Murder At Plums (21 page)

‘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 enquiring 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 would 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.

‘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.’

He regarded her suspiciously.

‘I’m the chief parrot in the house. You’re my assistant. Now, what do you say?’ Swiftly, Emma-like, she had turned the tables.

Auguste was torn. Undoubtedly he wished to be present. But to be ordered around by Emma? True, she had an excellent knowledge of cuisine, but suppose they differed over the correct garnish for a
chartreuse de légumes
? Could he, in honour, be associated with a buffet that served potted Yarmouth bloaters, for example? Ah, he was being ridiculous. Of course he wished to be there. And, after all, bloaters could be excellent. Food, when all was said and done, was not everything. The occasional principle might be sacrificed.

‘Emma,’ he cried enthusiastically, seizing her in his arms
and whirling her round the parlour, ‘we will make this a buffet to end all buffets. We will make this a buffet to rival Grimod’s famous banquet for his mistress, Soyer’s for Ibrahim Pasha, his
diner Lucullusian d la Sampayo
, Francatelli’s for—’

‘Just a moment. I seem to remember Eugenie telling me that Grimod’s famous banquet was held with a coffin in the middle of the room. And I tell you, Auguste, I don’t much fancy being in the dark with a murderer around.’

‘Murderer?’ he repeated blankly. For a moment he had quite forgotten.

Mrs Jackson was a large woman, with a face as round as the currant buns she automatically produced for her visitor. Even if that visitor was Egbert Rose of Scotland Yard. For the third time. Her face bore traces of tears, as she invited the Inspector to sit himself down at the oak table.

‘I don’t care what no one says; he was a good master. On the quiet side, save when I overdoes the mustard, he don’t – didn’t like that. But a good man. Quiet. He did like his pipe.’ The tears threatened to make themselves apparent, and the jaw was stuck out pugnaciously to halt this sign of weakness. The late Colonel Worthington was genuinely mourned here, if nowhere else.

‘Are you certain you noticed no signs of distress that day? No unusual visitors?’

‘Didn’t have many visitors anyway,’ she said. ‘He was just his usual self. No visitors – well, except—’

‘Except?’ enquired Rose gently. This was at least a new proviso.

‘No one except our Rosie, that is. Fond of our Rosie he was. My niece she is. He did seem upset. She should have had more sense. Telling a gentleman like him a thing like that.’

‘What did she tell him, Mrs Jackson?’ Rose bit diplomatically into one of the buns and decided even Mrs Rose might have done better.

‘That she’s a model, for one of them painters.’

No more than they had guessed already, of course. But
Rosie’s cousin worked for Erskine, he recalled. Interesting, very interesting. Still, it was tenuous.