23

Rollo led us into the dining room, and I began to feel a little more comfortable.

The room was light and airy, and it looked a bit like the Raffles Hotel from Crazy Rich Asians, all rattan furniture and leafy green plants, very Empire. (There was that word again.)

Expensive-looking couples talked in hushed tones over the candles and silver cutlery, and groups of important-looking men huddled together in important-looking clothes having important-sounding conversations.

‘Four of us today, Jack,’ Rollo announced in the doorway to the tailcoated maître d’. You obviously didn’t have to book if you were Rollo de Warlencourt.

‘Very good, my lord.’

We started to walk, but this new Jack got in Shafeen’s face before he could fully enter the room. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but might I assist you with a tie?’

Rollo turned back. ‘Ah yes. Mea culpa. Should have told you. Neckties for dinner, old boy. Club rules, you know. Jack will give you a club tie.’

The smooth maître d’ guy had already produced one, magician-like, from his sleeve. It was a bottle-green colour, bearing a discreet gold imprint of a stag’s head. It looked refined, classy and very, very expensive.

Shafeen looked at the thing dangling from the maître d’s hand as if it were a snake. I saw that his cheeks had a high colour, as Nel’s had over the phone incident, and that this was his particular humiliation. Rollo had neglected to tell us about either the phone or the tie rules. Was it deliberate or genuine forgetfulness? Either way, I wondered what my humiliation would be.

To begin with, I didn’t think that Shafeen would put the tie on – yesterday’s Shafeen wouldn’t have. But after a long moment, never breaking eye contact with the maître d’, he turned up his collar. He took the thing from Jack’s hand and expertly tied the tie, flipping it and tucking it rapidly, turning his back to the dining room as he did so, as if he did not want to be seen, as if he was doing something shameful. When he turned back I could see at once how much the green tie suited him. The newest Jack of the evening clearly agreed with me. ‘Very nice, sir,’ he said, and got out of Shafeen’s way, holding out a white gloved hand to usher him into the room.

We followed Rollo to the best table in the room, right next to a series of tall windows, looking out onto the festive darkness of St James’s, with a constellation of Christmas lights piercing the night. I noticed that between all the tables, including our own, were glass cases full of odd-looking animals, peeping out of this strange jungle of hothouse greenery and rattan chairs. They weren’t quite recognisable, but all looked a bit like something. You know that card game where the top half is one animal, and the bottom half is another? They were all like that. The one nearest to our table was a bird with a hooked beak, half puffin, half pelican, and I thought I had seen this one before, in Disney’s Alice in Wonderland. As I sat in the chair Jack pulled out for me, I asked, ‘Is that a dodo?’

‘Yes. That’s the very last chap,’ Rollo said with something like relish. ‘He died in 1700 and he’s been here ever since. They are all extinct if you look …’ He waved an expansive hand around the room, indicating all the glass cases. That was obviously why all the creatures looked so weird – they had kicked the Darwinian bucket; they were aberrations, too strange to live. I didn’t feel that it would be the moment to ask if the STAGS members had actually made them all extinct by killing the last specimen of each, but I wouldn’t have been at all surprised.

Shafeen, leaning back to lay a snowy napkin in his lap, asked: ‘How long has the club been here, sir?’

‘Since 1690,’ said Rollo. ‘My ancestor Edwin de Warlencourt was one of the founder members. And then George de Warlencourt, the one who put the new frontage on Longcross, he used to sit at this very window table with Lord Longleat. He once bet Longleat 30,000 sovereigns on which raindrop was going to get to the bottom of this windowpane first.’ He tapped on the glass next to him with his signet ring. The sound made me uncomfortable – and the ring made me think of Henry.

‘Did he win?’ asked Nel.

Rollo smiled a wolf’s grin. ‘What d’ye think paid for the frontage?’ He smoothed his own napkin over his thighs. ‘And of course, the duelling in those days. My goodness. Hardy – beg pardon, Shafeen will have told you ladies about the fencing board. That’s what they call it. It’s a like an elongated chessboard upstairs, where the chaps used to fight. Quite a few wingings and woundings back in the day, and a couple of deaths.’ He spoke of the combatants like they were hunting fowl. ‘Of course,’ he said with a smile, ‘the duelling has tailed off somewhat nowadays.’

I didn’t think so. I thought the duelling was still very much going on. I hadn’t missed Rollo calling Shafeen Hardy. As careless with names as ever.

‘Jill.’ Rollo raised his hand to a passing waitress. ‘A bottle of the Sancerre, please.’

Jill brought the wine and also some small starters, which, like the things in the glass cases, all looked a bit like something but were not totally familiar.

‘Can I pass you ladies anything?’ asked the earl. ‘Looks like Patum Peperium and Welsh rarebit.’

I didn’t know what any of that was, but I was pretty hungry, having not eaten since the Oxford Starbucks, so I fixed on a word I recognised. ‘Well, I don’t want to eat rabbit. Even Welsh ones. So I’ll have the other one.’

He looked slightly surprised. ‘It’s not rabbit. It’s rarebit.’

I was no wiser.

‘Sort of cheese on toast, with milk and mustard,’ whispered Shafeen.

Well, that sounded disgusting. So I took the other choice off the proffered silver platter: a neat little triangle of toast spread with something brown. I took a tiny bite. It was mega-fishy. I made one of those polite faces people make when they are tasting food on cooking shows.

‘What is it?’ I murmured to Shafeen out of the side of my mouth.

‘Gentleman’s Relish,’ said Shafeen.

I gave him a look.

‘Anchovy paste,’ he expanded hurriedly.

Since I’d spent a lifetime picking anchovies off my pizzas, I left the little toast discreetly on the side of my plate.

The next issue was that I couldn’t see a menu. I made the charades sign for a book opening to Nel, and she shrugged; clearly she wasn’t going to ask, after the phone disaster. I wasn’t about to prod Shafeen either, after the tie thing. ‘Is there a menu?’ I asked eventually.

Rollo shook his handsome head. ‘Jack or Jill will tell us the bill of fare. All seasonal, you know. All seasonal. Sinful to eat out of season, eh?’

Sure enough, a different Jill came over to the table and told us the specials. ‘This evening we have grey partridge with roasted vegetables and a red-wine jus, chicken curry with jasmine rice and Scotch woodcock with Cheddar-and-chive mash.’

OK. After the rabbit thing I was determined to get this right. The other three chose the partridge, then it was my turn.

‘Hmm, two game birds,’ I said, showing off a bit. ‘Which one to choose? I think I’ll get the Scotch woodcock.’ I could see Shafeen shaking his head, trying to stop my flow. I couldn’t interpret the signal, so I ploughed on. ‘I suppose I’ll have to pick out the shot. That’s right, isn’t it?’ I turned to Rollo, who was looking a bit amused. ‘When I was at Longcross – the first time – I had a pheasant with all the little bullets in it.’ I always babbled when I was nervous, and I was babbling now. ‘So I’ll have the woodcock, please, but leave the shot on the side.’

Jill looked at Rollo, then back at me. ‘Erm, that won’t be necessary, miss. Scotch Woodcock is scrambled eggs, capers and anchovies on toast.’

‘Ah. OK. I mean, yes, I know,’ I said faintly. ‘I’ll have that.’

I hid my scarlet face in my wine glass. It had been a long time coming, but I’d been taken down too. Dumb club. Nothing here was what it seemed. People had names that weren’t their own, fowl were eggs and rabbits were cheese. Once again, I felt I was Through the Looking Glass.

When the food came, it was, as you might expect, absolutely delicious – like a really top restaurant, which, I suppose, it was. The only gross bit was the anchovies, which I ended up having to pick out as usual. It might as well have been a Domino’s.

Rollo waved his fork in Shafeen’s direction. ‘Thought you’d’ve had the curry. It’s jolly good here.’

Nel and I froze at this and looked at Shafeen. If there was one thing I knew about him, it was that he wouldn’t ever order the curry. He’d once told me that he never ordered it outside of Rajasthan because it didn’t compare to the cuisine at home, but I thought today he’d had a different reason. I thought he wanted to fit in.

Rollo ploughed on. ‘Reminds me of the time your father made us have it at Longcross. Gave us quite a shock.’

It was a surprise to hear that Aadhish had made a point of having curry at Longcross. He must have been one brave kid.

Shafeen put down his knife and fork and looked Rollo straight in the eye. Maybe it was his father’s courage that made him brave enough to ask then what he did. ‘Was my father afraid of you?’

‘Of me?’ Rollo sounded genuinely surprised, rather than shocked or angry. ‘No, old chap. Never in this world.’

Shafeen said carefully, ‘I thought he was bullied.’

‘Is that what he told you?’ asked Rollo gently.

‘No.’ Shafeen took a sip of wine. ‘He never said a word about STAGS.’

‘And yet he sent you there. Doesn’t that say something? A chap doesn’t send his only son into danger.’

Rollo could have been talking about Henry, but there was no tell-tale sign of grief – no tear in the eye, no catch in the voice, nothing.

‘So he wasn’t bullied?’ I asked.

‘Well –’ Rollo drummed his fingers uncomfortably on his chair arm – ‘one does always beast the new chap rather. But no, he wasn’t afraid of me.’ And then he said something entirely unexpected. ‘I admired him greatly. I would have liked him to be a member here. I would like you to be a member here.’ He leaned forward, persuasive. ‘Think about it, Hardy. That –’ he tapped the knot of his tie – ‘could be yours for real.’ I don’t know if Shafeen noticed the name slip again or not – but I did. I’d been wrong. Shafeen wasn’t taking Henry’s place at all. He was taking the place Rollo had intended for Aadhish all those years ago. Was the earl trying to make amends for something?

Rollo was super-charming for the rest of the meal; part, I was sure, of the hard sell on Shafeen. But we all benefited. He couldn’t have been more hospitable. He pressed us all to have the pudding of the day – spookily called ‘Morgan’s pudding’. It was autumn pears and blackberries, and every mouthful reminded me of Ty. Why had she called Nel? Had she left a message? I was suddenly impatient to go, to be reunited with Nel’s phone, but there was the compulsory coffee and brandy still to come. After that there was another wait – Shafeen excused himself to go to the toilet. He’d been drinking more than he usually did – a sure sign that he was enjoying himself. With a sinking heart, I knew that him joining the STAGS Club was as good as a done deal.

I thought it would be a bit awks making conversation while Shafeen was gone, but Rollo sprang up too, excusing himself to talk to some other powerful person he’d spotted. He was working the room, pressing backs and elbows, patting shoulders, clearly persuading everyone in sight to come to Longcross. Nel and I talked softly, about nothing much, both united in the feeling that anything private would have to wait. We were interrupted by the return of Shafeen, looking pretty peculiar.

‘What’s the matter?’ I said, alarmed. ‘Did someone steal your lunch money?’

He looked sick, and was taking off the club tie as if it burned him.

‘What happened?’ asked Nel.

‘I wouldn’t join this place in a million years.’ He said it so forcefully that the people nearest to us turned to look.

I pulled him down into his chair. ‘What are you talking about?’ I hissed. ‘What happened?’

‘The urinals in the toilets. They’re Pygmies. Actual Pygmies.’

‘What? Real people?’ My mind couldn’t grasp what Shafeen was saying.

He snorted. ‘No, they stopped short of that. Some colonial booty from somewhere or other in the Empire of the STAG. If I was to guess, I would say they were made of ebony.’ He looked straight at me, quite his old self again. ‘You piss into their mouth, Greer.’

‘No way!’

‘I swear to God. Go and have a look.’

I shook my head. ‘That’s definitely not something I’m going to do. It’s the men’s toilet. What if the Foreign Secretary or somebody is having a pee?’

‘Just hang around,’ he said. ‘Someone will come out at some point. Then just look in the door. I’ll say you’ve both gone to the toilet.’

‘Oh, come on,’ said Nel, dragging me up. ‘Rollo’ll be back in a minute.’

We found the gents, which had, of course, a stag’s head with antlers on it. The ladies – indicated by a deer with no antlers – was next door, so we hung about, pretending we were waiting for a friend. Then someone came out of the gents and just for a second we had a glimpse of the inside. I saw rows of little black men, ebony-dark and shining, cruelly caricatured with pot bellies, Afro hair and rings in their ears. Their heads were thrown back and their giant mouths wide, utterly humiliated, baby birds waiting gladly and humbly for the bounty that was coming.

Then the door closed on the nightmarish scene. Sickened, Nel and I looked at each other. She said what we were both thinking. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’

When we returned to the table Shafeen and Rollo were ready to go. Subdued, we filed down the stairs after our host to the cloakroom, where Nel exchanged her numbered ticket for her phone. Jackdaw – for it was he – handed the Saros back without a word.

‘Did Ty leave a message?’ I asked as the gentlemen shrugged on their coats.

‘No,’ whispered Nel. Then she said slowly, ‘Or if she did, it’s not there now.’

‘Huh?’

She looked at me, blue eyes very direct. ‘They had the phone for at least an hour.’

I understood. The phone, that savage little Trojan horse we’d brought into the STAGS Club, had given us away. We’d been found out, and we were no longer welcome. I suddenly felt that we were very exposed in that grand marble atrium, that there were eyes and ears everywhere. I couldn’t wait to be gone. Jackdaw walked to the door and held it open for us, and the icy blast from the chill street seemed as welcoming as a hug. Jack did not look at us but acknowledged Rollo with a polite nod. That farewell summed up the evening.

‘Doesn’t say much, does he?’ I grumbled, once the giant had gone back inside.

‘That’s because he can’t,’ said Rollo, waving to his driver.

‘What, he’s not allowed to?’ I thought this was going a bit far, even for the STAGS Club.

‘No, he physically can’t,’ said the earl, stamping his feet a little against the cold. ’He’s mute.’

Rollo was looking impatiently left and right for the car, so he probably missed our astonished faces. ‘Jackdaw was a boxer in the East End,’ he explained. ‘He lost the power of speech from a boxing injury. We helped him out, that’s all. The STAGS like to do our bit for the community – employ the disabled, all that.’

That so didn’t sound like something that the STAGS cared about. As we waited for Rollo’s chauffeur-driven vintage Rolls-Royce to creak to a halt in front of us, I thought it was more likely that Jackdaw had been hired for a less charitable reason. I remembered in the Sherlock Holmes stories that the doorman of the Great Detective’s own club – the Diogenes – was a mute, so he couldn’t share the members’ secrets. I looked back at the smart but shuttered frontage of the club and thought about the Pygmy toilets and the STAGS chair squatting evilly in that secret room.

If Jackdaw couldn’t speak, he couldn’t tell.