Murder At Plums (23 page)

Rose looked at him sharply, and caught the faint smile that vanished from his face as his wife entered the room.

‘Emma,
ma mie
, I merely wish you to tell me whether this is Monsieur Soyer’s recipe for pheasant pie or your own. If your own, I make no more comment; if Monsieur Soyer’s, then I insist for my reputation’s sake that we include also one of Auguste Didier’s pheasant pies. Now, is this not reasonable?’

‘Quite reasonable, Auguste,’ snapped Emma, eyes flashing dangerously. ‘And I merely wish to point out that you are ’ere to assist me, not to stipulate the menu. In fact, it is Soyer’s recipe, improved by Emma Pryde.’

‘In that case,’ he replied with dignity, ‘I am satisfied.’

‘Good, then slop out this bucket.’ Auguste inspected the kitchens of Gaylord Erskine’s Mayfair domain while the resident staff sulkily gathered in their servants’ room determined not to emerge before absolutely necessary. He gave grudging approval. It was an imposing residence, to which Erskine had only recently moved, perhaps in anticipation of his coming magnificence.

‘’Aven’t you finished that puff paste yet, Auguste?’ Emma shouted impatiently. ‘Gaylord wants to see us.’

She led the way up the stairs from the basement through the ground-floor entrance hall, hung with portraits of Macready and Kemble, and a reproduction of Kean, and largest of all, Erskine as Petruchio. A portrait of him as d’ Artagnan had been placed less ostentatiously. It was felt that Her Majesty might not fully approve of such light-hearted employment. Beside him to the left, the huge drawing room was rapidly being transformed into a ballroom, its doors opening to the garden where oil lamps were being placed for the benefit of those who might wish to take the
air late in the evening. Huge pots of flowers were advancing through the front door, presumably borne by somebody underneath, though little could be seen of them. Emma led the way up the ornate staircase, flanked by theatrical portraits suitably brown with age, with a modest number of Erskine thrown in. She turned along the corridor towards the study, and Auguste stared over the balustrade on one side down into the well of the entrance hall. It was a theatrical house, built to present a view to the world of the maitre artiste, he decided, and this balcony suited it. He cast a scathing eye at the ostentatious telephone cabinet at the end of the corridor filling the alcove of the window. Typical of Erskine to have a telephone installed already. In fact, all the decorations were lush, as if to proclaim actor I might be, but nevertheless a pillar of society. The thought of Emma being this man’s mistress . . . Auguste clenched his fists.

‘Ah, Em – Mrs Pryde,’ greeted Gaylord Erskine, unwinding himself gracefully from the armchair. ‘And Mr Didier, is it not? I recall dining at the Maison de Provence in Paris where I ate your exquisite
tapenade
after a performance at the Comédie Française. Exquisite, quite superb.’

Auguste’s opinion of Gaylord Erskine abruptly changed as he perceived in him signs of intelligence.

‘Your preparations are ready? Everything is to your satisfaction?’

‘Quite, Mr Erskine,’ Emma replied meekly, her cheeks pink, which promptly inclined Auguste to his former opinion.

‘I must confess –’ he glanced at Auguste – ‘I have forebodings about this evening’s performance.’

‘Not about my food, you needn’t ‘ave,’ retorted Emma indignantly.

‘Never that. But other things . . .’ A hand was passed over his brow. ‘Yet if it be not now, ’twill be to come.’

‘Don’t be so pessimistic, Gaylord,’ snarled Emma. ‘You arranged it, you’ve got Scotland Yard ’ere; what more do you want? Anyway, the attacks on you ’ave stopped, ’aven’t they?’

‘Always so . . . down to earth, dear Emma. Such a
comfort. I had to bring it to a head. As artistes yourselves,’ he bowed gravely towards Auguste, ‘you will know that one cannot work one’s best while uncertainty and confusion reign. So it must end. Even if it means that I have to be the bait. But I have the inestimable privilege of a police constable on the door who will check all arrivals, in addition to Inspector Rose. So if I am to be murdered, he will at least have the advantage of knowing it is by one of my friends.’

Liveried footmen placed the buffet ready on the tables, the
grosses pièces
on their stands, Pithiviers pies, galantines, hams aspicked and parsleyed. Round the side on silver plates (Emma insisted on this) were the entrées, the plovers’ eggs, salmis of partridges, the lobster salads, the bowls of chicken fricassée Emma, potted pheasant and trout
à la Vertpré
, to the side the entremets of pastry, the tartlets, the nougats, the Mecca loaves, the
petits-choux
with pistachios, while the puddings stood waiting in the kitchens.

Auguste flew hither and thither at Emma’s beck and call, which was far from stinted.

‘I tell you, Emma,’ he said grimly, as he rushed by her with a plate of chicken in aspic, with which he would dearly have loved to adorn her face, ‘I for one hope this evening brings forth something to help me solve this case, otherwise Plum’s kitchens seem to me infinitely preferable.’

He was not to be disappointed.

Plum’s was almost deserted that evening. Only a few country visitors, who had not heard the news that Auguste Didier was absent, strayed in and wondered why their dinner, though excellent, had not that magic touch that sent them home to the far-flung posts of the provinces extolling the wonders of the capital.

Its more regular members were busy preparing for Gaylord Erskine’s party. Ordinarily most of them would not have attended. But for various reasons, perhaps with an unconscious feeling that the saga of Plum’s was not yet over, this was an evening not to be missed.

Even General Fredericks was adjusting his white tie with resignation. Alice seemed determined to go. Juanita Salt
was tugging at her hardworked corset even harder than usual; Peregrine Salt wore the agonised expression of one forced to face the battle with full tribal war cry; Sylvia Preston was determined to make one last dramatic appearance on the scene before she married that – what was his name? Mary and Samuel Preston girded their loins in grim silence. Gertie Briton was not dressing in silence; she was chattering nineteen to the dozen while Charlie Briton got crosser and crosser, until he remembered Emma Pryde would be present. Jeremiah Atkins, cursing his tie, was thinking about the 24th Foot, and Sir Rafael Jones set off with real pleasure at the prospect of what the evening would bring forth.

Everyone’s hopes were doomed to be disappointed.

The small orchestra, squeezed into one corner of the room, struck up valiantly, all too valiantly, overwhelming even the dulcet tones of Gaylord and Amelia Erskine as they welcomed their guests.

Silken dresses rustled and swished agreeably through the early August evening, moreen petticoats rustled enticingly, fans flirted, eyes daringly provoked. Gertie Briton’s bust-improver caught everyone’s eye except Gaylord’s; Juanita, whose bust did not need improving, had an equal lack of success. For Gaylord Erskine was preoccupied. His eyes darted everywhere; he had little faith in that fellow on the door, for all he was checking invitations so rigorously.

In the dining room made larger by the opening of the connecting door to the morning room, Auguste was stage-managing the supper, at once an actor and major architect of this presentation. Emma had decided that he could be allotted this position while she mingled with the guests. He was pleased with this accolade, though not with its reason. But he did not wish it to be thought that he was responsible for that disastrous galantine. Now had it had a garnish of sorrel, this might possibly have redeemed it.

He added a scallop of truffle here, a garnish there, replaced the rose that had fallen from the boar’s head, adjusted the arrangement of the shrimps in the lobster salad –

Eh bien
, he could hear the announcement of supper, the first sounds of hesitant people emerging from the drawing room to enter the dining room, then more and more, and the avalanche was upon them. The liveried servants, who had hitherto distanced themselves to prove their superiority to this mere matter of food, suddenly galvanised themselves into action, whisking amongst the black of the men and the multi-coloured hues of the ladies. Auguste stood back from the throng marvelling once more at the look of fascination in people’s eyes when they gazed on a banquet. A glow of pleasure at the dining table he took as a jewel to his art; but this frenzied enthusiasm was not appreciation; it was greed. For this reason he did not consider ball suppers had any place in the art of food. Plates once emptied were refilled by the footmen, were emptied again. The buzz of contented conversation filled the room, and at one end of it Gaylord Erskine dominated the conversation as usual.

‘Don’t you fellows have any work on during August?’ queried Atkins, in between huge bites of galantine.

Erskine smiled. ‘The closed season, my dear sir, as you would say. I rehearse for a new production opening in September,
The Tempest.
’

Atkins looked blank. ‘Never had much time for those old plays myself.
Macbeth
, though, now there’s a play.’

‘Have you never wished to play Macbeth, Gaylord?’ enquired Sir Rafael, eyeing the young maid bringing in the puddings. ‘Is this a dagger I see before me? Stirring stuff.’

Erskine looked at his erstwhile sponsor coldly.

‘Dear Gaylord is at his best in Dickens. So twagic, so moving. “’Tis a far far better thing –” I thought he was lovely,’ Juanita offered.

‘I am grateful, dear Juanita, but I think once you have seen my Prospero, you will not be disappointed.’ And his beautifully modulated voice rang out over the room:

Auguste stopped in the midst of serving the pudding
à la Prince of Wales
, spellbound. The poetry of the man. There was no doubt of his ability. His expressive hands, beautifully timbred voice; almost in the same class as Irving.

‘Oh Gaylord, that’s beautiful,’ said Gertie, who didn’t understand a word.

‘And, by Gad, so’s this pudding,’ ejected Atkins.

If anything is calculated to set tongues loose and taste-buds going at a banquet it is the arrival of the puddings. Auguste had never subscribed to the theory that it was the ladies who delighted in puddings. In his experience gentlemen were the greediest. A sudden ‘ooh’ rang out at the sight of the jellies and creams, which kept the guests happily occupied. Even General Fredericks looked human when the King of Prussia’s favourite pudding appeared, sneaked in specially for him by Auguste, scared Emma should notice!

Inspector Rose, fighting his way through the crowd to reach Auguste, succeeded at last in claiming his attention.

‘Young PC Wilson on the door tells me someone slipped in as he was looking at another invitation,’ he said worriedly. ‘Middle-aged, and in evening dress. Have you seen anyone?’ Auguste gaped at him, staring at the vast swarm of black-coated men. ‘By heaven, I hope – What the—’

The sharp unmistakable sound of a gun.

Atkins was the first one through the door. ‘By Gad, a gunshot!’ he yelled. ‘Tally-ho! Upstairs!’

All thought of food left Auguste’s mind as he was out from behind the table and, following the Inspector, pushed his way through the crowd of people who were pushing up the staircase. Confusion was created when the ladies, afraid of what they might find, started retreating downwards again. PC Wilson, seeing Rose on his way up, kept the crowd at the bottom and it was thus only a group of a dozen or so who ran along the corridor to the study from where the shot had come.

‘Stay outside, madam.’ Rose, finding Amelia at his side, pushed her to the rear, as he rushed through the open door to find slumped on the floor of the study, face downwards, a silver-haired figure.

‘
Non, madame
,’ said Auguste, trying in vain to prevent Amelia and the crush of people around her rushing through
the door and being swept in with them. In front of him, General Fredericks, Samuel Preston and Atkins were turning the body over. Peregrine Salt went over to help them.

A piercing scream from Amelia. All eyes turned to her – she sobbed, ‘Gaylord!’

‘My love, by your side.’ He fought his way through.

‘I thought it was you,’ she cried.

‘No doubt someone wished it was,’ said Gaylord grimly. ‘But who?’

In front of him, Auguste and Inspector Rose were staring silently at the dead body of Sir Rafael Jones.

‘Someone,’ he said forbiddingly to Auguste, ‘is
still
trying to make a monkey out of me, and I don’t like it.’ The room swarmed with doctors and policemen, as the inartistic remains of Rafael Jones were examined, noted and finally removed.

‘Shot,’ Rose went on. ‘Just like the Colonel. No signs of suicide. So, what have we? A second murder.’ He picked up the gun. ‘Doesn’t belong to Erskine. Doubt if Jones brought it here himself, and according to Atkins this, too, adorned the walls of Plum’s club.’

Auguste abruptly turned his thoughts from the look on Emma’s face as she realised she was being left to clear up while Auguste was summoned to help Inspector Rose.

‘From Plum’s? Then—’

‘Yes. It’s our friend again. We were wrong, Mr Didier. Jones wasn’t our man after all. Now it seems to me we’ve got to look for a man who wanted to get rid of both Worthington and Jones.’ The prospect did not seem to appeal. ‘Now Monsieur Didier, I need to use you as a second pair of eyes. Did you notice who was in the dining room and who wasn’t when the shot came?’

Auguste shook his head. ‘Earlier, yes, when Erskine was declaiming from Shakespeare, but after that the puddings arrived and the creams – my apologies, Inspector, for mentioning the matter of food – and naturally everyone was engrossed. With so many people moving around, it was impossible to tell who leaves the room, if anyone. But you, Inspector, did you not see?’