Murder At Plums (18 page)

‘On a what?’

‘
Papillote
? Cooked in paper. It is something of which I am doubtful, but in this case I feel Monsieur Soyer may be correct. Now his grandson, at present chef to her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Newcastle, experiments with cooking everything in paper bags. He talks, so I hear, of nothing but paper bags.’

Rose had a mental vision of Mrs Rose coping with paper bags. Somehow he didn’t think she’d approve either. However, he wasn’t here to talk of paper bags. Or even of luncheon.

‘What we have to decide, Mr Didier, is which came first; is the Colonel the remove or the hors d’oeuvres?’

‘
Pardon
?’ Auguste blinked at this flight of fancy from the Inspector, seated comfortably at his working table drumming his fingers absentmindedly on a tray of gingerbread.

‘Was our friend Worthington murdered because he knew who was committing the outrages in the club, and therefore
who wanted to kill Erskine? So in order to kill Erskine, our villain had to get Worthington out of the way first.’

‘It is possible,’ said Auguste thoughtfully. Very possible. He was reminded with a disagreeable jolt of Emma. But surely even if Emma did have reason to kill Erskine, it was absurd to think she would kill Worthington as well. And even if she had, she could not have been responsible for all the outrages in the club. But if that were someone different, then the argument collapsed – his head began to whirl, just as it did when confronted with Durand’s menu of eighty different courses of eggs, or the
Créations de Frédéric
at the Tour d’Argent. Lost in happy reverie, he recalled himself guiltily to the present.

‘On the other hand,’ Rose was saying, ‘perhaps we’re making things too complex. Be simple: isn’t that what your old friend Escoffier told you?’

‘Old friend?’ Auguste breathed in horror. ‘Monsieur, he is
the
maitre. When the rest of us are remembered by nothing but the mossy names on our tombstones, Escoffier will live,’ he said dramatically.

‘So as I was saying,’ Rose went on, oblivious. ‘Let’s keep it simple. Worthington was murdered. Who had reason to kill him?’

‘Rather miss the old bore now he’s gone.’

Bulstrode nodded at the empty chair in the morning room where Plumsonians were wont to hear the pontificating voice of the gallant Colonel. How to get rid of Colonel Worthington the club bore had been a subject of discussion for so long there was an unnatural pause this morning, now that they had been taken at their word. Besides which, murder cast a definite gloom over the proceedings.

Preston cleared his throat: ‘Did you have anything on Persimmon in the Derby, Erskine? At five to one, a very nice return for those lucky devils that did, eh?’ His overture was more to the room at large than Erskine in particular.

‘Alas, my profession leaves me little time to follow the horses.’

‘But not the ladies, eh, Erskine?’

Auguste, made inconspicuous by his uniform as he poured the coffee, almost applauded.

Gaylord Erskine stiffened. ‘Really, Captain Briton, I cannot imagine what your remark might mean. We are, after all, in public,’ he added righteously.

‘I think, Captain Briton,’ said General Fredericks, ‘you had best recollect your whereabouts.’

Rank spoke. ‘Pray accept my apologies, Mr Erskine,’ glared Briton.

‘Please don’t mention it, dear boy,’ murmured Erskine. ‘We are all somewhat overwrought, no doubt, at being suspects in a murder case.’

‘Suspects?’ barked Bulstrode. ‘Good God, man, we’re not suspects. We’re members of Plum’s. Servants are the suspects.’

‘I don’t see why the servants should wish to murder the Colonel,’ said Salt briskly.

‘But why would any of
us
want to murder him?’ Briton pressed on. ‘I know we all felt like it at times, but the old chap wasn’t that bad.’

‘That, I suppose, is what the police are about to discover,’ said Preston smoothly. ‘There’s a couple of them now sniffing around with magnifying glasses and the like.’

‘That Rose fellow. Fancies himself a Sherlock Holmes, I suppose,’ said Atkins. ‘That’s the trouble with our police today; they feel they’ve got to compete with Sherlock Holmes instead of getting on with the job and arresting the nearest person.’

‘The nearest person in this case appears to have been you, Lord Bulstrode,’ pointed out Salt somewhat unwisely. ‘You were in the drawing room, were you not?’

Bulstrode turned purple. ‘Good God, sir, are you implying – In the old days, I’d have been able to show you what I thought of you – that’s if you can handle a gun.’

‘If you mistook Worthington for Erskine here—’

‘What the devil would I want to kill him for? He’s only an actor fellow—’

‘You had a bit of a brush with him, didn’t you, once? You and your wife?’

For once Bulstrode did not roar. For once he said nothing.
Then, as he saw everyone’s eyes on him, he turned red in anger, stood up, sweeping his coffee cup off the table as he did so, and stomped out of the room.

‘So,’ remarked Jones softly, as Auguste handed him a coffee. ‘It appears if we search we will find motive enough for killing our friend Erskine here. Perhaps the Colonel also? Don’t you agree, gentlemen?’ He looked from one to the other pleasantly. ‘But the secret I feel must lie in the past. Always interesting, the past. Would you not agree, gentlemen?’ He looked blandly round.

There was a strange silence in the room, so much so that Auguste, dropping a sugar lump into a cup, almost apologised for the noise.

Mrs Mildred Worthington was At Home. Indeed it was the pivot of her existence to be At Home. Twice widowed, her second husband had been the Colonel’s younger brother, and now being At Home formed the basis of her life. Everything sprang from it. She considered herself to be the hub of Blackheath society. The highlight of her day was the examination of the card tray to ensure that her calls had been returned with exactly the degree of promptitude that politeness demanded and whether the new ones placed there betokened a mere return of cards or called for greater jubilation over a social conquest. It was a poor day if all such new cards were from those further down the ladder of esteem than she was herself. At Homes were stiff affairs, but somehow new brides were under the impression that to be accepted by Mrs Worthington at an At Home was an essential step in their bid for recognition. There were other social circuits in Blackheath, but to resort to them was thought to be less than a credit.

It was with some excitement therefore that Mrs Worthington saw Inspector Rose mount the steps, blancoed but half an hour since; a gentleman caller. This was an accolade indeed. As a widow she was reconciled to the decline in the numbers of masculine callers.

Her disappointment was keener than her interest when his role was made clear. ‘Dead, you say,’ she said, sitting down with less grace than she had planned. It was, after all, a shock.

‘Possibly suicide, ma’am,’ said Rose warily, watching the stiff whaleboned figure for signs of imminent collapse. He was never good at catching fainting matrons. So he was pleasantly surprised therefore when she said briskly: ‘Nonsense. Mortimer would never, never commit suicide. Accident. Never did look after himself properly.’

‘Murder, we think, madam.’

Murder? She went white. Murder was something to be associated with low life, with Kate Websters and Mrs Pearcies, with women of an unfortunate class. She had never regarded her brother-in-law very highly but her opinion fell even lower. Murder in the family? How would this affect Blackheath?

‘I understand from his landlady you’re his nearest relative, madam. Sister-in-law, I believe.’

‘Yes, I suppose I am. My husband is dead, Inspector.’ Mildred tried to look pathetic.

After giving her a few moments in which to compose herself (for it had indeed been a shock), Rose continued: ‘Do you know his solicitors, ma’am?’

‘Spence, Harcourt and Beaver, Sloane Street,’ she said meanderingly. ‘But I can tell you, Inspector,’ rallying slightly, ‘that my brother-in-law was a wealthy man, and,’ she added surprisingly matter-of-factly, ‘I am his sole legatee.’ She looked happily smug as the reality began to dawn upon her.

‘He didn’t invite you to the Passing last night?’ Rose looked round the room, its cluttered cosiness, its fashionable ornateness, its intrinsic loneliness.

‘No, Inspector. I have not seen him for some time. However, my brother-in-law had very firm views about his club. I know that there was all this trouble about admitting women into the club. Lot of childish nonsense, but then Mortimer was like that. He disliked women owing to a brief unfortunate marriage. And the army of course. Ridiculous. I’m fortunate my husband did not follow his brother into the army.’

‘How do you know about the trouble at the club, if you have not seen your brother-in-law for some time, might I ask, Mrs Worthington?’

‘Through my brother, Inspector. He is a member of Plum’s.’

‘And your brother is—’

‘Peregrine, Salt, Inspector, the famous traveller and archaeologist. You may have heard of him. Troy, you know.’ Her voice dropped in reflected modesty. ‘And his new venture – to go to Crete. Such glory awaits him!’

Her eyes were still shining as they had never done for the departed glory of Colonel Worthington as Rose took his leave.

It would have been
lèse majesté
not to have heard of him in her presence, that was quite clear, thought Rose, as he walked over the heath towards the railway station. He was clearly the apple of her eye. With no husband, her source of personal pride lay vested in her brother. A brother she’d now be in a position to help.

It had been a particularly rewarding session on ‘Girls Bathing by a Pool’. He must give it a classical name, of course, if he were to exhibit it. ‘Nereids at Play’. ‘Nymphs Attending Daphne’s Bath’. He ruminated. The ideal title would come to him in time. Reluctantly, he left the studio and retired to his study to give some more thought to the events of the last few hours. He wouldn’t visit his collection. It had all been spoilt by the revelation that Rosie had been talking again and not only about the collection. He began to make plans.

The Colonel of the 2nd Battalion of the 24th Foot seemed to have more pressing matters on his mind than the murder of a long-retired colonel officially of unremarkable career. They were indeed pressing. After fifteen years it seemed there might be a glimmer of hope that the 24th might yet get back their green facings on the uniform, taken from them by some nameless nincompoop in charge of army uniforms. The Regiment had never been the same since, and now he, a mere colonel, was making some headway where generals had failed.

Worthington’s army record was mere routine in comparison with such momentous events. Rumour was one
thing, but records were records. ‘I’ve looked up the army records for you. Don’t remember him myself, of course. Besides, the regiment has changed since his time. Used to be the Warwicks, now the South Wales Borderers.’ He read out the results of his researches drearily: ‘Chillianwallah 1849; the Punjab; Cape of Good Hope; India; Gibraltar; sick leave; unable to join 1st Battalion in South Africa in 1874. Transferred to 2nd Battalion, South Africa. Promoted Major 1878. Fought Zululand 1879, Isandhlwana. Survived.’

‘Survived what, Colonel?’

The Colonel looked at Rose disbelievingly. ‘Isandhlwana. You haven’t heard of it? Rorke’s Drift, man. Good God, you’ll be telling me you haven’t heard of Rorke’s Drift next.’

‘No, I won’t, sir. Even at the Yard we’ve heard of Rorke’s Drift.’

The Colonel calmed down. ‘The battalion’s supreme moment. Only natural you hear more of that than Isandhlwana.’ He looked almost human.

‘Why’s that, sir?’

‘Blot on the escutcheon. A massacre. Could have been avoided. So they say. Colonel Durnford leading one of three invasion columns left the camp with the greater part of his Native Horse forces to tackle the small Zulu force they’d located. But they didn’t know where the main Zulu Impi was – twenty thousand of the blighters were out there somewhere. No one thought there was a threat to the camp, so they didn’t fortify it. No need. Natural mountain spur position above the plain, plenty of ammunition. Durnford saw the main Zulu force – turned back to make a stand. The Zulus were just on the point of cutting him off from the camp. The camp could still have protected itself – but they organised the defence too loosely. Anyway, on came the Zulus. Thousands upon thousands. Even so, we would have beaten them off if it hadn’t been for—’ he paused fractionally and then continued, ‘mismanagement on Colonel Pulleine’s part, sending troops forward instead of consolidating. Native line gave way. Eventually the Zulus broke through and cut off some of our advancing
companies from the rear. Massacred to a man. Then they swept on to the main camp, wiped out all but a handful; then cut off the retreat of those making back for the camp at Rorke’s Drift. Six companies of the regiment were lost to a man. Only fifty or so Europeans survived. Out of nearly a thousand. Worthington was one of the lucky ones. He wasn’t in the front line, of course; he was overall officer in charge of ammunition supplies. Stood a better chance of retreat – when all was lost of course,’ added the Colonel hastily, in case the Inspector got the impression that anyone from the 24th would cut and run. ‘It was a bad business. Don’t fight like gentlemen, the Zulus. The fortunes of war, Inspector. Rorke’s Drift goes down as a victory, Isandhlwana as an inglorious massacre. Men fought as bravely in each, I daresay. But it’s the final judgement of history that decides how they’re remembered. Only two VCs for Isandhlwana – they were for the First Battalion. No wonder Worthington didn’t say too much about Isandhlwana. Bad show for the Second Battalion. Lost its Colours you see.’

‘The Colours?’

The Colonel looked shocked at such ignorance. ‘I see you’re not an army man, Inspector.’

‘No,’ replied Rose simply. ‘Unless you count toy soldiers. Fine collection.’

The Colonel didn’t.

‘The Colours, Inspector, represent the battalion’s honour. Two standards. Her Majesty’s Colour with the Union Jack, Crown, and regimental title and the Colour of the Regiment carrying the battle honours and crest. They are carried into battle – or rather were, since the Zulu war was the last time – and to lose one is the ultimate disgrace. Not a man but would not rather die than see that happen. But the Second Battalion lost them both at Isandhlwana. They were in the guard tent. A young lieutenant saw the Zulus there, managed to creep up and take the Colours while they were massacring the guards. He nearly made it too. He was halfway along the route to Rorke’s Drift when they caught up with him and cut him down.’