by Lee Strauss
“Did you enquire in the kitchen?” Felicia said as she looked up from her notes.
“But of course. The man simply refused to tell me where he got it from. Since zen, I visited ten more of zee finer restaurants in Soho, trying various French dishes. At five of zem I recognised my own creations. Each time zee chef refused to let me know where he got hees recipe.”
Monsieur and Madame Arseneault had done a lot of fine dining recently, Ginger thought. She turned to Felicia. “Please make sure you get the list of these restaurants before Monsieur Arseneault leaves.” She turned back to the chef, “I am assuming you have all of your recipes written down somewhere?”
He nodded dramatically. “Yes, naturally I have zem all recorded. I create zees dishes in my private kitchen and record everything in a large notebook which is kept hidden in a safe. Zees is done in French but ees later translated into English by my publishers, of course.”
“Sounds all very scientific,” Felicia remarked.
“It ees more like creating art,” Monsieur Arseneault replied. “But zere is an element of chimie involved of course.” He nodded politely at Felicia.
“Who is the first person other than yourself to taste each new recipe?” Ginger asked.
“My wife of course, she likes to taste and I value her opinion very much, but zere is also my former protégé. Hees name is Will Kendrick. However, I fired heem a few months ago.”
“What can you tell me about him?” Ginger asked.
Monsieur Arseneault shrugged his shoulders. “He ees a tolerable cook. He was enthusiastic and I had initially had some hope zat he would someday show some brilliance as a chef. But sadly, as time went on it was obvious zat he did not have zee spark of innovation and had very little imagination. I had to let heem go.”
“I see,” Ginger said. “Did Mr. Kendrick aid you in the creation of these new recipes?”
“No, in addition to training him in zee art of general cookery, I only trained him to cook my recipes zat have already been made public. Specifically zose from my last book. However, I did ask him to taste each recipe alongside my wife. They both acted as my test subjects so to speak.” He looked directly at Ginger. “My new recipes are created in isolation, I can assure you of zees, madame.”
Ginger glanced at Felicia, who was busy taking notes, then asked, “How did Mr. Kendrick react when you let him go?”
“I know what you are thinking. When I informed him I did not wish to work with him, he walked out without even a word. He was upset, but frankly I believe zees young man is quite incapable of doing such a sing as zees. He lacks imagination. Trust me, I am a good judge of someone’s character. Besides, he definitely did not have access to my safe. He does not even know where it ees.”
“So you have not confronted him on this issue?” Ginger said.
“No, I have had no contact with him since I let him go and I would rather not have any in zee future, madame.”
The chef certainly had confidence in his ability to read people, Ginger thought. “Is it possible for Miss Gold and me to view your kitchen and the room where you keep your safe?”
“But of course, you are welcome in our home.”
“Thank you. Miss Gold will ring to make an appointment with you or your wife.” Ginger pressed the tips of her manicured fingernails together and leaned forward in her chair. “Monsieur Arseneault, is there anyone you can think of who would wish you ill? Perhaps other restaurateurs in London?”
“Non, I cannot imagine!”
“Every criminal has a motive,” Ginger replied smoothly, “and yet we have not established one in this case. We must discover who would gain from exposing your creations prematurely.” Despite Monsieur Arseneault’s shock at the idea, Ginger was guessing that with the Frenchman’s expressive personality, his relatively quick success, and his excitable temperament, he had quite likely gained a measure of ill will amongst London’s community of restaurateurs.
The chef stroked his full moustache and furrowed his eyebrows, deep in thought.
“You must have already thought of this,” Ginger prompted. “Someone must have a reason, however ill-advised, to sabotage your ongoing successes.”
“Yes, my wife and I have had several discussions about zees,” Monsieur Arseneault said finally. “I am by nature a very agreeable man.”
Ginger’s face remained impassive at this peculiar assessment. Felicia hid a smirk behind her palm, but the Frenchman did not seem to notice.
“It ees hard for me to imagine that anyone would want to do zees since I am well loved everywhere I go.”
3
William Kendrick, Monsieur Arseneault’s former protégé, proved difficult to track down. Monsieur Arseneault had given them an address and a physical description, but when Ginger and Felicia had arrived at the building in the Edgware district where they were met with a very irritable landlord. He informed them that the young man shared a flat with another fellow of about the same age and that they were both, in his estimation, “feckless laggards” who were constantly behind in their rent and having difficulty keeping gainful employment.
“They are quite a pair, those two,” the severe-looking man remarked. “They’re birds of the same feather, even though one of ’em is as French as the Eiffel Tower. I told me wife, Maggie, only yesterday that both of them blokes are more scared of ’ard work than the devil is of Easter Morning! One calls ’isself a photographer; the chemicals smell up the place somethin’ awful. And the other says ’e’s some sort of cook.”
The landlord gave Ginger the address of a restaurant where he thought Mr. Kendrick might be working, but upon arrival, Ginger and Felicia were told that the young man had in fact only lasted a few weeks there, and he was now believed to be working during the hours of three and midnight at another restaurant called The Guillotine. Ginger and Felicia, with Boss happily relegated to the back seat, had just pulled up to The Guillotine in Ginger’s 1924 Crossley when a young man exactly fitting the description Monsieur Arseneault had given, stepped outside and lit a cigarette. Will Kendrick wore stained chef’s whites and carried his white cook’s hat under his arm. His brown, tousled hair and unshaven face gave him a rather dishevelled look. Ginger guessed he was on a work break from the kitchen.
Ginger and Felicia stepped out of the motorcar.
“Excuse me,” Ginger said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but are you Mr. William Kendrick?”
Surprised, the fellow just stood and stared for a moment. “Y-yes, yes I am…”
“My name is Miss Felicia Gold,” Felicia said, taking advantage of both the man’s bafflement and her long fluttering eyelashes.
“I’m Mrs. Reed,” Ginger said, turning towards Mr. Kendrick, “also known as Lady Gold from Lady Gold Investigations. We are looking into a matter for Mr. Arseneault, your former employer.” Ginger watched the young man carefully as she said this. Her years working for the British Secret Service during the Great War had trained her to read people’s facial expressions and body movements. Mr. Kendrick’s eyes darted back and forth, and he looked rather uncomfortable at the mention of Arseneault’s name.
“I am sure you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions?” Felicia’s inflection made the sentence sound like a question even though it was a statement. Her smile was radiant. The poor man didn’t stand a chance, Ginger thought with a small smile.
The fellow’s befuddlement was a good chance to be direct. “Monsieur Arseneault asserts that someone is stealing his new recipes and releasing them to various restaurants,” Ginger stated. “Do you know anything about this?”
Mr. Kendrick took a long draught on his cigarette before throwing it on the ground and stepping on it. An effort to appear calm, Ginger thought. The cigarette had only just been lit.
“You think because he fired me that I’d look for some sort of revenge?”
Ginger stared back, unflinchingly. “Would you?”
“No! I’m not the type of person who does that sort of thing.” He stared at
his nicotine-stained fingers and then at the squashed cigarette at his feet with a modicum of regret. “I’m sure you’ve already spoken to Monsieur Arseneault or you wouldn’t be here, so you know our history. Yes, he sacked me. No, I did not nick his recipes.”
Mr. Kendrick produced another cigarette and lit it. “In fact, I wish Arseneault well. The man’s a genius and deserves recognition.”
Ginger detected sarcasm in his tone as he said the word “genius”. His gaze darted between her and Felicia as he puffed on his cigarette. “I can tell you his personal style isn’t easy to get along with, though. I was even a little bit relieved when he let me go, to be honest. He can jolly well find another apprentice to yell at as far as I’m concerned. I have more important things to do with my time.” He glanced at the doorway and said, “Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a soupe à l'oignon that needs my attention.” He killed his second cigarette, then stepped into the building.
Felicia adjusted her hat. “Well, despite my formidable feminine wiles, I am not sure we gained much with that interview.”
“On the contrary,” Ginger replied as she opened the driver’s door of the motorcar. “That conversation has told me one very interesting thing.”
“That he’s bitter?” Felicia asked.
Ginger started the motorcar and gave Boss a pat on the head. “That he is a young man with a secret.”
4
Marcel and Flora Arseneault lived in a three-storey terraced red-brick house in Chelsea, which had once been famous for being the borough of artists. Many famous painters, writers, and so called “free thinkers” had lived in this area during the last part of the previous century and some still referred to it as the “bohemian district”.
“Oscar Wilde lived around here,” Ginger said, as she and Felicia climbed the four stone steps to the solid cherry-wood entrance door. Boss, tucked into Ginger’s arms, peered about joyously. Felicia gazed down the street as if she hoped to catch sight of the famous Irish poet’s ghost as Ginger, using the large brass doorknocker, tapped on the door.
“Bossy, you must be on your best behaviour today.” Ginger stared affectionately into her dog’s round brown eyes. “You are about to meet François and you must be civil. However, I don’t want you getting any ideas about sharing his French pastry.”
Ginger and Felicia shared a smile.
They were greeted by a slim, beautiful woman in her mid-forties. She had creamy, smooth skin, kind blue eyes surrounded by small wrinkles, and brown shingled hair that showed a bit of grey. She took in the trio with a dazzling smile, obviously delighted at the prospect of welcoming them into her home.
“Mon Dieu! My husband was right,” she exclaimed. “You two ladies represent the epitome of fashion.” She regarded Ginger and Felicia’s outfits with wide, admiring eyes.
Oh mercy! Ginger thought. She liked this lady already.
“Comme il est mignon!” the lady said, her hands coming up to her cheeks. “What a beautiful dog!” She bent down and took Boss’ head in both of her hands. Boss’ tail stub wagged furiously.
“Oh, I am very sorry,” their hostess said, her French accent muted. “Where are my manners? I am Madame Arseneault.” She took Ginger’s hand in both of hers and said, “You must be Mrs. Reed.” Ginger smiled and nodded. She turned to Felicia. “And you are Miss Gold, yes?”
Felicia extended a gloved hand. “Pleased to meet you. Thanks so much for allowing us to come to your home.”
The interior of the house was spacious and very modern. Mme Arseneault led them into a large parlour with rich, wooden panelling and beautiful leather and wood furniture. Just outside the entrance to the room there were stairways leading up to the other two floors.
“You have a very beautiful home,” remarked Ginger, taking in the surroundings.
“Thank you, it was quite a job to renovate this one. When we arrived from Paris over twenty years ago, we bought two of the terraced houses side by side and made one large house. When we had our son, there was more than enough room for the three of us. This area is also perfect for our little family.” Flora Arseneault smiled and gestured for them to take a seat. Just then the tall, slender figure of her husband entered the room followed by the most rotund French bulldog Ginger had ever seen.
François was similar in height to Boss, even though he had shorter legs. He shared Boss’ short muzzle but was brown in colour and had a larger, more squarely shaped head with rounded tips on his ears rather than points. He sneezed twice, and then jauntily waddled over to Boss as if to welcome him to his home. Felicia’s hand flew to her mouth to suppress a giggle. The two dogs exchanged the normal dog greeting of sniffing and tail wagging while all four humans looked on in amusement.
“Well now zat zees important cérémonie is finished,” Monsieur Arseneault said with a broad smile, “let me welcome you to our humble home.” He turned to his wife. “Flora, I do hope our maid has hidden away all of our pastries while we have another canine in our house?”
All three ladies chuckled at the small joke as they took a seat. François lay down on the plush carpet immediately in front of Boss who thought that was a wonderful idea and did the same.
“We don’t mean to take up much of your time,” Ginger said. “Since your home kitchen is the provenance of your recipes, I thought it wise to have a look. Naturally, we are still in the very beginnings of our investigation, but this seems like a good place to start.”
At that moment, a young man in his twenties entered the room. The spitting image of Marcel Arseneault, he had the same slender nose, black hair, moustache, brown eyes, and lanky form, and most notably, the same bobbing Adam’s apple.
“ Zees is our son, Jean Claude. Jean Claude, meet Mrs. Reed and Miss Gold,” Monsieur Arseneault said. The tall young man quickly walked over and politely shook Ginger’s and Felicia’s hands in turn.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said. His gaze stayed on Felicia for a moment of admiration before he turned to his mother. “I am off to rehearsal, Maman.”
“Well that is most fortunate, because it wouldn’t do for you to be staring at our guest like some long-lost puppy.” Mme Arseneault smiled warmly while shaking her head and raising her eyebrows.
Mr. Arseneault grinned at Felicia and said, “I hope this is not too forward, but if you like jazz music, please come to the Lonely Street Cabaret in Soho sometime. I play the piano in a trio and we perform there regularly. The place is really the bee’s knees.”
“We’ll be sure to remember that,” Ginger said, cutting in with a small, amused smile on her lips.
The young man turned to Ginger and blinked as if waking up from a dream. “Oh…, well, maybe I’ll see you both there sometime.”
“I don’t know where zeese musicians come up with zeese strange words,” Monsieur Arseneault remarked as the young man left the room. “Bee’s knees?”
“It’s American,” Felicia offered.
“My son ees still trying to find heemself, I think,” Monsieur Arseneault said. His tone indicated that there might be some tension between himself and the young man. “I often wonder what he would be like if he had a sibling.” He shared a look with his wife. Ginger had the feeling that there was something unspoken that passed between them in that moment. “He has zee heart of an artist, but he puts all of his energies into zees new jazz music trend which will not last beyond next year. Such a waste.” He shook his head for a moment, looking at the door, and then brightened up. “Would you like to view my kitchen now?”
5
“I know it ees unusual to have such a kitchen in a private house,” Monsieur Arseneault said as he led Ginger and Felicia past a family dining area and down the stairs to the basement. This led them into a large, bright kitchen with a window looking out onto the red-brick wall of an area that was open at the top to the street to let in sunlight. “But I want complete privacy and isolation when I am inventing. I have no interest in running a restaurant right now and I rely heavily on my wife at my side to
taste my new creations.”
The first thing Ginger noticed were the many hanging racks containing dozens of copper pots and pans of varying sizes. Along the walls there were long wooden doorless cupboards with more ceramic and copper-bottomed cookware. Kitchen utensils, such as large stirring spoons and knives, were also hanging on racks along the walls. Most prominent was a large and very modern-looking, smooth-topped, gas-fired combination oven and range with modern heat regulators and two-tone finish. The floor was black and white tile that was set off by the brown and red brick walls and cream-coloured ceiling.
The kitchen rivalled the size of some small hotel kitchens, and Ginger couldn’t recall ever being in a more modern one. The room was spotless, but Ginger could detect a faint smell of herbes de Provence, a smell she was familiar with from dining in many French homes, especially during the war. This version must have had a good portion of lavender, judging by the fragrance.
“I designed zees kitchen myself and it’s almost sree times zee size of zee original kitchen. It has all zee latest features. The stove itself is a marvel and quite rare, even in London.”
“Very impressive,” Ginger said with genuine admiration.
“At zee moment I have been working on a new version of cassoulet using duck. I sink I have discovered a beautiful combination of white wine, leeks, and garlic zat is magnifique…” He kissed his fingertips and then waved his hand in the typical French fashion. “And when zee duck is properly prepared using goose fat instead of olive oil, and zen paired with zee right cheese—” He paused for a moment. “Forgive me, I am sure you deed not come here for a cookery lesson.”
“So I imagine that while you are cooking and trying out new combinations, you are making notes in a book,” Ginger said.