Latham Linglurthy (of the infamous Linglurthys of Cornwall and the tragic mining disaster) had always been considered handsome, a roust-about in the circles he traveled, and a notorious womanizer! His charm, wit, taste, and refinement were well known, but without the usual archness of effete snobbery. He was classy and chic, but somehow still very masculine... almost rugged, with the faint threat of lusty roughness that one would expect from a loiterer down on the docks... But there Latham was as usual, on the covers of Fashion Gazettes, modeling the latest in cashmere blazers or silk cut-velvet smoking jackets. Or perhaps strolling the golf links in a Donegal tweed Norfolk jacket and plus-fours.

His vanity was well-deserved (no one seemed to begrudge him his good-looks!) and besides, he wore his vanity lightly, like a cable-knit sweater thrown over his shoulders to keep off the chill of ordinariness. What a fine fellow, so hale and hearty, and what a treat it was for friends and casual acquaintances (even eager strangers!) to see him sidle into the club and up to the bar at cocktail hour. He'd hop up on his favorite green leather stool in the middle of the far side where he could survey, converse, tease, and chide (if necessary!) anyone else in view!... and what a view he had. He'd order one of his usuals... and the barmen all knew his precise requirements; the "Guernsey Gimlet" (fresh cream, Sapphire gin, a splash of bitters, some simple syrup, and a maraschino cherry, but imported from the town of Maraschino in Dalmatia itself! (None of those cheap local remakes from Leamington... or worse, Fitzwaldo!!) And the cocktail was to be stirred, NOT shaken! "Why not throw it in a butter churn if you're going to bruise the cream that way!?", Latham would yowl loudly at all his rapt listeners! He would also order his special and exotic snacks from the dining room, but eat them at the bar to show his egalitarian streak.... caviar, chopped onion, cream cheese, and catnip sandwiches on rosemary focaccia toast points, but WITHOUT the crusts, please!... and could he possibly have just the hint of a shmear of mayonnaise on ONE side of the toast?

His friends always ordered whatever his latest food discovery was, and the chefs obeyed all his fine tuning when he would visit their elaborate kitchens, both at the clubs and the gourmet restaurants around town. He was one of the very few allowed this luxury, and indeed he was eagerly sought! When he would stroll back through the dining rooms after such a visit, he would receive a round of hearty applause from the diners as if HE were the "chef de maison" instead of just another guest...and all the wait-staff knew that Latham was NEVER just another guest. The tips on the night that they would receive when he held sway in any given place would double, mostly because he would saunter around greeting close friends and strangers alike with the same graciousness mixed with an almost conspiratorial intimacy..... his presence made everyone know that part of being privileged was to be generous...with all people. It would be unthinkable to be caught undertipping the staff, either accidentally (because one was too stupid to know better!), or worse (because one was too base-born and pinched to do what is only right!).

There was the story of some phenomenally wealthy commodities broker who dealt in imported haddock and pilchards, who had tipped the staff a paltry 3% on a six course feast that had cost hundreds. Oh, what a foolish mistake!... Latham was notified by an outraged hat check girl (they are the most dangerous!...dear God, you never know WHAT might be hidden in your chapeau as you leave a restaurant!), and, since he had had four, count'em FOUR of his Guernsey Gimlets by that time, he apparently stormed into the main dining salon knocking over a chair (with Mrs. Charlesy Arbuthnot still in it!) and descended on the pompous fishmonger in fury! Screeching at the top of his lungs in language that one usually only hears in alleyways of the most disreputable sort, he proceeded to berate the lout about his geographical background, his possible ethnicities, his waistline, his mother's reputed profession, her anatomical parts, and his misguided use of the words "Valentime's", "supposably", "exspecially", "joolery", and "irregardless"! THAT, and undertipping were things that Latham could not...and WOULD NOT abide. It was all over before anyone could move.! With the speed of a cheetah, he had drawn a lovely little revolver from his panne velvet waistcoat and emptied it into the surprised face of the fish 'n' finance magnate. There was stunned silence... even the peacocks strolling in the Garden Terrace stopped dead and stared. (Latham had spoken to them brusquely on occasion too when they had dared to beg for scraps at table-side!) Then finally there was a single scream... (it was Kiki Arbuthnot realizing there was a little mustard on her hem as she managed her way back up to her table)... The fish person stood for just a moment more as if too stupid to realize that he had just taken four sweet-little-but-very-deadly bullet-ettes directly into various parts of his doltish head. He weaved a little, as if drunk, which he may have been as well, and then began to go down. One of the servers thought he heard him mumble, "But that's not fair.".... a water boy from Java thought he said "You've mussed my hair."... whatever. He hit the floor with a surprisingly uninteresting thud. The deed was done. Latham had killed a man over undertipping... and perhaps also "irregardless" and "exspecially". Everyone looked at everyone else (and noticed what a fine turn-out it had been that night!..... didn't Deirdre Hastellberry look radiant only two weeks after having the twins!)... and then they all slowly sat down.

The Maître D', the staff manageress, and the chefs all came out and conferred. Several of the most prominent and respected diners including two duchesses (both sisters… and identical twins!), two famous barristers (their husbands), a Nobel prize winner, eight millionaires, one billionaire (but he tried to keep it as low-key as possible), an opera star, a ballet star, a stage star, a movie star, and a rodeo star (whatever THAT was!) all agreed; the police should be called.... but after dessert and the cheese course... and a fine dessert wine or some brandies! Let the busing staff remove the body and the surly wife. Of course there would be questions and the usual detective work... measurements, and trajectories, and eye-witness stories with the fascinating embellishments and whispered intimacies between civilians and authorities "in Charge". The staff was instructed to destroy and contaminate as much evidence as possible, perhaps even to take their "staff meal" at the victim's table before the police arrived. The duchesses bought the staff several bottles of expensive champagne and an extra course of the "Truffes et Caviar Surpriseen en Croute avec Sauce au Chocolat Fondu"... one of Latham's very favorites. Latham, meanwhile, had been led away by a flock of admirers and well wishers, congratulating him on his aim, patting him on the back, and scratching behind his ears. The head barman, Mr. Floozleton, poured him a double Guernsey Gimlet and also a large Turkish coffee, so that Latham would be sharp as a tack when the police finally arrived. Everyone in all parts of the gorgeous restaurant thought it was a great adventure and couldn't wait for Scotland yard to show up.... "Why it will be just like a Jane Marple mystery!", Kiki cried happily, before someone pointed out that Agatha Christie had been sitting at the next table all night, and then introduced her over their Sambucas and Drambuies. And that was that. ...no, really! That was THAT.

The police came... although sullenly, and very late when they heard who the victim was. Apparently, the first caller was hung up on by the desk sergeant, and he was heard to say, "Oh, that Mother's ARSE!" before the loud click. A redialed call got slightly more attention from the assistant sergeant who said that a patrolman might drop by later if all the officers weren't having cocoa and biscuits. "Please be patient, but lock up the restaurant if you must, and we'll see you in the morning...maybe 11-ish?"....

Finally, however, a phalanx of police DID show up close to one in the morning, but only because the dessert chef had promised them a generous course of the same "Truffes et Caviar Surpriseen en Croute avec Sauce au Chocolat Fondu" which had gone over so well with the wait staff. Some questions were asked, an area around the victim's table was cordoned off (AFTER the police had finished their treats and brandies and smoked their imported cigars and told shocking and thrilling stories to the rapt guests of gruesome murders, break-neck chases through the moors, and misadventures with women of questionable repute who appeared on gazette calendars and toilet water advertisements!). When all was said and done, no one seemed to have seen anything...or had seen so many different conflicting things that there was no sense at all!.... Was there even a dead body? None could be found (although the "Étouffée avec du Jambon Caprice" was considered exceptional the next night!)…

...and the grieving widow? Back in the scullery, she was told by big men with rough hands and even rougher language that she was being given a lifetime-pass to dine at the restaurant as she pleased... and at a reasonably good table, "but over in that far corner". The duchesses came down to make sure the threat was understood, (they even frightened the rough-handed men, but that's how duchesses are!). The widow was no fool. She had gone to school with a duchess or two... and after all, she liked exquisite food. And hadn't she even warned her husband about that paltry tip just seconds before Latham stormed in?? But her husband had always been penurious, even with HER, (can you imagine?) which explained her rather forlorn gown in a muddy-mauve velveteen from Maison Jacques Penne, a department store in a place called Idaho...

And Latham??... he seemed a little dazed after the whole thing, but on the other hand.... well, dear friend, look, just LOOK at that face. And consider who and WHAT Latham Linglurthy was, and IS...and what his ancestors, and all his descendant were, are, and will ever be. And ask yourself. Are you at all surprised? His type is the great equalizer. They love and value that which is earned and merited and nothing more. The superficial and superfluous are disposed of with a wave of the hand (or a freshly-manicured paw0, as sharp and still as the swipe of a razor, and woe to the clumsy and careless... stand aside, oh ye Foolish and Pompous. Taste and Discernment are sauntering by... at your great peril!

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