by Myers, Amy
‘Can you imagine the shock?’ His wife’s voice, his wife’s apparition dressed much as she had during their brief marriage – the ladies noticed how unfashionably Amelia Erskine was dressed that evening – calling to him, ‘Darling, please come back to me . . .’ No wonder he rushed out there, only to find the ghost vanished.
‘While everyone rushed to see what was wrong with Worthington Amelia retired to the junk room, re-emerging to join the gathering in the dining room. Later she slipped out again, easy enough when so many ladies were retiring to the room set aside for their use, but went once more through the door to the smoking-room corridor, and played her apparition trick again sending Worthington back into the Folly from the smoking room. Lord and Lady Bulstrode noticed the light coming and going under the drawing-room door, assuming it to be coming from the smoking room; it was not, of course, it was the limelight. Then Amelia Erskine turned off the limelight, shut the door, and returned to the dining room, talking ostensibly to her husband. He was already in the Folly, having come round by the garden door, talking to Worthington to give Amelia time to get back to the dining room; then Erskine doubled back through the garden door and grasped Amelia’s arm in the crowd surging forward to see what had happened.
‘He was a very lucky man,’ Rose concluded, disapprovingly, ‘that he didn’t meet Paxton, didn’t meet anyone else . . .’ He didn’t approve of luck.
‘Ah not luck, Inspector,’ Auguste said, ‘artistry – that is what the master magician would say. Split-second timing and bravado are his trade.’
‘But the risk,’ frowned Emma. ‘Why not push him under a train? Suppose it had all gone wrong? Sounds very complicated to me.’
‘But then you are not an illusionist, Mrs Pryde. What is complicated to us, is not to them. It is their technique to draw attention to themselves so that the audience’s eyes are on them and not on what is actually happening. Thus all the tricks played by Erskine against himself as victim. The attempts on his life that were never successful, never very dangerous, all organised by himself with the help of his wife. That knifing attempt for instance. His wife and a trained pigeon provided a distraction for the good constable. And was the risk in any case that much greater for a man so well known to the public than in pushing Worthington under a train? Why not hide the crime in a julienne of evidence, make himself appear the victim? That is the reason for the two apparitions: we were meant to know that a mysterious stranger had appeared. If the death had been taken as suicide then investigations would have gone no further; if as murder then it would be assumed that Erskine was intended to be the victim.
‘For here was Erskine’s one piece of bad luck. Who, he had reasoned, would want to kill old Worthington, the club bore, save himself? It would automatically be assumed Erskine was to be the victim. How unlucky for him that so many people had reason to wish Worthington out of the way.
‘Yet luck was with him again. When it seemed as if the police were too interested in the reasons for Worthington’s death, Jones stepped into the breach for Erskine. Mrs Erskine has told us that he was blackmailing her husband. It was a case of the biter bit. First Erskine sends anonymous letters to himself, then he receives a real threat from Jones, who had realised that Erskine was not present in the dining room when the shot came. Mr Preston told us, correctly, that Mrs Erskine was behind him talking to her husband, but in fact Erskine was not present, a factor Jones subconsciously realised when he, too, heard her chattering, apparently to herself. He was obviously hoping to trade the knowledge off against Erskine’s knowledge of Rosie which he’d already held over his head once before in order to get elected to Plum’s.’
‘I still think it’s a case of ne compliquez pas les choses,’ said Emma mockingly. ‘Poor old Gaylord.’
‘If Dr Pepper had failed them,’ said Auguste, irritated at her concern for this murderer – and by her lack of appreciation of his detection powers ‘– they had lost nothing. No one had yet been murdered. They could still push him under a train, as you so helpfully suggested.’
Emma glared at him. ‘All right, my old china,’ she said challengingly. ‘One thing you’ve forgotten. Doesn’t the glass have to be at a special angle for Pepper’s Ghost to work? The Parade had been in and out. Worthington had been in and out, someone would have moved those doors.’
Auguste looked smug. ‘Ah, ma petite, there we have the importance of the ventriloquist. Firstly, if the doors had been closed, as they hoped, the image would be thrown straight forward, as if in a darkened room through glass into the night when a lamp is shone on the object. If opened, then all was not lost, for with Worthington’s attention on the Folly, where his wife’s voice was coming from, Amelia could move to adjust herself to the right angle for the open door for the image still to be thrown. And even if it weren’t – if it failed – then there was still a chance that the voice alone would work the trick, that he would recognise it as his wife’s. And if all failed – and he found Amelia herself, the real woman, pride would not let him tell this to the club. There would be time still to murder him.’
‘Why not just rely on the voice then?’ Emma challenged him belligerently. She did not take kindly to being called ‘ma petite’.
‘Why?’ Auguste paused. ‘Two reasons. The element of shock would not be so great for he might not recognise his wife’s voice alone, and could easily be puzzled rather than shocked. And the second reason: they enjoyed the fuss. They were of the theatre, both of them. These preparations, this magic paraphernalia – it took them back to their younger days. They were the tools of their trade. Even Erskine’s ladies were part of the game. No doubt he has a roving eye, but he needed to sustain the belief that many people wished to kill him. In fact, he was devoted to Amelia – and she knew it.’
He did not dare look at Emma. Afterwards, he would console her . . .
‘But how did Sir Rafael die?’ asked Nollins impatiently, interested to the point he forgot his preoccupations with Plum’s reputation.
‘Dr Pepper once more,’ said Auguste proudly. ‘Not his ghost illusion this time, but the most famous one of all, the Cabinet of Proteus. You saw it at Plum’s, disguised as a telephone box brought in overnight by courtesy of Messrs Maskelyne and Cooke, to replace the proper cabinet, to the annoyance of our friend, Mr Peeps. From his earlier days as a magician Erskine had kept some of the paraphernalia. We saw some of it in the house; the biggest of all we overlooked – the Cabinet of Proteus, now used as his own telephone cabinet just outside his study door. We saw it, we assumed it was empty. It was not. Erskine was in it.
‘If you examine it, the cabinet appears empty apart from one central column supporting the roof. You can walk round it; there are no back entrances, no holes in the floor, no hidden doors in the sides. But, in the flash of an eye, while the audience’s attention is on something else, the person in the cabinet can pull two flaps towards him from the sides, meeting in the middle so that the column disguises the join, and lo and behold, he is hidden at the back of the box; the box appears as before, but empty. The sides of the flaps are mirrors which reflect the walls. Optical illusion makes it appear to the audience the cabinet is empty, and that they can see as before to the back of the cabinet. It was the same principle as Dr Stodare’s Sphinx illusion and the whole basis of Messrs Maskelyne and Cooke’s—’ He broke off, reflecting belatedly that Messrs Maskelyne and Cooke would not be pleased at the revelation of their most popular sketch-Will, the Witch and the Watch. Even if Professor Hoffmann’s admirable book had already spelled it out for the curious. It had taken some time to persuade them to loan the cabinet to him the previous afternoon; only the might of Scotland Yard had forced them to do so in the end.
‘So, after Erskine had shot Jones, he slipped into the telephone box and closed the mirrors, while we all came upstairs. Then, once again, Amelia provided a diversion and, while all eyes were on her, he was out of the box and by her side.’
‘And Mrs Erskine?’ asked Lady Fredericks.
; ‘No doubt the court will be lenient,’ said Rose. ‘It will be pleaded that she was much under the influence of her husband.’
‘And The Tempest?’ asked Paxton anxiously.
‘His understudy will be taking over,’ said Rose.
Auguste thought back. ‘Do you recall at Erskine’s party how he quoted to us? He was telling us, taunting us. “This rough magic I here abjure . . .” To the end he is Prosper – and now he is looking forward to his trial. The last performance – but one.’
‘Dammit, this pie isn’t up to scratch,’ Bulstrode snorted. ‘This cook’s getting above himself. Too busy playing detective. Forgetting where his money comes from.’
‘I daresay things will return to normal now,’ said General Fredericks.
‘I devoutly hope so,’ said Preston. ‘Plum’s has gone to the dogs. Murder on its premises.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Bulstrode. ‘Murder’s nothing to do with it. It’s letting women in caused the problems. Besides, wasn’t murder. Suicide, that’s what I say. Don’t have murder in a gentlemen’s club. And that’s that,’ he added quickly, as Briton looked as though he were about to comment. He stared him full in the face, and Briton’s gaze fell away.
‘There!’ said Bulstrode in satisfaction. ‘Anyone else think it was murder?’
No one spoke.
‘Splendid. Suicide then.’ He nodded with satisfaction. ‘Nothing wrong with a decent suicide. No, it’s women. I always thought Worthington had a point when he opposed women being let in. See what it made him do. Commit suicide.’
There was a general murmur of assent.
‘I propose,’ said Preston, seizing the political moment, ‘that we enter a suggestion in the book: that the committee votes never to allow ladies on to Plum’s premises again.’
‘Seconded,’ cried Salt heartily.
The resolution was promptly put into effect as the members, much to Peeps’ alarm, immediately rushed into the hall to record this momentous decision.
‘And I further propose,’ shouted Charlie Briton, ‘that we toast our founder at the Plum’s Trophy.’
The housemaid quietly cleaning the morning room was amazed when what seemed like the entire membership burst through the door waving glasses in their hands, and then burst into tears as Bulstrode bellowed ‘Woman!’ and she was swiftly frogmarched out.
And there under the hippopotamus relic the future of Plum’s was assured in brandy and soda, and thanks given to Captain Harvey Plum for saving his members from a fate worse than death.
Emma was unusually irritable even for her. A plate flew across the room as Auguste prepared to enjoy his late-night supper, its contents landing on the carpet.
‘Ma mie, what ails you? Are you not pleased that you aided me to find the culprit?’
‘No,’ she said crossly. ‘Auguste, I like Erskine.’
‘But he is a murderer!’ Auguste was appalled.
‘Maybe he is. But he is still,’ she paused, ‘magnetic. You didn’t see him as I saw him.’
‘Obviously not,’ said Auguste drily, and earned himself a lemon cheesecake that whistled past his ear.
‘He was an ornament to life,’ she said through gritted teeth.
‘And am I not an ornament?’ he exploded.
She considered for an unflattering moment. ‘Yes,’ she said gravely. ‘You’re a good cook, a maitre even, you’re handsome, you’re kind, you’re clever, but—’
‘But?’ he said mutinously.
‘But you feel too much. Gaylord and I are two of a kind. We don’t care. We play the game to the end. If we win we win – if not, we take the consequences. I understand him, Auguste. You’ve a conscience. I haven’t.’
‘What are you saying, Emma?’ he asked quietly.
‘I think it’s time you stopped believing yourself in love with me, Auguste.’
He looked at the Sweetbreads Emma, at Emma herself; his body ached for her, but she was a long way away. What she said was the truth. He rose with a sigh. Jermyn Street looked wet, chilly and uninviting. Autumn was approaching. His bed was a lonely one.
She watched him. ‘Come round and swap recipes some time, Auguste.’
He gave no sign that he had heard her, as he opened the door and departed.
He walked down York Street and turned the corner to walk past Plum’s on the way to his lodgings. Inside the rooms were lit with the yellow glow of gas, the voices were ringing out as in days of old, Plum’s was becoming Plum’s again, a refuge against the world. For all save him, Auguste Didier, a stranger in this uncaring country. Never would he understand them, never. Not the men nor the women.
A familiar figure was descending the steps, turning up his collar against the September rain.
‘Ah, Mr Didier, I’ll walk with you, if I may. Another case over, eh? Your Mr Nollins is a happy man.’
Auguste grunted.
‘I didn’t catch that, Mr Didier.’
Auguste cleared his throat. ‘I merely requested you to pass on my best wishes to Mrs Rose.’
The lady’s husband said nothing, but marched by his side for a few moments, until a hansom approached. ‘I’ll be off home then, Mr Didier.’
Auguste stood while the hansom drew up. Inspector Rose would go back to Highbury, back to Mrs Rose, her appalling cooking and her warm, comforting atmosphere. A home. The French had no word for it even: home.
The Inspector let down his umbrella and climbed up. Then he leaned down once more. ‘This is our third case, Mr Didier, so I might make so bold as to ask you something.’
‘Please do, Inspector Rose.’ Auguste tried hard to sound his normal self.
‘Very pleased Mrs Rose was with your visit. Perhaps you’ll visit us again sometime, Auguste?’ And in case the point had not gone home he cleared his throat embarrassedly. ‘You don’t mind, I take it, my calling you Auguste? Seems right somehow.’
The hansom drew off, and Auguste stood there. The rain still fell as hard, it trickled down his neck and ran in rivulets on his face, but inside him there was a warm glow that made him turn with a light step towards his lodgings.
