by M. J. Carter
“I mean it,” Albert said. He tucked a straggling lock of greasy hair under his cap. The gesture was oddly childlike. “I meant no harm. It was just a joke.”
“He’s a German, sir,” said the Scottish junior cook. “We heard you was looking at the Germans.”
One of the kitchen maids howled and launched herself at Albert, almost knocking him down.
“Bastard!” she screamed. I dashed forward, took hold of her and pulled her off. It seemed to me she had the weight of the kitchen behind her. I had no idea what the next moments might bring.
Soyer appeared then, and clapped his hands. “Back to work! All of you! Mes amis! Captain Avery will take care of this! We have work to do. Maintenant!”
I thought they would ignore him. But the moment passed and they moved grudgingly back to their places.
The junior cooks described what they had seen. The account was garbled but, apparently, Albert had boasted that he could get at various dishes under guard, and had pestered the soldiers and tried to get into the warming cupboards, until his peers had long since stopped even pretending to be amused. Eventually, the two junior cooks had lost patience and denounced him.
“Can you do without him?” said Blake. Soyer nodded. “Lock him in a room until after the banquet. He’ll pay the price of having wasted our time. Or,” he added as an afterthought, “I suppose he may end up in Newgate Jail.”
“You hear that? Newgate and the noose for you, if there’s a trace of anything noxious,” I said. “Confess now, and we may be able to help you. It’s more than your Russian friends will do for you.”
“I do not know any Russians,” he said sulkily. Disappointingly, I believed him.
“We’ll try any relevés and meat dishes he may have worked on,” I said.
Blake and I returned to Soyer’s room to start upon the next courses.
A footman was waiting for us.
“Jeffers!” I said.
He nodded. “Upstairs says to say, sir, that he is eating!” The banquet had begun.
“Who? Ibrahim Pasha?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But he has a taster. And he doesn’t eat.”
“This time he does, sir.”
“Can they not stop him?”
“How, sir? He insisted he must try Chef’s works for himself. He loves the soup. The taster barely had time to swallow before he started in. The rest of the guests are hardly eating.”
“They’ve heard the rumors.”
Blake leaned back. “How is your stomach?” he said.
You knew there would be more. And there will be, the second note Soyer received had said. “None the worse.” I felt a strong desire to laugh. “And you?”
“Never better.”
“Bring us the rest,” I called.
It was the relevés and roasts—great haunches of mutton from the South Downs; more of lamb, and a vast baron of roast beef on an almighty platter—which threatened to finish me. When I was faced with these meaty leviathans, the whole endeavor suddenly seemed impossible. I felt myself lose heart.
“Chef asked if you might take a little off the bottom,” said Jeffers, wrestling with the beef, which, it must be said, was so large it seemed impossible that one man could do anything much with it.
“Let me help,” said Blake. “I’ll hold it down.”
“If you please, sir,” Jeffers said. “I’ll do my best, but I’m nothing compared to Mr. Percy. He’s a master when it comes to carving.”
“Yes, I’ve seen him do it. He is an artist,” I said politely, as the poor man struggled to take a little meat off the side.
“What can we really do with these great pieces?” I said. “What if one end was contaminated and not . . .”
“An artist?” Blake said, interrupting.
“Oh, yes, sir,” said Jeffers. “How he wields the knife! Like he was born to it.”
“How would you learn such skills?” Blake said.
“Long service?” I said.
“As a butcher maybe. Or a surgeon?” said Blake, standing up. “He said, do you recall, that going into service was not what he had planned? But he had to because his father lost his business. Do you know”—he turned on Jeffers and stared intently at him—“what Percy did before he went into service? Doctoring, surgery?”
Jeffers looked flustered. “Can’t say I do, Mr. Maguire.”
“Is he always the one with the salves and the bandages when someone’s injured in the kitchen?”
“I have seen him binding cuts—there’s a lot of them in a kitchen. Did I say something wrong?”
Blake had left the room. I followed him. The kitchen now seemed oddly bare of familiar faces. No Perrin, no Matty, Morel just there in person, all but gone in spirit. Scott dismissed. No Percy.
Blake was conferring with Soyer.
“Is Percy returned?”
Soyer was distracted. “We had a message from the soup kitchen,” he said. “Mathilde asked that Percy might come and help. The cooks have been unruly; they need a guiding hand. For all our troubles here, we are at least well ordered. I sent him at once. I am sorry, Blake, I have no time, we have three hundred soups to serve.”
“Does he always treat wounds and burns?”
“Often, but Blake, I cannot—”
“Does he have a set of knives?” Blake said.
“He keeps them in the butler’s room. He is very proud of them.”
“I must see them.”
The room was locked. Soyer called for Morel, who came, but not before Blake had almost broken down the door.
“Where would he keep them?” Morel pointed to two long, well-worn leather boxes on the highest of a series of shelves, lined with silver-plated teapots and dishes.
I stretched up and brought them down. Inside the first, upon old but beautiful watered silk, were two knives with fine bone handles and long, thin, well-polished blades, sharp on the side and blunt at the tip.
“They are unusual,” said Morel.
“These are surgeon’s knives,” said Blake. He opened the other box. Inside there was a hacksaw with several spare blades. “We must go.”
“What?”
“To the soup kitchen.”
I shook my head. “What about the banquet?”
“It’s not the banquet. All is well with the banquet. Don’t worry about the banquet. Alexis, tell Lord Marcus the guests can eat anything they choose.”
I expected jubilation. Instead, Soyer looked ashen. “It is too late. It was to start at seven,” he said.
“We’ll see,” said Blake. “Come, William.”
• • •
HE PUSHED his way out of the kitchen, and I followed him along Pall Mall, as he fought his way through the still-milling spectators toward Trafalgar Square.
“What—” I ventured as I drew level with him.
“We must get to Spitalfields. We need a cab. It’s just short of an hour by foot.”
There were two hansom cabs by the water troughs in the square, both about to be taken. Blake reached the first, thrust the gentleman climbing into it out of the way, and climbed in. I tried to apologize as I followed him. The driver complained, but Blake pushed a note into his palm and he set off, still grumbling.
“Explain this to me,” I said.
Blake was wheezing from his exertion. I felt a pang of concern about his health as I waited for him to recover.
“It’s not the banquet. It was always the soup kitchen. The club is not the mark, Soyer is.”
“He feeds the poor poisoned soup on the night he feeds the rich on lobster tails,” I said.
“A party of ragged schoolchildren are to eat first. It’s all arranged.”
“Oh, good God!” I saw a line of hungry children, holding bowls. “From seven, Soyer said. It must be near
half past.”
“I know.”
“And Matty is there.”
“I know.”
We both sat, hunched in silence. I would have jumped out and run, but I did not know the way. I put my head out of the cab window.
“Can you not go faster?” I shouted at the driver. “I’ll pay double.” The horse leaped forward as the whip struck its sides.
My watch said twenty-five after seven. I felt breathless with apprehension.
“So it’s Percy,” I said. He nodded. “I cannot believe it.” But in my heart, I feared it was true.
“He’d know about pharmacology and poisons and dosage. As steward, he has authority to order anything, and he confessed he’d been false with the accounts.”
“But surely he could not buy enough to poison the soup for the whole kitchen—he’d need so much. It would surely come to light?”
“Arsenic and strychnine are cheap, and he is the steward of a large club with many rooms and the biggest kitchen in London. A large bag of arsenic to take care of the vermin? Two? Of course, sir.”
“But he works so hard, and he is devoted to Soyer.”
“Is he? I always thought him a cold fish. Too correct. And last night, when Margaret cursed Scott, she said, ‘You promised.’ I reckon now that she was talking to Percy.”
I saw the scene in my head. It seemed to me quite possible.
“Damn me, but she was there, on Piccadilly, this morning, when I was waiting for you. She asked for money, but I sent her on her way. She said she had something to tell me, and that she was frightened. I thought she meant Scott. I clean forgot.”
Blake rubbed his brows.
“I should have listened to her,” I said. He raised his hand to silence me.
We did not speak for some time.
“I reckon Percy set her to accuse Matty,” he said eventually. “And that Percy put the arsenic out for Perrin to pick up. He arranged Scott’s dismissal. He has stripped the Reform of Soyer’s closest supporters and his own rivals.”
“Do you think he knew about Morel?” I said. “Whenever Morel protested about recipes, not needing them or not having them, Percy gave me the most pointed look. The note said, ‘All shall be taken from you.’ But for what? Money? Position? What does he want?”
“Revenge. To be the only man left when Soyer falls.” He put his head in his hands.
Fear rose in me. “Where are we?”
“Finsbury Square.”
I dug coins out of my pockets. “Would we be swifter on foot?”
He sighed. “Not me.”
I tried not to look at my watch, but I could not stop myself. Twenty minutes to eight o’clock. I could not bear to think of the scene unfolding at the soup kitchen; I could not stop myself from imagining it.
The cab swung into a wide thoroughfare.
“Norton Folgate. Stop here.” We stumbled out of the cab, I dropped coins in the driver’s glove, and Blake began to run. He turned down one street and then another. He was already gasping; I knew he should slow soon. He pointed forward, and I set off without him. Ahead of us, a crowd and what looked to be a large, gray tent, and next to it a steam engine, all illuminated by a dozen gaslight moons getting brighter by the moment as darkness closed in.
“Stop!” I cried.
Chapter Twenty-three
Stop! Stop!” Faces turned, startled. Close to, the crowd was a collection of wretched men and women, excited, expectant, but many and restless. Small children were sitting on the cobbles. Many of them looked dismally thin and underfed. The luxury and quantity of the food we had consumed at the Reform seemed suddenly distasteful by comparison.
“Stop!”
The steam engine billowed smoke into the evening. A long line snaked into the tent, carrying bowls. Two young cooks I recognized were handing out bread. A number of police stood about the square.
I barged into the tent. “Matty!” I shouted. “Matty!”
I wrestled my way through the lines. Some jostled me; all stared resentfully. There were rows of long tables at which children were sitting, a bowl and spoon before each one. Round the sides mounted on high shelves were barrels marked “Pure Water.” And at the far end, on a platform, below a portrait of Her Majesty the Queen, there was a great drum on wheels some thirteen feet high, with what looked like a slender chimney emerging upward from it. It was being stirred by two cooks standing on chairs, with great iron ladles. Other cooks were bustling about, some counting out spoons and dishes, another cutting bread. Two stood over two great stew pans. Next to them, Matty was issuing orders. Despite her slightness, she seemed admirably capable. To one side were several well-dressed ladies and gentlemen observing, local alderman or charity workers and their ladies. They were attended by two police constables. Percy, I could not see.
“Matty!”
She smiled, then frowned. “Captain? Should you—”
I reached her. Now I was gasping. “Where is the soup? You cannot serve it.”
“Everything took longer than we planned. The drum would not heat. The soup would not cook. The crowd is getting restless. We are only now ready. What do you mean, stop?”
“Thank God! Have you tried the soup?”
“Not yet.”
I do not know where he came from, but Percy appeared, accompanied by two men, one a curate in a loose black coat and white cravat, the other a man of modest means, plainly in his Sunday best. He was perfectly composed.
“Matty, are we ready? Captain Avery, what brings you here? Not bad news, I hope?”
I turned away from him. “You cannot eat it,” I said to Matty.
One of the cooks had raised a small bowl to his lips. I dashed it from his hands, then overturned the two stew pans. The contents, thick and grainy green, spattered over the cobbles.
Matty exclaimed. One of the constables came forward and tried to take my arm. I pushed him off.
“Hi!” A furious shout came from the crowd in the tent. It swelled. Percy’s companions looked indignant.
“Captain! Are you feeling quite well?” Percy looked appalled.
“As if you did not know.”
“Is he mad?” said the man in his Sunday best.
“Matty, the soup is poisoned. We are sure of it. It’s him.” I looked at Percy.
“Have you gone mad?” she said. “Look.” She turned to the crowd. “They’ve been waiting for hours.”
“Who is this man?” said Percy’s priestly companion.
“It is poisoned, I tell you. Why would I lie, Matty?” I said.
She hesitated.
“Who would do such a thing as poison a soup kitchen?” said one of the grand ladies.
“Someone who wants to make chaos,” said Blake, who had come up behind me.
“I think you must have eaten something that has not agreed with you, gentlemen,” said Percy. “Come, Matty, we must begin.”
“Matty,” said Blake, “did you send to the kitchen to ask for Percy?”
“Soyer sent him. Didn’t trust me in the end. But I’m doing all right, aren’t I, Mr. Percy?”
“Very well indeed. Your mistake, Mr. Maguire: Monsieur Soyer sent me.”
“That’s not what Soyer said,” said Blake. “In fact, he said the opposite.”
Percy look mildly surprised. “He must have been distracted.”
“Has he done anything? Has he put anything in the soup?” said Blake.
“He seasoned it, stirred it.”
I turned to the muttering crowd. “The soup is not good! You cannot eat it!” I shouted. “There is no food here that is fit to eat. You must go home!”
“Looks all right to us. We was promised food!” someone cried. Some of the children started crying.
“I know, but it will make you ill. It has arsenic in it. You cannot eat it.”
>
“We was promised!” someone else shouted. “We will have soup!” Another took up the chorus: “We’re hungry. We will have soup!”
Blake said to Percy, “You eat it.”
“I would be happy to.”
“Get a bowl.”
“These people need food—they are hungry. Would you deny them?” said Percy.
A bowl was brought, and a cheap tin spoon. The tent fell silent. I do not think the crowd could quite hear what had taken place, but they knew something significant was in the offing.
Percy smiled. He did nothing.
“Go on.”
He looked at the soup. He smiled again and took up the spoon. Dipped it into the bowl.
“Why wait? Eat it.”
Slowly, he brought the spoon to his lips. He smiled. He gazed at Blake.
He put the spoon down.
Shouts began at once. Then, suddenly, children and men were working their way round the tables, even climbing over them toward us.
“You from the station in Wood Street?” said Blake to the bemused constables. “One of you had better fetch your friends. The other can watch them.” He pointed at the alarmed aldermen and grand ladies. “We’ll do our best to keep them away from the boilers till you’re back.” Both wavered, then one began to push his way out.
“You’re a churchman,” he said to the vicar, or curate, or whatever he was. “Talk to them, calm them.”
The churchman and his companion, plainly a local man, began appealing to the crowd for calm.
“We must wait to discover the truth of this,” said the churchman. “Patience is a virtue.” Some of those at the front listened; others remained determined to get at the soup. People further back were intent on displaying their anger and disappointment. A table was knocked onto its side.
The children and many at the front shrank back to the side of the tent, looking terrified. One of the grand ladies began to cry piteously that they must escape. Blake’s expression darkened. From inside his black coat, he drew out a knife that looked like an Indian dagger, and made a great slash in the back of the tent.
“This way, your majesties,” he said. The constable held the rip open as the gentlemen and ladies climbed through, all dignity quite deserting them. After them, Blake beckoned a troop of scared children and those who were cowering away from the chaos.