The Devil's Feast

by M. J. Carter

  “If you please, Your Lordship,” said Soyer, “even if the man had not died, I think it is now simply not possible. Practically, we have lost days of preparation. Many of my dishes take days, I cannot produce what we planned by tomorrow evening.”

  “Come now, Soyer, are you not the man who says, ‘Impossible is a word to be found only in a dictionary of fools’?”

  Soyer smiled nervously. “I believe that was Napoleon, milord.”

  “Your Lordship,” I said urgently, “it was not just one—”

  “Why is this man here?” Palmerston said, as his eyes briefly alighted upon me.

  “He is the gentleman who has been investigating the matter for the club,” said Collinson matter-of-factly.

  “I must speak, Your Lordship—”

  “Who is he?” Palmerston said.

  “He is Captain Avery,” said Lord Marcus. “He won several medals in India and Afghanistan, rescued the Rao of Doora from a tiger and was with Xavier Mountstuart when he died. And last year, he, along with his colleague Mr. Blake, resolved the Holywell Street murders, and the business with Lord Allington’s sister.”

  “Well, what is it you wish to say?” asked Palmerston.

  Lord Marcus gave me what I should have described as an imploring look.

  “It was not just one dead man, Your Lordship. Two were taken sick not three nights ago; one died. Another died almost four weeks ago. We are in the course of resolving the matter and have several leads, but what we know for certain is that it was poison, and not cholera nor any other disease, that killed the men. In my opinion, it would be extraordinarily rash, if not actually dangerous, to hold the banquet.”

  “Marcus?”

  It was Ellice who spoke; he bowed deeply. “Your Lordship, Captain Avery tends to exaggerate the matter.”

  I gaped.

  “It is possible that there have been one or two casualties. However, the club’s distinguished physician disputes that it was poison. He believes the cause to have been cholera, or some other gastric disease. The kitchens have been scrupulously cleaned twice over. There is no real cause for concern, but we wished to take the greatest care and so we thought it wiser to call off the banquet.”

  “I see,” said Lord Palmerston.

  “And should it prove to be the case that there was poison, we have a very plausible suspect. One of the kitchen maids who is just now being questioned by the police. There seems to be a good case against her.”

  “Mr. Ellice, this is monstrous,” I said. “You cannot at one moment claim that nothing has happened, and at the next say that an innocent kitchen maid is to blame!”

  “Captain Avery, is it not true that you have done your best to impede the inquiry into this girl? That you have some prior connection with her?” Ellice managed to make “connection” sound like a dirty word. “Things are at stake here that you do not understand. The fact is that, if poisoning has taken place, we can be quite confident that we have the culprit, and that we should have no further problems on that score. In my opinion, we should go ahead with the banquet, Your Lordship.”

  “I am not confident!” I said, furious at his lies and at his accusation. “This is nonsense!”

  “So, which is it, three dead or one? Poison or no poison?” said Palmerston irritably.

  “Three dead of poison!” I said. “I should add that I am convinced that the poisonings are deliberate and that their aim is to harm the Reform Club. The banquet provides a perfect opportunity to wreak havoc. How would it be if the prime minister or Ibrahim Pasha himself were poisoned?”

  “Oh, that is not at issue. Ibrahim Pasha brings his own food taster.” Lord Palmerston laughed to himself. “So, three possible deaths—”

  “Which, as founder of the club, I refute,” said Ellice.

  “—compared with how many safely fed? Hundreds, Monsieur Soyer?”

  “Yes, milord,” said Soyer. I was aghast.

  “What do you think, Collinson?” said Palmerston. “You pride yourself on giving good counsel.”

  “I, sir, I am not the custodian of a party or a club.”

  “Always on the fence, eh, Collinson?”

  I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Collinson looked at me and half smiled. He had known this was coming, and his prison maneuver had put me into a position where I must comply.

  “This is what shall be done,” said Palmerston. “The club will issue a public assurance that all rumors regarding any poisoning here are entirely untrue.”

  Lord Marcus looked shocked. “But—”

  Palmerston fixed him unblinkingly with his hooded eyes. “You have said as much. This must be done. For the sake of the party and the club. Monsieur Soyer, you will prepare the banquet.”

  Soyer nodded obediently.

  “You will have to do your best to catch up. We know you are a man who can work miracles—for you have often told us so. Call in your cooks and, if you distrust them, dismiss them and find new ones.”

  His Lordship glanced back at me. “I recall you now. Blake and Avery, of course. I have encountered Mr. Blake—he ran a few errands for me some years ago. A most unmannerly fellow, if effective. Is he here? We might make a little headway with him.”

  “Alas, Your Lordship, he is missing,” said Collinson. “So we are left with only half our brave duo. But he will work wonders, I am sure.”

  “Well, then, Captain Avery, you have until tomorrow night to discover whether your suspicions are based in truth and, if so, to apprehend your poisoner. I am sure you will manage it. In the meantime, it cannot be beyond the abilities of the club to take every precaution to ensure that nothing untoward takes place during the banquet. You were brought in to resolve this, Captain. What would you do?”

  I said the first thing that came into my head. “I would form a military cordon. I would have soldiers observing the food from the moment it came in—or before—until it was served to the diners.”

  “A military cordon from the farmyard to the fricassee, as it were.” The phrase seemed to please him, and he paused for a moment. “An excellent notion.”

  “But, sir, the club really does not have the resources . . .” said Lord Marcus faintly.

  “Find them,” said Palmerston curtly. “The Reform has some very wealthy members, yourself included, Marcus. I am sure the money can be found and arrangements made.”

  “But a military cordon?”

  “Use your initiative. Captain Avery must have connections.”

  “I was in the East India Company Army, sir, not the British Army.”

  “Pish. Surely this is why you are here. You will arrange the security of the food. Marcus, you could provide a few troops. You had a commission in your younger days, and I seem to recall there are one or two generals among the members.”

  “Perhaps you yourself might use your—”

  “We are in opposition, Marcus. I cannot be seen to overplay my hand. I am accused of ordering our forces about rather too much as it is.” He brought a finger up to his lips and considered. “But I will do what I can. Now, are we all agreed?”

  Like cowed schoolchildren, they nodded. And, for my sins, I nodded, too.

  • • •

  “THIS WAS WHAT it was about,” Blake said, tight-mouthed. “Collinson knew they would let the banquet go ahead.” He was as angry as I had ever seen him. “I will not collude with this bloody deluded exercise in idiocy. And not just idiocy but willful gambling with the lives of others. They fear embarrassment so they take the stupidest risk possible.”

  “I know, but Lord Palmerston says that peace depends upon it.”

  Blake snorted. “Lord Palmerston’s reputation depends on it. I used to believe that reason was—what did Thomas Paine call it?—‘the most formidable weapon against errors of every kind.’ But men aren’t guided by reason, but by ignorance, self-ri
ghteousness and stupidity.”

  “Reason is your weapon against them, Blake,” I said. “And it is true that, if we leave now, we leave the poisoner the field. He can do what he likes.”

  Blake shook his head. “We are blackmailed into condoning their monstrous act.”

  “I do not condone it. It is rash, vain, stupid, dangerous. But I cannot go anywhere. As Collinson reminded me, I have a wife and a newborn child. And if I stay, at least I can do my best to prevent more deaths. If the dinner were not taking place, I would still be searching for the poisoner. I would have confronted Duncombe and Molesworth by now.”

  He gazed at me from under his brows, a pensive, sullen look.

  “But Blake, you should go. There is no justification for this banquet, and you cannot live under Collinson’s hand. I see that now.”

  He ran his hands through his hair.

  “I escaped from prison and gave up passage to America so that a band of spoiled Whigs can give a lavish dinner at which they’ll likely poison themselves and an oriental tyrant. And we are supposed to save them.”

  “There’s Matty.”

  He gave an angry half laugh. “If there’s another death and Matty’s in jail, she is at least vindicated,” he said. He slammed his palm against the wall. “So, we have until tomorrow night. I suppose Soyer gave in at once. Naturally, he did. He cannot resist an appeal from a fucking milord.”

  “Blake.”

  “This place,” he said bitterly.

  “The world, you mean.”

  He gave another angry laugh.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The kitchen had come alive again. The gaslights blazed, the sounds of steam were everywhere. Kitchen maids frantically scrubbed and swept, potboys carried buckets, chefs had begun to chop and set stew pans on the gas ranges. Soyer stood at the center of the kitchen, as if he had never been away, his hat was at its familiar angle, he had changed into his mauve velvet jacket, and his fingers were laddered with rings.

  Catching sight of us, Soyer turned quickly away. Within a minute, he had disappeared into his office with Morel and Percy, and closed the door. We were not to be so easily put off.

  Papers were spread over every inch of Soyer’s desk, and the three were bent over them. Beside me, I could feel Blake glowering. Morel was in no better humor.

  “I do not see how we can have every item watched as it issues from farmyard to serving plate,” Percy was saying.

  “Ah, here is Captain Avery,” said Soyer, careful not to catch Blake’s eye. “He has been given the task of arranging the safety of the food. We shall speak in a moment, Capitaine. Would you allow us a moment?”

  I stayed where I was. Soyer gave an overly bright smile and continued, “You are right: there are things we require—the lamb and beef, bones and vegetables for stocks, and so forth. We will purchase them from the most respected and prestigious suppliers. If soldiers can be provided, then they will be in attendance. We will order as much as we can direct from makers and farms—poultry, vegetables, and so on, and as much flour as we can from the Saxford mill. Percy, have we the table arrangements? Do we know how many guests we shall have at the dinner itself?”

  “The pasha will come with his chargé d’affaires and his taster; there will also be three Egyptian officials present, including the consul general, along with Lord Palmerston and Admiral Sir Charles Napier, who will conduct Ibrahim Pasha to the Reform. There will be, in addition, nearly three hundred guests at the dinner.

  “A band of the Scots Fusilier Guards will play various Turkish airs, among them ‘The Sultan’s March,’ as well as ‘The Roast Beef of Old England.’”

  Blake cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Percy, are Turkish airs quite the thing? After all, Ibrahim Pasha is from Egypt, tried to conquer Turkey and failed.”

  “The band knows no Egyptian airs,” said Percy, uncharacteristically testy. “Are there any? Turkish, Egyptian—they should be grateful we have embraced their general area.” He paused and cleared his throat. “My apologies, Mr. Maguire, matters are rather more pressed than usual. Where was I? Tureens, platters and vases will be silver plate; bowls and plates will be porcelain with a simple gold band. The principal illumination will be from fifteen slender silver candelabra standing some three feet high, and the best beeswax candles. These will alternate with equally tall silver gilt vases of exotic flowers and plates of the finest fruits of the Orient: grapes, figs and peaches from hothouses in Wiltshire. The first courses will arrive promptly at seven.”

  “Very good,” said Soyer.

  Percy nodded. “Do you have the recipes, Morel?”

  “I do not keep recipes. I never use them. Everyone knows that,” said Morel irritably.

  Did I imagine it, or did Percy give me a meaningful look?

  “The copies are here, Percy,” said Soyer. “Mathilde ordered them some days ago.”

  There was an awkward silence. Morel tapped his fingers noisily on the sideboard. “Well, does anyone know where she is? Has anything been done to aid her?” he asked.

  “She is at Vine Street police station, where she spent the night, sir,” said Blake.

  “We will do our best to have her released,” said Soyer. “But, for the moment . . .”

  Morel bit his lip. “Je voudrais vous parler, Chef.”

  “Would you mind?” said Soyer. The door shut upon Blake and me. Morel’s voice, raised in indignation, sounded through the door.

  “Mais c’est impossible! We have lost too much time! C’est pas possible, c’est pas possible de surveiller tous les ingrédients. We cannot watch every cook and apprentice! We cannot guarantee the safety of anyone who eats the food. It is mad, and you know it! Moreover, by acknowledging this danger still exists, we admit that we know young Mathilde cannot be guilty, and yet she is in prison! I beg you, Alexis, refuse them!”

  Soyer’s voice came in more quietly and indistinct, then Percy’s, deeper and reassuring. Then Morel again. “I cannot do this. This is wrong.”

  I felt myself warm to Morel.

  Soyer spoke again, and this time he was not gentle.

  Morel flung open the door and pushed past me, striding off across the kitchen. We turned back into Soyer’s room.

  Soyer startled like a frightened animal. “Percy, can you leave me? I have things to discuss with Captain Avery.”

  Percy’s eyes flickered. “Of course, Chef.”

  The door closed. Blake stared at Soyer, who, for once, was silent, but gradually seemed to curl up in shame. At last he said, almost imploringly, “I could not refuse. This is my position, my kitchen, my calling. This is a political club, and when Lord Palmerston demands, we must say yes. We must.”

  Blake nodded very slightly, very slowly, and let his eyes bore into Soyer. I almost pitied Soyer; I knew precisely how he felt.

  “This is my métier. I cannot simply leave when I wish. I mean, I must cook for this banquet.”

  Blake said nothing.

  “I know there is no excuse for it. I should have refused, but he would not be refused. And when I saw how Ellice was, I thought, They will have their dinner anyway, and they will take my recipes, and they will have Morel or Perrin execute them, and they will get the credit. I know it is vanity, and fear. I must have the world’s approbation. I know it, and I am not proud of it. But I have worked upon these dishes for months. I have poured everything into them. It was to be the crowning moment of the Reform’s existence, and mine . . . And I thought, At least if it is my banquet, if I execute it, then I can do my best to prevent disaster, and Blake—and you, Avery—will help me, and there are no men more tenacious, more brilliant in pursuit. I know if there is a death I shall be ruined forever.” He bowed his head. “Tell me what to do. S’il te plaît, Blake, I beg you.”

  At last, Blake said, “And Matty? You did not even mention her to us.”

  Soyer s
ank his head.

  “If there’s a suspect in jail, the banquet can go ahead, can’t it?” said Blake.

  “That is unfair.”

  “What will you do about it, then?”

  “Anything, whatever you say.”

  Blake looked disgusted. “And your precious soup kitchen?”

  “I have made excellent arrangements. I will send a few of our junior cooks. I know it will run perfectly without me.”

  “I want you to know that we stay because Collinson has forced our hand—I won’t bother to explain why—and to make sure Matty is safe, and because there cannot be any more deaths. We do not stay for you.”

  “Non, Blake, je comprends bien,” he said humbly.

  I said, “You must supervise everything you serve. Lord Marcus says he and Palmerston can provide a hundred Scots Fusiliers within two hours—their band is, in any case, to play at the dinner. Once the food has arrived in the kitchen, you must arrange it so that there will be no point when it will not be supervised. Even in the dining room with the waiters.”

  “Soldiers in the dining room?” said Soyer. “Surely this will raise suspicions? If this was to get out, my reputation would be finished. And what is to stop these soldiers telling all kinds of stories after the dinner?”

  Blake glared at him.

  He bowed his head. “Yes, of course,” he said.

  “I’ll bet Percy can arrange some clever choreography so the soldiers will appear as some extra honor paid to the pasha. You will have to think of some way to persuade them to keep quiet. And there is little we can do to check on food coming in from your suppliers. You must apportion a certain number of dishes to each cook. They will be in charge of them. They will taste them at every stage of their construction. It is not foolproof, but it is the best that we can manage.”

  “I understand, but who can arrange this?” Soyer said frantically. “I am no soldier, and already two days late in my preparations. Perhaps you . . . ?”

  “It’s not hard. Each soldier will mark one cook. Cold rooms and storerooms to be guarded at all times. In addition, there must be a system whereby the staff check each other’s work. And everything must be tasted. Over and over.”