Murder At Plums

by Myers, Amy

  ‘In blood stepped in so far,’ murmured Auguste. ‘We must seek our Macbeths, Inspector.’

  Emma was not in good spirits, having received a message from above from Auguste to prepare hot chocolate for as many of the guests as possible. How fortunate he had brought his chocolatière to provide for his own needs to counter the stress of the banquet. Nothing like it for calming the nerves. Did Linnaeus not call it the drink of the gods? Did Brillat-Savarin not extol its virtues?

  Calmer the guests might be, thus fortified, but their low spirits continued. General Fredericks cast an anxious look at his wife who was composedly talking to Jeremiah Atkins. His ears caught the words ‘Twenty-fourth Foot’. He was tired. His eyes were playing tricks. He had even imagined he saw his nephew Philip just now. Imagination, of course. Perhaps in deference to his age and eminence, he was first to be called, with his wife, into the day room at the other end of the first-floor corridor.

  ‘I’m afraid soldiers tend to know little of art. My wife takes a keener interest, but not in Sir Rafael’s works, Inspector,’ he replied composedly to Rose’s first general question.

  ‘You were in the study after the shot was fired, sir? Did you look round the room at all?’

  ‘Why should I, Inspector? My – our – attention was on the body.’

  ‘If anyone had been hidden there, sir, do you think he could have emerged and joined the group without being noticed?’

  Lady Fredericks’ hands were twisting in her lap. General Fredericks paused. ‘I hardly think it likely, Inspector. There was a sizeable group in the room. Surely anyone joining it would have been noticed.’

  ‘And you, Lady Fredericks, were you in the room? I did not notice you.’

  ‘No,’ answered her husband quickly for her.

  ‘Yes,’ she said simultaneously.

  He inclined his head. ‘I am sorry, my dear, I should have said I was not aware of your presence.’

  ‘I thought it was Philip,’ she said simply.

  ‘Philip?’ said Rose, at a loss.

  General Fredericks lost some of his composure. ‘Our nephew, Inspector, who left his home twenty years ago to become an actor. I thought – my wife thought – one of the guests bore a startling resemblance—’

  ‘But why did you think your nephew might be the corpse – or did you think he might be the murderer?’ said Rose, interrupting quickly.

  General Fredericks rose to his feet. ‘This line of enquiry is irrelevant, Inspector,’ he said courteously enough. ‘Come, my dear.’

  Generals do not become generals unless steel lies inside the velvet glove.

  Egbert Rose, left alone, went to the communicating door and shot it open to find Auguste, nimble for all he was a cook, apparently admiring a cartoon sketch of Erskine as Sydney Carton.

  ‘Strange, Inspector,’ he said, desperately casting round for something to say, ‘all these pictures are of Erskine as a mature actor. Why nothing of fire, of youth?’

  ‘Because when you’re young and struggling no one paints your portrait,’ said Egbert Rose. ‘Fact of life, Mr Didier.’

  ‘True, the apprentice chef has no recipes named after him. His early artistic creations go unrecorded.’

  ‘Now, I’ll tell you what is strange, Mr Didier. We keep getting to what we think is the heart of this little maze, only to find ourselves back at the beginning again. Now did someone want Erskine, Worthington and Jones out of the way? Did someone want Worthington and Jones out of the way and the attempts against Erskine were a blind? Did Worthington find out something that might have stopped the murderer’s disposal of Jones? Did Jones discover something about the murderer of Worthington? I tell you, Mr Didier, this case is like a plateful of your vermicelli – all loose ends.’

  Jeremiah ‘Jorrocks’ Atkins was inclined to be rebellious. He did not associate with painter pansies. Time was when Plum’s was a club for gentlemen, who understood about foxes and hunting; anyone would think it was the Garrick, the kind of actor fellows they were letting in.

  ‘I understand you did not get on well with Colonel Worthington either?’

  ‘Thought you were investigating the painter chappie’s death, not old Worthington’s?’

  ‘Both,’ said Rose firmly. ‘Now what was this argument about?’

  Sergeant Stitch taking notes in the corner sniffed. Now if he were interviewing him . . .

  ‘Hunting,’ said Atkins mutinously.

  ‘That all?’

  Atkins reddened. ‘No,’ and did not seem disposed to say more.

  Rose waited. It often worked. Will against will. He had tried it on at the Three Crows in Stepney once, when Daniel Hardbitter the bit-faker thought he could bamboozle him.

  ‘Army,’ said Atkins sullenly. ‘Same regiment. Warwicks. Twenty-fourth Foot.’ He said it with an air of finality as though that explained it all.

  ‘A matter of honour, was it, sir?’ said Rose helpfully. He knew these army types.

  Atkins was not grateful for this assistance. He glared at him. ‘Honour be damned,’ he cried, the grievances of years spilling out. ‘He pinched my boots.’

  It then transpired that these same boots once purloined from their alleged owner were not only retained but flaunted on the hunting fields of Warwickshire. ‘Worthington’s no damn loss to anyone,’ he trumpeted.

  ‘Did you know Lieutenant Fredericks, General Fredericks’ son?’ Rose enquired, not entirely idly.

  Atkins, caught off guard, stared at him blankly, then said slowly: ‘Anyone in the Twenty-Fourth Foot would have known Lieutenant Fredericks. Fine lad. I’d have done anything to save him.’

  ‘Did you know it was Colonel Worthington who could be said to have been responsible for his death?’

  ‘Worthington?’ Atkins roared. But somehow his voice seemed artificial as though the news came as no surprise.

  Charlie Briton was equally unobliging. ‘’Course I knew the fellow – painted Gertie once, she insisted on it. Found out later—’ but he bit back this confidence. In fact she wanted it done in order to present to Erskine Gaylord.

  ‘You were both in the study when we discovered the body. Did you enter together?’

  ‘No, yes, no, she was having hysterics in the doorway,’ said Briton. ‘She thought it was Erskine,’ he added, aggrieved.

  ‘I understand she – er – was fond of Mr Erskine,’ said the Inspector. ‘That she announced this fact in public.’

  ‘Dashed good friend, that’s all,’ said Charlie firmly, old-fashioned ideas of unity, of man and wife, rising to the surface. Privately he winced at the awful memory of that performance of Hamlet with Gertie yelling from the balcony. He hadn’t been able to face the Rag or Barracks since. ‘You know what women are.’

  Rose was diverted by the thought of Mrs Rose standing up in the Highbury Empire balcony and announcing adoration of another gentleman. Hastily he reverted to the matter of murder, and took Charles Briton through his movements and those of other members of the group in the study.

  It turned out they were all dashed good sorts – with one exception. Samuel Preston, it appeared, was not the sort of chap you took a glass with if you could help it.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘How’d the fellow make his money?’ asked Charles mysteriously. ‘Answer me that.’

  Rose couldn’t.

  ‘Slave trade,’ Charlie went on with relish. ‘Before the Ashanti war, so the story goes. The Dutch handed over to us their forts at the Gold Coast, and the Ashantis fancied one of them for a slave market. Preston was in the middle of that little picnic. Did very nicely too. But it wouldn’t look too good now, would it? In a prospective Liberal Minister?’

  ‘Did you get on well with Sir Rafael Jones, Mr Salt?’ Rose began quietly enough, keeping his attention on Salt rather than his flamboyant Junoesque wife.

  ‘Excellently,’ said Salt heartily. ‘Splendid chap.’

  ‘So you knew him well?’

  ‘Not very,’ said Salt, hastily backtracki
ng, perceiving he had made a false step. Caution was the keynote of his explorations.

  ‘Nevertheless you were concerned enough to help turn over the body.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Salt with dignity. ‘I was under the impression it might be our host, for one thing.’

  A slight exclamation from Juanita made Rose turn to her. ‘And you, madam, did you know Sir Rafael well?’

  ‘Sir Wafael painted me,’ said Juanita stiffly. ‘He is not good painter. He do not like women. I do not like him.’

  ‘And did you think the body might be Mr Erskine too, Mrs Salt?’

  Juanita’s breast swelled, an awe-inspiring sight from which Egbert Rose could not take his eyes. Her voice rose. ‘Why should I think eet Mr Erskine? Eet is a body! When I see bodies, I do not think eet is ’im or is eet ’im. I think there is a body. I do not like eet.’

  ‘And yet you were there in the room. You could have stayed downstairs.’

  The Salts’ eyes briefly met and Peregrine went on smoothly: ‘We came to do what we could, Inspector.’

  Rose changed tack.

  ‘I understand you quarrelled with Colonel Worthington recently. You didn’t mention this at the time. Or even that you were related.’

  Colour rose in Salt’s cheeks. ‘You did not ask me, Inspector. I hid nothing.’

  Rose began to sympathise with Prendergast in the famous feud, no matter the rights and wrongs.

  ‘What did you quarrel about, sir?’

  ‘Colonel Worthington and I did not see eye to eye over the importance of archaeological excavations. However,’ he gave a little cough, ‘I am glad to say that at the end of our discussion we were in agreement as to their value and he was willing to advance considerable funds to me.’

  He stared Rose straight in the eye.

  It was two o’clock by the time Erskine entered the room, distinctly grey in the face.

  ‘Now, sir,’ said Rose. ‘Somebody thinking it was you again?’

  Erskine smiled wearily. ‘A very careless murderer, we must think, who twice gets the wrong man. No, Inspector, I do not know where all this leads, but for some reason someone wanted Jones dead, and chose my house to perform the deed.’

  ‘Why would he do that, sir?’

  ‘He could be sure of finding Jones here, surrounded by many other people, presumably. Had he gone to Jones’ house he would have been noticed.’

  ‘It would suggest a familiarity with the layout of your house, sir. He had to be sure he could escape somehow.’

  Erskine shrugged uninterestedly. ‘He might have been standing behind the door, Inspector, as we rushed in, and simply stepped out to join the crowd.’

  ‘Risky, wasn’t it?’

  ‘He seems to be a risk-taking murderer, Inspector,’ said Gaylord drily. ‘In any case most of our acquaintances in Plum’s have visited this house before.’

  The door burst open. ‘Beg your pardon, sir, caught someone trying to sneak out of the house.’ Police Constable Wilson, red-faced with excitement at having a possible murderer inside his grasp, dragged the unfortunate man in.

  Erskine frowned. ‘Haven’t I seen you before?’ he asked slowly, just as Auguste, tired of banishment to another room, entered behind them exclaiming, ‘But you, I have seen before.’

  In the early hours of the morning the intruder was back in his lodgings a shaken man. He gathered he had very nearly been arrested for two murders and an attempted third. That man who turned out to be the chef at Plum’s had recognised him as one of his waiters there. And he had thought he was a good actor.

  But he was happy. Gaylord Erskine had recognised him. True, that was because he had given him the order of the sack all those years ago, but doubtless that was because he wasn’t any good. They seemed to think he hated Gaylord Erskine. He couldn’t seem to make them understand that Erskine was his hero. To have risen from so low to his great achievements. Hamlet, and Prospero next. He knew now he would never make an actor, not a real actor like Erskine, but he didn’t mind now. He was happy at being a juggler in the music hall. Just so long as he had time to follow Erskine’s career. He’d had another scare too. He’d seen his Uncle Arthur. That brought back memories. Memories of his refusal to enter the army as his father had insisted. Of his leaving home. Of his early days on the stage. The struggle! The hardship! But would he go back? Never. Just so long as he could keep on seeing Erskine. Murder him? The idea was ridiculous . . .

  Sergeant Stitch took it as a direct insult that Rose had developed the habit of taking a Frenchie with him on his investigations. Too much of this Sherlock Holmes reading if you asked Stitch. Not that Rose did.

  ‘You’ll be surprised,’ said Rose with relish as the butler took them into the entrance hall of Jones’ St John’s Wood home.

  It was not the home Auguste would have chosen. More like an art gallery. A monument to Rafael Jones.

  They walked up the staircase, where the ladies in distress draped themselves companionably along the walls, and along the corridor adorned by their drooping Pre-Raphaelite sisters. Rose carefully turned his eyes away. Seemed to him the Greeks never wore any clothes. What if it rained?

  ‘And here,’ said the butler reverently, ‘was his studio.’

  Rose looked once more at the portraits round the walls, each face displaying a curious sameness, a pleased satisfaction with the world – and Rafael Jones by inference.

  ‘Why didn’t he sell them?’ asked Rose.

  ‘These are the first sketches, sir,’ said the butler, shocked at this ignorance. ‘Lady Warwick, sir. Miss Terry—’ Jones had not captured Ellen Terry’s beauty at all, thought Auguste. This complacent matron was not Ellen Terry. No wonder she had not wanted to buy it. There was nothing of the free spirit, the enchantment that she bestowed on everyone. Here she was reduced to a biscuit-tin prettiness.

  ‘Almost as though he disliked all his subjects, isn’t it?’ commented Auguste.

  ‘Liked ’em younger,’ said Rose shortly, thinking of Rosie.

  ‘The master’s private library is upstairs,’ said the butler, a gleam of humanity in his eyes, having caught the words.

  The library was an imposing sight, for the book-lover.

  The butler hesitated. ‘Now he’s dead, sir, I should tell you I believe some of these books are false, Inspector.’ He was dying to show them. He pressed a button and the whole front swung out to reveal a most interesting collection of ladies with nothing at all in common with the studies in his studio.

  Rose looked grim. ‘Nasty, very nasty,’ he said.

  ‘Children!’

  ‘I don’t know so much about his blackmailing others,’ said Rose. ‘Seems plenty of scope for him to be blackmailed himself though. Not only Rosie, but these – things. Rosie’s not the only one then. Tells us a lot about him but not much about the case, unless you think one of Jones’ girls could have got into Erskine’s house and shot him.’

  ‘It seems as though Sir Rafael were killed because he knew too much about the Colonel’s death,’ said Auguste worriedly.

  Down in the studio again, Rose breathed a sigh. ‘Cleaner down here. Even if it isn’t exactly my sort of picture. Isn’t that Mrs Salt?’

  Auguste looked at the picture on the wall. ‘Undoubtedly flattering as regards her girth.’

  ‘The fair Juanita. She doesn’t look an unwilling sitter. On the contrary. She looks like the cat that licked la crème, as you might say, Monsieur Didier. I wonder now . . .’

  Emma Pryde sniffed. She blew her nose very loudly and turned her back on Auguste.

  ‘Very well, me old cock, if you’re so superior being a detective you’re not needed here.’

  ‘But Emma, be reasonable, was it not you who first said something odd was going on at Plum’s?’ Implored me to investigate?’

  ‘Ploored,’ squawked Disraeli.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what’s happening?’ she demanded.

  Auguste looked at her implacable face and decided unspoken rules might be
bent a little.

  ‘Like the Macbeths, they are,’ announced Emma dogmatically, having listened impatiently. ‘She forced him on to do it. I can just see her as Lady Macbeth.’

  ‘For money or for passion?’

  ‘Well, she wouldn’t have a passion for Worthington, would she?’ said Emma scathingly. ‘No, I think she wanted the money.’

  ‘And the passion was for Sir Rafael,’ said Auguste eagerly. ‘He scorned her, and so she killed him. She hid behind the desk until Salt shielded her, and emerged when everyone’s attention was on something else and—’

  ‘There’s only one thing wrong with the theory, Auguste,’ said Emma, sampling the blanquette with enthusiasm.

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘It wasn’t Jones who took our Juanita’s fancy. It was Gaylord Erskine.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Mrs Mildred Worthington frowned. Once again she saw that inspector from Scotland Yard climbing the steps to her front door, thanks to some judicious peeping through the curtains. The problem was, nobody would know it was Scotland Yard. Everybody would think him merely a tradesman at the wrong door. It had been such an enjoyable day hitherto. She had spent an agreeable hour at the London offices of Messrs Spence, Harcourt and Beaver this morning, discussing her inheritance. She would be not merely comfortably placed, but now a very rich woman. It was sad about poor Mortimer of course, but there were compensations. And after all, there had been all the upset of the inquest, when she had to display herself on a public witness stand, then the funeral, another ordeal, and then the tasteful funeral party back in Mortimer’s Warwickshire home. Yes, there had been a lot to do one way and another. Now she was ready to begin enjoying her new-found wealth. A yachting cruise to the Mediterranean perhaps. She would apply to the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company tomorrow. And a butler. She would have a butler. She nodded her head in satisfaction.

  The only drawback was that Mortimer had been murdered. It made her an object of great interest at her At Homes. Attendance had increased tenfold. The flaw was that Inspector Rose seemed to be visiting her with annoying regularity.