than her husband, she stood beside him somewhat timidly. They were mutually supporting. Of course she was anxious; was he not a master chef, as her husband would have told her? But deep down she did not doubt herself, for the simple reason that her husband never did.

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Mr Didier.’ The skirts swished nervously. She had one eye on Egbert. The last foreigner he had brought to the house had been a Lascar seaman on the run for murder, and though she did not think Mr Didier in that class, nevertheless as an inspector’s wife she would play things warily.

  Auguste seated himself in the old-fashioned mahogany chair that ill-matched the attempt at modern decoration, the panelled dado round the walls, the Japanese wallpaper above it that made him shudder. Every corner was crammed, a cosy room. How differently the French would decorate this room. Yet everything spoke of comfort, of homeliness; a forest of aspidistras poked their heads from every corner. Mrs Rose was clearly an avid reader of home magazines.

  ‘You’re a cook, Mr Didier,’ Mrs Rose ventured, as the maid hesitantly served something that might be soup.

  ‘Yes, Madame Rose,’ said Auguste calmly.

  ‘Egbert has to be careful about his food,’ she announced. ‘I have to be careful. Very particular he is. He can’t eat anything rich. He can’t take rich foreign food, so we have to eat plainly here.’

  Auguste thought briefly of Inspector Rose enjoying his sole au chablis, of Inspector Rose faced with a pochouse, a foie gras, pontificating on le turbot à la sauce homard, on Grimod de La Reynière’s chicken bayonnaise, and held his peace. Inspector Rose worked stolidly on through his bowl of brown water.

  ‘Consommy à la Sarah Bernhardt,’ said Mrs Rose happily. Auguste’s private opinion was that the divine Sarah might have decided to stay in the black coffin she held court in, if forced to eat this abomination in her name, yet he devoured every mouthful with apparent enjoyment.

  ‘The sherry, madame, an exquisite thought,’ he murmured, gulping the last mouthful with relief.

  ‘Salmon steak à la Cussy,’ Mrs Rose greeted the next course, elated with the success of the soup.

  ‘My dear, you spoil us,’ murmured her husband affectionately.

  ‘It’s nothing, Egbert.’

  Auguste stared at the brownish-orange heap with the bottled crayfish over it. Resolutely he picked up his fork and began to eat. Then the awful truth began to dawn. Where had he heard that recipe name before? He swallowed a mouthful of tasteless flab with its rich sauce, and mentally rearranged his work for the following day. There was no way he could face mousses in the morning now. ‘Madame,’ he said in well-simulated ecstasy, ‘do I detect – could it be – one of dear Mrs Marshall’s recipes?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Didier,’ she said happily. ‘Mrs Marshall guides my every movement. Of course, one doesn’t always use her, but on special occasions – well, why not? And I do believe that her coralline pepper adds a special touch, do you not agree?’ she asked artlessly, one chef to another.

  ‘There is nothing to compare with it, madame,’ he agreed. Quite truthfully. Nothing in his view could ruin a dish more quickly, with the possible exception of Mrs Marshall’s curry powder.

  He manfully ate his way through cutlets of mutton a la Maintenon (with a little coralline pepper added), apricot pudding (fortunately without coralline pepper) and the last straw, Mackerel Roes en Surprise (‘I know how you gentlemen like your savouries’); Auguste did not, and particularly not mackerel. The offer of a second helping made him decline hastily. ‘I have dined so well that it would ruin perfection, madame.’ She was clearly disappointed, but entirely charmed with Auguste.

  ‘I see why you are a happy man, Inspector Rose,’ said Auguste quietly, after her rather regretful departure.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Didier,’ said Egbert Rose gravely. There was no need of comment. Both understood both the inadequacies and the rich achievement of Mrs Rose’s cooking. ‘Now to return to our muttons, as they say. One or two?’

  ‘Brandies?’

  ‘No, Mr Didier, have we got one murderer or two? One murderer and a troublemaker? Which? Blessed if I know. Just as I thought we’d got it all laid out like a filleted fish, here we are back to square one.’

  ‘Let us first lay out our ingredients, Inspector. Murderous attempts against Mr Erskine, and Colonel Worthington actually murdered. Now there are at least two people with good motives for releasing Colonel Worthington from this world: General Fredericks and Peregrine Salt. And a third if this feud between Mr Atkins and the Colonel is a fact. He denies it, of course. But none of them had any need to get rid of Mr Erskine.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘There are quite a few people who have reason to wish Mr Erskine ill, but have no apparent motive for killing Colonel Worthington.’

  ‘Unless in error, or because he knew of their plans to kill Erskine. In which case why announce to the world with all these tricks that he intends to kill Erskine? Why not just murder him?’

  ‘Unless,’ said Auguste, fired with sudden inspiration, ‘Mr Erskine performs these tricks himself?’

  ‘Trying to kill himself?’

  ‘No, but trying to make us think that someone is, to cover his killing of Worthington?’

  ‘No motive that I can see for killing Worthington. Anyway,’ said Rose reasonably, ‘why draw attention to himself like that? Why not just come out and shoot the fellow? Push him under a bus?’

  ‘True,’ said Auguste regretfully. ‘Very well then, so let us assume either that Worthington was killed because he knew who was the perpetrator of these tricks. Or that someone exists who wishes to kill both.’

  ‘That’s all we need,’ said Rose resignedly. ‘Life ain’t like that. It’s rare enough to have reason strong enough to kill one person, let alone two. And two in the same club is more than a coincidence.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said Auguste, ‘it is worth dissecting the fish, to achieve the fillet, is it not?’ The taste of the mackerel came back to him with disagreeable suddenness.

  ‘Let’s take your ingredients one by one, Mr Didier. Now there’s General Fredericks – motive for killing Worthington, but not Mr Erskine that we know of. Lord Bulstrode – no motive for killing either that I can see. Mr Atkins, now he’s a dark horse; some grudge against the Colonel, but nothing against Erskine. Charlie Briton now. Plenty of reason to dislike Erskine, no reason for killing the Colonel that we know of. Same applies to Mr Preston. That leaves us Rafael Jones, and Peregrine Salt. No one else I know of.’

  Auguste was quiet.

  ‘Now, Jones, he put Erskine up for membership, but doesn’t seem to think much of him. Suppose Erskine had something over him?’

  ‘His choice of models – young Rosie,’ said Auguste.

  ‘And Worthington must have known, too, as he was so friendly with the girl. That would give Jones a reason for bumping them both off. Yes, I think we can investigate Sir Rafael a little more closely. And Salt? Well, a thumping good reason for getting rid of the Colonel. But nothing against Erskine that we know of.’

  ‘Unless his wife had,’ pointed out Auguste.

  ‘I don’t see Erskine going for that oversized lady,’ said Rose.

  ‘Ah, but in her younger days, what a beauty she must have been.’

  ‘Seems far-fetched to me. Worth e
nquiring about, I suppose. He seems to have an eye for the ladies.’

  Again Auguste was silent.

  Rose glanced at him thoughtfully. ‘We’ve enough motives to fill an egg basket now, let’s look at the chicken instead. For some reason, Colonel Worthington went rushing out into the Folly, and according to him found no one there. Yet we have evidence that a woman’s voice was heard calling to him.’

  ‘Or to someone,’ pointed out Auguste. ‘No name was mentioned.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Worthington said he thought it was someone he knew. So he went out again and met his death, by her hand or someone else’s.’

  ‘Yet the gun used was taken from the wall of the smoking room, which suggests his killer came from that way.’

  ‘Not necessarily; the gas lighting was down to minimum for the purpose of the procession. The only real light in the room was from candles on the mantelshelf; the other walls would be in gloom and a missing revolver is hardly likely to have been noticed. It could have disappeared much earlier.’

  ‘Yes, but—’ Auguste frowned. ‘The lights were low there and elsewhere in the club. Yet, Lady Bulstrode said she noticed a bright light shining under the door of the drawing room across the way from the smoking room. She assumed someone went in and closed the door, then reopened it.’

  ‘Then someone must have turned the lights up, and then down again.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Auguste. ‘Turn them up, yes, but down again? The procession was over; it does not make sense.’

  ‘There’s a lot of things don’t make sense,’ grunted Rose, ‘and gas lights are the least of them.’

  ‘How was the boiled mutton then?’ jeered Emma. She held his arm as they perambulated the lake in St James’s Park. On a fine summer afternoon the park was crowded with nursemaids and their charges, visitors from the countryside, soldiers, and elderly matrons. Never had Emma looked more desirable, her sharp features softened by the frothy lace on her hat, the soft folds of her dress flowing as she walked, parasol in hand. And never had he felt less in love with her.

  ‘My dinner was delightful,’ he said stiffly. ‘I trust yours also.’

  ‘Why yes, Mr Didier,’ she mocked. ‘Now tell me all about it. What was she like? I can just imagine the sort of wife he’d have,’ and she executed a very neat impression of exactly what Mrs Rose had been like, down to the twisting, nervous hands and anxious expression.

  ‘My dear Emma, it was after all a business meeting. But she was a delightful hostess.’

  ‘Delightful,’ she mimicked. ‘Then what did you discuss, if it was business?’

  ‘I must respect the Inspector’s confidences.’

  ‘Is that so?’ she said sharply. ‘Very well, Auguste. I can take a hint as the duchess said in the opium den. If you don’t want my help, I’ll take it away. I’ll remain a suspect instead,’ she taunted. ‘And that’s the last you’ll ever see of my blanquette – or my bed.’

  Edginess reigned elsewhere as well.

  Mary Preston was watching her daughter whirl round a trifle too energetically in the arms of the enemy. At least, a few weeks ago he would have been classified as the enemy. Today he was regarded as a possible saviour. Sylvia needed a husband quickly. And even one of these outrageous new Labour people with their odd accents and odder clothes could qualify as a candidate in the circumstances. There was no time to waste, both on practical grounds and because Sylvia seemed to be becoming very strange. She had caught her in her room yesterday writing or doing something which was quickly covered up as she went in. She knew pregnancy did strange things to a woman, but Sylvia really did seem a little too strange. A modern young woman, she was taking full advantage going out unchaperoned on so-called shopping expeditions, and Mrs Preston had heard that the worst had happened. She had been seen walking unchaperoned down St James’s Street. Fortunately it had been a quiet time of day; if it had been busy, or if she had been spotted by other than dear Mr Peach, that would have been the end of her reputation. Not that she would have one anyway if she didn’t get married within the next few weeks. She concentrated all her attention on Sylvia’s partner.

  Samuel Preston was sitting late in the House. He was forced to at the moment for his political career was shaky. All had been going so well. Now the old rumours were starting again. Everyone had a few things in their past after all. He could survive it if it didn’t reach Gladstone’s ears. And Gladstone’s PPS was a member of the Beefsteak. As was Gaylord Erskine.

  Lord Bulstrode was not at the House. He was rarely at the House. He didn’t know in fact where he was. Quite literally sometimes. Things were getting on top of him. Most of all, Plum’s wasn’t Plum’s any more.

  Daphne Bulstrode, in the midst of reading the latest minutes of the Fallen Women’s Aid Society, glanced up at her husband’s odd behaviour. He seemed to be stuffing a cushion into the deer’s head and trying to put the tea cosy on his own. She sighed. He really was getting very strange. Sometimes she thought he was quite mad.

  ‘Oh lord,’ said Charlie Briton disgustedly, as he viewed his wife disappearing into the voluminous floating pink charmeuse of her newest evening dress. ‘Don’t say we’re dining out.’

  ‘Theatre,’ came a muffled voice, followed by the breathless appearance of Gertrude’s doll-like face.

  ‘Theatre,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Might have known it would be a dead dull evening. Gaiety?’ he asked without much hope.

  ‘No,’ she said shortly. ‘Hamlet.’

  ‘Hamlet,’ he echoed in disbelief. ‘Not the Sheridan. Not that fellow. The run’s over. You’ve got it wrong.’

  ‘This is a special performance,’ said Gertie defiantly. ‘Just for one night in honour of the Princess of Wales. Her being a Danish princess, you see,’ she explained kindly.

  ‘I thought Hamlet was all about a lot of gloomy old Danes killing each other off. How’s that supposed to honour Alexandra? Damned insult, I’d call it. Typical of that fellow Erskine. Or has he got designs on the Princess of Wales too?’

  ‘Charlie,’ wailed Gertie.

  ‘All right, puss. I’m sorry. I said I wouldn’t mention it any more, and I won’t. I just don’t want to go and see that fellow leaping around in tights, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s only for a special occasion. Everyone will be there,’ cooed Gertrude.

  Charlie gave in. ‘All right, puss.’ He paused and looked a trifle worried. ‘I say, Gertie, you haven’t got anything up your sleeve, have you?’

  Gertie looked up from the fragile confection of lace and muslin, and giggled.

  ‘Of course not, you silly goose.’

  ‘My dear,’ said General Fredericks anxiously.

  ‘I’m sorry, Arthur.’ Her eyes went to the row of photographs.

  ‘He is no longer with us, my dear. We must put it behind us.’

  ‘Dead?’ Lady Fredericks looked surprised. ‘Ah no, Arthur, I was not thinking of our boy, I was thinking of Philip.’

  ‘What made you think of him? We haven’t heard from him in years.’ He’d left home over twenty-five years ago to find fame and fortune on the stage. He had not done so.

  ‘He is our nephew, Arthur. I wondered whether Mr Erskine at your club would have news of him. He did work for him once, did he not?’

  General Fredericks did not reply. He could hardly tell Alice that so talented was her nephew that Erskine had been forced to part with his services.

  He padded silently after Gaylord Erskine. It was so difficult now Erskine wasn’t at the theatre every night. He couldn’t wait for the new season to begin. It was difficult now that he had so many music-hall commitments, but quite often he managed to get to the theatre to see part of Erskine’s performance, or if not, to see his idol leave.

  The Princess of Wales, accompanied by her plainly bored husband, was very gracious. She had heard very little of the play owing to her deafness and understood less, but her smile was charming. Gaylord Erskine bowed low over the royal hand. Perhaps in a few months he wou
ld be kissing a hand yet more regal than this. He looked full into the Princess’s eyes. He wanted her to remember him. Apart from this encounter, it had been a disastrous evening. It had begun in his dressing room with a letter from Sylvia Preston apparently offering to play Ophelia in real life, continued with Gertie Briton shrieking out ‘Gaylord, I love you,’ from the balcony during ‘To be or not to be’, and finished with a bottle of port delivered to his room bearing the inviting message: ‘Drink me, I’m poisoned’.

  When at last they arrived home it was to find yet another letter awaiting him. Gaylord opened it, read it and looked at his wife.

  ‘Amelia,’ he said wearily. ‘Let us put an end to this charade. Who was it who preferred to have all his enemies gathered under his own roof where he might keep an eye on them? Let us emulate him. We will have a soirée, a banquet. And everyone shall come. Everyone. You understand?’

  She swallowed. ‘Yes, Gaylord, I understand.’

  ‘And Emma Pryde shall do the catering,’ he laughed. Their eyes met.

  ‘What an excellent idea,’ said Amelia Erskine quietly.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘I thought you might care to assist,’ said Emma carelessly. For Emma to make the first move towards reconciliation was hitherto unknown, and Auguste resolved to make the most of it.

  ‘Where is this banquet and why should I assist?’ he demanded loftily. He was in the stronger position. It was Emma who had sought him out at his lodgings. Strange to see Emma, almost as bright in her plumage as Disraeli, in his utterly respectable, but oh so dreary, landlady’s parlour.

  ‘At Erskine’s house. He and his wife are having a soiree shortly and have asked me to prepare a grand buffet. I thought you might like to be there, since most of Plum’s membership will be. Your Inspector Rose, too,’ she added offhandedly. ‘Gaylord’s drumming up support for his knighthood, if you ask me. He doesn’t spend money without a purpose, does Erskine. There’s just one thing, Auguste, if you come.’