Live and Let Drood

going,” I said. “We’ve got a club to search.”
    We pressed deeper into the Establishment Club, and most of the members we passed along the way took one look at us and immediately took pains to make themselves scarce. Middle-aged and old men, mostly, no one even remotely young or youthful. This was a club for people who’d made it, not those on the way up. There were apparently no women members, either. The Establishment Club had been around a long time, and clung to its ancient privileges and prejudices. Members disappeared through open doorways or hurried into other rooms or just pressed themselves back against the walls as Molly and I passed, before heading for the exit at speed. They knew terrible and imminent danger when they saw it.
    The various servants just moved briskly to get out of our way and carried on about their business, watching Molly and me with unmoved faces and unblinking eyes. They were all of them dressed in the same old-fashioned formal uniform, with a bloodred waistcoat over a starched white shirt, knee-britches and highly polished shoes. They looked like something out of the last century, or possibly even the one before that. They all had the same very pale aspect, as though they didn’t get out often enough.
    Molly and I took turns to peer into various rooms along the way, looking for Crow Lee, but they were all very much the same. Every comfort and luxury, but in a determinedly old-fashioned and traditional way. No televisions, no computers, nothing electronic. This was an old-school gentlemen’s club, whose main attraction was that it had absolutely no intention of moving with the times. Rich and successful-looking businessmen were everywhere, reclining in huge oversized leather chairs, or sleeping with their mouths open, like satisfied cats. Some read broadsheets or upmarket magazines or the better kind of book and made loud shushing sounds at the slightest unexpected noise.Until they looked up and saw Molly and me, at which point they hid behind whatever they were reading until we were safely past.
    Finally the club’s steward came forward to meet us. Presumably because our reputation had preceded us. He was tall and painfully slender, in the same formal outfit, and with the same disturbingly pale face and steady gaze. In fact, his face was entirely expressionless as he came to an abrupt halt before us. He bowed stiffly and addressed us in a dry and dusty voice.
    “Might I enquire your names, sir and madam, and what I might best do to assist you? On the grounds that the sooner we get that done and get you out of here, the sooner we can get back to normal around here.”
    “Eddie Drood and Molly Metcalf,” I said grandly. “Is that going to be a problem?”
    “Oh no, sir,” said the Steward, just a bit surprisingly. “You are a member in good standing, Mr. Edwin. Everyone in your family is, and has been for centuries. Mr. Matthew used to come in all the time to avail himself of the club’s wine cellars. The young lady is, of course, entirely welcome as your guest. How may I assist you?”
    “Matthew always did like a free drink,” I said. “And I think I could murder something tall and frosty, too. How about you, Molly?”
    “I could drink,” said Molly. “In fact, after the day I’ve had, I think I could drink quite a lot.”
    The steward issued the very faintest of sighs, and I looked interestedly to see if dust would come out of his mouth. It didn’t. He led us down a corridor or two and into the club bar. Everyone else in the bar immediately decided they were needed urgently elsewhere. In fact, there was a bit of a rush and a definite crush in the door, for a moment. Molly and I lined up at the bar, and the barman came forward to serve us. A tall, grey-faced figure in the same old-fashioned outfit, with deep-set eyes, a cadaverous face and a professional smile. He gave the impression he’d been serving behind that bar for quite some time.
    “How long have you been here, barman?” said Molly, her thoughts clearly running the same way as mine.
    “I have always been here, madam,” said the barman, in a cool if distant voice. “What is your pleasure, sir and madam?”
    I had an ice-cold bottle of Becks. Molly had a bottle of Beefeater gin. The barman served them both immediately from under the bar counter, as though he’d had them there prepared and waiting all along. And then he just stood there, waiting for his next instructions. I took a slow reflective