The Devil's Feast

by M. J. Carter

  “Might I ask another question, sir?” said Blake. The courtesy seemed belated. I braced myself.

  “Are there any members of Soyer’s staff whom you would advise us to watch closely?”

  Francobaldi scratched his chin; it was clear he did not like being pressed.

  “For example, what do you make of Mr. Morel, sir?” said Blake.

  Francobaldi stirred uneasily. “He is a decent enough lieutenant, not an artist, and there are younger and more talented men in the kitchen who snap at his heels, and he knows this.”

  “Mr. Perrin?”

  Francobaldi shrugged. “Him and others. I do not rate them especially highly.”

  “What about the suppliers? Could one of them be so angry as to wish to harm the Reform kitchen?”

  Francobaldi laughed. “It’s possible, I suppose. Not all of them are as respectable as they seem, and there’s certainly falling-out over deliveries and payment.”

  “It seems such a fine business, cooking and that,” said Blake. “I was wondering, sir, have you come across much actual ill-doing in kitchens and such?”

  “You must forgive Maguire,” I said. “He is a great reader of blood and thunders. He loves a good murder.”

  Francobaldi smiled. “The culinary world is not without its dramas. We are a passionate band. Some years ago, a French chef who cooked for the Duchess of Leinster murdered a rival whom he suspected of trying to oust him. I, too, have had my own trials. When I was working for the Marquess of Oldham in the north some years ago, I heard another chef wanted my position and was willing to do almost anything to get it. I will not elaborate on the details of our relationship. I had to make a trip to London. When I returned the next day, one of the potboys had disappeared, and my recipe book with him. Such a book is everything to a training chef. It had all I had collected over the years—all my best dishes, all my ideas for new ones. This chef wanted to make me nothing less than unable to cook. Later, it was made known to me that the boy had been seen at the local coaching inn talking to a stranger. I knew my rival had taken the book, or had arranged to have it taken.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I went to the marquess and explained my situation, that my precious book had gone and that I suspected this man, though I could not prove it. Thankfully, I have a good memory, and some of my recipes I had committed to paper elsewhere. I am glad to say my master’s table did not suffer and his faith in me was renewed. But I tell this story to show that people will go far to get what they want in this business.”

  “And your rival?” asked Blake.

  “He is a chef for an old lady who entertains very little. Skilled, but not inspired. His star is on the wane.” He sat back, smiling widely, pleased with himself.

  “May I ask you another question, Mr. Francobaldi?” asked Blake.

  “Your manservant is most inquisitive,” said Francobaldi. “Whatever you like. I may not answer it, however.”

  “Do you always play according to the rules?”

  He smiled again. “Most of the time.”

  “How far would you go to best a rival?”

  He began to laugh, covering his mouth with his hand.

  “It is a good question. Actually, I must tell you that I hatched the whole thing. I knew my rival wanted my position, so I scotched him. I said my book had been stolen, but I hid it. In going to my employer myself, I made him look dishonest and conniving, then I demonstrated my skills in cooking for him without my book.”

  “Though you had it all the time. And what of the potboy?” said Blake.

  “I gave him a little money . . . I think he went to London. He knew he could not come back.”

  “How much further would you go?” My anger began to get the better of me.

  “What do you mean, Captain Avery?”

  “I was shown a copy of your menu three days ago. The pastry castle, it seemed to me, was extraordinarily like the pastry crown with the stuffed chickens and skewers of truffle and crayfish that we had at Monsieur Soyer’s dinner. In fact, the description made it sound identical.”

  Francobaldi sat up. “Do you accuse me of stealing Soyer’s dish?” he said with a half smile. I smiled back. I did not find his menaces daunting. “Are you accusing me—”

  “How much further would you go, Francobaldi? What would you do to best Alexis Soyer? Would you kill a man?”

  Francobaldi leaped to his feet. “How dare you!”

  Blake, somehow, had got between us. “Captain, might I respectfully remind you that we are late for the Reform.”

  “I would never poison a man! Never! It is a coward’s way! A woman’s method. As a chef, I should be ashamed to do such a thing!”

  “Like stealing a man’s inventions and not admitting to it?”

  “Get out of my fucking kitchen! I swear, if you spread that dirty lie, I’ll—”

  “You will what? You do not alarm me. I know your sort.”

  Blake began to bustle about me, nudging me out of the snug in such a way that neither Francobaldi nor I could get at each other.

  “I hope you do not mind me saying, Mr. Francobaldi,” he said, “but might I ask where you are from?”

  The question seemed to throw Francobaldi. “I am Italian. From Modena. I was trained in France, as the best chefs are—what of it?”

  “Your English is excellent, sir,” said Blake. “Fluent. You might be a native.”

  • • •

  WE STRODE AS FAST AS we could up Piccadilly, Blake wheezing so violently I feared he might choke.

  “You saw him,” I said. “The man has no self-control. When he is angry, he will do anything . . . Wait, you are laughing.”

  Blake’s face was twisted, I realized, in mirth.

  “What is so amusing?” Blake waved the question away. “What did you make of him then, seriously?” I said, trying a different tack.

  “I’d be surprised if he was our man.”

  “Why not? I reckon he is capable of anything. I cannot bear the thought of Matty languishing in that cell and he at large and so pleased with himself.”

  “Listen to me. He’s jealous of Soyer, all right. But it’s not him. Don’t let your anger cloud your judgment.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He’s easy to read.”

  “Blake!” I said, grinding my teeth. “Then explain it to me—how you read him.” I expected no answer but, after some minutes, he said, to my surprise, “Francobaldi is jealous of Soyer—so much so that he almost hates him.”

  “Well, I can see that.”

  “But I see what people do and don’t know they are doing it. So, just before Francobaldi said Soyer’s name, his face screwed into a scowl. Just for a half second. I’d wager fifty pounds he had no idea he was doing it. Then, each time Soyer’s name came up, his eyes would bulge and his jaw jut, just for the briefest of moments. His passion is almost uncontrollable.”

  “Which makes him a perfect suspect.”

  “But at the same time, he felt he had nothing to hide. It was visible in all of him, even in the way he stood, his legs widely planted; and how he sat, his legs splayed; his elbows sticking out at all angles—so at his ease, so confident. He’s not the author of Soyer’s misfortunes, but he’s enjoying them and thinks to benefit by them. That he could not hide, nor how good it tasted to him, speaking ill of Soyer—I’ve rarely seen such lip-smacking and lip-licking.”

  “Maybe he was merely flaunting his confidence?”

  “I’d say not. I’d say this manner, this confidence, was a yardstick. Against it, we compare what took place after we began to question him: the moments when he didn’t tell the full story, when he did lie, when he protested his innocence.”

  “And what were they?”

  “First, he tells the story about the stolen recipe book. As he finishes, he takes a
short breath, closes his mouth tight and smiles. To me, that said he knew more about the story than he was telling, something that pleased him, something he was bursting to say. And so I ask a small question, and his plan to best his rival comes tumbling out. Second, I ask him where he comes from, and he says he’s from Italy, and as he says it he opens his eyes wide and he doesn’t blink. People do that when they want to seem truthful; he would have had no notion he was doing it. But he could not keep it up, this wide-open, unblinking look, and so in his guilt he looked away, then rubbed his hands across his face as if to hide himself from us—as good as admitting he’s lying. Third, you suggest he might be responsible for the poisoning. The response is quite different: he knows we know he has it in for Soyer, he knows he hasn’t done this, he is outraged, furious and alarmed.”

  “But he was sneaking enough to dispose of his rival, and he lied about stealing Soyer’s recipe,” I said, unconvinced.

  “He didn’t deny stealing it; he tried to force you to withdraw the accusation.”

  “There you see it, his anger: he is violent and unpredictable. Someone who regards life as a fight for supremacy and would do anything to win.”

  “I don’t deny he’s a bruiser, just that he is not our man.”

  “Wait. Are you saying he is not Italian?”

  Blake grinned again. “Giovanni Francobaldi, my arse. His parents might be Italian, but that accent was made in Clerkenwell. Did you not hear? It all but disappeared when he lost his temper? ‘Caw-handed jack’? ‘Sapskull’? Who says those things but a Londoner born and bred?”

  “You mean he is pretending to be a foreigner? Why on earth would an Englishman do that?”

  “Avery, you country joskin. Who would take an English chef seriously?”

  “What about what he said about all not being well in the Reform kitchen and that Soyer is responsible? Whatever we may think of Francobaldi, he is not the first to say it.”

  Blake sobered at once. His eyes narrowed. “We’ll have to ask Soyer.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The kitchen. A frantic air prevailed. Every cook had a soldier in attendance. It was more crowded than I would have believed possible. More guards stood before the meat larders and cold kitchens and in the butler’s pantry.

  “We must speak, Monsieur Soyer,” I said quietly.

  Soyer would have protested, I think, but one look at Blake persuaded him, and we followed him into his office.

  “You have found something?” he said hopefully.

  “Vides tes poches.”

  “Please, Blake, I have no time for this.”

  “Vides tes poches.”

  Bemused, Soyer reached into the pockets of his trousers and drew out a laundered handkerchief and several torn pieces of paper.

  “Et les autres,” said Blake.

  Soyer reached into the various pockets of his frock coat, drawing out a pocketbook, more crumpled notes, a number of small coins and two small enamel boxes. These Blake pounced on. One he placed in his pocket; the other he gazed at and began to turn over and over in his hand.

  “Pretty little thing,” he said. “So, is the Reform paying its debts?”

  “What is this, Blake?”

  “My question.”

  Soyer shook his head. “What have you heard?”

  “That the club is in debt, and that the kitchen has a reputation for dishonesty, for demanding bribes, padding bills and not paying its suppliers.”

  “This is nonsense! The club is in dispute with Barry over his fee, but that is due to extravagance on both their parts, and because neither will own to it. Besides, Lord Marcus and a number of other rich members would never allow it. It is nothing to do with the kitchen.”

  Blake shrugged.

  “You’ve not answered my question.”

  Soyer stood up, then sat down again, his eyes on the box. “We pay our bills. Sometimes there are delays, but this is a common practice. All large kitchens such as ours take time to pay their accounts.”

  “And what about the stealing, the padding, the bribes?”

  “I have a banquet to prepare. I have no time . . .”

  “You do,” said Blake, leaning over the table and fixing him with a fearsome look. “Tell me what happened when the committee discovered what was going on.”

  “But this is nonsense! These are rumors spread by rivals. Was this Francobaldi? He cannot help himself.”

  “Tell me, Soyer, or by God I’ll walk from this room and out of this place, and I’ll take this with me.” He held the small enamel box.

  Soyer stood up.

  “Sit down!” said Blake, as furious as I had ever heard him. “I have not finished with you.”

  Soyer put his face in his hands. “You friend is gone quite mad, Avery.”

  The enamel box sat on Blake’s palm. With his right hand, he prized it open.

  “Non, Blake!” Soyer pleaded.

  Blake pressed his right forefinger into the tiny white grains and lifted it slowly to his lips.

  “Non!”

  Blake dabbed the grains onto his tongue and closed his mouth.

  Soyer stood up and tried to rush around the table. “Crache-le!” he cried. “Please! Spit it out!”

  There was a jug of water upon the sideboard. Blake took it up and swigged from it, then spat it out onto the floor.

  Soyer stood stock-still, for once wordless.

  “Arsenic,” said Blake, wiping his mouth.

  With his right hand, he took the other enamel box from his pocket, opened it and sniffed.

  “Strychnine,” he said, holding it up.

  He stared at Soyer.

  “Truly, it is nothing. It is a misunderstanding, nothing more.”

  “Nothing?” said Blake.

  Soyer tried to muster his dignity. “They are nothing. Return them to me.”

  Blake put the boxes in his pocket.

  Soyer balled his hands into fists, his shoulders hunched. “You will return them to me. They are no one’s business but my own.” He turned to me to appeal. “Captain Avery?”

  “Three men dead of arsenic or strychnine poisoning,” I said. “I should hardly say they are nothing.”

  Blake watched him, inscrutable, appraising. There was a long silence. Then Soyer cleared his throat.

  “You say I never sleep. It is true, I barely do. With all there is to do—the life of a chef, the things I wish to achieve—I cannot doze off before the fire and, besides, it is not in my nature. I must work, I must be Soyer, I must give every last shred of my strength, of my vitalité, to it. Coffee is not enough. These revive me: one grain of arsenic once or twice a day. And after a while, when I have been taking it for some time, a grain or two of nux vomica instead. In very small doses they prime a man, they give him strength and appetite for the day.”

  I said, “Mr. Thackeray said that in certain fashionable London sets men are using small amounts of arsenic as a pick-me-up. I think that is what Rowlands was doing.”

  “And the strychnine?” said Blake.

  “It is used in many tonics. My apothecary simply suggested I take the thing itself, in very small doses. It keeps me alert, ensures I give of my best, and that I do not fail.”

  Blake turned away. “And you did not think to tell this either to Avery or to me after Rowlands’s death.”

  “Naturally, at first I had no idea it was of any relevance, and then, when the Captain told me of Rowlands, I intended to tell him, but the moment passed. The next day came the other death. I knew I had done nothing wrong, but I admit that I feared that you would not believe me, since I was in possession of both. I thought that you would—”

  “—that we would think you had deliberately poisoned these men yourself?”

  “I would never! I swear it on my life.”

  Silence.

>   “I am sorry. But what I say is true,” said Soyer. “Perhaps I am foolish to take these, but I find they help me. But I did not—could not—contaminate my own food. My métier, my vocation, is to feed and give pleasure. And I am ambitious; foolishly so, some say. I have great plans for the future, and I have Emma and, when it is born, our baby to take care of. Why would I do this? I should have to be mad.”

  “Madness can be found in the least likely places.”

  “I implore you.”

  Blake would not look at him, and answered coldly, “Avery owed you nothing but took on this work out of a sense of duty, and you told him nothing. You know what I risk being here, and you told me nothing.”

  “I regret it, I do, with all my heart.”

  Blake turned to the door. “And you know what we think about this banquet, and that we are here because we are forced to be.”

  “Blake, do not abandon me.” He spoke in a low voice.

  “We will have it all out—all of it—now.”

  “Oui! I tell you whatever you want to know. The accounts, the money, whatever it is. I will show you that I am, truly, an honest man.” Soyer went back to his chair, sat down and began to rub his chin as if puzzling out how to begin.

  Blake stood by the door, as if he might depart at any moment. I really thought he might.

  “It is true, there may have been—there have been—some questions regarding the kitchen’s accounts. You must understand, it is the largest kitchen of its kind in London; we must order a great deal, expensive items sometimes, and this certain members of the club have complained of, ever since we first opened. They complain for nothing.”

  Blake put his hand on the door handle.

  “And,” Soyer said hurriedly, “it is also true that some items in the past have been ordered and paid for and then never found their way to the members, while some others never—”

  “—never existed,” said Blake.

  “Yes. And some wines and spirits were on occasion made use of by members of the staff.” He shrugged. “Ça arrive.”

  “And the committee discovered it.”

  “Almost by accident. Scott—good riddance to him—thought his role was to give orders and fawn over the members, but he barely understood a balance sheet. He was supposed to manage the accounts for the whole club and, I admit, this may have been exploited.”