A Death at the Beer Soup Club Read online

  A DEATH AT

  THE BEER SOUP CLUB

  A Tale of Gastronomical Bitterness and Mayhem,

  From the Papers of Colonel Sir Francis FitzMaurice

  A Montclaire Weekend Mystery

  E. A. Allen

  2019

  © Copyright 2019, by E. A. Allen

  All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the author, except for brief quotation in an acknowledged review.

  If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?

  William Shakespeare

  A Death at the Beer Soup Club

  London, December 1901

  Chapter One: Murder By Soup?

  1

  “I regret. Cannot come. A tragedy.”

  So read the terse note handed to Montclaire, as we lolled about the hearth in the members’ bar at the Carlton Club that frigid December evening. In London to pass the Christmas Season with Montclaire’s uncle, the old Duke, we’d spent a busy few days of visiting. The note came from Professor Simon Ridley, an old friend with whom we had planned to have dinner.

  “Whatever could that mean?” I asked, thinking it must be a very serious matter. “Old Ridley’s hardly the sort to call anything a “tragedy” that’s not a matter of the gravest importance. I suppose we shall learn of it in due course.”

  Just then, Ridley appeared unexpectedly at the door of the member’s bar, flanked by two gentlemen. Ridley was an elfin man, with piercing blue eyes and a head of lush white hair that always looked like he’d brushed it with an angry cat. The three espied us immediately and made for our warm nook by the hearth.

  “Montclaire,” he said, without introducing his companions, “you must help us! You must resolve this thing. I beg you!”

  We were on our feet in an instant. “Yes . . . er . . . well . . . .” Montclaire stammered, taken aback by the Professor’s sudden appearance and plea. “Bien, please sit my dear friend and . . . gentlemen. If you please.”

  We resumed our seats, as Montclaire signaled the barman for another snifter of brandy. A wise decision, I thought. Ridley’s face indicated at least a two-brandy problem.

  “What is it, precisely, that you would have me do? You know I am eager to assist in any difficulty,” Montclaire reassured.

  “It’s the Club, Montclaire,” Ridley began, as the others frowned. “These gentlemen and I -- that’s Sir Joshua Gould and this gentleman to my right is Mr. Mortimer Chambers – we are members of the Beer Soup Club, you see.” As Ridley spoke the other nodded earnestly.

  “The Beer Soup Club?” Montclaire repeated as we exchanged questioning glances.

  “Indeed, and something frightful has happened. Please allow me to explain.”

  “By all means, Professor,” Montclaire invited, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands across his stomach.

  “Well,” Ridley hesitated, a thoughtful frown on his face, “I’ll begin by saying that owing to the unusual nature of our club and the stature of our members, we have elected to maintain it as a secret society. We do not wish to invite the scrutiny or derision of the world, on account of our . . . well . . . our unusual interest.”

  “Yes. I quite understand,” Montclaire assured. “Go on, please.”

  Ridley glanced at the others and then about the room. “Well, it’s a problem that has arisen with Mr. Dawkins . . . Mr. Edmund Dawkins, that is. Perhaps you have heard of him?”

  “Oh yes,” I said, “a well-known Tory MP, eh? Represents Oxford, I believe.”

  “Yes. Just so. In fact, he is often mentioned as Chancellor of the Exchequer in a future Conservative government.”

  Montclaire stifled a yawn, which the Professor noticed.

  “Yes, well, Dawkins is a member of our club. An enthusiast, as we all are, for the tradition of Beer Soup. The problem is, however, that Dawkins has caused an uproar amongst the members of late by insisting upon a most unorthodox innovation.”

  “And that is . . . ?” Montclaire asked.

  “He insisted that one may use ale, Monsieur, in the making of Beer Soup. A most unsettling thing.” Having said this, Ridley glanced at his companions, who mumbled and shook their heads in a unified lament. Montclaire, meanwhile, shot me one of those looks that suggested he was inclined to shuffle the Professor and his friends out the nearest door.

  “You may think this a trivial matter, M. Montclaire, but it certainly is not,” Chambers added. “In fact, we fear it has now led to . . . well ---.”

  “ . . . we fear it has led to violence,” Sir Joshua finished the thought.

  Montclaire suddenly sat up in his chair, his eyes now riveted on Ridley.

  “Violence,” he repeated. “How so?”

  “Dawkins has disputed this innovation at our meetings these past several months. The Club, you see, meets here, in a room at this very club the second Thursday of each month.”

  “Disputed with whom?” Montclaire pressed.

  “That is precisely the point of our visit, Monsieur. Mainly with Sir Anthony Belloc. Perhaps you recognize the name. Belloc is a noted writer.”

  “Oh yes. I certainly do recognize the name,” I said. “I’ve enjoyed several of his books. He writes those new detective novels, you know. About Scotland Yard and such. Great fun. Ripping yarns, all of’em,” I testified. Montclaire, meanwhile, looked at me in a slightly disapproving way, which just goes to show you about Montclaire. He has consistently disparaged my enthusiasm for the new detective fiction – particularly the stories of that dashed clever American fellow, E.A. Allen. Still, Montclaire is narrow-minded in some ways, and this is one of them. A bit of a snob in his reading, if you ask me.

  “Go on,” Montclaire encouraged the Professor, again leaning back in his chair.

  “Well, Belloc -- being a writer and therefore of a disputatious nature -- threatened to take his case to the pages of The Times, Monsieur – a threat that antagonized the others of the Club. It’s a perfect mess, as you can imagine,” Ridley concluded.

  The three again shook their heads in unison.

  By this time Montclaire had had quite enough of the culinary lunacy.

  “That is a terrible thing, I am sure,” he said earnestly, “but what has this to interest me, Professor? I am not an epicure, though I’m certain your soup is a rare delicacy and ---.”

  “He’s dead!” Ridley blurted. “Poor Dawkins is dead! Found by his valet this morning. Apparently died in his bed, sometime in the night.”

  Montclaire sat bolt upright, gripping each arm of his chair.

  “Several weeks ago the dispute became so hot that Belloc actually threatened to murder Dawkins. Oh yes, it frightens me to the bone to hear it in my mind, but we all heard it. ‘I’ll make a soup of you and feed it to my dogs,’ Belloc said. And to think. Now poor Dawkins is dead.”

  There was a long pause. Ridley looked at his fellow clubmen. “And now the police are just bound to track us down and make everyone testify. The bad blood between Dawkins and Belloc is bound to throw suspicion on Belloc. And our Club will be embroiled in a public scandal, in addition to our sadness at what has happened to Dawkins.”

  The three lapsed into silence, a gaggle of stern faces and furrowed brows. After a long pause, filled with sighs and nervous coughing, Ridley continued.

  “There’s something else, Montclaire.”

  “Oh?”

  “Scotland Yard’s Police Surgeon has examined poor Dawkins and says . . . says he’d been . . . that he’d been poisoned!”

  The three looked at each other and then it was Sir Joshua who spoke.

  “Well don’t ye see, Montclaire? We had our dinner the evening befo
re poor Dawkins died. He must’a been poisoned at our dinner!” The three grumbled among themselves.

  “And where was this dinner,” Montclaire asked, leaning forward.

  “Here,” said Ridley. “We have our monthly meeting and dinner here, at this club, and it was no different for our special Christmas occasion. We use the club’s kitchen to prepare the meal. All the members participate in the preparation, of course, and if there’s a member who proposes a variation in herbs and spices or in the normal accompanying dishes, he is appointed to direct.”

  Montclaire started to ask another question but then paused.

  “And who directed last evening?” he asked.

  Ridley looked at his hands and then answered, “It was Belloc.”

  “Were you gentlemen, Belloc and Dawkins the members of the Club who were present? Were there others?

  “Edgerton is a member,” said Ridley. “But he was not there. That’s Mr. Rufus Edgerton. He lives nearby.”

  “Edgerton, eh? I’ve heard that name, but can’t place it,” I said.

  “Oh yes. A well-known name,” Sir Joshua explained. “He’s the maker of Edgerton’s Magic Oil. Well, it was his father who started the company, but Rufus has continued it to even greater success.”

  The explanation struck me a horrible blow, somewhere about the middle of my stomach.

  “Castor oil! That Magic Oil is castor oil, and I remember it with vivid horror from my childhood. Gads, my stomach churns just to think of the stuff. My old nanny thought the oil a cure for every ill and forced it down me regularly. The stuff should be outlawed. Criminal!”

  Montclaire gave me a look. “Let’s put aside your childhood horrors at the hand of a vicious nanny, Fitz. Shall we? In the interest of solving a possible murder, eh?”

  “Well, yes. Quite.”

  Just as Ridley began to explain that Edgerton would join his fellow clubmen later that evening, the man himself arrived. A stout, pink chap, with a bulbous nose and jowls a shade darker than the rest of him, Edgerton smiled heartily to shake Montclaire’s hand. Every inch a successful man of affairs, it seemed to me.

  With introductions made, Montclaire continued. “Were only members allowed in the kitchen, while the meal was prepared?”

  The four looked at each other. Chambers answered.

  “Why no. As usual, we had our help.”

  “Help?” I followed.

  “Yes,” said Chambers. “Stockton Peters, the footman here at the Carlton, serves. As does his sister, Catherine. She cooks for Edgerton, here, and he volunteers her services for our dinners. An excellent cook in her own right.” Edgerton smiled and nodded his agreement.

  “You say Scotland Yard is on this and has already developed some interesting facts.”

  “Yes.” The professor frowned. “Detective fellow named Jericho Fish is the head boy for the police. A pushy sort of fellow, I’d say. Sniffed a good deal at the idea of our club too.”

  “Well, the indication is that Dawkins was poisoned here, and at your dinner. What remains is to determine how the substance was administered – in his soup – who did the poisoning, and for what purpose. Is that about where things stand?” I asked.

  “Yes, exactly. Trouble is, Sir Francis,” said Sir Joshua, “the suspicion has already fallen on poor Belloc, because of the nasty dispute he and Dawkins were having. And the threat of course.” The others began to murmur and shake their heads again.

  Tell me, Professor. This dispute between Mr. Dawkins and Sir Anthony concerning the receipt for Beer Soup. Is Sir Anthony on firm ground to object? I mean to say, is this a serious matter to those who admire Beer Soup?”

  Ridley’s eyes opened wide. “Oh yes, indeed it is a serious matter, Montclaire. A very serious matter. The entire Club was troubled by Dawkins’ unorthodox assertion.” Then, his eyes narrowed. “It is a sacrilege, eh.”

  “I see,” said Montclaire, “and among the members of the Club, it was Sir Anthony who appeared most outraged at the ‘sacrilege’?”

  “No, I would not say that,” said Ridley, taking a moment to consider. “I believe, in fact, that Chambers was most animated in his objection. Had harshest words with Dawkins. I confess that I gave him a good thick piece of my mind too.” Chambers looked at his hands and said nothing.

  “Was anything said that night about the dispute? The night Dawkins may have ingested the poison?”

  “No. Everyone was on good behaviour and in good cheer. I suppose we were all sensible of the Christmas Season. It seemed to me, in fact, that hard feelings might well have been put aside and that Dawkins might have climbed down from his ridiculous assertion.”

  Changing the subject, Montclaire asked, “Who in the kitchen might have had access to Dawkins’ bowl that evening?”

  “Yes. Well, we were all in and out of the kitchen you see. After all, the Club prepares the soup, of course. When it came time to dine, we all gathered in the servants' dining room, just off the kitchen. When dinner was served, it was Peters and his sister who served, as usual.”

  “When the bowls were filled, it was Peters and Catherine then who had the greatest access to them?”

  Ridley considered for a moment. “Yes, I would say so.”

  Montclaire lapsed into a long, thoughtful silence. No one spoke, as we looked at each other and glanced occasionally at our feet. Just as I was sure that Ridley and the others had concluded they were being dismissed, Montclaire looked up.

  “Gentlemen,” he finally said, “your problem is an interesting one and your concern for your club member is touching. I will do my best for you. I will look into this matter and see what I can learn.”

  The three smiled broadly as each took Montclaire’s hand by turns and shook it vigorously.”

  2

  When the four had departed, I decided to ask Montclaire how he proposed to investigate such a crime -- and especially in England and while the official police were already on the hunt.

  “It’s no good, Montclaire. Scotland Yard – this Detective Fish – is not going to welcome your intrusion. And that’s exactly how they are going to see it – an intrusion.”

  “Of course, you are right mon vieux, and so we must tread lightly, but tread we must because I have promised old Ridley and the others our help. And of course, this is an historic opportunity.”

  “Historic?”

  “I have never before acted on behalf of a Soup Club,” he smiled, “and this Beer Soup Club may well be the only one of its kind in the world.”

  What the historic nature of the occasion had to do with anything was well beyond me, but Montclaire seemed to attach great significance to it. I wanted to argue the point further, mainly because I still envisioned a restful Christmas Season devoted to music, theater, and friends. In place of plum pudding, wassail, and carols, Montclaire was prepared to serve up a generous ration of Beer Soup, poison, and murder. The thought of spending the Season in pursuit of a poisoner put me off and I was about to tell Montclaire. But then I considered it would do no good. There was no diverting Montclaire from a problem, once he’d picked up the scent.

  “Well, then what?” I asked, still peeved.

  “Let us examine the possible scene of the crime. The kitchen and dining room and perhaps even have a word or two with the footman, Peters, if he is here.”

  It took but a minute to find the Carlton Club’s steward, Mr. Brightly, and to explain our interest. He seemed understandably guarded to learn that we wanted to snoop around the Club’s premises but agreed nonetheless.

  “This is a terrible thing for the Carlton Club, Monsieur de Montclaire. You can see that of course. Any hint of scandal at the Carlton Club is unthinkable. Just unthinkable!” he fretted and then sighed.

  “I quite understand, Mr. Brightly. My inquiries, which are unofficial and undertaken on behalf of the Beer Soup Club, will be most discreet, I assure you.”

  Somehow Brightly did not seem relieved by Montclaire’s assurance. More like reconciled I would say.

>   “Very well, Monsieur. I will trust to what you say.”

  Brightly showed us through the kitchen, where the Club prepared its monthly feasts and the small room, just off the kitchen, where the members dined.

  “It’s all the usual run of kitchen, Monsieur. Just a kitchen and private dining room.” He shrugged.

  “Yes, I see,” Montclaire agreed, as he looked around.

  “Is Peters on duty just now,” he suddenly asked, turning to Brightly.

  “No. He’s gone for the day, but you may find him at his post at 9 o’clock tomorrow.”

  As Montclaire turned to return to the Club bar, Brightly added. “Oh and by the way, the man from Scotland Yard – his name is Detective Fish, I believe. He was here earlier. Asked to see the kitchen and dining room and also inquired after Peters. Same as you.”

  Montclaire smiled, apparently at the parallel between his own investigation and that of the Metropolitan Police.

  3

  Thanking Mr. Brightly, Montclaire and I returned briefly to the bar, and then to his uncle’s house in Grosvenor Square. We talked no more of the odd problem of the Beer Soup Club until the next morning. In the meantime, I spent a restless night with dreams that somehow mixed Christmas with poisons. When I awakened several times in the night, it was always with thoughts of poison. Little wonder I had no taste for breakfast and suffered an unusually queasy feeling in my stomach, as I watched Montclaire enjoy his toast and slice. Finally, I asked, “Will we begin by seeking out Peters, or do you plan another approach?”

  “Oui, bien sûr, we must speak with Peters and his sister also, but first there is another interview that will serve us well.”

  “Oh?”

  “Dawkins, we are told, died at home, and apparently in the early morning.”