Murder At Plums (7 page)

‘Morning, Mr Didier.’

Auguste stopped abruptly in mid-Gallic gesture, whirling round to greet his unexpected visitor.

‘
Cher Inspecteur
Rose. This is a delight.’

‘A comedown, isn’t it, Didier? After Stockbery Towers and the Galaxy?’ Egbert Rose gazed innocently round the whitewashed brick walls and the undoubtedly cramped kitchens of Plum’s.

Auguste laughed, not at all put out. ‘A comedown, Inspector? You must not let the members hear you say that. Plum’s is an institution. I am honoured to work here. It is cramped, yes, but to the great cook – as I am,’ he added modestly, lest Rose be in any doubt despite their five-year acquaintance, ‘it matters not. True, the great Soyer insisted on designing the kitchens of the Reform Club himself, but then it was a new building. Me, I come here when the traditions are established. Plum’s was converted from two old houses, built in times when cooks’ – he glanced around ruefully – ‘were not always accorded the honour that they are today. Now tell me, Inspector, why you have come here?’ Auguste poured a sherry cobbler for the Inspector and handed it to him.

Egbert Rose took off his hat, sat himself down at the table and eyed the offering with interest. ‘Duty, Mr Didier, duty.’

Auguste gave him a quick glance, and despatched Mary to the scullery. ‘Help Monsieur John with the grouse salad, child.’ He seemed about to speed her on her way with a pat
on her full-skirted behind, but realising Rose’s eyes were upon him stopped the hand in mid-action and carelessly twirled a spoon in a basin of lobster mayonnaise instead.

‘I heard tell you’d left the Galaxy,’ said Rose. ‘I had cause to call into the Savoy and that Mr Escoffier told me you were here running Plum’s. Now why’s that, Mr Didier?’

‘Why?’ Auguste’s eyes gleamed. ‘Because,
cher Inspecteur
, the challenge. To rival Soyer at the Reform, now it is Didier at Plum’s. This Plum, Inspector, he was in love with French cooking – which shows intelligence in an Englishman. He had read all volumes of the
Almanach des Gourmands
, he had read the works of Careme, he was a devotee of the work of Brillat-Savarin – he had devoured every word of the
Physiologie du Gout
, he had tasted the creations of Francatelli when he was the chef to Her Majesty. Then Francatelli went to the Reform. And Madame Rosa Lewis to White’s. It is a necessary step, Inspector, to be a chef at a club. But one day, ah one day, I shall have my own restaurant, my own hotel perhaps . . . But until then, it is my task to please the members – and the committee. It is not easy, monsieur, to provide the dishes of the gods out of the pennies of Cerberus the Treasurer. No, it is the steak-and-oyster-pudding fare.’

‘Doesn’t sound very French to me.’

‘Plum’s is the home of good food, monsieur. Not necessarily French. My steak and oyster pudding is
superbe.
’

Rose eyed the amount of claret being poured into the ragout, and suppressed a comparison with Mrs Rose’s liberal adding of Cock’s Reading Sauce to her own. ‘This meat’s as tough as your young policemen’s boots, Egbert,’ she’d remarked only yesterday. ‘We’ll have to change Mr Pimple.’ Rose had privately doubted whether it was the much abused, but never changed, butcher’s fault as much as that of the meat’s cook, but held his peace as he had held it through twenty years of happy marriage. But all the same he eyed the ragout wistfully. Acquaintance with Auguste over two of his most important cases had awakened more than a passing interest in cuisine.

‘So, Inspector, you have come about the mysterious doings in Plum’s?’

Rose eyed him innocently. ‘What mysterious doings might those be, Mr Didier?’

‘I do not yet know the full story,’ said Auguste just as innocently. ‘But I have to find out. It is a matter of honour, you understand.’

‘Not quite, Mr Didier.’

‘A friend of mine, a lady of much prestige and respectability,’ said Auguste, wishing there to be no mistake, ‘tells me that a gentleman of her acquaintance, a member of the club has told her that odd things are happening here in Plum’s. She has charged me with the mission of finding out why.’ His expression was almost as lugubrious as Rose’s own habitual one.

‘Tearing up of books, anonymous letters, that sort of thing?’ enquired Rose.

‘Yes, Inspector. And a dead rat on a dining table for which
I
am responsible.’ He quivered at the thought of the insult. ‘Here in the basement it is not easy to tell what goes on amidst the members. I have my staff, there is gossip, but seldom fact. But now I will sniff the soup of this case, Inspector. I will beat the hollandaise, I will—’

‘Stir the stew,’ added Rose helpfully.

‘
Non
, Inspector, not stir. It must stay as it is, or its delicate harmony will be ruined.’

‘Like Plum’s, Mr Nollins would say.’

‘Plum’s,’ said Auguste, diverted. ‘These English. Only in England would gentlemen rush to seek out the company of other men. Imagine that in France, Inspector. Men choosing to eat and even sleep where women are excluded. Not merely excluded, but deemed not even to exist past the front door. No man mentions his wife, it is not done. Occasionally the wives of others, perhaps. But one’s own – no. Yet, here great matters of state may be decided, careers and reputations made and unmade.’

‘You know Mr Erskine? Gaylord Erskine?’

‘But yes, it is impossible not to know Mr Erskine in this club. His charm descends even to the kitchens, monsieur.’

‘Popular, is he?’

Auguste considered. ‘He is not unpopular, monsieur. He was blackballed at first, you know, simply because he was
an actor. Once he was elected, he set about charming everyone. He is witty, kind, considerate, generous, always ready to help, how could he not be popular?’

‘Someone might be trying to murder this popular gentleman.’

‘Ah!’ Auguste was torn between triumph at his perspicacity and depression as he realised that now he had no option. He, Auguste Didier, must detect.

‘Now it may be nothing at all,’ Rose continued. ‘Just a member who doesn’t like the world much, and Mr Erskine less. But on the other hand, it could all be leading somewhere. Somewhere very nasty. There was a little accident with the rapiers on stage last night. They’d been tampered with, and it looks like they were tampered with here.’

‘So, Inspector, it seems I must look very hard indeed to see what is wrong at Plum’s.’ Auguste’s dark eyes gleamed in anticipation.

‘Seems like you’ll have to. Mr Nollins don’t want my police constables lowering the tone of the place, says he’s going to play detective himself. I thought you might want to give a hand.’ Rose’s face lit up with a rare smile.

Auguste almost visibly puffed up. ‘I shall not fail you, Inspector. Master cook, master detective. People talk of the wonders of Mr Sherlock Holmes. That is nothing. That is reasoning from A to B. Why, any cook can follow a recipe if the orders are given clearly. But it takes a maitre to deduce the final touches, that can turn a dish into an artistic triumph.’

‘Or an incident into a murder,’ commented Rose, draining the last dregs of his sherry cobbler with relish.

The man pressed himself back against the basement wall. That cook in the tam-o’-shanter had come perilously close to the window then. Inspectors, eh? Scotland Yard? Gaylord Erskine? His eyes gleamed with excitement. But he mustn’t be seen. Silently he slipped away along the basement area, up the steps and out through the tradesmen’s gate into York Street.

‘But you’re a cook,’ pointed out Nollins, and it says much for his transparent ingenuousness that Auguste took no offence.

‘
Evidemment
,’ he murmured. ‘But the good Inspector Rose must have told you that I am also endowed with great detective powers.’

Nollins eyed him doubtfully.

‘
Mais oui, monsieur
,’ said Auguste, hurt at this clear vote of no confidence. ‘You can ask him. At Stockbery Towers – at the Galaxy Theatre—’

The Galaxy Theatre did not impress Nollins, but mention of Stockbery Towers did. It occurred to him that better Auguste make himself unpopular with the members than he himself. Then a thought struck him.

‘But you’re a
cook
,’ he pointed out again. ‘You can’t question the
members.
They wouldn’t like it.’

Auguste inclined his head gracefully, hiding the involuntary wry smile. Only in England . . .

‘In England, monsieur, you have a proverb. More ways of skinning the cat. Not
une belle phrase
, but correct.’

‘But—’

‘Now, monsieur,’ said Auguste firmly, ‘which is best: for me tactfully to find out what is happening here? Or for the police to do so?’ Nollins shuddered. ‘Or for a murder to take place first?’

Nollins blenched. ‘Very well,’ he said unhappily, ‘but find out
soon
!’

And with this heartfelt plea ringing in his ears, Auguste Didier sallied forth, metaphorical Gallic spear in hand, to rescue Plum’s in distress – after luncheon, naturally.

Luncheon at Plum’s was a less formal meal than dinner. This meant that the food did not (necessarily) have to be dissected and discussed as minutely as though the recipients formed one of Grimod de La Reyniere’s grand juries. It was permitted merely to enjoy a swift luncheon, it being recognised that one or two at least of the members might have business appointments during the daytime. Luncheon was taken, as was dinner, at the long tables, seats being occupied in order of arrival – even if one’s neighbour was
Worthington. Usually it was not well attended. Today was different, however. The news of the infamous ruling about the admission of ladies had travelled fast and members were scurrying to the scene to check the truth of this scandalous proposal for themselves.

When Sir Rafael Jones entered the table was already half full, Gaylord Erskine in full spate, he noted with irritation. Erskine’s popularity annoyed him, as well as his other reservations about him. Before his arrival Jones had been virtual king of Plum’s artistic world, now his crown was in danger of being taken from him. King in the sense of public achievement only, he had never been popular. Worthington in particular had opposed his membership. Quite what Colonel Worthington’s objection was against Sir Rafael was not clear. Nollins had pointed out to him, however, that he had been honoured by Her Majesty, albeit if the more malicious of his opponents claimed that this was because he was the one painter in London who displayed no interest whatsoever in painting Lillie Langtry (all that
bosom
! he explained to friends in private). In his youth a fervent Pre-Raphaelite, he had turned in middle age to society portraits, and having amassed status, wealth and his knighthood was now indulging himself with suitably classical subjects of beauty in distress, always young and generally unclad but without Ingres’ objectivity of portrayal. Plum’s was at a loss; Jones was so very respectable but his ladies, even if so unrealistically unbosomed, were so
very
naked, and often without the requisite coyness of expression that one could have hoped for. Yet how could one ascribe base motivation to one whom the Queen had honoured? That he had been elected at all had maliciously been ascribed to the fact that one of the bathers in his ‘Pool of Wisdom’, the most blatant of the three, bore a striking facial resemblance, much to the amusement of her friends, to the wife of one of Plum’s members, and the committee, fearful of seeing their own wives in the same predicament, had hastily changed their minds about his suitability.

Plum’s was not one of those clubs where meals were taken in silence. After all, it was for its food that the club
had been formed, and comment was necessary. If men can enjoy food together, then they can get on and rule the world together, Captain Plum had reasoned. Captain Plum had been an incurable optimist. A portrait of his revered master, the Duke of Wellington, one of the founders of the club, hung in the billiard room, which amused Auguste since it was well known that the good Duke, admirable though his attitude to the necessity of a good diet for the fighting man was, was hardly a gourmet.

Worthington seethed. He had no choice. He had arrived at the wrong moment. He would have to sit next to that fellow Jones. No getting out of it. The choice was simple. He sat in silence or he talked to him, at least half the time. He swallowed, then remembered he was a pukka sahib.

‘Damned curry on the menu again,’ he offered gruffly. ‘Reminds me of the time I was at Chillianwallah. Real curries then. Not Didier’s offerings. What you need in a real curry is cardamoms. Goes into the stuff they give you for the cholera, too. Natives don’t need that of course. Now, a fellow I once knew at Chillianwallah . . .’ The voice droned on.

Jones was an unlikely looking artist. In his youth he had undoubtedly had boyish good looks. These had not survived early middle age. Now he was merely fleshy. Tall, with a large corporation, he resembled an elongated William pear, but without its softness. He dismissed Worthington with one phrase: ‘I like curry.’

As a considered comment of gourmet to gourmet it left much to be desired; as a way of shutting Worthington up it proved effective. With a charming smile, Sir Rafael turned his attention to Samuel Preston across the table.

‘I hear they’re rising in Matabeleland again.’

‘Oh, Chamberlain will soon deal with them,’ said Samuel Preston carelessly. He was a Chamberlain man. Till the Jameson Raid few men of ambition in his party could afford not to be; now, one had a choice.

‘Did he know about the Raid, in your view?’

Preston frowned. This was going too far. True, the conduct of Jameson was the talk of London and Chamberlain’s complicity in the Raid was equally eagerly debated, but all
the same, this interrogation was going too far. Nevertheless, Sir Rafael had been honoured by Her Majesty, he
was
a bachelor and Preston’s daughter Sylvia needed a husband. Quickly. He pursed his lips, conscious of Gaylord Erskine laughing a few places away.

‘In my view, no,’ he managed to answer pleasantly enough.

‘Come, sir, what of the timing? What of the Cleveland message?’ said Salt, eager to show that his knowledge of Africa extended beyond his exploration of their territory.