The Devil's Feast

by M. J. Carter

  “Matty!”

  “She is! And I’ll give you a dishonest man. Mr. Scott.” Her lip curled.

  “The secretary?”

  “The same! If he’s not dishonest, then he’s good for nothing. The housemaids call him Haymarket Hector. He’ll touch any bit of you he can get at. He pays girls to come to his rooms.”

  “Matty!”

  “What?”

  “It is just that a lady does not talk that way.”

  “‘A lady’! You high-po-cright!” She snatched her arm away.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me, high-po-cright. I know what it means.”

  “I think perhaps you mean ‘hypocrite.’”

  She marched off ahead of me, furious. “You know what I mean. It’s a word I’ve read and never said. You want my, my observations, but then you, you censure me for the way I deliver them!”

  “I am sorry. I admire your honesty, I do. It is just that you are rising, learning, if not to be a lady, then a respectable woman, and such women do not speak so, in public.”

  “Don’t think I speak to everyone the way I speak to you. I don’t. I thought you would understand.”

  “I apologize, with all my heart.”

  “Blake gave me a dictionary. I wanted to learn new words. I suppose it must seem foolish to you.”

  “Not in the least. I find it admirable.” I was mortified. The last thing I wished to be was discouraging. But it was true, I did want her observations, the more acute and personal and worldly the better, something I could not imagine asking of any other woman.

  “There must be someone to whom you can complain about Scott?”

  “Sometimes, Captain, I wonder how you get about in the world.”

  “I wonder,” I said, “if the Reform is a suitable place for you.”

  “Now that’s enough! I was on the street before. I am safe, I am well fed and I am more than satisfied. I have friends. I bless you and Blake every day.”

  “I see that it must seem contradictory to ask for this, and then to wish to see you protected.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “All right. Is there anything more you should tell me?”

  I fancied that she hesitated. “Can’t think of anything.”

  I glanced up at the skies. The wind blew in our faces. Across the Thames, rain clouds approached.

  “What are you thinking, Captain?”

  “I am thinking I promised to have you back in an hour. I am thinking that I do not know what to think. I fear I am not made for this work. I must hope Blake comes.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then I’ll tell them they should find a real inquiry agent.”

  She steered me back toward Trafalgar Square and Pall Mall. For some minutes, we were silent.

  “I don’t need protecting, you know,” she said.

  How wrong she was.

  Chapter Seven

  I was fatigued and had little appetite for a night with anyone, let alone Alexis Soyer. I lay down to sleep, but I could not. It was the first time I had had to think all day, but my thoughts, rather than dwelling on the matter at hand, or even on Blake, turned to Helen and my guilt at failing to return as I had promised. I must confess that I had in part accepted the Reform’s offer out of a reluctance to go home. I had had such hopes of the birth of our son, but the baby, rather than drawing my wife and me closer, had somehow widened the rift between us. I had gradually become aware that she found the baby difficult and my hopeless devotion to him grating. Sometimes, I thought she seemed frightened of being left with him—though there was the wet nurse and my sister, and the servants on hand. I wondered if the child we had lost in Afghanistan haunted Helen, but we never talked of it. It seemed to break some unspoken agreement to raise the matter. In the meantime, I knew she found the country dull and was dissatisfied by the society and entertainments I provided for her.

  There was no resolution to this, of course, only another bout of self-recrimination. So at half past nine o’clock I presented myself at Soyer’s office. He had called us a cab, and immediately bundled me in. He was in remarkably good spirits and very talkative.

  “There is no doubt,” he said, “that it has not been the best of days. But now you are here! And I have such an evening arranged! We shall make a brief visit to my dear friend and mentor, Ude, to see he is well. How glad he will be to see you, my friend! And tomorrow, perhaps Blake will join us.”

  I could not see why Monsieur Ude should have any interest in remaking my acquaintance. We dismounted before a very substantial brick-and-white stuccoed four-story town house on Albemarle Street in Mayfair.

  “Monsieur Ude lives here?” I said doubtfully.

  “Ude has made so much money he could rent Buckingham Palace if he so wished.”

  We mounted the steps, and he beat an enthusiastic tattoo upon the door knocker.

  Monsieur Ude occupied the first three floors. It did not seem to be enough. Every inch was hung with paintings and sketches, every surface crowded with valuable objects—one could tell they were valuable by the way Madame Ude gasped every time anyone touched or brushed past them.

  They had just finished dinner. In the drawing room, the old lord from the night before, Alvanley, clearly none the worse for Soyer’s cooking, sat deep in an armchair, oblivious save to the glass of something tawny in his hand, which he sipped appreciatively. This was surprising, as there was a considerable clamor: dogs were barking and dashing about the room, a parrot was squawking, and Monsieur and Madame Ude had evidently been engaged in an extremely acrimonious and noisy discussion in French.

  Madame Ude embraced Soyer; Ude—like Alvanley, looking perfectly well—kissed him on both cheeks, then fixed me with his large saucer eyes, both doleful and beady at the same time.

  “Maître, you are well! I needed to know.”

  “Should I not be?”

  “I know I can count upon your discretion,” Soyer said more quietly. “There are problems at the club.”

  Ude led us into the dining room and closed the door.

  “Problèmes? Lesquels?” he eyed me, unfriendly. “What does he do here?”

  “Captain Avery is helping me. I trust him. Maître, one of the guests died after the dinner last night.”

  “Eh, bien, at Crockford’s, gentlemen were forever expiring at the gaming tables—the heart, the liver, excess, overstimulation.” He permitted himself a small smile. “These Englishmen, they do not recognize their age and they have no care for their livers.” He patted Soyer on the shoulder.

  “But Mr. Rowlands, he was a young man and it was at my table.”

  “But it cannot have been the dinner—which, Alexis, I must tell you, was extremely good—for we are all well.”

  For a moment, Soyer basked in his praise. “Yes, but there are questions that remain unanswered, and the committee—”

  Ude made a rather uncouth spitting noise. “Committees! It is always the way with these clubs. They cannot leave us to do our work. They are ingrates who wish to be in charge over all things, and always they complain about money. They drive us away, we who lend these places their luster. It was thus at Crockford’s. And I”—his voice rose imperiously—“I who cooked for Bonaparte and two French kings; whose recipes were admired by Lord Byron! So you should not lose heart.”

  “Thank you, Maître.”

  We left soon afterward. Soyer took heart from Ude’s words and was much cheered and, though I found the man prickly and ill-humored, I put him, and Alvanley—who had continued to sip his brandy throughout—at the bottom of my list.

  “And now, to eat!” said Soyer. We took a cab to the bottom of Great Windmill Street, where he insisted there was an excellent vendor of fried fish.

  “You know, it is a secret of chefs in this city that when we have finished coo
king our elaborate dishes, we love nothing more than three penn’orth of hot fried fish.”

  Soyer greeted the fish seller by name, and they struck up a conversation about the fish (whiting), where it was landed (Gravesend) and the constituents of the batter (flour and water). “I will be taking the recipe one of these days,” he warned, as he handed me my portion, wrapped in old news sheets, doused with vinegar and finger-burningly hot.

  “Did Ude truly cook for Napoleon?”

  Soyer grinned. He was devouring his fish with his fingers. “He cooked for Napoleon’s mother, I believe, and for King Charles X once or twice, when he was in exile in London.”

  “Now,” he said, when we had finished, “we shall visit the ballet at the Haymarket.”

  “But Monsieur Soyer, you are not in evening dress.”

  “No more I am! Do not concern yourself, it will take but a second to arrange.” He delicately wiped his fingers on his handkerchief and retrieved two short tags on the bottom of his short jacket, and tugged upon them. At once the jacket ripped away to reveal an unfurling velvet frock coat with soft, wide lapels. Then he pulled upon what looked like a thread hanging from his trousers. The trousers were likewise swept off, and underneath were a pair of silk trousers that billowed like some Arab pasha’s. With a flourish he pulled away the front of his waistcoat to reveal another covered in gold braid. It was so ridiculous and yet so wholehearted I could not help but laugh.

  “Aha! I amuse you at last, Captain Avery.” From his bag he brought a silk cravat and a pair of cream-colored kid gloves. “And my boots, another invention. They have hollow heels, in which I keep my coins. Ingenious, yes?” He removed his red beret from its precarious perch and from his bag drew out what appeared to be a flat, black disk. He tapped it and it flipped and transformed into a silk top hat. Bizarrely, the crown was set at a slight angle so, just like the beret, it teetered to one side.

  “Monsieur Soyer, may I ask you why you wear your hat thus?”

  “But of course, Captain Avery. It is my signature. I call it à la zoug-zoug. Of all things, I abhor a vertical line. Even my cards are not square.” He drew out a small silver case shaped like a diamond. “I must stand out from the crowd, Captain Avery, I cannot help it. The English find me entertaining, I know, and sometimes even ridiculous.” He sighed melodramatically, and then grinned. “But this has its advantages. I always knew I could cook, but that has never been enough. Always, my mind has teemed with notions, ideas, inventions. I knew there was—and is—so much more I could do. My fame and the noise about me gives me a stage for my inventions, my future plans, the books I intend to write, the good I intend to do.”

  He took my hand. “I must have this matter of poor Mr. Rowlands resolved.”

  “I understand,” I said. I felt the seed of liking for him begin to germinate. He was grandiose and vainglorious and very un-English but there were moments when he was irresistible.

  After the ballet we repaired to the Provence Hotel, which was on Leicester Square, where there was a raucous gathering of cooks and their entourages, mostly French. The night was advancing, and I could not help but be surprised that the chefs were so rowdy and merry at this hour: from what I had gathered, both Morel and Soyer would be in the kitchen early.

  As Soyer had promised, I soon spied Francobaldi, the rude guest from the night before who had sat on Rowlands’s right side, and Morel, who was playing cards. Soyer quietly took Francobaldi aside and murmured to him. They spoke for some minutes, then Soyer returned to me and Francobaldi to his table of merrymakers.

  “He says he is quite well, no ill effects, but I was forced to tell him rather more than I should have liked.”

  “Does he know that Rowlands died?”

  “I do not think so, but he guessed someone had been taken ill. Now your work is over, take a glass of claret with me.”

  My work was far from over, I had come to learn more about Francobaldi, and to watch Soyer among his peers. But I accepted. It was good, the claret, and I was tired, and I had several glasses, and then cognac, and sat quiet, letting the talk, most of which was in French, flow over me.

  Francobaldi was easy to observe. He wanted attention, but he was disconcerting, too. He seemed to pulse with an energetic nerviness which manifested itself at first as coarse humor. His companions took this in good part; they were evidently familiar with it. I glanced at Morel, who, the opposite of Francobaldi, seemed happy to merge into the evening. He sat at his card game, betting moderately, but occasionally he would look up from his hand to gaze on the rest of the company with a silent intensity. I could not help but wonder what he was thinking.

  Then Francobaldi got into a dispute with another chef, Monsieur Comte, who was chef to some marquess. It was, I gradually worked out, a disagreement—or perhaps a misunderstanding—over some wine the two had agreed to buy together at auction and then share. At first they traded explanations, then suddenly Francobaldi stood up and, staring down at his opponent as if he were the merest piece of dirt, asked him with a kind of pent-up passion “what he meant by it.”

  Monsieur Comte, the older man, rolled his eyes and explained, clearly not for the first time, why it had cost more than they had initially agreed. This only inflamed Francobaldi all the more. He asked him through clenched teeth if he meant to ruin him. Comte shook his head emphatically, and Francobaldi began to curse him with profanities of the sort one expected to hear only in the lowest places:

  “Is that what you fucking think, you idiot? Either you are a fucking fool or a fucking swindler! Is that what this is? You are trying to bloody ruin me, to make a fucking fool out of me?”

  He loomed over Comte—and he was a big man, broad-chested, almost like a wrestler. Comte, now genuinely anxious, began to plead that he had had to go up a little more to acquire the wine. Francobaldi continued to heap abuse upon him. His voice rose and rose, becoming ever thicker with anger, until he lost all control and screamed at Comte, and the rest of the gathering looked away in embarrassment.

  “You are talking fucking nonsense! We agreed on certain terms! Do not think you can cheat me!”

  He hit Comte on the side of the face, knocking him off his chair and onto the ground. The man staggered up, accepted a discreetly offered napkin, and quickly withdrew, with an aghast look at Francobaldi.

  No one protested at Francobaldi’s act, though the room was quiet for several seconds. Soyer watched Francobaldi—who had marched off to fill his glass before slumping into a chair and subsiding into a sullen silence—and laid a hand on my arm as if to restrain me. I could not have said entirely what Soyer was thinking, but I should have said the uppermost feeling was pity. Everyone began to chatter and drink again and the conversation returned to its previous volume.

  I looked back at Morel. He was watching Francobaldi with a look of pure enmity.

  Soyer suddenly became the center of attention, telling an anecdote I suspected his audience had heard before, about how, when he first came to England, he had gone hunting and had set off after a dog, rather than a fox. The story ended with his horse pitching him headfirst into a hedge. Francobaldi laughed and rejoined the party as if nothing had happened. Soyer, meanwhile, insisted upon reciting some of the—truly awful—poetry he had composed to woo his wife, then announced he would sing us a song, whereupon he stood on the table and embarked on a rousing chorus of something called, “Pan, pan, pan, voilà, mes amis!”

  Following this, the whole company erupted into song, so much so that the fearsome French lady proprietor came in her dressing gown and nightcap and told the party to quiet down. It was near two when we staggered out of the Provence. Soyer led a party down to the Strand and said he was going on to some supper rooms in Covent Garden. I was utterly fatigued, having hardly slept the night before, and insisted I must to bed. Soyer told the silent Morel to find me a cab, though I protested I would walk back.

  The Strand was quiet, s
ave for the odd coffee seller and a few lone unfortunates wedging themselves into doorways.

  “Are your evenings usually so eventful?” I asked Morel.

  “The work is hard in the kitchen, sir. It is perhaps inevitable that, at the end of the day, some of us must open the engine door and let out some heat.”

  “Like Mr. Francobaldi, you mean?”

  “Francobaldi’s fire is unbanked at all times,” said Morel, his tongue suddenly loosened. “He is without any self-control, and it takes very little to rouse him. And five minutes after such an outburst he will remember nothing of what he has done.”

  “He does seem very quick-tempered.”

  “He wants to be compared to Monsieur Soyer. In truth Comte is no better. They all do. Francobaldi has none of his genius. He is a copyist, at best. I would never have invited him to the dinner. Chef, however, is kind. But you mark my words, in a week or two something from that dinner, something we have spent months laboring to bring into the world, will appear on Francobaldi’s carte.”

  “He steals recipes?”

  “He wishes to be the best, he will do anything to accomplish it.”

  I mused on this, and what I had witnessed at the Provence, and concluded that Mr. Francobaldi had moved rather closer to the top of my list.

  • • •

  “CAPTAIN AVERY!” The knocking and calling eventually dragged me from sleep. My head hurt. It felt early. “Captain Avery, I have a message for you.”

  Head thick with last night’s drink, I stumbled to the door.

  “A message for you. It arrived late last night. It was marked ‘urgent,’ but you were not at the club.”

  “Ah, thank you—”

  “Jeffers, sir, from yesterday and the evening before?”

  “Yes, of course.” He passed me a pale white envelope, good quality but dirtied at the edges, and creased, as if it had been through several hands.

  I tore it open. A single leaf of paper. A sentence. Not his handwriting.