Murder At Plums (28 page)

The application of logic. Why had Worthington
rushed
outside? They had all seen his face. He had had a shock. Would one rush
towards
a ghost? No. Only if it were the
ghost of someone he knew. He would go slowly, not rush, especially if it were a ghost. Unlikely. A woman, then. The shock, the outrage, seeing a lady there, even if a lady ghost. Someone he knew.
What
woman would Worthington rush outside for? What women had a place in his life? Didier began to arrange the ingredients for the
jambon a la cingara
– one must think ahead, plan . . . as the murderer had planned. Meanwhile, there were more immediate preparations for luncheon also. The women in Worthington’s life were his housekeeper, his sister-in-law . . . Rosie! A sudden inspiration came to Auguste. Had
Rosie
turned up in the Folly? No, how could it be? Could a twelve-year-old girl have worked the magic-lantern effect, even with help? He cut up the tomatoes while his thoughts roamed on. Love apples, they were once called. Love, had Worthington ever been in love? He had no wife, no mistress – wife, but yes, he
had
had a wife once, so rumour had whispered. A wife who had disappeared many years ago. Suppose the wife had come back, appeared in the Folly? Would that not give him a shock? But that made no sense. If he was right about Dr Pepper, it had to be one of the women in the club that evening and they were all the wives of other men, except for Sylvia Preston who was too young. The staff. And Emma! The thought struck him sickeningly. But no. Surely it could not be she.

Quickly he continued on his course of logic. Having finished arranging the ingredients for the
jambon
he turned to those for the pineapple cake. Rum, sugar, the dough, take a pineapple – from the West Indies? Exotic, like Juanita Salt herself. Could that be it? Could she have been Worthington’s wife once? Perhaps his regiment had been stationed there. Suddenly he recalled Rose mentioning Worthington’s earlier career. The 24th Foot had served in Gibraltar. What more obvious place to meet a Spanish beauty? But what had happened? He had divorced her? No, Juanita was a Catholic, so that was not possible. He had not divorced her? But that would mean . . . a rising sense of excitement took over, the sense of excitement as when one opened the stove door to see the soufflé risen, just as one had predicted, but with that final question mark still to be
ascertained. It would give the Salts a reason for murdering Worthington. No, his hopes deflated quicker than an ill-cooked soufflé. He would have no
shock
at seeing Juanita. Salt was the brother of Worthington’s sister-in-law. They must have already met. Or had they? Had Salt always kept them apart until the fateful evening when women were admitted to Plum’s?

He laid down his allspice firmly on the table. There was but one way to find out. Somerset House. But before or after luncheon? He eyed a reproachful-looking turbot. He would be loyal. He picked up his knife again. It would be
after
luncheon.

Inspector Rose clapped his bowler on his head with such firmness that it denoted as much excitement in him as the discovery of a sauce did in Auguste. ‘I think this deserves a shilling’s worth for a hansom, Mr Didier,’ he announced, a sure sign that Rose was as eager to see the results of Auguste’s theory as Auguste could have wished.

The bootblack outside Somerset House sought their attention in vain, despite the condition of Mr Rose’s shoes.

‘’Course, the certificate might not be here. They could have been married in Gibraltar. And likewise if we find one for the Salts, it don’t mean it’s legal. Could have been bigamous.’

‘This is true,’ said Auguste, dampened, ‘but if we
do
find one it might help rule out one line of enquiry.’

‘Seems to me in this case we rule out one line of enquiry only for a hundred more to spring up.’

It took them all day to find the marriage of Colonel Mortimer Worthington duly recorded at the parish church of Wihncote in Warwickshire. And what they found there caused them both to pause.

‘By cripes, Mr Didier, so now we know. Needs a bit of thinking about.’

Over a glass of porter and a glass of
vin blanc
in the Cheshire Cheese, they talked long and earnestly.

‘But I still don’t see,’ said Rose after a while, ‘how they managed to kill Rafael Jones.’

‘Nor do I,’ said Auguste honestly. ‘But I think first we pay a visit, do we not?’

‘Yes, Mr Didier, I think we do.’

The next day Inspector Rose sat in front of Oliver Nollins explaining just why it would be necessary for ladies once more to invade the sacred portals of Plum’s.

‘But why?’ Nollins’ voice rose querulously. ‘Could you not try out this experiment elsewhere?’

‘No, it must be where the Colonel met his death.’

‘What about in Erskine’s house, where Rafael Jones met
his
death?’ Nollins was not going to give up without a struggle. The battle for Plum’s sanity was on, not to mention his own. He put aside the grievous matter of the proposal for membership of a musician, albeit a rich one. He had visions of permanent piano strumming and consequent grounds for dissension. Rather to his surprise, demand for membership had increased rather than diminished as the result of the unwelcome notoriety of the club. Publicity, however, was not what Plum’s desired. It chose to escape attention, not court it. Now the shadow of murder was about to descend again over Plum’s – and worse, ladies. Look what had happened when they were invited in: murder. What would happen next time?

‘I suppose there is no alternative?’ he asked without hope.

‘None, sir. We have to flush the fellow out.’

‘And you know who it is?’

‘Yes, sir. We know.’

Auguste was still uneasy. They knew who, and unbelievable as it seemed, they knew
why.
But they did not know how. The murder of Colonel Worthington, yes, but that of Rafael Jones, no. How had they worked it? Perhaps it was not necessary to know? But yes, the maitre chef demanded every little detail be right, and this was not even a detail: this was one of the bases of the dish itself.

He eyed the coralline pepper, once almost banned from the kitchen, now a valued ingredient. Pepper. ‘It’s all done with mirrors.’ How simple the ghost illusion had been, once explained. How simple every illusion was, once explained. And how seemingly impossible to explain to the viewer. His mind went back . . . He stopped still, the pepper in his
hand. He had a memory of an evening not so long ago . . . he smiled to himself in pure joy. It was all so simple.

‘
Je vous remercie, Madame Marshall
,’ he said softly, replacing the pepper on the table. He took off his apron. He had another visit to pay – and as the result of this visit, Mr Peeps was destined to be most seriously annoyed.

‘Pewegwine, I don’t want to go.’ Every quivering pound of Juanita Salt said no.

‘My love, we must.’

The jaw stuck out mutinously. ‘Suppose they think you murdered Colonel Worthington to get money for your expedition to Knossos. Suppose—’

‘Don’t suppose anything,’ said her husband curtly, oblivious for once to the storms that might follow. None did. Juanita donned her shawl, and much in the manner of sallying forth on the Charge at Talavera they set out for Plum’s.

Gertie Briton was also mutinous. She saw no reason why she should be dragged off to that horrid old club again, until she realised that Gaylord Erskine would be present. Then she cheered up.

Her sudden enthusiasm was not lost on her husband. Women were the devil. He was damned glad Plum’s was a gentlemen’s club. When this was over he’d put up a recommendation in the Book never to let another woman in. Moreover, he’d arrange a posting to India as quickly as he could. Let Gertie exercise her charm on the fellows out there.

Lady Fredericks dressed in silence. Then she broke it:

‘I suppose this is necessary, Arthur?’

‘Quite, my dear. We are, I presume, two of the suspects.’

She looked him straight in the eye. ‘I understand, Arthur.’

Amelia and Gaylord Erskine were similarly discomposed. He was, after all, missing one of the rehearsals for
The Tempest.
His mind was full of Prospero, not of Colonel Worthington. So far as he was concerned the matter was over, the annoying incidents had stopped, he was in no danger. Yet the Inspector had insisted on their presence.
What, he wondered, was in store for the evening? Women, too. Now that was a nuisance. With a sigh, he thought of Gertie Briton, Juanita Salt, Sylvia Preston. Perhaps Emma Pryde too.

The Prestons, including Sylvia, were also making their way to Plum’s. Sylvia was now a newly married woman, and would much have preferred not to be present and not to have to face Gaylord Erskine. The Inspector had insisted, however, despite all the threats by her father of complaints to the Chief Constable.

Lord Bulstrode was annoyed. This wasn’t his evening for the club, but that Inspector fellow couldn’t get it into his head.

One more, this time invited, a guest was making his way to Plum’s. Then Philip Paxton took up his place in the garden to keep an eye on his idol.

The rest of the membership of Plum’s was highly indignant at being banned from the premises for the evening; there was talk of resignations, but in the end the majority managed to make do with their other clubs, the rest found succour at their wives’ tables. Emma Pryde arrived at the kitchen door in her best evening dress, the bodice of which was cut considerably lower than Plum’s members were accustomed to seeing outside the promenades at the Empire Theatre. Since Emma’s bosom was not of such proportions as the patrons of the Empire it failed, fortunately, to create as much stir. Auguste was not pleased to see her. Emma had a habit of stealing the limelight – in this case literally. He informed her of the level of her décolletage. She took no notice.

He felt as tense as if he were about to embark on the final touches of a
grosse pièce.
Would everything go well? Would the garnish delude as intended? Everything would depend on the presentation. Suddenly he was glad of Emma’s confident, if demanding, presence.

By 8 p.m. everyone had gathered in the smoking room. Inspector Rose stood by the fireplace, Twitch guarded the door.

‘You’re here, ladies and gentlemen, as a sort of experiment,’ Rose began. ‘We believe we know how Colonel Worthington was lured to his death, but not by whom. It’s my idea that if we replay it, it might jog someone’s memory. Might produce a few ideas so that we can get to the bottom of this nasty business and you can return to normal.’

Heavy sigh of longing from Nollins.

‘Now, Mr Erskine here being an actor has nobly offered to assist me by acting Colonel Worthington complete with his Napoleon’s bicorne.’

‘Provided we don’t take this too far, Inspector,’ said Erskine, looking ill at ease for once. ‘I’m in no mood to be murdered tonight.’

‘I doubt if it will get to that, sir,’ said Rose blandly. ‘Mrs Pryde here will be playing what you actor fellows call the Fair Temptress. Now I want the rest of you in that corner there behind Mr Erskine.’

His audience stirred uneasily as they huddled together, and the gas was turned down low. Only the candles on the mantelshelf flickered dim light on their faces. Gaylord Erskine sat in the armchair, hands tensely on the arms, and regarded the fire.

Suddenly the door was flung open and a figure outlined by brilliant light stood on the threshold out of the sight of the audience in the corner.

‘Please come,’ said a woman’s voice from the conservatory. Agnes, too, had a role to play in this drama.

Gaylord gave a theatrical start, pressed hand to bosom, and turned towards the Folly. There clearly standing in the Folly was the ghost figure of Emma Pryde. Someone screamed, the rest gasped. In the garden Paxton watched puzzled as his hero flung himself headlong into the Folly, gave another theatrical cry and stood supporting himself on the doorpost. The apparition had vanished.

‘Thank you very much, Mr Erskine.’ Gaylord bowed and came back in. ‘Don’t move, ladies and gentlemen!’ Rose shouted over the babble of conversation.

Erskine took his seat again. ‘I must say, Inspector, this is easier than Prospero.’ He forced a jest.

The door was thrown open again, and once again
Emma’s ghost appeared in the Folly. Once again Gaylord Erskine flung himself towards it, and the ghost vanished. But this time a figure sprang out from behind the statue of Captain Plum. Sergeant Stitch had at last a major part to play in the drama. Inefficiently clutching a gun, he aimed it at Gaylord Erskine who, fulfilling his part to the end, collapsed in a graceful heap. Only to resurrect himself, examine his evening clothes ruefully, and return to the smoking room, as Rose turned up the lights.

‘Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. And there you see how Colonel Worthington was murdered. Every schoolboy’s heard of it. Dr Pepper’s Ghost. Only a year or two back Dr Pepper wrote a whole book about it. The trouble is that it got
too
popular. Everyone knew how it was done, so no one used it any more. So everyone forgot about it. Except our murderer. It’s all based on angles. You shine a bright enough light on to a figure and bounce the reflection through glass – and there you have your ghost. It’s a question of angles and distances.’

‘I must say, Inspector,’ began General Fredericks, ‘this is all very interesting, but I entirely fail to see—’

His voice was cut short by a cry from outside. A cry of anguish and terror.

The group rushed into the corridor towards the entrance hall to find the sound coming from the telephone cabinet placed there for the convenience of members. Inside Auguste Didier was sitting on the stool slumped against the back wall, the telephone dangling from his limp hands. Rose, keeping everyone back, rushed in to bend over him, snapping out orders to the uniformed constable behind him.

Keeping at a respectful distance but unable to tear themselves from this new unscheduled drama, his audience watched impotently. Then from behind them came a fresh horror. A scream. They turned as one. But they saw in the corridor behind them not another body, but Emma Pryde, who seemed – perhaps through shock – to have taken leave of her senses.