Free Murder At Plums by Amy Myers Page B

and in particular this one.
    ‘Dearest,’ he said gently, ‘I have your reputation to think of.’ Then, ‘Somebody
knows
,’ he thrilled in the awful tones he had used in
Lady Ponsonby’s Secret.
‘It may be that the unfortunate events at Plum’s are directed against the club, rather than myself. Nevertheless, my beloved, it would not be right of me to involve you in this campaign of hate. I alone must take my chance. Your honour must not be compromised. No hint of scandal.’
    Gertie pouted. A spotless reputation seemed a dull alternative to her afternoons with Gaylord.
    ‘But—’ she began.
    ‘And so, beloved, we must part. I can stay no more, lest I weaken—’ and pressing her hand to his lips, he rushed off in an excess of emotion (chiefly relief) as yet another ‘but’ floated pitifully after him.
    In Gwynne’s Hotel, her Charlie was agonising over his woes in Emma Pryde’s office. Only from her current favourite would she have permitted this behaviour. ‘And now I have to see the swine every day in Plum’s. These actor fellows.Never learned how to behave like gentlemen. I even tried to have a chat with him, man to man, to tell him I knew and all that, and dash it, it wasn’t done now he was a member of the same club and I
knew.
Fellow backed away from me as if I had the plague. I tell you, Plum’s isn’t the same with these yellowy-greenery fellows round the place. First that painter chappie, then Erskine. Think they’d be a bit more careful after Wilde. Can’t trust them. Not in a place like Plum’s. No idea of how to behave. But I’ll have my revenge, Emma, oh yes. The fellow more or less accused me of being the club joker. Me! A Cavalryman.’ He stared at her with hurt, wide-open, guileless eyes.
    Colonel Worthington waited impatiently in the morning room, with only Lord Bulstrode for company. If company was the word, for Bulstrode was immersed in
The Pink ’Un.
    ‘Eleven fifteen,’ he muttered to Bulstrode’s newspaper, its reader being totally obscured.
    ‘Eh, what’s that?’ Bulstrode had forgotten the matter of the moment and was astounded that anyone, particularly old Worthington, should interrupt him while reading
The Pink ’Un.
It was well known that Bulstrode never addressed anybody before 12 noon and a stiff whisky and soda. Preferably 12.30 and two whiskies and soda.
    Even Worthington baulked at the ferocity of Bulstrode’s expression, though not for long. When it came to self-interest he was a match for the honourable lord, especially after that certain
incident.
    ‘No one has yet arrived,’ Worthington pointed out unnecessarily.
    ‘Good Gad, sir, why should they? No one ever arrives before luncheon time in this room. Try the smoking room if you must chatter.’
    ‘But the meeting,’ Worthington burst out, hurt.
    ‘Meeting? Dammit, I forgot, sir. Well, where is everyone then?’ Bulstrode glared, as if Worthington were himself responsible.
    The colour mounted in Worthington’s face, his body heaving with emotion. ‘They should have been here at eleven. I called it for eleven,’ he said querulously.
    ‘Daresay you made a mistake,’ said Bulstrode irritably.
    ‘It was quite clearly for today,’ said Worthington obstinately.
    ‘Got to face it, then,’ said Bulstrode, not without relish. ‘No one’s coming.’
    Worthington stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘No one coming? But it was
agreed.
A protest. Everybody was in agreement. Of course they’re coming.’
    ‘Changed their minds,’ said Bulstrode gleefully. It was time old Worthington got his come-uppance. Perhaps he’d take the hint and resign now. One way of getting rid of a club bore. He remembered now what Daphne had been trumpeting on about last night.
    A hundred or so wives were sipping coffee with an air of quiet satisfaction at a job well done.
    Auguste dragged his thoughts away from more desirable topics, such as the menu for dinner, and concentrated on Plum’s problems.
    First he must put