Murder At Plums (20 page)

‘No one gets in here, sir, without I know who they are and why they’re here,’ said the doorkeeper firmly. Rose knew it to be otherwise. Delivery men, sandwich boys, costumiers, bootboys, wig-makers – all apparently with an official purpose, but who checked? No one.

‘Constable Roberts will be here with you checking folk in and out for a while.’

The sergeant-major regarded him with extreme distaste.

Oliver Noilins was even less enthusiastic at Rose’s ultimatum. ‘Members are still complaining about not being able to use the smoking room,’ he said weakly. ‘You already have a constable there. Surely—’

‘After the inquest, sir,’ said Rose patiently. ‘Meanwhile, it’s a constable on the door. Inside or outside.’

‘Inside,’ compromised Nollins, capitulating, already formulating his defence for the tirade of abuse that would be hurled at him, and wondering whether the constable might be persuaded to remove his helmet in order to resemble a relief porter.

‘Ah, Inspector,’ said Auguste happily, looking up from the pickling of the salmon. ‘I have been giving thought to our discussion yesterday.
Eh bien
, it seems to me the General
might well be a good candidate for our murderer, save that he would need a woman accomplice. It is difficult to see Lady Fredericks in the role of temptress or clothing herself in gentleman’s garb. And always money is a powerful motive, greater than love, greater than revenge even. The good Colonel had no women in his life, so money must be the obvious motive. So,
mon cher Inspecteur
—’

The expression on Rose’s face stopped him in mid-wave of a large kitchen spoon.

‘It’s no good, Mr Didier. We have to think again. Seems we’ve got to think more complicated after all. Mr Erskine’s had another of those letters. Death threat.’

‘Ah,’ said Auguste, staring down at the calf’s-foot jelly. Like this case it obstinately refused to solidify. ‘Perhaps,’ he continued hopefully, ‘the two matters are unrelated. Or it is to throw us off the scent.’

Rose did not bother to answer. What he did say was entirely unexpected. ‘Now I was wondering, Mr Didier, if you could leave the premises here, whether you would care to partake of supper with Mrs Rose and myself at Highbury. It seems to me time we chewed things over, if you get my meaning.’

Auguste noticed the way Rose was staring at him, and indeed was fully conscious of the privilege this invitation bestowed, and that it was an atonement for words spoken that could not be unspoken. Both knew that Mrs Rose’s cooking was not of the standard of Plum’s cuisine; both knew that that fact would never be mentioned between them. It was a milestone. He felt the pricking of a tear behind his eyes, as he replied simply, ‘I should be most honoured.’

‘Splendid,’ said Rose with forced heartiness. ‘Tonight then, I’ll have a word with Nollins. Make sure he doesn’t throw you out for dereliction of duty.’

‘Indeed no, Inspector, the goose
a la dauphinoise
is all prepared, the fillet of rabbits
a la financière
may safely be left to John and do not trouble yourself about the scallops of hare. Of course there remain the desserts, but perhaps a simple iced pudding
a la Prince Albert
– or a
crème à la romaine
’ – but he was talking to himself. Egbert
Rose, as was his wont, once a matter had been resolved, had gone.

‘What do you mean, you can’t dine with me tonight?’ Emma’s feathers were as ruffled as Disraeli’s, except for the one in her hat which merely quivered. ‘
I’ve
invited you.’ Her tone was of a royal command.

‘Dearest, I cannot. I dine with Inspector Rose at Highbury.’

‘Where?’ retorted Emma rudely.

‘Highbury,’ he repeated. ‘His home.’

The honour that this bestowed was lost on Emma. ‘What in ’Ell and Tommy for? Poor Auguste. You’ll dine on boiled cabbage and mutton instead of Sweetbreads Emma. What a pity,’ though the daggers in her eyes did not suggest sympathy, ‘and I’d prepared some
perdreaux braisés à la soubise
and a particularly fine
darne d’esturgeon
.’

His mouth watered. ‘Alas, I cannot attend.’

‘No matter,’ she said crossly. ‘Charlie Briton is free all evening – and later.’

Auguste reddened, and for the first time it occurred to him that Emma’s sensitivity for other persons was not of such high quality as her sweetbreads.

Rosie Scampton spared a passing thought for the late Colonel Worthington. If she had it in her to be sad about the death of anyone it would be him. He’d been interested in her, she liked her feeling of power over him, she could make him laugh when she went round to her auntie’s, who was his housekeeper. He hadn’t laughed when she told him about Sir Jones though. And now Auntie said he’d been murdered.

There hadn’t been much room in Rosie Scampton’s life to care about others; she was too busy trying to stay alive in the slums of Bethnal Green. Thank goodness she didn’t need no job now at the lucifer match factory. Not now she was a model. She fingered her new dress. Sir Jones liked her to look a swell, and gave her the money for dresses at first. Then when he realised she wouldn’t know how to use it, he ordered things himself. She couldn’t wear them in Bethnal Green – the street would want to know what was happening,
but she liked to go up to St John’s Wood and change into velvet or silk – or nothing, as Sir Jones dictated. She hadn’t meant to tell the old Colonel all about that, but it had slipped out – that modelling, and more besides. He’d been ever so angry. Said he was going to do something about it. She’d been alarmed then; she wanted it to go on. It didn’t matter what the old Sir Jones did to her provided he went on giving her money. Her sharp little eyes gleamed. Then that actor man had been interested, so her cousin who worked for him said. She wished she’d never told Cissie now, but she had to share it with someone, and Cissie went and told her master. Rosie sighed, and tried to think of more pleasant things. Perhaps the old Colonel would have left her something in his will.

The carriage with
that
crest rattled along from the station into the drive of Windsor Castle. Inside Sir Rafael Jones smiled with quiet satisfaction at the fulfilment of his plans. Her Majesty had asked to see him in order that she might discuss her collection at Windsor. It would, it was true, be a bore to have constantly to admire those Orchardsons, the Gainsboroughs, the Rubens, but for royal patronage, why not?

Moreover his audience would include luncheon, a rare honour bestowed by the Widow of Windsor. Next year she would have her Diamond Jubilee, in which he might well play a part. A further honour perhaps. His eye went to the Chapel. The Garter itself? Erskine would not be a problem much longer. Yes, life was going well for Rafael Jones, baronet.

The hansom cab deposited the Inspector outside the Highbury home, and Auguste climbed down after him, immaculately dressed in evening attire. White steps proclaimed unusual zealousness on behalf of ‘the girl’, leading to the small, neat front garden.

The girl bobbed as they entered, her eyes popping as they took in this prepossessing man with dark twinkling eyes and neat black moustache. Nothing at all like the usual visitors the master and mistress had. He looked at her as though she
was a person, almost as though she were a woman. Of course he was one of them foreigners, so the mistress said, but even so she began to look forward to serving the supper. Hitherto this had been a task of frightening magnitude, the culmination of a day of ‘Don’t do this’, ‘Don’t do that’. The mistress had been in a rare taking, almost as though royalty were coming.

She thrust open the door of the small drawing room, blushing as Auguste gave her a special smile.

‘Ah my dear,’ said Rose heartily. ‘May I present Mr Didier?’

‘
Madame, enchanté
,’ murmured Auguste, bending low over the hand that had clearly been working side by side with the girl all day long. He could smell Zambuk ointment. The Inspector Rose he knew, in some indefinable way seemed to change before his eyes; no longer the withdrawn, solitary, sharp-eyed bloodhound, he now seemed a part of an entity of two, his partner dressed in a mauve mousseline dress that did nothing to flatter the anxious face that nevertheless displayed an underlying serene self-confidence. Her eyes watched him warily; shorter, stouter than her husband, she stood beside him somewhat timidly. They were mutually supporting. Of course she was anxious; was he not a master chef, as her husband would have told her? But deep down she did not doubt herself, for the simple reason that her husband never did.

‘Delighted to meet you, Mr Didier.’ The skirts swished nervously. She had one eye on Egbert. The last foreigner he had brought to the house had been a Lascar seaman on the run for murder, and though she did not think Mr Didier in that class, nevertheless as an inspector’s wife she would play things warily.

Auguste seated himself in the old-fashioned mahogany chair that ill-matched the attempt at modern decoration, the panelled dado round the walls, the Japanese wallpaper above it that made him shudder. Every corner was crammed, a cosy room. How differently the French would decorate this room. Yet everything spoke of comfort, of homeliness; a forest of aspidistras poked their heads from every corner. Mrs Rose was clearly an avid reader of home magazines.

‘You’re a cook, Mr Didier,’ Mrs Rose ventured, as the maid hesitantly served something that might be soup.

‘Yes, Madame Rose,’ said Auguste calmly.

‘Egbert has to be careful about his food,’ she announced. ‘I have to be careful. Very particular he is. He can’t eat anything rich. He can’t take rich foreign food, so we have to eat plainly here.’

Auguste thought briefly of Inspector Rose enjoying his
sole au chablis
, of Inspector Rose faced with a
pochouse
, a
foie gras
, pontificating on
le turbot à la sauce homard
, on Grimod de La Reynière’s
chicken bayonnaise
, and held his peace. Inspector Rose worked stolidly on through his bowl of brown water.

‘
Consommy à la Sarah Bernhardt
,’ said Mrs Rose happily. Auguste’s private opinion was that the divine Sarah might have decided to stay in the black coffin she held court in, if forced to eat this abomination in her name, yet he devoured every mouthful with apparent enjoyment.

‘The sherry, madame, an exquisite thought,’ he murmured, gulping the last mouthful with relief.

‘Salmon steak
à la Cussy
,’ Mrs Rose greeted the next course, elated with the success of the soup.

‘My dear, you spoil us,’ murmured her husband affectionately.

‘It’s nothing, Egbert.’

Auguste stared at the brownish-orange heap with the bottled crayfish over it. Resolutely he picked up his fork and began to eat. Then the awful truth began to dawn. Where had he heard that recipe name before? He swallowed a mouthful of tasteless flab with its rich sauce, and mentally rearranged his work for the following day. There was no way he could face mousses in the morning now. ‘Madame,’ he said in well-simulated ecstasy, ‘do I detect – could it be – one of dear Mrs Marshall’s recipes?’

‘Yes, Mr Didier,’ she said happily. ‘Mrs Marshall guides my every movement. Of course, one doesn’t always use her, but on special occasions – well, why not? And I do believe that her coralline pepper adds a special touch, do you not agree?’ she asked artlessly, one chef to another.

‘There is nothing to compare with it, madame,’ he
agreed. Quite truthfully. Nothing in his view could ruin a dish more quickly, with the possible exception of Mrs Marshall’s curry powder.

He manfully ate his way through cutlets of mutton
a la Maintenon
(with a little coralline pepper added), apricot pudding (fortunately without coralline pepper) and the last straw, Mackerel Roes
en Surprise
(‘I know how you gentlemen like your savouries’); Auguste did not, and particularly not mackerel. The offer of a second helping made him decline hastily. ‘I have dined so well that it would ruin perfection, madame.’ She was clearly disappointed, but entirely charmed with Auguste.

‘I see why you are a happy man, Inspector Rose,’ said Auguste quietly, after her rather regretful departure.

‘Thank you, Mr Didier,’ said Egbert Rose gravely. There was no need of comment. Both understood both the inadequacies and the rich achievement of Mrs Rose’s cooking. ‘Now to return to our muttons, as they say. One or two?’

‘Brandies?’

‘No, Mr Didier, have we got one murderer or two? One murderer and a troublemaker? Which? Blessed if I know. Just as I thought we’d got it all laid out like a filleted fish, here we are back to square one.’

‘Let us first lay out our ingredients, Inspector. Murderous attempts against Mr Erskine, and Colonel Worthington actually murdered. Now there are at least two people with good motives for releasing Colonel Worthington from this world: General Fredericks and Peregrine Salt. And a third if this feud between Mr Atkins and the Colonel is a fact. He denies it, of course. But none of them had any need to get rid of Mr Erskine.’

‘Agreed.’

‘There are quite a few people who have reason to wish Mr Erskine ill, but have no apparent motive for killing Colonel Worthington.’

‘Unless in error, or because he knew of their plans to kill Erskine. In which case why announce to the world with all these tricks that he intends to kill Erskine? Why not just murder him?’

‘Unless,’ said Auguste, fired with sudden inspiration, ‘Mr Erskine performs these tricks himself?’

‘Trying to kill himself?’

‘No, but trying to make us think that someone is, to cover his killing of Worthington?’

‘No motive that I can see for killing Worthington. Anyway,’ said Rose reasonably, ‘why draw attention to himself like that? Why not just come out and shoot the fellow? Push him under a bus?’

‘True,’ said Auguste regretfully. ‘Very well then, so let us assume either that Worthington was killed because he knew who was the perpetrator of these tricks. Or that someone exists who wishes to kill both.’

‘That’s all we need,’ said Rose resignedly. ‘Life ain’t like that. It’s rare enough to have reason strong enough to kill one person, let alone two. And two in the same club is more than a coincidence.’