Clubbed to Death by Ruth Dudley Edwards Read Free Book Online

on a decent script. At this moment Ramsbum’s relaxed posture changed dramatically. He became completely rigid, arms by his sides, legs together and eyes shut tight: he appeared to be awaiting inspiration. At a loss, Amiss stood there irresolute. After a minute or so, Ramsbum opened his eyes, gazed fixedly at Amiss and recited:
‘To all young men that love to woo,
To kiss and dance, and tumble too;
Draw near and counsel take of me,
Your faithful pilot I will be;
Kiss who you please, Joan, Kate, or Mary,
But still this counsel with you carry,
Never marry.
    There’s a poem says it all. One of my gentlemen taught it to me. It’s by that Rochester bloke.’
    Amiss had a fruitless stab at trying to imagine Joan, Kate or Mary tumbling with Ramsbum and then wisely concluded that it was time to go to bed. With the amount of alcohol he had on board he could not be sure of playing any further conversation with Ramsbum as tactfully as he would wish.
    ‘That’s excellent, Mr Ramsbum. Thank you. I enjoyed it and I understand how you feel. I’ve often wondered why all these chaps want to get tied down. Now could you be very kind and direct me to my room.’
    Ramsbum smiled the smile of pure malevolence that Amiss had come to expect of him. ‘Oh yes, your quarters, m’lord,’ he said. ‘Yes indeed. I ’ope your lordship’ll find everything to your satisfaction. ’Old on. ’ Donning a pair of small round plastic spectacles which he had extracted from a hidden pocket in the skirts of his frock-coat, he shambled over to the porter’s desk and ferreted around.
    ‘ ’Ere we are,’ he said. ‘You’re in with young Sunil. Room seventeen on the fifth floor.’
    ‘So what do I do, Mr Ramsbum?’ asked Amiss respectfully. ‘Take the lift to the fifth and then…’
    ‘Lift!’ said Ramsbum. ‘Lift! You’re a servant. The committee don’t ’old with servants using the lift.’
    ‘But I’ve got a very heavy suitcase, Mr Ramsbum.’
    ‘Well, you’ll just have to hump it up the stairs as best you can, won’t you. The back stairs, that is. The gentlemen wouldn’t like to have the likes of you going up the front stairs out of uniform.’
    A red haze swam in front of Amiss’s eyes, but he remembered the dead Trueman and waited until it had passed. ‘Very well, then, Mr Ramsbum. So it’s straight up the back stairs. Five flights?’
    ‘More like eight,’ said Ramsbum. ‘Anyway, you can’t miss it. But mind you go quietly and don’t wake any of the gentlemen. Colonel Fagg, he goes mad if anyone wakes him up. Comes out of his room like a rocket and you’re out on your ear.’
    ‘I’ll be careful, Mr Ramsbum. Thank you for the advice,’ said Amiss levelly. Picking up his suitcase he headed towards the back staircase.
    He had reached the top of the fourth carpeted flight of stairs when he realised he was now in the members’ bedroom corridor. A wooden board entitled ‘Bedroom Orders’, with slots for names, was on the wall to his left. He recognised the names of Blenkinsop, Fagg and Glastonbury and was interested to learn that the three witnesses to Trueman’s last moments all appeared to live in the club. As he tiptoed to the next flight he was distracted by a dreadful howling sound, worse than Plutarch at her most aggrieved. It was immediately succeeded by snorting and choking, a silence, then a repetition of the howl. Amiss stood aghast. Suddenly the sequence was interrupted by a crash, an oath and an answering oath, under cover of which Amiss began to climb silently and wearily up the next staircase. He made a mental note to find out who was the snorer and who the complainant; certainly the latter would have a very sound motive for murder.
    There was no longer any carpet underfoot – merely drugget, a material he recalled from nineteenth-century novels dealing with servants’ quarters. However, it ran out in its turn as he reached the next storey, occupied, Sunil had told him, by upper servants. The next