Murder At Plums (11 page)

‘I say, Nollins, we didn’t do things this way at Chillianwallah, you know. Chap had something to say he said it face to face. . .’

The mystery was solved. Somebody had enlivened the white tiles with slogans in red paint, the principal purport of which was to invite an unspecified adulterer to make himself scarce forthwith.

It says much for the clientele of Plum’s that so many of the members had obeyed the edict without question.

‘Daphne!’

Lady Bulstrode waddled placidly into the room, the note in her husband’s voice being so customary that she was not in the least perturbed. Bulstrode House, an imposing but decidedly run-down Regency residence in the heart of Mayfair, was run on haphazard lines. A year’s supply of household impedimenta would accumulate with no housemaid daring to touch them, until Bulstrode, goaded into action by his failure to find his best walking stick, for instance, would erupt through the house with housemaids and footmen alike in his wake like a flood of cleansing water down the gutters of Leather Lane. Lady Bulstrode, an amiable though vague mistress of the household, was popular with all the staff; her husband was regarded as an uncertain volcano, part of the landscape most of the time and a time-bomb when the spirit so moved him. His habit of donning one black sock and one white sock for morning wear, accepted as a harmless eccentricity by his fellow club members, was regarded by his staff as a sign of severe mental
disturbance. Only his wife’s placidity convinced them they would not be murdered in their beds.

‘Clara, where the deuce is my hat?’

This was serious; a feverish search at last uncovered the ancient topper, showing signs of age along with its master. ‘Off to the club,’ he explained testily.

‘Yes, dear.’

He paused in the act of clapping the hat on his head.

‘They are letting you women in for Plum’s Passing. No need to worry.’

Lady Bulstrode was the one wife who had not continued to nag her husband. True, she had spearheaded the wives’ rebellion. But that was on principle. In fact she was not at all sure she wanted to go. Draughty, uncomfortable places men’s clubs from what she had seen during her one dramatic visit.

‘Lots of deuced funny things happening at Plum’s nowadays. It’s letting all these pansies in. I was against it, mind. Don’t want you coming, Daphne. You keep out of it.’

‘I think I’ll come, Horace, all the same. After all,’ she said grimly, ‘Mr Erskine will be there.’

Bulstrode regarded his wife with alarm. ‘Dash it, Daphne, you can’t tackle a man in his own club about a mere woman.’

‘Can’t I?’ retorted his spouse placidly enough. She would tackle Erskine anywhere, at any time. For on the subject of her fallen women Daphne Bulstrode was an avenging and implacable Nemesis.

Sir Rafael Jones blinked as the morning light suddenly streamed in the window. Briggs was pulling back the curtains. The day had begun a great deal earlier even in St John’s Wood, but Sir Rafael was not accustomed to rising early. He preferred to talk far into the night with an eager circle of acolytes around him. On the evenings Rosie wasn’t present, that is.

An hour later, having bathed and breakfasted in the beautiful Georgian room, he had decided what to do. He would go to Plum’s for luncheon. He wanted to hear the latest gossip about the Passing feast in the light of the fact
that ladies would certainly now be present. He was not married, so the issue was immaterial to him. He could hardly escort his latest mistress, since his taste ran not to wives but to nymphets. He thought about that new young housemaid – wondered if she’d pose . . . and reluctantly decided against it. He’d joined Plum’s partly because the rumours about his models were getting too strong. And now Erskine was ever present, he had to divert any public suspicion that their role went beyond mere modelling. He’d got Erskine into Plum’s – suppose he demanded more? He shivered. But all the same his ‘Girls Bathing in a Stream’ should definitely be his next project. He’d need three models . . .

General Fredericks left the house in Curzon Street with his usual military precision precisely at 12 noon. He would walk to Plum’s via St James’s Park. The day was fine, the walk would do him good. Besides, he and Alice had not exactly seen eye to eye. He began to wonder whether he had been right to agree to the entrance of women to the club at all, even though he had never advocated its being for the Passing Parade. Alice and he usually thought as one. Except that she had never quite understood the importance of Plum’s in his life, or what it represented. He wasn’t quite sure himself up till now. Now it was being threatened, however, he did. A frown crossed his face. Ignore it as they might, something was happening that was shaking the very foundations of the club. Perhaps he was exaggerating. Was his reaction to the shattering discovery he had recently made colouring his whole attitude to Plum’s?

Another former military man was making his way to Plum’s: ‘Jorrocks’ Atkins. Bristling with indignation, he ran through his mind once more the disturbance to his routine occasioned by the unfortunate happenings at Plum’s. It was rare he spent so much time in London: the country was the place for him – especially when that fellow Worthington was not there. But he had to be here for the Passing. His small eyes gleamed. He was looking forward to this meeting.
And
to the Passing. There could be
opportunities for him – opportunities to get his own back on that darned fellow Worthington.

Samuel Preston dutifully pecked his wife Mary on the cheek and left his home behind Westminster Abbey. Normally he would be in the House, attending to his constituency business, as a conscientious (and ambitious) Member of Parliament. In expectation of Salisbury’s retirement, he was already close to Campbell-Bannerman; his plans had been laid for a long time, for over twenty years in fact, ever since he had acquired his fortune by such dubious means. Nothing was going to disrupt them now. Samuel Preston was a lean and hungry man (despite his girth) – a Cassius in search of a Brutus.

This morning, however, he wanted to go to Plum’s. He was intrigued as any at the current discussions. What line was old Worthington going to take? He’d been the club bore for so long, it was hard to see him in the role of campaigner. He put to the back of his mind that other business. But at the Passing itself, then would be the time . . .

Peregrine Salt strode out along Piccadilly, as though on a trek along the Nile, a trail of native bearers behind him. Not for the world would he miss luncheon at Plum’s at the moment. Besides he was almost looking forward now to bringing Juanita into the club. He relished the thought of the dark-haired Amazonian Juanita amongst all those horsy English women. Of course, Juanita was the reason that public recognition of his achievements was a little later than it should otherwise have been. Though perhaps news of his irregular liaisons in Africa had filtered back, with the help of his arch-enemy Prendergast, who, not content with cheating him out of his rightful due over the Wampopo River, had never ceased to rub his victory in. Prendergast was one reason that Salt had hastened to put up for Plum’s. It was necessary he, too, should be seen as part of the British Establishment. Moreover, he had one advantage over Prendergast. He had photographic records of his travels, especially of his archaeological triumphs, and could display
them at magic-lantern shows. The next one might be for ladies also. The ladies . . . He wondered what old Worthington would have to say this morning about the ladies joining the parade. As though Juanita would be content to stay cooped up in the dining room. Poor old Mortimer. Such a bore.

Alfred Peeps was not on his way to Plum’s. Alfred Peeps had been there since 7 a.m. when he relieved young Perkins, the night porter. Plum’s remained open till the last member had staggered port-laden out into the night, a little warmer, a little cheered by Plum’s soft cocoon. For the benefit of the members who stayed overnight in the half dozen or so rooms that Plum’s possessed, night porterage had been instituted.

Alfred Peeps (Mrs Peeps not being involved in the decision) had no doubts what the result of women being allowed into Plum’s would be. Disaster. That’s what it would mean. Disaster. One event must be linked to the other, that was Peeps’ opinion. Where women were, trouble followed. And where trouble was, the perlice followed. And now he’d had another nasty letter. Couldn’t be any of the gentlemen of course. Must be one of the staff. A foreigner probably . . . no Englishman would descend to such language.

Gaylord Erskine, too, was on his way to Plum’s; top-hatted, light overcoat for all it was late May, he strode along the Haymarket to Piccadilly. The Haymarket was crowded as usual, bustling with wayfarers, and the street clogged with traffic. He stood in a knot of walkers, waiting impatiently, pressing forward to cross the road which was jammed with carriages, hansoms and omnibuses. Suddenly a woman’s scream pierced the air. When the hansom shot by her exposing her to view in the middle of the road, the cause could be seen: a pigeon was perched on her hat. Fascinated, the crowd watched as the pigeon deposited an offering amid the veiling and flowers of the hat, to the oaths of its owner, the bird clearly under the impression that it was in some flower garden of St James’s Park.

Gaylord Erskine lurched forward in typically gallant
manner to assist. It was as well he did so for the knife merely grazed his wrist instead of penetrating a far more vulnerable part of his body, and clattered to the ground.

In the excitement of pigeon gazing, Police Constable Roberts, there to keep a watchful eye on him, failed to see which one of the dozen or so people gathered round him had administered the blow, and was only useful therefore in picking up the knife as Erskine, feeling the graze, cried out and turned back; then he thought to surrender the handkerchief lovingly tucked into his pocket by his Betty that morning, to tie round Erskine’s wound until such time as he could reach Plum’s and Mrs Hoskins’ more effective ministrations. Gaylord scorned the idea of returning home; he was not going to miss this luncheon for anything . . .

‘Tell him, Mary.’ Agnes had her blushing colleague firmly by the wrist.

‘
Alors
, what,
mes petites
, is this?’ Auguste enquired, somewhat irritated. True, luncheon was now served, but he had been in the midst of concocting an entirely new sauce for this evening’s turbot.

‘You said to tell you anything we found out unusual,’ said Agnes, a little hurt that her god was clearly out of sorts. ‘Well, Mary has, only she won’t tell you.’

‘In the club, ’e said,’ offered Mary weakly.

Agnes treated this as of no account and merely reiterated, ‘Tell ’im.’

‘It ain’t proper,’ whispered Mary.

Agnes sighed. ‘It’s not like ’e’s a man,’ she pointed out. ‘Mr Auguste’s more like a doctor. You got to tell ’im.’

Auguste took this slur against his manhood nobly. ‘At the moment, I am,’ he conceded, in the interests of his detective art. ‘Now tell me,
petite Marie
, what ails you?’

‘Not
me
,’ said Mary, shocked. ‘I wouldn’t do a thing like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like what Cissie’s cousin does.’

‘Cissie?’ repeated Auguste blankly.

Agnes took charge. ‘Cissie’s ’er friend. Cissie told ’er, ’er cousin goes round to this painter’s house and is a model.’

‘And?’

‘She don’t have no clothes on,’ whispered Mary, emboldened.

‘So, mothers may disapprove,’ said Auguste, losing interest, ‘but—’

‘’E does other things,’ said Mary desperately, shutting her eyes against Auguste’s reaction.

‘I thought you ought to know, Mr D,’ said Agnes virtuously. ‘’Cos this Sir Jones is a member ’ere. So’s that Colonel Worthington who Rosie’s aunt does for, and she’s so pally with. And so’s Mr Erskine who Cissie works for. And someone’s trying to do Mr Erskine in.’ Her eyes grew round in the excitement of her detective abilities.

‘Lamentable, but Cissie’s cousin is a grown woman and not known to me. I cannot—’

‘But she ain’t, Mr Didier. Rosie’s only twelve.’

‘Gentlemen,’ Worthington’s voice trumpeted down the luncheon table, ‘we may have lost the battle, but I at least do not consider the war lost. When I was at Chillianwallah . . .’

Five minutes later the table was shifting uncomfortably and Samuel Preston’s fleeting admiration for the stalwart British bulldog vanished. He let his thoughts wander to what would happen in the House if members reminisced on their past careers. Not that there was much temptation; they were usually all too anxious to keep them hidden. He wasn’t the only one . . .

‘Then, gentlemen, there are the lavatories,’ Worthington ground on, inexorably trumpeting over anyone else’s efforts to speak. Worthington, baulked of his moment the other day, would now be heard.

Every member’s mind went immediately to the invitation blazoned over the gentlemen’s conveniences in the basement, for adulterers to absent themselves forthwith, and another ripple of unease ran through the company. ‘We cannot expect ladies even for one evening to use the – urn – conveniences provided in our basement. Nor’ – Worthington intoned grandly – ‘the chamber pots.’

These were discreetly kept in cupboards in the drawing
and dining rooms so that members did not have to endure the walk along the cold corridor below.

‘The secretary’s water closet then.’

‘At the top of the building?’

‘Commodes,’ suggested Briton, blushing slightly.

‘And where will these commodes be placed? Has Mr Nollins thought of that?’

Pleased with the results of his first broadside, Worthington continued.

‘Furthermore, gentlemen, there is the
parade
to consider.’

Slowly those members who had not already done so, began to realise the full purport of the admission of ladies to the Passing. Not just the dinner:
they would be present on the Parade.
The secrets of the ceremonial were jealously guarded amongst themselves; no murmur of its ritual was discussed outside the club. But with the ladies on the premises, taking part . . .

‘Exactly, gentlemen.’ Well pleased, Worthington took another bite of Auguste’s grouse pie. There was a buzz of discussion.