Authors: Amy Myers
‘Because of the Colours?’ said Rose, puzzled. ‘The Zulus knew what the Colours were?’
‘No, it was the red coat, we found out later. Their king had told them that all soldiers wore red coats, so they obediently slaughtered the red coats before anyone else. And the young lieutenant had a red coat. He deserved the VC, but couldn’t be given it because he was last in possession of the Colours. Counts as a disgrace, you see. Melvill and Coghill of the First Battalion got the VC for defending the Colour with their lives, and it didn’t fall into enemy hands, whereas Fredericks—’
‘Who, sir?’
‘Fredericks. Lieutenant Fredericks was his name. Father’s a retired general.’
‘Alice, my dear . . .’
Lady Fredericks, puzzled but obedient, left the room. Rose resumed his seat in the leather armchair in the austerely comfortable morning room of the Frederickses’ Kensington home. It had not been his idea that Lady Fredericks should leave, but he was prepared to go along with it – for a while. Go easy at the beginning of an interview, his old chief had said, give yourself time to size them up, assess the situation.
Ramrod stiff for all his small stature, General Fredericks turned courteously to Inspector Rose.
‘Did you know Colonel Worthington well, sir?’
‘He was a fellow clubman, that is all, Inspector.’ His tones were impersonal, almost unconcerned.
‘You did not know him in the army?’
‘No, Inspector. I was with the Forty-fourth Foot.’
‘Yet I gather he served in the same battalion as your son.’
The gentle piercing blue eyes wavered only fractionally. ‘Do you belong to a club, Inspector? No? Then you will not know that friendliness is hardly the point. The purpose of a club is to avoid sociability unless one desires it. Perhaps the comradeship of the Passing parade yesterday misled you. As regards my son, I did realise that Worthington belonged to the same regiment. That is all. I do not dwell on the death of my son. My wife feels his loss still very keenly.’
‘Forgive me, sir, but I gather he was lost at Isandhlwana.’
‘Yes,’ quietly. ‘Though I hardly—’
‘Do you feel the tragedy could have been avoided, sir?’
‘If you wish to delve into history, Inspector, I am not the person to assist you. I am an army man, not a historian.’ The tones were still courteous but colder.
‘I’d appreciate it, sir.’
The General was silent for a moment as if measuring his opponent’s strength. Then he seemed to come to a decision. The cause was the usual overconfidence of the British Army when facing so-called untrained native troops, combined with a fatal underestimation of the enemy numbers. The dispositions did not take that into account. A certain amount of blame can be laid at the door of the Native Horse, who, trained though they were, had not the ingrained discipline of the British troops. Most of all, however, what went
wrong
was a lack of ammunition. There was ample available but such was the onslaught and the confusion that runners were sent to the wrong supply wagons. The quartermaster refused to supply the other battalion’s needs in case they ran short themselves. The officer in overall command of supplies refused to overrule his decision. Admirable at Sandhurst, to obey orders so implicitly. In the midst of Zululand, suicidal. As a consequence there was fatal hesitation in the rate of fire, then the natives ran completely out of ammunition and the lines broke.’
‘This officer in charge of supplies, was it Worthington, sir?’
Fredericks smiled sadly. ‘Yes, Inspector, it was Colonel Worthington.’
‘Did he know your son was killed at Isandhlwana, sir?’
‘I have no idea, Inspector,’ the General continued evenly. ‘I had no idea about Worthington myself till a few days ago.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps I should tell you, Inspector, that I had every intention of confronting Colonel Worthington. Indeed, in the heat of the moment I had even contemplated – um – extreme measures.’ His glance went to the Parisian Novelty incongruously placed upon the eighteenth-century writing desk. Rose followed his gaze and Fredericks smiled. ‘I did say extreme, Inspector. I agree with you that a gun is far more efficient. Though noisier, of course.’
‘But you didn’t confront the Colonel after all.’
‘No, Inspector,’ he said evenly, ‘it appears that someone else confronted him first. I had intended to approach him in the smoking room after I had finished my brandy. I should explain that by this time my impulse towards violence had long since passed.’
‘And you were with your wife in the dining rooms, when the gunshot was heard?’
‘I was.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘There were of course a great many people present. Whether they would recall our presence at that moment is open to doubt, however.’ His eyes held Rose’s steadily, and Rose began to feel doubly glad he’d not been an army man. And he’d thought discipline strong in the Factory. He’d sooner have McNaughten’s gimlet eye upon him.
‘Thank you, sir.’ He gave no sign of the dissatisfaction he felt with the reply. ‘May I ask, General, who informed you about Colonel Worthington being the officer in charge of the supplies?’
‘You may, Inspector. There is no reason for not telling you. It was Salt, Peregrine Salt. He had recently dined with Lord Chelmsford, who was in overall command of the British forces in Zululand, you might recall.’
Gertie Briton was pouting. At the other end of the long table, her husband was glaring.
‘I saw you talking to that Erskine fellow last night, Gertie. You promised not to.’
‘I had to reply when he spoke to me.’ she hurled at him, bringing her pretty fist down on the table with the result that the
petit pois à l’ancienne
jumped out of Beechcroft’s spoon as he was serving them on to the mistress’s plate.
‘You didn’t have to follow him round the room, did you, like a fox after a rabbit?’ All this much to Beechcroft’s interest.
‘I didn’t follow him round,’ she said indignantly, more about the fox slur than that on her honour.
‘I saw you – you seemed to be pretty annoyed with the fellow, too. I say, Gertrude’ – his tone changed suddenly as
he remembered the talk in the club about the bicorne – ‘you didn’t do anything stupid, did you?’ Then he noticed Beechcroft. Only a servant of course, but nevertheless, he’d better not say any more.
‘Daphne!’ The roar seemed louder than usual, so Lady Bulstrode decided to answer the summons.
‘Daphne,’ her husband trumpeted, storming through the hall, ‘you didn’t have a pot-shot at Erskine, did you?’ The footman tried to remain impassive. Not that Bulstrode would have noticed.
‘A pot-shot, dear?’
‘Try to shoot the fellow. You’re short-sighted, you know.’
Lady Bulstrode frowned. ‘It was Colonel Worthington who was shot, dear.’
‘Dammit, I know that. Fellow talking in the club said it might have been in mistake for Erskine. And I know how you feel about that fellow.’
‘Horace, in case you have forgotten, I was with you in the drawing room when Colonel Worthington was shot. Do you not remember?’
Bulstrode frowned. ‘Might have dozed off now and then. You’re not all that exciting company, Daphne.’
Daphne Bulstrode did not retort that Horace, Lord Bulstrode, would himself hardly qualify in the high-class entertainment stakes. Instead she replied, ‘Horace, I realise that I was once somewhat overwrought over that poor Martin girl and I recall brandishing your Purdey. However, I assure you I did not do so last night, and I did not shoot Colonel Worthington in error.’
But Lord Bulstrode’s frown remained.
In a crowded, smelly, gas-fumed dressing room at the Theatre of Varieties, Watford, an artiste was attending to his greasepaint. The face that looked back at him out of the mirror was ever hopeful. After all, if Erskine did it, so can you, he reminded himself. Gaylord Erskine. He had followed his illustrious career every step of the way. From his early days with his wife to his Musketeer, to Petruchio,
and now Hamlet, the very pinnacle of an actor’s dreams. What talent. What variety. One day maybe he would achieve the same. He had tried before, and had not succeeded. That unhappy memory clouded his thoughts for a moment. Then he smiled. But he could change everything, Meanwhile it was back to the Watford stage for the last night of his disappearing canary act. He clapped his hat on to his head, preparatory to stepping forth. Tomorrow to fresh woods and pastures new. Or perhaps he’d go back to the Sheridan again.
‘I tell you, Mr Didier,’ said Egbert Rose forcefully, ‘I don’t know which way we’re turning. Plenty of motives to kill Worthington on his own, plenty to kill Erskine. But no evidence. That struck you? Never known such a case. You’d think with all those people around someone would have seen something definite. We can’t even rule anyone out – no one can be precise about who they were with at the time of the shot. Everyone thinks they know until you suggest that that might have been when Worthington’s cry disturbed them. They can only remember for sure if it was their wife with them. Says something for marriage that, doesn’t it?’ he added, diverted for a moment. ‘So far as I can see, anyone could have grabbed the gun off the wall; it could have gone much earlier in the evening, no one would have noticed – except Worthington perhaps – and by the time the procession started the lights were too low everywhere for a mere gun to be missed. So here I am with two hundred or more suspects. If your temporary staff hadn’t left by then, we could say nearly three hundred. It’s like one of your mazes. Like that one at Stockbery Towers. Remember?’
Auguste did. He had happy memories of that maze.
‘Just when I was getting somewhere on Worthington,’ ruminated Rose, ‘I get something more on Erskine. Some actor he did out of a job or the man thought he did. Nasty business. Could well bear a grudge against him. Swore he’d get even with him. That’s all Erskine will admit to. No one else. But there are people with grudges against Erskine all over the place. Mostly husbands.’
‘Or their wives,’ pointed out Auguste. ‘It was a woman shouting from the Folly.’
‘Ah yes, and that is the puzzle. Where did she disappear to? According to Worthington, there was no one there when he got there.’
‘He could have been lying. She could have left altogether by the garden gate. Or she could have come back into the house by the garden door.’
‘Risky. The door leads into the billiard room. It would look odd for a woman to emerge from there—’
‘Then she must have gone into the garden.’
‘It seems to me there were a lot of people in that garden,’ said Rose with some asperity. ‘There was your extra waiter who might have disappeared into the garden, joined by the other forty-four when they came off duty. Then our anonymous lady friend joins them.’
‘Unless they were the same?’ said Auguste with an inspired guess.
‘Pardon?’
‘Unless it was a woman in man’s clothing. She was the waiter.’
Rose roared with laughter. ‘Now we’re getting fanciful again, Mr Auguste. Can you see Mrs Salt in man’s evening dress. Sort of Vesta Tilley, eh? “I’m Burlington Bertie. . .”’
‘I only say it is possible,’ retorted Auguste with dignity. ‘Look at Hanna Snell.’
‘Was she present?’ Rose scanned his list.
‘In the eighteenth century, Inspector, she passed as a soldier undetected for many years until her death, fighting, living and sleeping beside her male colleagues.’
‘It ain’t practical, though. Not today. Not in Plum’s.’
‘You sound like Mr Nollins.’
Rose sighed. ‘Very well. What woman though? There is Gertie Briton, slim enough I grant you. Mrs Salt, need a pretty big pair of trousers. Mrs Erskine, now if she took a fancy to murder her husband – but she was in the dining room, according to Preston. Mrs and Miss Preston? We only have Preston’s word for it that they were with him. Or Lady Fredericks. But I don’t see these ladies ripping off their
petticoats and combinations and jumping into trousers.’
‘They could wear them underneath,’ said Auguste defiantly.
‘Now, Mr Auguste, as I said before, let’s make things simple. Who wanted to kill Colonel Worthington?’
‘Thank you, Watkins.’
Gaylord Erskine took his morning post from the proffered silver salver. One day perhaps not too far hence a letter would bear the royal crest; the summons would have come at last. But today brought an envelope with an all too familiar appearance. He glanced at Amelia, engrossed in her kidneys and eggs. Dear faithful Amelia, partner in so many trials during their life together, sitting there so demure and neat in her brown figured silk. Other women were, of course, necessary, but Amelia had not been concerned by them. Except, of course, for Gertie Briton. Unfortunately that hadn’t worked out as planned.
He opened the envelope. Inside was a piece of paper adorned by letters cut out from newspapers. He read it, carefully. Then read it again. Amelia’s eyes were on him now. Silently he handed it over. She swallowed. ‘Oh Gaylord – and we thought it finished.’
‘I fear not, my dear. But we shall face this together, shall we not?’
‘How can you doubt it, Gaylord?’ She was almost indignant.
‘Undaunted mettle,’ he said softly, ‘sweetest chuck.’
Amelia’s hand went to her breast as she cried, ‘Gaylord, no. Don’t quote that play.’
‘You think I tempt fate,’ he replied, smiling.
But her response was grave. ‘It will bring disaster on this house.’
A hansom cab brought him to Scotland Yard in time to greet Inspector Egbert Rose on his return from his meeting with the Chief Constable, to whom he had explained exactly
why he considered Colonel Worthington the due recipient of the murderer’s intention. It was, therefore, without any enthusiasm that he saw the familiar letter being waved histrionically in Erskine’s hand, a letter that cordially invited him to prepare to meet his doom.
Half an hour later Rose stepped down from the hansom cab to find the doors of the Sheridan Theatre firmly shut. He made his way round to the stage door and with some difficulty exerted his authority over the ex-sergeant-major doorkeeper.
He stood in the enormous wings and watched the chaos backstage that miraculously turned itself into an orderly performance. He’d seen it all before at the Galaxy. Carpenters, gasmen, electricians, the myriad ants that supported the cast. Even before he asked the question he knew what the answer would be.