Murder At Plums (14 page)

Mrs Nollins glanced at the longcase clock, conscious of what her husband would wish her to do. ‘Time, I think, ladies, for the gentlemen to join us. For the parade.’

Auguste hovered nervously, as four waiters each lifted the two
pièces montées
to their shoulders. Literally
pièces montées
as the Napoleon and the Dragoon were borne on litters towards the dining room,
flanc
setpieces to end all
flancs.
The 23rd Dragoon was made from a base of Savoy cake covered with cream, his red coat a patchwork of strawberries, his face carved from meringue, and crowned with a shako made of chocolate as was the sword, on which he rested lightly. Napoleon, as befitted his enemy status, was a
slightly less grand rival, with chocolate coat, and hired bicorne.

Behind these imposing life-sized figures followed two other minions, with lesser burdens. These figures, a small Napoleon and an even smaller Dragoon, were only two feet high, and though one could not accuse Auguste precisely of skimping on detail, the keen observer might spot the hair was not so carefully fashioned as that of their larger brother
flancs.
After all, Colonel Worthington was to be the only participant in this second parade. The bicorne unfortunately, being hired, was full size, obscuring the noble features of the Emperor.

Reverently, as the Dragoon approached, the members stood to attention, their womenfolk somewhat uneasily by their sides. It appeared to be a solemn moment, though they could not quite see why. Gertrude was inclined to giggle, but hastily changed her mind when she saw Charlie’s eye upon her. For Auguste it mattered not if disaster followed now; the creations had now been seen and admired, his artistry given the credit it deserved. They were all the more imposing for the candlelight with which the procession was headed.

Oliver Nollins relaxed. He always enjoyed the parade, and would this year even if women were on it. What did it matter what they thought of the ritual, anyway? Plum’s was proud of it. It was the tradition.

‘Gentlemen, ladies,’ he said, ‘pray raise your glasses. I give you Captain Harvey Plum, our founder.’

‘God bless Captain Plum.’ The chorus rent the air. Slowly, majestically, the Dragoon was turned so that he faced the doorway. Auguste and Nollins followed, leading the procession, the tables emptying behind them till a long file, two by two, had vacated the room. Even the chatter of the ladies died down a little. Could it be they were impressed by the grandeur of the occasion?

Gaylord and Amelia Erskine brought up the rear with Inspector Rose, who deemed this the safest position. ‘I’ll tell old Worthington the coast is clear,’ said Gaylord.

Colonel Worthington had naturally refused to take dinner in the dining rooms, contaminated with ladies as they were,
and was dining in solitary state in the smoking room with its comforting mementoes of war, not women. Assegais, Martini-Henry rifles, revolvers, a standard or two, with the occasional concession to other professions, that was more like it. This was the sort of place where a chap was at home.

‘He’ll give it ten minutes, then follow the route himself,’ reported Gaylord, and turned to the burdened waiters. ‘Take his dragoon in in five minutes, will you?’

First the basement. The ritual demanded that all parts, all rooms of the club should be visited.

Auguste shut his eyes, and prayed that they would not think it essential to go right round his kitchens. He had visions of female prying hands in his precious books of receipts, inspecting his game larder. Fortunately, as he was leading the procession he was able to make the tour of the kitchens brief indeed, and a similarly brief glimpse was permitted of the corridor to the gentlemen’s lavatories, in the interests of lip-service to hygiene apart from decency. Fortunately the lighting everywhere in the club was turned down to its lowest, in order that the candlelit procession might be the more dignified. The procession consequently emerged from the basement fairly rapidly to pass on to the upper and more interesting parts of the building. The bedrooms, the linen closets, where much feminine discussion took place on the inferior quality of the bedlinen and the need for vigilance over staff in the matter of bedmaking. In the library the first ceremony took place: the salute to the Duke of Wellington. The Duke’s own lack of interest in the finer touches of cuisine was legendary and he gazed down from his portrait upon his meringue and cream soldier below and his old adversary with supreme indifference as Nollins called for three cheers for the Duke.

Downstairs again, the Dragoon nearly met an end as unpleasant as his real-life counterparts in the Peninsular War when he was turned rather too smartly into the path of a sword being waved by Nollins. Not an army man, he was unhappy bearing arms, even though it was for such a noble purpose: the oath of allegiance to the traditions of Plum’s. For some reason this took place in the morning room under
the hippopotamus relic. For today, the relic had been removed and the ladies wondered why their menfolk were cheering a small print of Grace Darling – a master-stroke on Nollins’ part, so he had thought.

And so to the drawing room. A rather bad portrait of a simpering Captain Plum hung opposite the door and above the fireplace, where a small fire still glowed despite the month, was the club’s greatest treasure, the oil painting of ‘The Charge at Talavera’. The Dragoon came to a halt below it – not too near lest his cream melt and his strawberries fall out.

Nollins began the loyal speech of devotion to the traditions established by the Captain (or rather by his widow). It was a long speech, and Auguste’s mind wandered. It wandered to all the work put into the making of this Dragoon, only to be—

‘Huzzah! Forward the Dragoons,’ cried Nollins, ineffectually plunging his sword, said to be Plum’s own, into Napoleon’s heart, but slicing off the arm buried in his coat instead. Instantly a dozen or so swords followed his, plunging into the Emperor’s soft innards.

Instantly Auguste sprang into action. Plates appeared from nowhere, stewards appeared as if by magic to scoop poor Napoleon into serving dishes for those who wished to partake of him after the parade. The Dragoon received more reverent treatment, being respectfully disembowelled with Auguste’s best knife. According to custom, the last in the queue – in this case Gaylord Erskine rather than Egbert Rose – removed Napoleon’s bicorne and planted it firmly on his silver head.

And now the Passing song began. Raucous and tremulous voices alike, old and young, joined in as the procession surged in no order whatsoever out of the drawing room across the corridor, into the smoking room, for the last stages of the parade. The singing of the song would bring them through the glass doors into the Widow’s Folly, as the conservatory was known, then back into the house by the garden door at the far end of the building into the billiard room, then to the dining rooms for the last loyal toast to Her Majesty. Ten minutes behind them, Colonel Worthington
was saluting the place where Plum’s Trophy normally hung, resolutely ignoring the fact that the hallowed place was occupied by a blasted lady.

For some obscure reason Rose was worried. He, Auguste and Erskine brought up the rear as the crowd surged across the dimly lit smoking room, the remains of Worthington’s meal, including the King of Prussia’s favourite pudding, still uncollected, Auguste noted disapprovingly. Then they passed doggedly through the glass doors into the conservatory, unlit, save by a solitary candle. The sculpted head of Captain Plum to their right on its plinth was crowned with flowers; a series of small statues of naked nymphs that made Rafael Jones green with envy every time he saw them, looked up at the gentlemen idolisingly. As each member passed through the conservatory, he bowed deeply to the Captain, turned round three times, the reason for which was lost in obscurity, and followed his predecessors into the garden, then back in through the garden door, and thence to the dining rooms. Their spouses, trying hard to take the events with the same seriousness as their menfolk, followed suit. It thus took quite a time before Rose and Erskine bringing up the rear passed through the doors into the Folly to make their obeisance. Or rather Erskine did. Rose did not. There were occasions when he saw absolutely no need to conform.

Instead, as Erskine proceeded on his gyrations Rose’s eyes peeled the darkness outside, and caught a vague glimpse, a shadow, nothing more definite. Then it was gone. A trick of the light perhaps, he thought tiredly, or rather the dark, but the sooner they were back inside the happier he would be.

Yet it was fully twenty-five minutes before they were all through the billiard room and back in the dining rooms. They were sipping their brandies there, the tables cleared and moved back now, when a piercing scream rang out. A man’s scream. Not of pure fright, not of horror, but something between the two.

Instinctively Rose gripped Erskine’s arm to reassure himself that his charge was safely by his side.

‘What was that?’ frowned Nollins nervously. Clearly it could not be ignored, and he started for the source of the scream. Rose was quicker, propelling Erskine with him –
just in case. Auguste from the kitchens was quicker still. They arrived together at the door of the smoking room. In the semi-darkness Worthington’s face peered at them. Even in the gloom they could see how pale it was. He was standing at the doorway to the Folly, holding on to the open glass door, panting heavily, his face white under the Napoleonic bicorne.

‘My dear fellow,’ said Nollins, shocked, turning on the lamp. ‘Let me help you. What’s wrong?’

Others were fast behind them now, and a small crowd soon surrounded him.

‘Sorry about that,’ muttered Worthington, ‘bit of a shock. Heard something. Thought I saw someone I knew in the Folly. Wrong, that’s all. No one there.’ Half shamefacedly at causing a disturbance he subsided into one of the armchairs.

‘Weak tea, that’s the thing.’

‘Sal volatile,’ said Erskine, bustling forward, his own bicorne knocking Worthington’s twin accidentally over the Colonel’s forehead. ‘That’s the thing for sudden shock.’

‘Clear off,’ said Worthington testily. ‘I’m not an exhibit in the zoo. Brandy, I’ll have my brandy.’ He picked up the glass on the table. Then he noticed the awful truth. His eyes bulged. ‘Women,’ he exploded, seeing the interested group all offering good advice. ‘Get them
out
of here. Isn’t a man safe even in his own club? Leave me alone, the lot of you.’

They did.

‘Mrs Pryde, is it not?’ enquired Erskine, with some amusement.

Emma, in the midst of pouring coffee, and giving the task her complete attention, did not look up.

‘Come, Emma, this modest uniform cannot disguise the great Mrs Pryde.’

‘I’ve nothing to say to you, Gaylord,’ she said shortly. ‘Nothing at all.’ But all the same she talked to him earnestly for some moments.

‘Gaylord, do you like my dress?’ enquired Gertrude artlessly.

He jumped, looking round anxiously as if to ensure that Amelia were nowhere around. ‘Ah, quite beautiful, Mrs Briton. As beautiful as its wearer,’ he resonated in artificial tones, sweeping off his bicorne.

‘Gaylord, I’ve something to say to you,’ said Gertrude, looking meaningfully at Inspector Rose, who tactfully left their side. Erskine looked after him as if in appeal, but Rose had gone. Only Charles Briton hovered near. Very near.

The moment had come. Seeing Erskine on his own again, Gertie having once more had her say, Samuel Preston moved in for the attack. Leaving Rose to his wife’s attentions, he went purposefully up to him. They, too, had several minutes’ earnest conversation. Gaylord Erskine paled and glanced towards Sylvia. Samuel Preston followed his gaze and spoke again.

Rafael Jones, standing by the door as Auguste’s staff milled in and out, surveyed the packed room and pondered the rights and wrongs of allowing women entrance. Not that it concerned him. There was never going to be a woman in his life that he could escort to Plum’s. Many of the women here had been his sitters. Juanita Salt – he shuddered at the memory. Amelia Erskine, chattering away nineteen to the dozen nearby, helping herself to coffee, no matter if anyone were listening. He’d been right not to paint her. Alice Fredericks – good bones, might be worth approaching. Gertie Briton – he grimaced. Those Preston women surrounding Samuel with their slavish devotion – boring, totally boring. His eyes moved on to the men. Perhaps he should start exploiting this fertile field. Once his problem was solved he’d think about it.

Oliver Nollins relaxed in a corner with a glass of port. Evening almost over, and all had gone well. Thank heavens. Plum’s wasn’t such a bad place to be after all.

‘Monsieur Didier, what shall I do—’

Whatever it was that John wished guidance on would
have to wait. For at that moment came the unmistakable sound somewhere in the distance of a pistol shot. All conversations ceased abruptly, the room became a tableau, as everyone froze. Rose was the first to move, plunging out of the door towards the source of the sound, followed by as many of 200 people as could squeeze through the door at the same time. Pressed against the wall by the crush of bodies, by the time Auguste emerged the corridor to the smoking room was jammed.

‘Gaylord!’ screamed Amelia Erskine behind him. ‘Thank heavens you’re safe.’

So no harm had come to Erskine – Then who?

‘Pewegwine,’ yelped Juanita, ‘what is it? Is it the Fuzzy-Wuzzies?’

‘It’s the Anarchists,’ bayed Atkins, more realistically.

It was neither. Or if it was they had chosen an odd target. Colonel M. Worthington lay dead on the floor of the Widow’s Folly, shot through the heart, a Webley by his side.

Auguste’s first emotion, as he pushed his way through to the Folly to join Rose and a stunned white-faced Nollins, was of surprise. Worthington? When all their thoughts had been concentrated on the possibility of sudden death coming to Erskine, it was difficult to assimilate the fact that Worthington, so long the butt of club jokes, was lying before them dead. He swallowed hastily, overcome by emotion for the pity of it all, the wasted years, all the words that would not now be poured out of that garrulous mouth.