Murder At Plums (6 page)

‘The page has been torn out,’ said Worthington unbelievingly. ‘Look at this. Torn out.’

‘Torn out?’ An exclamation from somewhere, someone. Auguste looked round quickly, and caught Samuel Preston’s eye.

Preston flushed angrily. ‘You’re the cook, aren’t you? What—’

He was stopped by General Fredericks’ quiet voice. ‘Gentlemen, another act of savagery. I do not like it.’

Here everyone was in agreement. They had been deprived of their prey.

Gravely Fredericks continued, as the party returned to the sanctity of the morning room. ‘This is one more in the series of unfortunate incidents which are afflicting Plum’s. Mutilated books, death threats to Mr Erskine and Mr Preston, and now obscene messages to Peeps, dead rats . . .’ He paused, as a silence fell and blank faces turned to him. Blank – and obstinate – faces.

‘Nonsense. Just a servant with a grievance,’ said Samuel Preston dismissively.

Auguste, serving the tray of pre-luncheon savouries, stiffened indignantly.

‘Seems to be someone with a grudge against Erskine,’ pointed out ‘Jorrocks’ Atkins brightly. It was not often he could pride himself on his intellectual powers.

There was an uneasy pause as the members tried to avoid gazing at Charlie Briton. For all their tacit rules about discussion of the ladies within the club precincts, it was remarkable how speedily the news of members’ liaisons, formal and informal, travelled. News of Gaylord Erskine’s affair with Gertrude Briton had travelled faster than most.

General Fredericks came to his aid. ‘Then how do you explain the threats to Peeps, Mr Atkins? And to Mr Preston?’ he asked reasonably.

Atkins’ face fell. ‘A red herring?’ he ventured hopefully. This was disregarded.

‘These irritations are mere trifles,’ Salt pontificated. ‘Not like this matter of the ladies. The whole future of the club is at stake. That’s more important than a few dead rats or rude letters.’

Auguste frowned. They were overlooking the molehills to get to the mountain. But the mountain would remain, it was the molehills that might work their insidious way, running underneath Plum’s, undermining its whole structure. Far more important than the question so exercising their minds at present. For himself, he could see no objection to the presence of ladies on the premises. Far from it. These English were very strange.

‘Gentlemen, I agree,’ Worthington ponderously intoned. ‘When I was in the Twenty-fourth Foot the ladies, God bless ’em, knew their place. Why, even if the General’s wife, God bless her, neatest little woman ever sat a horse – no, even if the Queen herself, God bless Her Majesty, were to present herself at Plum’s door and demand entry, I would close the door in her face, gentlemen.’ He looked round his assembled company, who were in principle in agreement with him but who were making their own varying estimates as to how long old Worthington would be rambling on this time.

For there is one major problem about club membership. Once elected, a member stays elected. However boring, however quickly the membership realise a severe mistake
has been made, nothing can be done. In severe circumstances the offending member could be sent to Coventry, but old Worthington was just a damned bore. After so many years in far-flung posts of Empire it was hardly surprising, the more charitable pointed out. But even they were forced to agree that there was no one who could be quite so boring as Worthington even upon an interesting subject, such as Auguste Didier’s
poularde à la Carème.
Was it, or was it not, the genuine article or should it more rightly be called
poularde Didier
or
à la mode de Carème
?

Only General Fredericks could get Worthington to stop talking and it was therefore with some surprise that the members noticed his intervention was not today required.

‘And so, gentlemen,’ Worthington perorated, ‘I can count on your support. Till after luncheon, then.’

The eagerly shouted ‘ayes’ left Auguste, hovering interestedly, in no doubt of the feelings of the meeting, however misplaced in Auguste’s judgment. If the fate of nations was decided in the gentlemen’s clubs of London, in his view the world was in for a time of sad mismanagement.

‘These letters, Peeps, they come by messenger or by post?’

Peeps’ large back stiffened and he slowly turned round to face his questioner. He didn’t hold with Frenchies. They were all right in the kitchen but not in his front hall, thank you.

‘What letters would they be,
Mr
Didier?’ he asked carefully.

‘Those letters for Mr Erskine and Mr Preston – and your good self.’

‘My good self, Mr Didier, prefers to keep its letters to itself
if
you don’t mind. Privacy. That’s what we respect here,
privacy.
In this country.’

‘Ah, Mr Peeps, forgive me.’ Auguste, conscious of his error, set out to charm. ‘But you and I, we have the good of Plum’s at heart, do we not? And it is necessary to find out who perpetrates these abominations.’

For a moment, Peeps appeared mollified, even on the point of confiding something, then the humour of the situation
struck him. Slowly, ponderously, a belly laugh made its way, erupted, and shook his sides.

‘And you’re going to find out who did it, then, Mr Didier?’ he spluttered. ‘Sherlock the Chef, eh?’ And still roaring, he disappeared into his office leaving Auguste fuming outside.

Oliver Nollins’ room was tucked away on the first floor; it had once been the linen room. In times past the secretary’s room had been a grand imposing one on the ground floor with windows overlooking the square, but a pusillanimous secretary in the 1860s had sycophantically ceded it for a drawing room. Or perhaps he hadn’t been pusillanimous, thought Oliver Nollins in his more despondent moments, merely tired of being badgered on all sides, by members, by committee members, by every Tom, Dick and Harry. Perhaps, he thought, gazing round his small domain, his predecessor had even welcomed the linen room, tucked away at the end of a corridor where the happy thought would not strike the casual passer-by that they could pop in and have a ‘quick’ word about the drains, the lavatory paper, the lack of caviar, and by the way how dared he ask them for their subscription? This was a club for gentlemen, wasn’t it, sir, dammit? One gentleman never dunned another for a few paltry pounds, like some vulgar tradesman.

But for once the payment of subscriptions, or rather their non-payment, was far from the top of priorities. So far as Nollins could make out, this bowler-hatted, thin-faced man in front of him was trying to suggest that Jack the Ripper was once more loose amidst them.

‘Now let me understand you aright, Inspector,’ Nollins said, adopting his ‘patient’ voice, his round genial face blank with incomprehension. ‘You are telling me that just because there are a few unfortunate incidents taking place, you consider that lives are at risk. In
Plum’s
?’ He might have known this would happen.

Rose sighed to himself. Privately he sympathised with Nollins. Here in Plum’s it was obvious that even the word death seemed incongruous. Members did not die. They simply failed to put in an appearance one day. And as for
murder . . . With the smell of the leather armchairs in his nostrils, the faint aroma of beeswax polish coming from the table, and a general air of mustiness and loving care combined that spoke of decades of tradition . . . it seemed sacrilege even to mention such a word.

To Nollins, Inspector Egbert Rose’s presence seemed equally incongruous. He was wondering what kind of adverse comment he might receive from his membership in having allowed a policeman in a bowler hat on to the premises at all. True he was an inspector, and from Scotland Yard, yet it still smacked uncommonly of trade. He wished he’d never yielded to Erskine’s suggestion. He wished Erskine had never been elected. He wished – but what was the use of wishing? He sighed, hoping Lord Bulstrode wouldn’t take it upon himself to sling Rose bodily out of the tradesmen’s entrance. There was something about Rose that made Nollins uncomfortably aware he would not take kindly to this treatment.

‘Seems his swords were tampered with yesterday, when they were left in the club. Dangerous trick, I understand.’

‘The committee said there’d be trouble if we let him in,’ Nollins said worriedly. ‘He was blackballed once, Inspector. An actor, you see. Not quite, well, one of us. They’ll say he ought to resign, I’m afraid, poor fellow.’

Rose looked puzzled. ‘Resign? Because someone might be trying to murder him?’

Nollins seemed surprised at the question. ‘Oh yes, Inspector, Plum’s isn’t used to this sort of thing you know. The members won’t stand for it.’

‘So he’s not what you might call popular here, sir?’

‘Oh, very popular, Inspector,’ Nollins reassured him. ‘Very popular indeed. But it’s because Mr Erskine’s an actor, you see. Not thought quite . . . Of course, now that Mr Henry Irving has been knighted and it’s rumoured Mr Erskine himself might be honoured shortly, things are easier. But some of our older members are a little shocked, broadminded though Plum’s is. To have a palate and to be a gentleman: the two qualifications for Plum’s.’

‘And to pay the subs,’ murmured Rose wickedly.

‘Quite,’ said Nollins shortly.

‘Do you know of any reason why any members here might
wish to get rid of Mr Erskine in particular? These incidents’ – Useful this Yard jargon. Weird carryings-on, he’d call them – ‘Some of them seem to be directed against him in particular.’

Nollins looked hunted. ‘I, er – one of the servants—’ he offered.

‘Seems unlikely, sir. This portrait that was damaged for instance—’

‘Portrait of Gaylord Erskine by Sargent. Of course there was some opposition to our hanging it initially. But what can I do?’ Nollins spread his hands almost pleadingly. ‘If a member donates an oil painting of himself by someone of Sargent’s status one cannot hang it where no one can see it. But there’s no doubt there was some opposition – yes. But,’ he said, rallying slightly, ‘hardly cause for m—’ he could not get the word out and changed it rapidly to ‘extreme measures, Inspector.’ He looked defiant.

‘All the same, sir, Mr Erskine’s asked us to look into it. Keep an eye on things in the club. Just in case you’ve got a murderer here.’ It was meant as a light-hearted remark, but even Rose quailed before the look of horror on Nollins’ face.

‘In the
club
, Inspector? Here, in Plum’s?’ Nollins’ voice rose to a shrill squeak. ‘The members,’ he wailed, ‘oh dear me, no, Inspector. You don’t understand. This is
Plum’s
! A club for gentlemen, Inspector. Gentlemen don’t murder each other.’ Never so fervently had he wished he had accepted the offer of the Northumberland pig farm. ‘After all,’ he said, resorting to a rare cunning, ‘nothing violent has happened on the premises yet. Merely destructiveness.’

‘Not yet, sir,’ said Rose mildly, meeting his eye. Nollins’ fell. ‘But very well, sir. We can’t insist. All the same, we’ll have to look round a bit. Talk to the members – I’ll send a constable along.’

Nollins’ eyes bulged. A police constable with big boots, helmet and truncheon on Plum’s premises. What would Peeps think? What would anybody think? Plum’s, that archetypal palace of respectability, would be ruined. ‘No,’ he said, unexpectedly firmly for him. ‘No, Inspector, we shall make our own investigations. We shall discover the
cause of these outrages ourselves. I shall talk to Mr Erskine. We cannot have a constable here. Not at Plum’s.’

‘In that case, sir, I’ve a suggestion . . .’

Nollins listened with a growing sense of horror at yet another departure from civilisation as he knew it.

‘The cook?’ he bleated. ‘But . . .’

Auguste hummed an air from his native Provence, as he inspected the oysters for the ragout for the
steak à la conti.

‘This,’ he said didactically to the adoring Mary by his side, ‘
this
is a ragout. The relish, the sauce if you like. Here in England you give the name to the meat – ragout of mutton.
Alors
, you will look hard in France for a ragout of mutton, Marie.’

Mary, who was unlikely ever to be in a position to look for anything at all in France, nodded wisely, then changed it quickly to a shake of her head when Auguste demanded: ‘And do you know why? Because, Marie, this word became changed in time in France to
haricot.
Haricot of mutton. But then came the beans. Confusing,
hein
? So, the bean won, and the stew became
navarin
, after the all so important turnip, and the somewhat less important battle. But here in England you do not understand
navarins
, ragouts, even stews. Here in England you behave so – so
brusquely
towards your materials. You have the best in the world, and men do not value it. As,’ he paused, noting the curl that escaped over Mary’s brow from beneath the little white cap, and pushing it back gently, ‘they do not appreciate their women. No,’ reverting speedily to his theme, seeing the adoration in her eyes, ‘you throw them straight into the boiling water. Poof. Too harsh. What a shock for the meat. It never recovers. It is good for the roast, this quick sharp shock from your hot coal fires, as de La Reynière points out, but not for the stews. In France we reverence our meat – as our women—’ Mary brightened again but Auguste did not have his attention on her. He was thinking momentarily of Tatiana, his dark-haired beautiful Russian princess, lost to him for ever . . . he patted Mary’s hand affectionately; no matter: the ingredients were to hand, the meal must be prepared.

‘Now,
ma petite
, this recipe of the good Mrs Marshall. A
good cook, Mrs Marshall, but no imagination, no flair. So English. Look at this receipt. A pint – she means a pinch – of Mrs Marshall’s coralline pepper. Everything, every receipt, she recommends this coralline pepper. It is an abomination. A crudity. No subtlety.
Alors
, you have the delicate white veal? Throw some coralline pepper on it, Mrs Marshall would advise. You have the chicken? Throw some coralline pepper on. The fish? Coralline pepper. No doubt, the
oeufs a la neige
also – throw some coralline pepper on. This pepper, she used it’ – warming to his theme – ‘like the bad Duchess in Mr Carroll’s so-inspiring work. Put a little pepper on his nose till he sneezes.’