Free Clubbed to Death by Ruth Dudley Edwards

in his in-tray.
    ‘I’m afraid Colonel Fagg has taken an objection to you, dear boy,’ said Gooseneck to Amiss that lunch-time. ‘He claims you look as if you have Itie blood.’
    ‘Because I’ve got dark hair, Mr Gooseneck?’
    ‘That’s a good enough reason if he’s taken an objection to you. Has there been an incident of any kind? He said something about an insolent pup.’
    ‘It wasn’t anything I said, Mr Gooseneck, but I suppose I don’t always keep my face impassive when the snuff takes over, as it were.’
    ‘You mean when it starts dribbling down his chin?’ asked Gooseneck.
    ‘And when he smears it on his shirt.’
    ‘Or rubs it on his ear?’
    ‘Or a gobbet sticks in his nose.’
    ‘In any event, you should exercise self-control,’ said Gooseneck. ‘You don’t want to lose your job, do you?’
    ‘Oh, no. I can’t afford to.’
    ‘Well, if I were you I would cutivate the gravitas of Jeeves. Fagg’s already muttering threats and he’s a very powerful figure in this club. If he wants you out I can’t save you.’
    At this moment Fagg entered the dining-room and marched straight to his usual table. With a sinking heart Amiss went over to take his order. A ray of sunlight came through the window and lit up the specks of snuff that had wafted from Fagg’s clothing as he sat down.
    ‘What are you gaping at, boy? You look like a damned wop. Can’t keep your eyes to yourself.’
    Amiss thought of the indignities he had so far endured and surmounted; this was a mere pin-prick.
    ‘I beg your pardon, sir. Just for a moment the sun was in my eyes and I couldn’t see properly. And for the record, sir, my father fought under Monty at Alamein.’
    The red glare left Fagg’s eyes: the floating snuff seemed to settle snugly into the folds of his suit.
    ‘Desert Rat, eh? They were a fine body of men. All right, then. All right. But get your hair cut and look like a proper Englishman. Now get me the turtle soup.’
    Milton and Pooley entered Albany, the great eighteenth-century house off Piccadilly that contains the most exclusive and convenient apartments in London. The Vice-Admiral lived at the back, and he opened his front door a few seconds after Pooley rang the bell. Who’s Who had revealed him to be seventy-four: in the flesh he could have passed for ten years younger, despite having a head entirely free of hair. As he led them into his large and sunny sitting-room, his scalp gleamed in the light.
    Lining the walls were a couple of hundred maritime paintings, ranging in size from tiny to huge and in subject from peaceful rowing boats to titanic struggles between enemy fleets. The theme was picked up in the ornaments, which in their turn ranged from the kind of small plaster ship one won at a fairground, to a vast silver centrepiece of a battle cruiser. The books on the coffee-table concerned naval battles, and many of the photographs on the occasional tables featured men in naval uniform.
    ‘Sit down, sit down.’ Meredith-Lee waved them to a comfortable sofa and sat down in an armchair opposite.
    ‘You’re looking overwhelmed and I’m not surprised. I have to explain to everyone that I’m not so much of a monomaniac as this collection makes me seem, but when my old man died, thirty years ago, he left me his paintings. Somehow the word got round that I was mad about maritime art. Ever since then, whenever I left a job or anyone gave me a present, I was given more of the same. Tell you the truth, I’m sick to death of the lot of it, but I can’t think of anything to do with it that won’t have my old man haunting me and have other people’s feelings hurt. However, that’s not your problem. What is?’
    ‘Ffeatherstonehaugh’s, Sir Conrad,’ said Milton. ‘Particularly the death of Mr Trueman.’
    ‘Mmmm, ’ said the Admiral. ‘So you don’t think it’s a clear case of suicide do you? I’ve been brooding about that myself ever since I heard. Didn’t somehow seem to tie in with