A Death at a Gentleman's Club

by Caroline Dunford

  ‘It’s a damn woman!’ As the air cleared I saw that the cry had come from a gentleman with impressive grey mutton chops, which he had presumably cultivated to distract the onlooker from his balding pate. However, what drew my attention was the upturned table and cards lying on the floor.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ I said. ‘Did I ruin your game?’

  The gentleman in question seemed only to notice the upturned table at that very moment. ‘Garr!’ he cried showing off hideously brown-stained teeth. ‘Garr! Damn ruddy woman! That game was finally working out for me! I’ve been playing since Friday and was in line to beat Cole-Sutton’s record. Porter! Porter! There’s a bloody woman in here. Throw her out, I say. Throw her out.’

  Of course, no porter responded to his cries as they had been forewarned of our entrance.

  ‘Chapelford, mind your manners,’ said an older gentleman with snowy white hair. He was seated in a wingback chair opposite a much younger blond gentleman. ‘As you can see, our chess board also took a tumble. And I do believe young Davenport was about to beat me for the very first time!’

  ‘I don’t know about that, sir,’ said Davenport. ‘But I put up a good show for sure,’ he said this with a nervous laugh.

  ‘Don’t know what you’re all complaining about,’ said a red-haired middle-aged gentleman, who was sitting closer to one of the windows and as far as possible from the stoked up fire. ‘I’m always saying we need more fresh air in here. Good for the lungs, don’t you know?’ He thumped his chest. ‘Never had a cough in my life. Put it down to my outdoor life. Mind you, Prendergast will probably expire in the next few minutes. Wants it as hot as damned Africa, don’t you know! Ha! Ha!’

  As the other members in the room averted their eyes from him in a unanimous show of embarrassment, Prendergast stared into the fire. ‘These are the supposed pair from the foreign office I told you about. They have us locked in.’ His head jerked and he glowered at Bertram. ‘Are they going to compensate me for my deal going south? If I don’t make the meeting for four o’clock,’ he produced a half-hunter from his waistcoat pocket, ‘I will lose thousands. Possibly tens of thousands. What do you say about that, damn you? You jumped-up civil servant. You give these people an iota of power and they take advantage of their betters whenever they can. And as for the woman the honourable woman – since when did our government start employing females in positions of authority?’

  ‘I do not believe I have said at any time that I am a civil servant,’ said Bertram, loudly and with a great deal of dignity. ‘I merely said that I had orders from the Foreign Office. As for the lady, she is my fiancée, and I demand you apologise for your boorish behaviour at once.’

  ‘If the lady wishes to be treated as such then I suggest she comports herself like one,’ said Prendergast.

  Bertram’s face went very red. Before I could stop him, he strode across the room, ending up mere inches from Prendergast’s chair. ‘Stand up,’ he demanded. ‘Stand up this moment, sir!’

  ‘Why? So you can try and knock me down again?’ said Prendergast. ‘I have no appetite to be made sport of, sir.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief. It was clear to all the fellow was a coward. Now all that remained was for Bertram to retreat with dignity. I should have known that retreat was not a word in Bertram’s dictionary of acceptable gentlemanly actions. He turned to the nearest table, picked up a soda siphon, and with a swiftness no one foresaw, squirted at Prendergast. The fresh air enthusiast burst into laughter at the sight of Prendergast with soda water dripping down his face and onto his immaculate shirt and waistcoat. But from the others in the room, their reaction was a combined intake of breath that boded ill for Bertram. The man himself seemed a bit surprised by the effectiveness of the siphon, and put it back on the table beside him, before taking a step back and raising his fists.

  With deliberate slowness, Prendergast took a handkerchief from his top pocket and wiped his face as best he could. Then he threw it on the fire where it went up with a sudden hiss. Leaning on his cane he pulled himself up to his full height. ‘How dare you,’ he said in a quiet voice that dripped menace. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘You are the man who insulted my fiancée,’ said Bertram. I felt both enormously proud of him and frightened out of my wits at the same time. Prendergast towered above him by easily ten inches. His suit was well cut and showed a lean frame; as to whether that was also a muscled frame I could not ascertain. I only knew that Bertram was rarely physically active and had close to his sister’s famed fondness for pudding. I also knew that strenuous exercise would undoubtedly bring on his heart condition, making him ill, or worse. I could feel the blood rushing away from my face as I contemplated Bertram once again lying immobile on the floor before me. I turned towards the door but felt myself sway slightly. I caught the end of a shelf to steady myself. This was no time for swooning.14 I felt sweat break out on my forehead. My stomach churned. I could face many dangers, but the thought of the loss of Bertram - I could not endure it. I had to go and get help, but the room had begun to swim around me. Darkness circled the edge of my vision. I heard a voice from a long way away say, ‘Look to the lady,’ before my senses deserted me.

  I awoke to the aggressively paisley-patterned ladies powder room. I lay on my side and directly opposite me in one of the armchairs sat Bertram, pale featured and with an expression of concern on his face, but most definitely alive. I heaved a sigh of relief. Bertram immediately stood and came over to me. ‘How do you feel?’ he asked. ‘Is your head sore? No one could be sure if you hit your head when you fell.’

  I raised my head experimentally off the cushion and my vision swam. I lowered it back down. ‘I rather think I must have,’ I said. ‘My head does not hurt, but I feel dizzy.’ Bertram squatted beside my chaise longue and turned his head sideways to look at me straight on.

  ‘Oh, my Lord! Oh, my days! To think the Holby Club has come to this! And under my watch?’ cried a male voice.

  I flinched slightly. ‘I thought we were alone.’

  ‘That’s Gilbert Parry,’ said Bertram. ‘He’s the head steward. Davenport, the young gentleman, ran to get him when Mr Wilkes drew our attention to your fainting.’

  ‘Wilkes?’

  ‘Sebastian Wilkes, old chap with the monocle. He called Prendergast and me to order.’ I saw a faint blush on Bertram’s cheeks.

  ‘It was a terribly stupid thing to do,’ I said. ‘And I am terribly proud of you.’

  Bertram’s blush deepened. ‘Why the devil did you faint? It’s not the kind of behaviour I am used to seeing from you. Is it anything to do with being - you know - who you really are again?’

  At this point I sat up, ignoring the slight double vision that overlaid the room as much as I could. The paisley really was frightful. I could now also see Gilbert Parry, a middle-aged man slightly going to seed, dressed in the typical Holby outfit that the other stewards and porters wore, but with a large gold-crested badge on his waistcoat. I couldn’t see what it said. My eyes were drawn to the paisley tie he wore. What I had assumed to be an accidental interior decoration disaster turned out to be a motif of the club. That this fascinated me gave me an inkling that all was not yet right in my head.

  Bertram stood up and rubbed his neck. ‘Thank goodness. I much prefer you the right way up. I was getting a terrible crick in my neck.’

  ‘Why is he here?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s chaperoning me - I think. Gentlemen aren’t allowed in the Ladies’ area. Things no man should see and all that.’

  ‘The whole Club is going to rack and ruin,’ said Parry.

  ‘I would much prefer it if you would leave us alone,’ I said. ‘Mr Stapleford is my fiancée.’

  ‘Can’t do, ma’am,’ he said in the tone of an official who dearly loved his position.

  I let it go. ‘What did you just say to me?’ I asked Bertram.

  ‘Oh nothing,’ said Bertram. ‘You might care to know that engaging in fisticuffs is not allowed within the
club boundaries, so Prendergast wouldn’t have touched me.’

  ‘He’s the honorary secretary,’ I said. I began to gingerly probe my cranial dome with my fingers. Nothing felt obviously soft or squishy. ‘Could I get some water, please?’

  ‘Wouldn’t brandy be better?’ asked Bertram.

  ‘Only if you want me to be sick,’ I said.

  Parry moaned aloud at the thought.

  ‘You heard the lady,’ said Bertram. ‘I can’t go and get it. I have no idea where to find it. Besides, I’m not a member anyway.’

  ‘Not a member?’ said Parry. He sniffed haughtily and left.

  Bertram offered me his arm. ‘Not entirely sure that bloke is coming back. Good riddance, I say. But I think I should escort you through to the coffee lounge. Bound to be decent beverages there. Can you walk?’

  ‘I’d really rather not,’ I said.

  Bertram looked nonplussed for a moment. ‘Oh, your mother. Kept her out of it so far. Club very keen on hushing everything up. Why, I think they’d mail poor Lovelock’s body to the cemetery if they thought the Post Office would collect.’

  I gave a faint smile and stood up. My vision had regained its single focus and if my legs felt a little shaky I only had to apply a small amount of my weight on Bertram’s arm to steady myself.

  ‘That’s a girl,’ said Bertram approvingly. ‘Why don’t we go through to the little interviewing room Parry has set up. You won’t want to miss any of that, will you?’ He coughed lightly. ‘Don’t suppose you feel up to taking the notes, do you? Only my handwriting is pretty dire.’

  ‘I am certain the gentlemen will be much less concerned about my presence if they think I am fulfilling secretarial duties,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, jolly good thought,’ said Bertram in the fake tones of someone trying to force an idea. I gave him a wry smile. He looked contrite. ‘It is better if they think you are my support staff,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

  I shook my head and immediately regretted it. I let go of Bertram’s arm and lurched into the facilities area. I made it in time. To give him his due, Bertram stayed his ground and shouted encouraging phrases through to me like, ‘Better out than in, old girl,’ and, ‘I always feel a lot better when I’ve had a good vomit.’ As I rested my head against the cold china I wished he would stop being cheerful and more than anything that he would go away. Finally, I could take it no more.

  ‘Please, Bertram,’ I called. ‘Go and fetch my mother.’

  14An occupational hazard that, before embarking on this lifestyle, I had believed to be no more than a feminine attempt for attention.

  Chapter Nine

  Interviews Begin

  Cold compresses, iced soda, lavender water, and ginger biscuits did their work. Only my mother could have whipped the Holby staff into shape. Of course, she vocally disapproved of me at length, but she kept her voice soft and gradually the headache brought on by my sickness began to fade. I think she would also have sent for a doctor, but Bertram came back and blundered around for a while. My mother got rid of him with ease, but he returned with The Bishop. Giles Hawthorn, it proved, was more than a match for my mother, so that instead of lying resting on the chaise until Fitzroy and his men arrived, I found myself sitting in a small chamber behind a desk with a fresh notepad and pencil in front of me. Bertram sat alongside me. ‘Sorry, Euphemia, but I know what that rotter will say if we don’t do this by the book.’

  I sighed and objected for the hundredth time that we were not police.

  ‘We are agents of the Crown, who have been called to investigate the unexplained death of Killian Lovelock,’ said Bertram. ‘As such we have more power than the police.’

  ‘Did that man tell you to say that?’

  ‘He said to say it only if I really found myself in a corner,’ said Bertram. ‘I haven’t had to pull the big guns on anyone yet - save you.’

  ‘My mother,’ I said.

  ‘No, your step-pa did that. Damn me, if I don’t think she liked having the reins taken out of her hands. She complained like anything, but I’m pretty clear I saw the glint of respect in her eyes.’

  I turned my head slowly towards him. ‘I am nothing like my mother,’ I said, and saw the upstart spark of hope in his eyes die. ‘So, who is first?’

  ‘I thought we’d start with the easy one,’ said Bertram. ‘The old chap. Parry is about to send him in.’

  Even as he spoke the door opened and Gilbert Parry announced, as if it was a royal drawing room, ‘Mr Sebastian Wilkes.’

  Mr Wilkes came forward. He took Bertram’s outstretched hand and shook it. Then to my surprise he took my hand and bowed over it. ‘I hope you are much recovered, my dear. A nasty little scene for you to witness.’ For a moment I thought he was speaking of Lovelock’s body, but then I realised. ‘Thank you, I am feeling much better,’ I said.

  Wilkes sat down in the chair opposite, spreading out his jacket carefully. ‘It quite warmed my heart to see such an act of chivalry in these modern times.’ He pronounced ‘modern’ with extreme distaste. ‘Even if it was a little ill-advised,’ he added with a tip of his head to Bertram.

  ‘Yes, well,’ spluttered my fiancé, who was unsure if he was being complimented or chastised. ‘All done for now. Better get on to the business at hand. Can you give us your full name, please, sir?’

  Wilkes smiled. ‘How very like a police interview! Very well, I am Sebastian Walter Henry Wilkes. I am a publisher of magazines and newspapers. I have recently also begun my first imprint. It will feature crime novels. It may be of interest to you.’ The latter part of the speech was aimed at me.

  I wrote down what he said. ‘And what do you do?’ said Bertram, who had set himself a determined course. ‘What? No!’ he said. ‘You have already answered that. How did you know Killian Lovelock?’

  ‘I didn’t, really,’ said Wilkes. ‘Of course, I saw him around at the club. It’s been the cause of some mirth that he’s been writing his memoirs. We all knew what he was actually doing in that room. Everyday. Quite excessive. It’s all very sad, but not unexpected.’

  ‘Doing?’ I queried.

  Wilkes raised an eyebrow. ‘Daydreaming,’ he said. ‘Let’s put it like that.’

  ‘You mean injecting himself with heroin,’ I said. ‘I agree it is not a savoury habit, but as far as I am aware it is not illegal. Many doctors prescribe it. I believe patients prefer it to other medication as it makes them feel heroic. Hence the name.’ There, I thought, that will show him I am not some ignorant feminine fainter.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Wilkes, without either a change of tone or expression. ‘The unsavoury part comes when the originating disease has fled, but the patient continues to inject because of the feelings the drug inspires. Over time a man will find he requires more and more of such a drug to attain such feelings and, so I am told, he is never able to regain quite that perfect euphoria he experienced on first use. It is particularly sad in older men - the drug allows them to recapture their feelings of youth for a short while. I feel that it is what Lovelock was doing.’

  ‘Are you suggesting there never were any memoirs?’ I asked.

  ‘Very acute,’ said Wilkes. A momentary thought struck me, but it was gone before I could capture it. ‘No, I do not believe the memoirs ever existed. I believe it was an excuse. I certainly never saw any sign of them. Besides, I am unsure what exactly Lovelock would have had to write about. He spent his life in clerical obscurity as a civil servant, from what I know. Not that I know a great deal. I have been searching my memories since you asked to see me, and I cannot honestly say the fellow made much of an impression on me.’ He shrugged. ‘I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but I know neither anything good or bad about Killian Lovelock. As far as I am concerned, he lived, he died. There was no story in between.’

  ‘That is sad,’ I said. ‘He leaves no family?’

  ‘I could not tell you. One of the other members, or Parry, may know. Lovelock and I rarely spoke. If we did it would be to remark on th
e weather or pass the decanter across the room. Nothing more.’

  ‘I would have thought with you being in the publishing industry, and him writing his memoirs, he would have been eager to talk to you,’ said Bertram. ‘To procure some kind of a deal or whatever it is authors do.’

  Wilkes laughed. ‘Ah, I have misled you. I own some newspapers, and I am soon to own a small publishing house, but I let those who know how to do things run the business. I am very much - what would you say - a sleeping partner.’

  ‘Some might consider that an odd choice,’ I said. ‘If you have no interest in the newspaper medium. After all, it has considerable influence on the population. An owner might choose to encourage his editors to lean one way or another to influence popular taste.’

  ‘As in which hosiery to buy?’ said Wilkes. ‘I am not interested in influencing the general market. People are well able to choose their footwear without my assistance.’

  ‘I meant,’ I said, laying down my pencil to study his features, ‘that one might influence general opinion on matters such as whether a war with Germany will be good or bad for this country.’

  Wilkes’ eyes narrowed, though otherwise his expression didn’t change. He didn’t reach for his monocle, but he studied me for slightly longer than was polite or comfortable before he answered. ‘It will be bad for those fighting and good for those selling arms,’ he said. ‘That much is obvious. I trust the British public to realise such a thing without my help and also, of course, his Majesty, whose subjects we have the honour to be.’ At this point he stood up and bowing to us both said, ‘I believe we are finished here.’