When he doesn’t move after that, and his head droops forward over his chest, I go for a look-see. Patrick is impaled on a length of mild steel sticking out of the storage rack. I turn to look at Malcolm, but he’s fainted dead away, unaware of what he’s done.
Later that night, I open the door to The Chairman’s office. The building is deserted and I’ve got Patrick’s keys to let me in. I’m wearing gloves and a floppy hat pulled over my face just in case the security cameras are loaded.
He’s sitting at his desk, pounding keys. He’s like a fat spider, counting his worth, and I know that what he wanted his men to do to me and Uncle Howard was no more than another accounting principle, a book-keeping procedure. It’s not personal, because I don’t think revenge is a concept he knows. I turned him down, which offended him, and had to be seen to suffer the consequences. To him it’s part of the business.
And that’s why I can’t let this go. Because when he finds out about Patrick and Hooper, and how they failed to punish one old man or one old lady, he won’t stop. It won’t be because of his men – he doesn’t see them as anything more than tools. But because of his twisted sense of pride, he’ll simply order someone else – most likely one of the gangs, who I don’t know – to complete the job instead. Procedure.
I snick the door shut and leave the building. Behind me The Chairman has hosted his last meeting. He’s sitting at his desk, and clutched in his pudgy fingers is a small twist of dark, shiny dreadlock. It’s not much, but sufficient to show signs of a struggle.
They won’t find Hooper, of course. Well, not for a while, anyway. And when they do, they’ll find Patrick, his fingerprints on the hook which killed his Yardie colleague. The scattering of white powder and money on the floor will do the rest.
As for Malcolm, he’ll forget about it in time. There was a scrap, he intervened, and we left. Who knows what happened to the bad men?
After all, thieves fall out. They’re known for it.
Murder, the Missing Heir and the Boiled Egg by Amy Myers
Auguste Didier stared gloomily at the eggs awaiting his pleasure for boiling. He had none to offer, although he admitted that his ill-humour had nothing to do with them. Still in its shell, one egg looked much like another, but today they provided an unfortunate reminder that he must choose which of two young gentlemen was the bad egg. They could not both be the missing heir to Lord Luckens.
Not that his lordship was dead. On the contrary, when last week he had brazenly staggered into the kitchens of Plum’s Club for Gentlemen, over which Auguste presided as maitre chef, he was very much alive. The staggering was not so much due to age or the excellent club wine cellars as to his gait which suggested his life was spent perpetually astride a horse, and his feet a mere aberration of nature to be ignored.
‘Ha!’
The grey moustache had bristled, and keen eyes shot a triumphant look, as though Auguste were a fox planning a speedy exit from this world. ‘You the detective fellow?’
‘The chef fellow, your lordship,’ Auguste murmured patiently, casting a despairing glance at his hollandaise sauce, which had been delighted at this opportunity to curdle. His detective work had come about by chance, and was not an art in which he could lay claim to perfection, as were his culinary skills.
Lord Luckens ignored his remark. ‘Splendid. Here’s what I need you to do. I want you to cook a dinner for me at Luckens Place. Know the old ruin, do you? You can cook what you like.’
Auguste relaxed. He must have misheard mention of detection work, for this assignment presented no such problem. Indeed, the idea was an attractive one, for he had heard that Luckens Place in Sussex, far from being an old ruin, was a magnificent Elizabethan mansion with its own ornate banqueting house in the grounds, and a splendid towered gatehouse with a bedroom where Good Queen Bess herself was said to have slept. He might even cook an Elizabethan dinner, and suggest they follow the old custom of walking to the banqueting house for sweetmeats and desserts. He warmed to Lord Luckens immediately.
‘You cook it,’ Lord Luckens boomed on, ‘and then supervise the dinner in the Great Chamber, where it’s to be served.’
‘You wish me to act as butler too?’ Professional etiquette rose up in protest.
‘No, no.’ An impatient hand flailed at this stupidity. ‘Just stand there like a blasted maitre d’.’
Auguste gaped at him, wondering just what his lordship’s butler would have to say about this irregular suggestion.
‘It’s like this. I’m getting on in life. Time to think of wills,’ Lord Luckens trumpeted. ‘Only had one son, George, and he flounced out in 1867, thirty years ago, when he was twenty-one. Never bothered to keep in touch, never made the fortune he reckoned on. I had one of those Pinkertons’ detective fellows track him down a few years back, and they told me George died in Leadville, Colorado, in ‘79.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’ Auguste received a glare in thanks for his concern.
‘Never understood the fellow. Took after his mother. Bookish. Not the sort to marry. Understand me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Seems I was wrong.’ Apparently this did not often occur, since Lord Luckens admitted it with great reluctance. ‘Pinkertons found out he left a widow, but she moved away and vanished. I’d no interest in her, so I called off the hounds. My solicitor fellow in London, Jenkins, said where there were widows there might also be sons, so he advertised. Every good-for-nothing in the States claimed to be my son, but old Jenkins is a wily old bird, and he’s whittled them down to two. He’s crawled over the evidence, and is convinced it’s one of them, but he can’t blasted well decide which. One’s a silver miner in Leadville, the other’s a New York businessman, and both are flourishing birth certificates saying their father’s George Luckens. They can’t be brothers. Born within four months of each other, and even George with his saintly ideas couldn’t achieve that. Thought you might like a crack at it, eh?’
‘Me?’ Auguste’s heart sank, even as his mind began to fill with the delights of experimenting with suckets, leaches, possets and marigold tarts.
He had not surrendered easily, however. ‘Who would inherit, sir, if no claimant can be found to satisfy you and your solicitors?’
‘Knew you’d ask that,’ Lord Luckens replied darkly. ‘I had a brother once, Horatio. Couldn’t stand the fellow. He couldn’t stand me either. Died years ago, but he left a blasted son, as priggish and self-righteous as his blasted father. And a bachelor in his fifties. Another of those blasted nancies. Sort of fellow who given his way would see this country go to the dogs. Not content with sitting in the Commons, he’s all for sitting in the Lords and putting a spoke in the wheel there too. With my title. He’s got wind of this dinner and is insisting on his right to attend. Lady Luckens said it’s fair enough and will save trouble later. Suppose she’s right, damn it. His name’s Jonathan Luckens – heard of him?’
Auguste most certainly had. You could hardly live in England and not have heard of him. A member of Keir Hardie’s burgeoning Labour party, he seemed unlikely to be enthusiastic about inheriting a title, yet Auguste could well understand why he and Lord Luckens did not see eye to eye. He was, if Auguste remembered correctly, a vehement supporter of the rights of women to vote, which was not a policy Lord Luckens would be likely to endorse. Despite his reluctance, the case began to intrigue him – and besides, he’d always wanted to cook an Elizabethan banquet…