Free Murder At Plums by Amy Myers

of the club troubles. ‘Can’t endanger the little women, can we?’
    Samuel Preston was somewhat alarmed at the way things were going. He was extremely glad he had taken the precaution of ripping the page out of the Suggestions Book. He had not counted on such opposition. He had merely wished to bring matters to a head. Make Erskine confront Sylvia face to face. Now he must play matters carefully, if he were not to alienate valuable support for his political career: ‘Gentlemen, much as I enjoy the company of the ladies, I am against this motion. They have their own clubs. Are we invited there? No. I say we should be careful before we open the floodgates, and let tradition die. A new century is almost upon us. It may be that John Stuart Mill’s cry for women’s emancipation may live on. British womanhood is revered the world over, for what it is. Let us keep it safe, fast within its own strongholds.’ And so on.
    His rhetoric was impressive and decisive. There were murmurs of agreement, of support.
    Worthington swelled with righteousness. ‘Gentlemen, I propose that a notice be posted for all members who wish to protest to gather here tomorrow morning, for a delegation to Mr Nollins. I take it I have your support in this?’
    The ayes had it with a vengeance. To protect their preservethe members were prepared to go to any lengths, even, if need be, to take action, a policy alien to club life. It was pointed out that two days hence would provide better opportunity for swelling the ranks of the dissenters. This was agreed, which, it transpired, was an unfortunate decision. However, in the animation the discussion aroused, the unfortunate events at the luncheon table were completely forgotten – until there was a sudden reminder.
    A pale figure stood gracefully at the open door. Gaylord Erskine clutched his head in both hands and staggered a little. Then he rallied and gazed round the company.
    ‘Gentlemen. Forgive me for so disrupting luncheon. But it seems, alas, that someone upon these premises is of malicious intent. Towards
me
, it would appear, gentlemen, towards
me
.’
    Auguste was fuming, his moustache quivering with indignation. That he, who was ordained to play detective, should be so cross-questioned by the doctor was insupportable. Now Nollins wished to see him, no doubt to enquire why his chosen detective should apparently be poisoning the members. He managed a rueful grin when he saw Mary’s anxious eyes upon him. The doctor had not kept his interrogation private.
    ‘Are you all right, Mr Auguste?’ she asked anxiously.
    ‘
Ma belle
, I am not all right. This doctor, he will regret very much his words. To suggest that I should accidentally or purposely put a tartar emetic in my
own creations
– the man is an
idiot
.’
    ‘Someone did though,’ said Mary, ‘and poor Mr Erskine ate it.’
    ‘Yes, my child, and I will find out who.’
    ‘
You
will?’ asked Mary, eyes as round as saucers.
    ‘Yes,
ma belle
, I, the
cook
, as Mr Nollins calls me. But I will need your help.’
    A long-drawn-out ‘Oh’ from Mary.
    ‘You will help me, will you not?’
    Speechless, she nodded fervently. Then, facing reality: ‘But how?’ she managed to croak to her god.
    ‘Be my ears, be my eyes, when you are in the club. Youare anonymous, you are a servant. They will not notice you. Observe everything, tell me everything.’
    Her brow puckered in concentration.
    ‘What about?’ she asked simply.
    ‘About’ – he paused – ‘about anything, anyone, that is not as it seems.’

Chapter Three
    How she hated Wednesdays. Wednesdays ruined the whole week. The most exciting things always seemed to happen on a Wednesday and yet she was obliged to remain confined to the house. It was her At Home Day. Lady Fredericks much regretted her husband’s retirement and advanced social position. She had much preferred being abroad.
    And here, horror of horrors, she could see Daphne Bulstrode mounting the steps and a strange