Murder At Plums (2 page)

Worst of all, Nollins looked despondently round the table, now his fellow committee members seemed to have taken leave of their senses, in addition to totally ignoring any suggestion that anything could possibly, possibly be wrong at Plum’s. A dark cloud hung over the future of the club that had nothing to do with the unfortunate occurrences of the last few weeks. Slowly he returned to his seat, sat down and took up the minute book in front of him.

‘Gentlemen, as secretary of Plum’s I hereby confirm, that in accordance with the vote just recorded in this room . . .’

Each word drove a death wound into civilisation as he knew it. 1896 and a new century about to dawn. What would it bring? Could they not see that decisions like today’s were the gateway to disaster?

‘. . . This decision to be reviewed in future years,’ he finished bleakly.

He couldn’t understand how it had happened. Seven votes to two. Two opposed to the motion, he – and Worthington. Whoever would have thought that he and Worthington, the club bore, would be on the same side? How had it all come about? Everyone had been equally appalled on the day the Suggestions Book had been reviewed, so vehement in their assertions that Plum’s would go to the dogs if it were adopted. Yet somehow the unthinkable had happened.

For the duration of the banquet known as Plum’s Passing ladies are to be admitted by invitation on to the premises of Plum’s.

Ponderously Colonel Worthington cleared his throat and stood up; for once he was mercifully brief: ‘Gentlemen, not one of us here today can foresee the momentous consequences that will ensue from this day’s actions.’

And in this, it is true to say, he was only too correct.

The blood gushed out, as with a concerted shriek two hundred people saw the farmer’s gory head fall into the basket beneath.

‘Yowch,’ gulped Emma, clutching uncharacteristically on to Auguste Didier’s arm, who in truth was hard put to it himself to maintain the calm his masculine pride required.

Equanimity was restored when the head was placed on the table and proceeded to have an animated discussion on the rights and wrongs of his decapitation with the black-suited gentleman who had performed the deed. Emma’s white kid glove restored itself to its former position, and gasps turned from horror to amazement. For Auguste the glories of Messrs Maskelyne, Devant and Cooke on the first floor of the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly transported him for once far away from the excitements of his duties as maitre chef of Plum’s Club for Gentlemen. Yet, as the Gloucestershire-farmer illusion gave place to more gentle spectacles, that niggle at the back of his mind returned. His rational mind had no doubt that the illusions he had seen that evening could be explained in the same way as the wonders of a
soufflé aux violettes
, and the same must therefore apply to the odd occurrences at Plum’s. But the uneasiness persisted; an uneasiness he had not felt since his previous employment at the Galaxy Theatre. There odd events had led to the same brutality as the spectacle before them presented this evening. Murder.

And the signs had been there – for those that had eyes to see. Then he smiled at himself. At
Plum’s
? He was letting his French emotions take precedence over his English common sense. Murder at Plum’s?
Impossible.

‘Ahit.’

The rest of the sentence died on Osric’s lips as he observed to his bewilderment that so far from its being a hit, Hamlet’s rapier had missed Laertes by a good six inches. Then the sound of the cannonshot being mistimed offstage by Jenks distracted him and by the time he gave his full concentration to the Prince of Denmark once more, Hamlet was shouting triumphantly: ‘Another hit!’

The rapier had more nearly pierced a nearby column than Laertes’ arm as William Shakespeare had stipulated. Laertes, a young and enthusiastic actor, playing his first major part, failed to take the hint that there was something rotten in the state of Denmark, however, and swept on with gusto.

‘Have at you now.’

He was much surprised, accordingly, when far from pressing forward to plunge his rapier into Hamlet’s body, he found himself inexorably driven backwards by a valiantly parring and thrusting Gaylord Erskine across the huge stage of the Sheridan Theatre and into the wings.

‘Part them; they are incens’d,’ murmured the King weakly, left gazing into the wings at his disappearing colleagues and wondering whether he was by mistake taking part in one of the versions of
Hamlet
with a happy ending.

‘The rapiers,’ hissed Erskine to a gaping stage manager, seizing the offending implement from Laertes’ hand. ‘Look at them – unbated.’ Several pairs of fascinated eyes stared at the lethal points, without their covering buttons. Then a courtier, standing on stage stolidly and conveniently nearby, was all but jerked off his feet into the wings by a quick-witted Props tugging at his doublet, and divested of his sword. A similar fate befell the courtier standing next to him. The audience meanwhile stirred uneasily, until reassured by the sight of the duelling adversaries fighting their way out of the wings back across the stage, while Laertes rose nobly to the occasion and invented several lines on behalf of William Shakespeare.

‘Have at you,’ he offered, already, with that part of an actor’s mind always divorced from his actions, seeing headlines in the newspapers. ‘You dog,’ he added in an excess of enthusiasm.

This time to his relief, Hamlet condescended to be wounded, staggering gracefully as only Gaylord Erskine could; his duty done, Laertes collapsed thankfully upon the stage dead, and lay meditating confusedly on the events of the past ten minutes.

‘It wasn’t my fault, Mr Erskine,’ Laertes stuttered wildly at the inquest afterwards. ‘If you recall—’

But Gaylord Erskine’s eloquent eyes were not fixed upon him, but upon the Property Master.

Props, however, was made of stern stuff.

‘I take no responsibility, Mr Erskine,’ he said firmly. ‘You brought these rapiers in yourself today. Wanted to use them at a private function, you said. I can’t take no blame for—’

There was an exclamation from Erskine.

‘True, Mr Jenks, I had forgotten. Pray accept my apologies.’

‘It must have been an accident,’ compromised Props kindly.

‘Perhaps,’ said Erskine non-committally, and the matter was closed.

But Gaylord Erskine’s dresser found him in silent mood. Erskine was well aware that it was no accident. Yesterday, he had given a private performance of
Hamlet
at Maltbury Towers, seat of Lord and Lady Maltbury, with a supporting cast of – he shuddered at the memory – the members of the Maltbury Hunt. Today he had brought his costume and the two rapiers back to London, and taken luncheon at the club, leaving them unguarded in the cloakroom. And since it could hardly be imagined that the Maltbury Hunt would have any desire to tamper with the rapiers, one could only assume that the mischief had taken place at the club. Just one of several incidents. His memoirs donated to the library mutilated, among those of others. His portrait defaced. The anonymous letter with the death threat awaiting him in Peeps’ pigeonholes. These latter incidents were annoyances. They could be attributed to someone who opposed his election. But tonight there had been a hint of more dangerous, even murderous intent.

He had no option, he realised. He would have to tell
Nollins, and let him decide whether to summon the police. But who could dislike, hate him so much? That, to reiterate his words of earlier that evening, was the question.

So absorbed was Erskine as he left the theatre that he had entirely failed to notice the figure lurking in the shadows of the Sheridan stage door, hat drawn down, and scarf muffling the face in the best traditions of the
Strand Magazine.
He was quite respectable, no criminal, no down-at-heel vagabond, and attracting no notice as he stood quietly watching Gaylord Erskine strolling along the Strand on his way to Plum’s.

Earlier that evening Colonel M. Worthington (somehow he was always so thought of) had left the depths of his leather armchair in his bachelor lodgings in South Audley Street, in order to make his accustomed way to his other leather armchair at Plum’s. The chair by established custom was reserved for him, and woe betide any foolhardy newcomer who knowingly or unknowingly trespassed on its contours. He timed his arrival at Plum’s precisely for seven o’clock, as he had done ever since his retirement from the 24th Foot fifteen years before.

‘That’s how we did things at Chillianwallah,’ he would explain to anyone who was unwise enough to listen. In his late sixties, he lived a quiet life. He never mentioned a wife. In fact, he mentioned little else save the glorious doings of the 24th Foot and the perils of Chillianwallah. On his later career he was silent. India, the India of this fellow Kipling, was his battleground as a subaltern in the Sikh war. If one mentioned India – though no one ever did for fear of a half-hour lecture on tactics – a glow would come into his eyes, and a faraway expression of content as the coals burned on in Plum’s Adam fireplace, said to have been donated by the Iron Duke himself.

‘Grazie, signor.
’

The Italian bagpiper, trying a new beat in Piccadilly, had misjudged his man in sending his
bambinos
to plead for reward.

‘They should be in the nursery, man.’ Worthington glared. ‘That’s the place for children. At home.’

The bagpiper looked blank. Nursery? Home? Home was the noise and bustle of Clerkenwell, the Piggy Wiggy pork shops, the barbers, the Restaurant Italiano Milard where tomorrow being Friday, the Italians’ lazy day, he would be spending the results of today’s labours.

‘That’s how we did things at Chillianwallah,’ grunted Worthington, sensing victory over his adversary. He pontificated on conjugal and family life with all the authority of a childless man. A rumour circulated that once in his youth he had been married, but in an excess of gallantry had left his young wife in England while he went out to face the hot season in India. Two months later, instead of boarding the steamer for the East, she climbed aboard a train for Wigan in the company of a music-hall artiste and was never seen again.

Luckily for the bagpiper, it began to drizzle and Worthington discontinued his sermon in the interests of scurrying into the haven of Plum’s. Or was it a haven? He had a moment’s doubt. There were damned weird things going on. A chap couldn’t even be sure
The Times
would be readable any more. He’d found it in shreds last week. And then – there was the question of
The Ladies.
No, there was something deuced odd at Plum’s.

Tonight Sir Rafael Jones was dining at home. He was making the final arrangements in the studio for tomorrow’s sitting. A bachelor, his house in St John’s Wood was a temple to art – and like temples of old, illusion was all. ‘Nymphs Bathing’. What a piece it could –
would
– be. The wreaths and laurels draped just
so.
The oil for exhibition – and the sketches (the true sketches before the draperies were added) for his own private collection. He smirked in satisfaction.

He was looking forward to his luncheon at Plum’s tomorrow. It made him feel a man among men, the bluff, hearty, successful artist the world thought him, a man with nothing to hide. His face clouded over as he remembered Erskine. Gaylord Erskine had somehow discovered he was not quite a man with nothing to hide and prevailed upon him as a result to put him up for Plum’s. Damned difficult it had been too. And Gaylord would be there tomorrow.

Peregrine Salt did not live in bachelor quarters, though he frequently wished he did. His Juanita had been a slim, seductive, doe-eyed eighteen when he married her after his expedition to South America twenty-five years ago. Alas, she had developed into a middle-aged plump lady, miraculously now appearing several inches taller than he, with whom he shared nothing but a mutual desire to rise in society. Juanita because, as a remote descendant of the gentle and beautiful Spanish girl, who having married an English officer had given her name to a South African town by name of Ladysmith, she desired to do the same. By marrying a traveller, she had every expectation of achieving her ambition, so far not fulfilled. Peregrine, because he was spurred on, by a sense of inferiority to all his fellow explorers on account of his small stature, to greater and greater achievements. Having come up against a Rubicon he could not cross – in this case named the Wampopo River – and ceded its discovery to his arch-rival Prendergast, he had promptly turned his attention to archaeology in the hope of less competitive laurels. Now in his fifties, his arrogance and offhand treatment of his fellow Londoners as little better than African carriers made him cordially disliked, though he would have been amazed had he realised this was the case. He was held in high regard at the Royal Geographical Society for his work in Zululand before the unfortunate war, and to the public at large for his presence at Schliemann’s later excavations at Troy. He had an eye for publicity.

‘Pewegwine.’

Her strident voice echoed through the vastness of the Mayfair house. ‘I want—’ He fled. Thank heavens for clubs and their exclusion of women – and thank heavens for Plum’s. It was time he treated it to another magic-lantern show on the spectacular achievements of Peregrine Salt. Then he remembered. Plum’s was clouded by the shadow of worrying small incidents. The library copy of Burton’s interesting edition of
The Arabian Nights
had been defiled, for instance. He had no love for Burton, but some of those footnotes threw the most intriguing perspectives on the behaviour of that chieftain’s third wife. He
frowned, and a sense of unease took hold of him. Molehills might well develop into mountains.

Lord Bulstrode stamped around his study.

‘Dammit, Daphne, where the deuce is my deerstalker?’

Lady Bulstrode looked puzzled. ‘Not for the club, surely, dear?’

‘Haven’t hung it on the tiger, have you?’ he grunted, disregarding her comment. This referred to a famous, though not so unusual, occasion when Lady Bulstrode had absentmindedly placed one of his lordship’s guns behind a deer’s antlers on her wall, following a curious logic of her own, and as the servants were by no means as particular as they might have been under a more vigilant mistress, it did not come to light until Christmas decorations dislodged it, to the great alarm of Lady Bulstrode’s great-nieces.