The Empire Club Murders (Paperback)

Chapter 1
Friday, 20th December 1929

‘Ladies and gentlemen. If you could resume your seats for the charity auction, please.’

Thomas Yates turned to wave at the waiters standing behind him on the dais and instead struck the microphone stand, sending it flying. He lunged for the stand, flailing desperately with both hands, his pale blue eyes wide and startled beneath his white eyebrows. One of the waiters came to his rescue, took hold of the stand, and set it by the elderly treasurer. Yates nodded his thanks and mopped his brow with a handkerchief.

Silly old buffer, Dickie Waite thought, leaning against the rear wall of the function room where he could be out of the way of the club’s revellers. They had stopped paying him any attention some while ago, had ceased to cast disdainful looks at his shabby dinner jacket and trousers, bought second-hand the year before for a cousin’s wedding and not at all the proper attire for such a fancy do as this. He was quite obviously out of the wrong drawer, an oddity in their club, and the members had dealt with him by pretending he didn’t exist. Dickie didn't mind; it suited him this way. It meant he could watch.

And watch he did as the evening wore on and the members of the Empire Club gave themselves up to fun. Balloons that had been pinned to the picture rails now floated around the room, only to be kicked away when they reached the floor by feet encased in patent leather pumps or elegant silver and gold satin heels. Streamers dangling from the crystal chandeliers tickled the bare shoulders of the women while men tugged others down to pile on their slick-backed hair or hang around their necks like paper boas, giggling at the ridiculous figures they cut.

His editor, Bill Edwards, had sent Dickie to cover the event for the newspaper, telling him while he was there to sound out whether some of the members would be interested in featuring in some profiles about the area’s most eminent residents. He’d told him who to talk to and given him a camera to take some snaps. Dickie had asked if it was such a good idea. With the world as it was, with so many people struggling to make ends meet as work dried up and investments dwindled to nothing, did Edwards really want to fill the pages of The Chronicle with stories about the upper classes and how wonderful and exciting their lives were?

‘You’re bloody right I do,’ Edwards had retorted. ‘People want to be taken out of themselves. They love reading about glamorous parties and nobs living it up.’
And Dickie, looking around the room, had to admit his editor was right. Women readers would want to know about the dresses the female club members were wearing, what colour feathers they had stuck in their sequined headbands, the size of the jewels they wore, while male readers would be interested in knowing how their betters earned a living, what brand of cigarettes they smoked, which cocktails they drank. If only Dickie could be as interested, but covering society affairs, even if it was for charity, wasn’t why he’d become a reporter.

As soon as the four-course dinner was over – Dickie swiped a menu to see what they’d had and raised his eyebrows at the smoked salmon, pate de foie gras, sirloin of beef and peaches in Chartreuse jelly listed there – the mingling began. Dickie saw men bend over other men’s wives, their hands surreptitiously brushing bare skin even as they carried on a conversation with the husbands. The women’s expressions gave nothing away, but their bodies responded, pressing back against the fingers, rosy flushes creeping up their throats to deepen the rouge rubbed delicately into their cheeks. How many of those trespassing fingers would be allowed further liberties later? Dickie wondered.

At Yates’s plea, the men returned to their seats, lighting the cigarettes stuffed into Bakelite holders clenched between their wives’ teeth before lighting their own. The room quietened as Yates banged a gavel.

‘Ladies and gentlemen. As you know, every year, we at the Empire Club hold an event to raise funds for a local charity. This year, we are raising money for the poor and needy children in this borough. A very worthwhile cause. I’m sure you’ll all agree.’ There was a faint murmuring, lacking in any sincerity, and Yates cleared his throat before continuing. ‘I would like to offer a very heartfelt note of gratitude to all of you and to the local businesses who have donated tonight’s auction items. So, let us begin.’

First to be auctioned were bottles of wine and champagne, all excellent vintages, Yates assured his audience, but they fetched unremarkable sums. The Cole Porter, Irving Berlin and various jazz gramophone records were bid on more enthusiastically, but it was when theatre tickets came up that the members really grew lively. The House That Jack Built, Ivor Novello’s show playing at The Adelphi, won plenty of bids, while La Traviata at Drury Lane struggled to find many takers but still made more money than Dickie earned in a month.

Yates was struggling to keep up with the bids and his calls for order were drowned out by the cheers the members made each time someone shouted a sum. He banged his gavel furiously as a man jumped onto the dais and elbowed him out of the way.

Dickie recognised him. This was Christopher Fairbank, dealer in fine art and antiques, and one of the men his editor wanted him to write about. A good-looking man with a square jaw, Fairbank could have passed for a film star, though one occupying an unmistakable middle age, and many of the women focused an admiring gaze upon him.

‘Let’s make this a little more interesting, shall we?’ Fairbank said, snatching the microphone away from Yates and angling it towards himself. ‘Ladies, what say you sell your kisses for charity?’
Squeals of delight greeted this suggestion and women clapped their hands like children being given a treat. Some even bounced on their chairs in excitement. The men seemed less taken with the idea. They smiled awkwardly at one another and busied themselves with their drinks.

Yates said something in Fairbank’s ear. Fairbank laughed and waved Yates away. The elderly treasurer stepped down from the dais and sank into his chair. His wife touched his arm and asked him something, but Yates shook his head, folded his arms firmly over his chest and turned his face away. Was he put out because Fairbank had deposed him, Dickie wondered, or because he disapproved of the direction the auction had taken?

‘So, come on,’ Fairbank called. ‘Who wants to be the first to sell themselves for a good cause?’

A sudden shyness came over the company and no lady admitted to being game. Fairbank’s brow creased and his square jaw hardened in irritation. Another man jumped up beside him. This, Dickie knew, was Archibald Ballantyne, an ageing Lothario if ever he’d seen one. His tails were perfectly tailored, but they couldn’t hide the expanding waistline, nor could the winged collar conceal his double chin. But what Ballantyne lacked in looks, he more than made up for in charm, a talent Dickie had witnessed for himself in court when Ballantyne the defence barrister would rise, resplendent in wig and robes, and expertly pick apart a witness’s testimony. Ballantyne’s preferred method of attack was to convince a witness they were wrong about what they thought they saw or overheard rather than batter away mercilessly to find the flaws in their statements. It was a method more often successful than not. Many a prosecution barrister’s case had been lost because they couldn’t compete with Ballantyne’s persuasive charm.

‘Now, come on, ladies. Don’t be shy. Marion,’ Ballantyne held out his hand to Mrs Stephen Goodall sitting at one of the front tables. ‘You’re a sport. Why don’t you show your friends how it’s done?’
Marion needed no further persuading. Ignoring her husband’s attempt to grab her wrist, she joined Ballantyne and Fairbank on the dais and presented herself to the crowd.

‘Look at this beauty,’ Ballantyne declared. ‘Now, who wouldn’t want a kiss from this goddess?’
Two men seated at a table a few feet away from Dickie sniggered. ‘Plenty of us have already had one,’ one said.
‘Had more than a kiss, old boy,’ replied the other. ‘Archie’s drawing it mild by calling her a sport.’
Men were calling out their bids, and Marion’s cheeks were rounding with pleasure as they continued to rise, stopping at five pounds. Fairbank declared the prize won and Marion stepped down to deliver herself up to the winner. This lucky man pulled Marion onto his lap, wrapped his arms around her waist, slid a hand over her rump, and the two kissed to the cheers and applause of the onlookers.

The shyness was gone. Two more women offered themselves, one fetching two pounds, the other three. Marion Goodall was glowing with delight that she had fetched more. Then Dickie saw Fairbank wink at an attractive strawberry blonde, and she stepped up beside him obediently.

‘The delicious Sophie Sutton, gentlemen,’ Ballantyne cried.

Men cheered, and bids came in thick and fast. Dickie saw Marion Goodall’s expression harden as the younger, prettier woman quickly surpassed her five pounds. Dickie shifted his gaze to the man who had been sitting next to Sophie Sutton and who he guessed was the lady’s husband. Mr Sutton’s face was stony, his jaw hard and tight, the hand resting on the table clenched into a fist.
The bids were slowing – eight pounds had been offered so far – when Fairbank waved his arms and quieted the room. ‘Twenty pounds,’ he cried, and grinned at Sophie. Her hands went to her mouth as a cheer, the loudest of the evening, burst from the audience. No one attempted to up the bid – was it too high a price to pay or was it understood Fairbank was not to be bettered? – and Fairbank took out his pocketbook and withdrew the requisite notes, slapping them down on the lectern in triumph. Then he held out his hand to Sophie and she went eagerly to him. His arms around her waist, Fairbank planted his lips on hers. Her hands gripped his shoulders, her body arched beneath his.
The kiss lasted too long. The cheers and laughter became muted. Men looked at each other, eyebrows rising. The women’s lips parted as they stared at the couple, fingers stroking their own collar bones distractedly, wishing themselves in Sophie’s place.

Andrew Sutton leapt to his feet. ‘FAIRBANK!’

A hush fell. Everyone was waiting to see what would happen next.

Fairbank withdrew his lips from Sophie’s with a practised laziness. ‘Yes, old chap?’

‘Enough,’ Sutton growled. ‘Sophie!’ He clicked his fingers at his wife and directed her to her chair.

Fury and indignation blooming on her face, Sophie disengaged herself from Fairbank and resumed her seat. She looked at no one as she grabbed her champagne glass and threw the contents down her throat.

They’ll have an almighty row later, Dickie thought grimly, glancing back at Ballantyne and Fairbank, who were grinning at one another. Yates had had enough. He jumped up onto the dais and gestured angrily at a nearby waiter to clear everything away. He spoke to Ballantyne, shaking his head in disapproval, and Ballantyne put a hand on his shoulder and nodded in agreement. Satisfied, Yates strode away, disappearing into the corridor. A few moments later, he returned with a three-man Ragtime band and busied himself with ordering them around as they set up on the stage.

Despite the general gaiety caused by the impromptu auction for kisses, Yates wasn’t the only one who didn’t seem to have enjoyed himself. Dickie noticed that quite a few of the members talked earnestly to each other, watching warily as Fairbank and Ballantyne moved around the room. There was a couple shaking their heads and stubbing out their cigarettes, disapproval evident in the erectness of their heads, the tightening of their lips and the critically raised eyebrows. Dickie’s eyes fell on another couple. These two stood out, being younger than the others, and the woman looking a good deal more stylish in her simple forest green silk-crepe dress than her overdressed, middle-aged companions. She was tall and willowy, with blonde hair curled in finger waves in the latest fashion. They were huddled together near one of the large French windows and it seemed to Dickie the woman was imploring the man to leave. She kept gesturing towards the doors, and when he grabbed hold of her hand, shaking her head as if she didn’t want to hear what he had to say. Maybe they wouldn’t be renewing their membership in the new year, Dickie mused wryly.

His gaze returned to Ballantyne and Fairbank as they chatted with members, lighting cigarettes and kissing hands, unabashed and unapologetic about the scene they had caused. They worked their way to the back of the room where Dickie stood, there joining three other men who nodded greetings at their approach. Dickie knew these three as well: Adrian Foucault, Donald Spencer and Eric Hailes.

‘Enjoying yourself, Kit?’ Spencer asked with a sly smile.

‘It’s my aim in life,’ Fairbank said, taking a glass from the tray of a passing waiter, following him with his eyes, an amused yet strangely inquisitive expression in them.

Dickie stared after the waiter, wondering what there was about him to pique Fairbank’s interest.

‘Twenty quid’s a bit steep, though, isn’t it?’

‘It’s an investment, Don. You’ll see.’

‘I don’t think her husband was amused,’ Foucault said, sipping at his champagne. ‘He’ll ask you to step outside later.’

‘Andrew hasn’t got the guts,’ Fairbank sneered, looking over his shoulder at the Suttons, sitting silently side by side, their bodies rigid with anger.

‘And the succulent Sophie?’ Hailes asked with an ugly leer. ‘You think she’ll play ball?’

‘After spending twenty quid on her? She better. I’ll tell you all about it, Eric.’

‘I might have a go myself,’ Hailes said. The others laughed at his ambition. ‘I could,’ he protested.

Ballantyne patted Hailes on the arm. ‘Aiming a bit high there, Eric. But don’t worry. We’ll find some shrivelled old virgin who won’t mind your clumsy fumbling. Now, I must get back to Florrie or some devil will be trying his luck with her.’

‘You still on for later?’ Spencer called as Ballantyne wandered away.

‘Oh, rather,’ Ballantyne said. ‘I wouldn’t miss that for the world.’

The other four moved off, and Dickie checked his watch. It had gone ten and he really couldn’t stand much more of watching these people enjoy themselves. He would call it a night, but he decided not to leave empty-handed, and wandered into the kitchen where the waiter who Fairbank had eyed with curiosity was emptying the remains of the dinner into the bin. He stared at Dickie out of the corner of his eye.
‘Mind if I take some of that?’ Dickie asked, gesturing at the leftovers on the kitchen table behind them.

‘Help yourself,’ the young man said and carried on scraping.

‘Thanks,’ Dickie said, pocketing vol-au-vents and wrapping wedges of cheese in his handkerchief. ‘What do you think of them?’

‘Who?’ the waiter frowned.

Dickie jerked his head at the door. ‘The members.’

The waiter jerked a shrug. ‘Not much.’

‘Give good tips, though, I expect.’

‘Not this lot. You’re lucky if you get so much as a thank you.’

‘The upper-middle-class,’ Dickie nodded understandingly. ‘They’re all the same.’

‘You’re not with them, are you? I heard Mr Yates say you're a reporter. So, what are you doing here?’

‘I’m supposed to be writing about them for the ’paper.’

The waiter made a face. ‘Why would you want to do that? What’s so special about them?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but picked up the stack of plates and carried them through to the scullery.

Dickie watched him go, thinking it was a bloody good question.