by Myers, Amy
‘No,’ said Emma shortly. ‘Anyway, I saw them at the Empire a few weeks ago. They were better there, too. People will soon get tired of them. They’re not like real magic.’
‘It is a French invention, naturally,’ went on Auguste, ignoring her dampening tones. ‘These animated photographs of Monsieur Devant are but an imitation, but nevertheless good in their own way. And they will get better and better. Like the telephone. Electricity.’ He waved his arms around enthusiastically, catching and snapping a feather in Emma’s hat. He did not notice. Emma did.
‘These are but moving pictures now, but suppose they get better, and faster, and tell stories. Ah, but it is important what we see tonight.’
‘The only thing that’s important at the moment is my supper,’ stated Emma roundly. ‘Are you coming in or are you going to stand there in the porch soliloquising all night? For I’m not going to listen to you.’
‘Naturally with such delights as I shall be offered, I am coming in,’ retorted Auguste gravely, and when she opened her mouth to comment in her usual far from delicate manner, continued serenely, ‘I take it Sweetbreads Emma is still on the menu?’
Once again she opened her mouth to retort, then caught sight of something that displeased her.
‘Perkins, ’ow often ’ave I told you to not to let Disraeli down here?’ she yelled at the doorman. ‘Who the ’ell do you think you are? Long John Silver—’
The doorman was clearly used to it, for he simply opened the door to his office to allow the bright green parrot to sweep to his mistress’s shoulder, where he remained, cawing angrily to himself until they reached her private apartment.
‘’E does like to see what’s going on,’ said Emma crossly. ‘But it won’t do. The regulars are used to ’im, but the new ones just don’t understand Disraeli’s little ways. ’E just likes flowers, that’s all. Especially on ’ats.’
Disraeli looked smug. ‘Cook your cuckoo, me old cruiser,’ he rasped out. ‘Look behind you, dearie.’
‘’E belonged to a Punch and Judy man once,’ said Emma fondly. ‘Isn’t he a love?’
Love was not the first description that would have leapt into Auguste’s mind, as he privately sympathised with new guests to Gwynne’s. He and Disraeli were not on good terms. He played the game by the rules. Disraeli did not, as Auguste’s best overcoat could testify.
Gwynne’s Hotel was as much of an institution as Plum’s. It had begun a somewhat raffish career last century under the name of Nell Gwynne’s, in honour of the nearby resident who had leant over her garden wall and shouted out pleasantries to her Charlie walking in St James’s Park. The air of romance had disappeared by the middle of this century, after which it led a moribund existence as a cheap hotel for travelling salesmen. The advent of Emma Pryde ten years ago had changed all that. It now combined raffishness with respectability. Few of the more stately wives entered its portals, but many aristocrats flocked to it, attracted both by its bohemian atmosphere and by the outstanding cooking of Emma Pryde. Wives were entertained, more often than not, by the husbands of others. And yet Gwynne’s remained respectable. Quite how this came about Auguste could not make out. Perhaps it was something to do with the character of Emma Pryde herself.
Like Auguste, she was half-French, half-English. Her father had been a soldier adventurer, who deserted her French mother when Emma was a child. Marie Pryde struggled on with her job in the kitchens of the court of Napoleon and Eugénie in Paris, until she died, leaving Emma an orphan at the age of thirteen. The scraggy fair-haired child developed a gift with patisserie that commanded the Empress’s attention, and her quick wits brought her into a position of favour. When Eugenie fled to England Emma followed, and under Eugenie’s patronage quickly established herself as a notable cook. Through Eugenie she met Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, which introduction set the seal on her endeavours. Whether he assisted in the purchase of Gwynne’s remained her secret, but he was a frequent visitor to her famous private dining rooms.
Tall and definitely thin, Emma topped Auguste’s five feet nine inches. Her regal bearing and aristocratic features owed nothing to birth, and much to illusion and contributed to her success. But personality had done more. Whether through conscious decision or not she never bothered to conceal her humble origins and rough accent and so turned them into an asset. Her tongue could be as withering as it could be witty or kind. To be shouted at by Emma Pryde became more of a social cachet than to be kissed by a duchess. To be cursed in French by Emma was a sign of her favour. To be reviled by her meant intimate friendship. To be kissed by her . . . But few knew what this might mean, for she kept her private life to herself. Now in her forties, there were many rumours – of a certain earl who was married, of an early disastrous marriage, of a stream of lovers, many of whom were younger than herself. But no one knew and no one really cared. For Emma was Emma.
She alternately infuriated and captivated Auguste. Emma seemed all he most disliked about English women, with no traces of the French; thin to the point of scrawniness, she had no taste in clothes, no grace of movement, no fairness of face, no bosom, and yet when she smiled at him strange things started to happen to his heart, things instantly reflected by his body . . . things that made the slightest sign of her favour the most desirable thing on earth. A desire that when she was in an exceptionally good mood was attainable. Yet a desire that was so unpredictable that its very contrariness convinced him that he was in love with her. At times. And not love, he told himself, such as that he held for his Tatiana, his dark-haired Russian princess, in Paris. Of whom the very thought made him sad, for the impossibility of their love, or even of their meeting again . . . But with Emma, it was an ecstasy – an ecstasy enjoyed so rarely that heightened anticipation made it grow into ever greater proportions.
‘I don’t believe you’re in love with me at all, Auguste,’ said Emma carelessly, when they reached her private suite at the top of the building. She flung her silk evening wrap over a chair, following it with lace fan and plush evening bag; then peeling off her white kid gloves and satin shoes, she sank on to the sofa with a sigh of relief. She shot a sidelong look at him. ‘You’re in love with my cooking,’ she murmured to herself.
Auguste started guiltily from his happy contemplation of the table awaiting them: the oysters, the goose hams from Lincolnshire – the – could it be? Yes, the collared beef he adored so much . . .
‘But,’ he answered with dignity, ‘your cooking is part of you, and like you, divine.’
‘Go on,’ she said rudely, quashing him. ‘Frenchmen are all the same. Romance with words, but eyes on the food.’
‘Love,’ Auguste began—
‘Poppycock,’ said Emma rudely, cutting him short.
Auguste eyed her white-stockinged feet, thrust over the arm of the chesterfield, disapprovingly. He ate his oysters in silence. This was clearly not going to be an evening that ended in heart’s desire.
‘Something troubles you?’ he ventured without hope, but to his surprise received an answer.
‘It’s one of my young gentlemen,’ she said slowly.
‘Oh.’ Auguste lost interest and turned his attention to the goose ham. Ah. Only the English understood the art of preserving and pickling.
‘Captain Briton. Charlie. ’E used to live here when ’e was in town on leave. Before ’e got married, of course.’
Her expression implied this was not a fate greatly to be envied.
‘Anyway, ’e comes ’ere now for a bit of –’ she changed what she was about to say to – ‘relaxation and good food. Anyway, ’e’s joined your club – Plum’s. I hardly see ’im now.’
‘Naturally,’ said Auguste, pleased. ‘The cooking at Plum’s is mine.’
She threw him a look none the pleasanter for the trap having been of her own making.
‘That,’ she said stiffly, ‘ain’t the reason, my old turkey-cock. Anyway, I thought you might find out why.’
Auguste bristled. ‘You can hardly expec
t me to pander to your love life with this gentleman.’
‘I thought you’d be interested. Something’s wrong in the club, ’e says.’ Auguste stiffened and paid great attention to the salad. ‘Odd things go on. I know ‘is wife is playing the ace against the Jack with Gaylord Erskine. But that’s not enough to make ’im as bad as ’e is. Or to avoid me.’
‘Erskine is a member of the club, too. Perhaps that’s why he’s moody,’ said Auguste offhandedly. ‘Tell me, ma mie, do you add tarragon—’
‘I thought you were supposed to be The Great Detective. Sherlock Holmes is nothing compared with you.’
‘That is so. Already I detect the tarragon and you are not interested . . .’
‘Auguste, you’re making fun of me. And you’re avoiding the subject. I want you to detect whatever’s wrong at this club of yours. Investigate these odd things.’
‘There are never untoward happenings at Plum’s,’ said Auguste defensively.
‘As the monkey said, when ’e peed on the duchess.’
‘Emma!’ said Auguste scandalised. He could never accustom himself to her ribald use of English.
‘Don’t like my language, eh? You old—’ Emma rejoined vigorously.
‘Mon petit chou,’ he began, more as a placebo than a protest.
‘I’m not petite and I’m not an old cabbage!’ she shouted.
‘It is a term of endearment – as you well know,’ he shouted, irritated.
‘Not to me, it ain’t. I tell you what, Auguste. You find out what’s ’appening at Plum’s, and why, so old Charlie’s ’appy again, and then you can come ’ere and call me an old cabbage. But not tonight, Napoleon!’
Barred from his lady’s bed, which now that it was denied to him yet again had never seemed so attractive, Auguste stomped off gloomily into the night to return to his lodgings in King Street, with moustache quivering with resentment. He was definitely grumpy. Not only had he not counted on having to return home, so that his larder was not stocked for his breakfast as he would have chosen, but his supper had been unceremoniously curtailed. He had been forced to forgo the miroton of apples which had been unceremoniously whipped from under his nose by the indignant Emma. And for what? Where had he gone wrong? He walked down York Street feeling unjustly abused. For weeks now he had been forcing himself to pretend that all was normal at Plum’s. He loved Plum’s. Besides, he wanted to build up a reputation as a great club cook to rival the Great Alexis, not play detective again. The affair of the Galaxy was still fresh in his memory.
He cursed silently. Was Emma serious? Just because one of her paramours was out of sorts, probably because of his wife’s infidelity, was that any reason for his own assuredly great detective powers to be brought into play? Yet if they were not, then it seemed he might have a long wait before being readmitted to Emma’s favours, let alone her bed. True, there was always little Agnes, the housemaid at the club who looked up to him with such loving eyes, but one must be careful with such girls. He thought enviously of the chef at the Reform Club who had been summarily dismissed after having been found in the arms of a housemaid. Such had been the indignation of the members at his removal, so the story went, that not only was he promptly reinstated but given droits de seigneur over all the housemaids. A proper respect for the role of maitre chef. Auguste pondered the possible ramifications of this at Plum’s and then firmly dismissed the thought.
For Emma, he decided reluctantly, he would investigate. There was probably nothing sinister behind it, he tried to convince himself, and he would prove it. She would be ashamed of her vehemence, she would be humbled, she would shed tears, he would take her in his arms . . . The vision faded. There was no way he could relate this to reality. Not with Emma Pryde.
But suppose, he forced himself to consider, there was something sinister behind the current unease? What could it be? Someone who hated the club? Someone who was mad? Someone who hated a particular member of the club? In that case, why? A rising excitement rose within him, the same excitement that gripped him when he was within reach of grasping the perfect ingredient to complete a new master receipt. But it had not been aroused by crime for some time now.
First, at Stockbery Towers he had assisted Scotland Yard in clearing up a matter of international importance; then only eighteen months ago at the Galaxy Theatre, he alone, single-handed (well, with the good Inspector Rose of Scotland Yard), had brought the reign of terror of the supposedly returned Ripper to an end. It was true he was gifted. Not only was he a maitre chef but a great detective, for as he had often argued, the two went hand in hand. At thirty-seven he was at the height of his powers. Only Escoffier excelled him, his old maitre from his early days at Nice. And even Escoffier ceded the palm to him in the matter of his quince sauce. Having established the Galaxy Theatre restaurant as a rival to Romano’s, he had moved to Plum’s at the beginning of the year, eager to accept the challenge to provide the finest food in London, to rival the memory of the great Soyer at the Reform Club, Pryde at Gwynne’s, Auguste Escoffier at the Savoy. Now it was Auguste Didier at Plum’s.
With this happy thought, he turned the corner of York Street into the square, passing by Plum’s on the way to his lodgings. Inside he could see, outlined against the window, men sipping brandy, locked in earnest discussion. Framed as they were against the light of the window, they seemed tense, as in a tableau. Perhaps it was his imagination. It must be. Plum’s was Plum’s, a refuge from the world. Impossible that real trouble could enter. Then he recalled that committee meeting he had interrupted last week, and the strange atmosphere there had been. And Emma’s words echoed in his ears, as he hurried by to his lodgings in King Street: There’s something wrong at Plum’s.
Chapter Two
Plum’s, in this year of 1896, was precisely fifty years old. Plum’s was the height of English respectability, without the grandeur of the Athenaeum and without the gentlemanly informality of Pratt’s. It lacked the classical architecture of the Reform, preferring to remain in its two converted seventeenth-century houses, and did not possess the long heritage of Boodle’s or White’s. Yet in its fifty years it had set up a tradition of its own: it provided comfort without obligation. It had few rules, it was all an Englishman’s club should be. Furthermore, it had one great advantage: it had excellent cuisine.
This was only to be expected, for food was the very reason that Plum’s had first come into being. It had been founded on the initiative and money of a certain Captain Harvey Plum, of the 23rd Light Dragoons. Captain Plum, the third son of an exceptionally well-established country gentleman, resided in a house on the north side of St James’s Square, when not at his country estate in Wiltshire. Tired of the indifferent food he received at his club, and no doubt missing the home comforts of Mrs Plum’s establishment in Wiltshire, he resolved to found his own. Memories of the starvation diet he had often been forced to undergo along with his men during the Peninsular Campaign, and of a particular day when, but for the grace of his men who were more adept at self-survival, he would have been reduced to eating acorns, he resolved never to go hungry again. The Heroes of the Charge at Talavera were entitled to more than acorns. During his later career at Waterloo, by now appointed to the staff of the Duke of Wellington himself, he became aware that the culinary art had more to offer than London was prepared to admit. In his later travels on the Continent, he had become an early admirer of the anonymous work soon to be revealed as that of Brillat-Savarin, and took his aphorism to heart that the destiny of nations was controlled by the way they ate. When funds and time permitted, he was determined that since it was England’s destiny to rule the world, her leaders should have every opportunity of doing so well fed.
There was, it was true, the Reform Club with Alexis Soyer in its kitchens, but the Reform. Club after all had been established for politics, not for food. Plum’s was founded upon the quaint idea, which took some time to achieve practicality, that not only statesmen but men of all professions would pool their wisdoms for the benefi
t of mankind if drawn together by food. For this reason all tables at Plum’s were at first long communal tables; only when after several decades and much debate guests were allowed in one day a week was another small dining room opened with separate tables. The idea was that professions should be left behind once a member entered Plum’s portals. So they were at table; but before and after meals, cracks in this ideal began to make themselves apparent.
However, Captain Plum himself was never fated to be disillusioned. On the grand opening night, the chef, enthusiastic at the honour heaped upon him, served a glorious banquet, culminating in the arrival of a grand pièce montée of a 23rd Dragoon constructed of sponge, meringue and strawberries, and sporting a chocolate shako, followed by one only slightly less grand of a chocolate-bicorned Napoleon. Transported by the sight of this superb feast that rivalled Soyer’s banquet for Ibrahim Pasha, and endeavouring to do more than justice to it, Captain Plum passed away between the removes and the entremets of an apoplexy brought on by the feverish excitement of the occasion.
It might have been thought that this was the end of Plum’s great venture. But the Widow Plum arrived clad in black and a determination to preserve her husband’s name. She was as astute as she was determined, and turned his untimely death to the club’s advantage. The following Saturday she held a wake in the club for her deceased spouse, which eclipsed in culinary splendour the one at which he had so regrettably passed away. Henceforth, she decreed, this feast would be held yearly to commemorate the founding of the club and her husband’s death; it would be called Plum’s Passing. As the years passed, she cunningly and unobtrusively spun traditions around it, so subtly that members could not quite recall how they came about, only that they had ‘always happened’. This was the reason that each year on 17th June, unless it were a Sunday, a solemn procession of all members present would parade through each room of the club, none being omitted, in a ritual ‘beating of the bounds’. The secretary would lead the candlelit parade, followed by the chef and his minions, conveying a boar’s head, and the members, and all singing the Song of the Passing, a rousing ditty whose origins were lost in the mists of time (but whose composition had cost the Widow Plum several sleepless nights). Behind the boar’s head were more minions bearing the two pièces montées – the 23rd Dragoon and the sinister meringue replica of Napoleon. The parade halted beneath the oil painting of the Charge at Talavera, hats were swept into the air, and with cries of ‘Forward the Dragoons’ and similar military exhortations, six chosen members would plunge a sword into Napoleon’s meringue bosom.