Murder At Plums (30 page)

‘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.