The Devil's Feast

by M. J. Carter

  “Get to the station,” Blake said to the constable, and he nodded and made off into the evening as fast as he could.

  Blake called to Matty; she shook her head.

  “I’ll watch him,” she said. Percy had not moved. He stood just where he had been when he had put the spoon down.

  Some of the constables from outside had pushed into the tent and were shouting for the crowd to disperse. Some began to leave, but others had more mischief in mind. Another table went over, and its benches. Some men seized the barrels of water; one was launched at a constable. Someone threw a glass at a gaslight and it splintered onto the crowd. Someone screamed. A group of people surged toward us.

  One man shouted, “Poison us, would you?” Others were still calling, “We will have soup!”

  For a few minutes, it was all we could do to keep ourselves standing. I found myself next to Blake. He smiled grimly.

  “Perhaps we should sing the Marseillaise,” he said.

  Half the crowd were desperate to escape; others were knocking over tables and benches in rage. A group tried to slip round the side to reach the boiler. Blake and I ranged ourselves so these were directly behind us, but they were many and we were two.

  “There’s nothing for it. You’ll have to upend it.”

  “But it is twice the size of me!”

  “Use those iron ladles as a lever!” Blake said. He took out his knife and brandished it.

  “So who wants some!” he roared, in primest cockney. That slowed them. Then, “Listen to me. The soup is poisoned. It will kill you. There’ll be food—good food—tomorrow, I swear it.”

  To be honest, I had little hope of being able to dislodge the great boiler. It was made of iron and heavy with soup. I picked out the most robust tool I could see, a pair of double tongs half as long as me, and tried to wedge them under the drum.

  “Here! Let me help!” Matty was next to me. There was a little space between the boiler’s wheels and the ground. Together, we managed to insert the tongs in here. I pushed with all my might on the other end.

  It rocked a little.

  Blake was repeating again and again, “The soup is poisoned.”

  I pushed down again. It tipped a little, but not enough.

  “Come on,” said Matty. “Both of us, together.” I cannot think of any other time when I should have asked such a thing of a woman, but we were desperate. Seeing us, however, a roar went up from our assailants and, as one, they swarmed past Blake, knocking him backward. There was nothing he could do to stop them.

  “You cannot!” I shouted. But they pushed past me, too, toward the boiler. Instead of drinking from it, however, they lent their weight to overturning it. Like a tree being felled, the boiler was tipped sufficiently to begin to topple, then was brought down by its own weight. It went over with a heavy, gong-like sound. The liquid gushed onto the cobbles. Within moments, we were wading through its contents.

  Then the gaslights went out. I scrabbled about, feeling the soup on my fingers. I called out for Matty. The sudden dark gave pause to the crowd, and the act of overturning the boiler seemed to have assuaged some of their anger. People turned to leave the tent. From the whistles and shouts and the gleam of a few lanterns, I assumed the constables were gaining the day. Near us, at the front, however, those who remained had now fixed upon Percy as the author of their troubles, though he was barely visible—just a dark outline in precisely the same place as he had been since the start.

  “There he is! He’s the one!” the cry went up. The vicar and his friend, the local worthy who had arrived at the tent so hopefully with Percy, were told to stand aside. To their credit, both refused and tried to reason with the protesters. Through the gloom I saw a man step onto the platform and push the vicar. He held his ground.

  “Let us have him. He would have murdered us.”

  “We do not know what the truth is, lad,” the local man in his Sunday best was saying. “Come now, I know you all. Would you judge a man without all the facts? We must wait. Let the police determine the truth.”

  I thought they would rush the platform.

  “Matty!” Blake called.

  “Here!” she cried. She was back with Percy. We could just make out their two figures. There was a large tent pole in the midst of the platform, and we were able to clamber around this without being noticed.

  “We’ll take Percy out through where I cut the tent,” said Blake. Percy, who had said not a word, did as he was told, and we bundled him and Matty toward the hole that Blake had cut. The men were still in heated argument with the vicar, but a couple of them saw what we were up to.

  “They are taking him!”

  “He must not get away!”

  Matty climbed through, then Percy and Blake. I was the last, standing before the hole. I raised my fists. In the darkness, I could not tell how many there were.

  “Don’t tempt me, boys. I like a good ruckus.”

  “Get out of our way.”

  “You go home. The police will have him. They will make sure he pays.”

  Someone came up close to me. “Ain’t he the one who started all this? You were the one what said the soup was bad. You kept us hungry.”

  “Would you rather be hungry or dead?”

  In hindsight, I see this might not have been the most judicious of answers.

  I felt the air whisper as a fist passed my jaw by a hair. I shot back, a blow to the stomach and one to the face. There was a groan. Then someone jabbed me in the stomach and I doubled over. There was a hard boot in my chest—several boots, in fact—and I went over. Then more boots.

  There were whistles and light. Shouts and more whistles. Voices calling for quiet. Buzzing round my ears.

  Bluebottles, I thought.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I raised myself onto my knees, carefully, then slowly tried to stand, not without difficulty. The tent was dimly illuminated by lanterns. It was enough, however, to see that the hungry had disappeared back to their rooms and that almost everything which could have been had been overturned, and many of the gaslights were broken. One side of the tent had collapsed. It had begun to rain, and around the upturned boiler the thick, scummy residue of the barley soup was driven into the ground by the drops.

  I felt myself over gingerly. Bruised ribs—I hoped no worse—and a bloodied nose.

  “It’s him, sir. He was the one that started it.” It was one of the two constables whom Blake had sent for help. “He said the soup was poisoned.”

  “Seems you have caused a riot, sir. I’ll thank you to accompany us to the station.”

  • • •

  SPITALFIELDS POLICE STATION was a former watch house on the corner of a churchyard, more like a cottage than a lock-up. But cells there were, and they leaked.

  I endeavored to convince the sergeant that I was neither madman, nor roysterer, nor rascal, but the vicar and the grand ladies and gentlemen who had taken shelter in the station, as well as several rioters who were locked up in the other cell, were all more than happy to identify me as the man who had cried out that the soup was poisoned. Blake, Matty and Percy were nowhere to be seen.

  “If you’ll pardon me, sir,” said the sergeant, who had a ponderous manner and a West Country accent, “since the offending item is now spread across the cobbles of Spitalfields Market, you have nothing with which to prove the poisonousness or otherwise of the comestible.”

  At last, one of the club’s young cooks was brought in. He had been hiding in a back street, afeared for his life. He confirmed who I was and, with a great show of reluctance, the sergeant sent a message to the Reform. It was perhaps eleven by then. It seemed quite possible that no one would come till morning. I settled in for my second night in prison in three days. I wrapped myself up in my damp coat, closed my eyes and did my best to avoid the drops.

  They came in the ea
rly hours: Blake and Soyer. The former silent, but finally divested of his mustache; the latter still resplendent in velvet, chattering, gesturing, smiling. The sergeant and the constables on duty were quite dazzled. They had known about the soup kitchen, of course, but to actually meet the famous Mr. Soyer! He set about explaining, extravagantly and at some length, that I had uncovered a terrible conspiracy concerning the poisoning of the soup kitchen and must be freed immediately.

  The sergeant, charmed but not persuaded, said that I had incited a riot and could not simply be released, even to someone as august as Mr. Soyer.

  At this, Blake, who had thus far said not a word, produced a letter signed by Sergeant Loin of the new Detecting branch of the Metropolitan Police. It said that my presence was required as soon as possible at the Reform Club, in connection with investigations into crimes committed there and with which the evening’s events in Spitalfields were intimately entwined. In the process of these, it should come to light whether I had either caused an unjustified panic or had saved several hundred souls from a ghastly death. It invited the sergeant to send a constable to escort me.

  With a great show of reluctance, the sergeant agreed. A cab was summoned from Bishopsgate, the constable climbed on top with the driver, and we set off.

  • • •

  “DOES MY WIFE KNOW where I was?” I asked.

  Blake shook his head. “I told her you were required all night. Lord Palmerston’s orders.”

  “You have Percy?” I said.

  “He’s at the club.”

  “Has he confessed?”

  Blake laughed his mirthless laugh. “He won’t speak. That is, he said two things: ‘I would not taste the soup because Captain Avery was so certain it was poisoned,’ and ‘Morel is selling Soyer’s recipes to Francobaldi.’ Then nothing more. Loin says he can’t hold him much longer.”

  “But the soup?”

  “Did you take a sample?”

  I shook my head.

  “Nor I. We went back to the market, but the rain had washed it all away. We have no way of proving it was poisoned. Percy has admitted nothing. His rooms held nothing. His refusal to eat the soup means nothing.”

  “But Matty saw him season the soup.”

  “Nothing wrong with seasoning the soup.”

  “And Morel?”

  Soyer spoke. “He has confessed to what he did.” And he began to weep. “Mes amis, I am undone. Forgive me.”

  We rode for a while with no sound but the cab’s rattling wheels and Soyer’s sobs. I felt too all-in to do more than listen.

  “I am torn in two,” he said at last. “Tonight was a triumph, the dinner a triomphe! Even Lord Palmerston was delighted. Tonight, I lost both my trusted lieutenants. Two men I thought I could trust above anyone. Tonight, you saved many lives and the soup kitchen was—un désastre. But I know it can work. And what will the newspapers say? Am I destroyed?”

  “There’s a good chance Avery will be proved to be a mad troublemaker. In which case, you will be the innocent victim of his insanity,” said Blake drily.

  “You told me it was poison!” I said.

  “And you always do what I tell you.”

  Soyer dried his eyes and laughed.

  “Why don’t you send all that’s left from the banquet to the soup kitchen?” said Blake.

  “That is an excellent notion!” said Soyer excitedly. “There is a great deal of food. The guests were—how shall I say?—a little cautious in their appetites. We will make amends for last night! It will be remarkable! I myself will supervise it.”

  “How did you manage the letter from Loin? I assume it is a forgery,” I said.

  “I went to see him, explained things,” said Blake.

  “You mean you revealed yourself to him?”

  “He has given me a few hours to see what I can gather about Percy. I return to the Marshalsea tomorrow.”

  “So we shall both be going to prison.”

  • • •

  I COULD HAPPILY have never passed through the Reform’s elegant doors again.

  Percy sat in the kitchen at the twelve-sided table. With him were Loin, a couple of constables and Lord Marcus, who dozed at the far end. Percy sat quite still, sometimes looking ahead and sometimes down at the table. It was almost as if he was somewhere else. He seemed not to hear the exchanges around him.

  “Has he spoken?” said Blake.

  “Not a word,” said Loin.

  “Have you the soup?” said Loin.

  Blake shook his head. “There was nothing left.”

  Percy permitted himself a smile. Loin looked as if the air had been squeezed out of him.

  “Sergeant Loin? May I?” said Blake. He sat down next to Percy. Their knees touched. “Such a grand plan, on such a grand scale, Percy.” There was a long pause. “Such care over so many months, and executed so stealthily. Concealed so cleverly.” Again, he paused. He had never been discomfited by silence, but we, the listeners, all strained for an answer. “Do you not want to explain it? Do you not want people to understand how sharp you were? You must burst to.”

  Percy did not answer, but he did move his knees. Blake waited. Finally, Percy allowed himself to look at Blake.

  “I am honored to think that you consider me worthy of attention, Mr. Blake,” he said. Then, almost pityingly, “But I have nothing to explain. I do not need to be understood. I did not poison anyone. You cannot prove I did.”

  “But you hate him—Soyer—don’t you? A few hours since, you were licking his boots as if your life depended upon it. Now, you will not even look at him.”

  Percy looked away.

  “How cleverly you have deprived him of those he relied on: Morel, and Perrin, and yourself. You probably helped Soyer’s secretaries on their way, too? And I thought you liked Matty. You knew where she’d come from, what she’d come through. But you had Margaret inform against her and made her a suspect, all the same. Used her handwriting for the notes to Soyer—so easy to find the recipes she’d written. Then you put that pot of arsenic just where Perrin could not see it but would reach for it. You are an observant man. Perrin works hard to conceal his short sight. And you knew all about Morel’s collusion with Francobaldi, but refrained from telling Soyer until he was at his lowest point.”

  “I have done nothing that is against the law,” said Percy mildly.

  “You’ve half broken this kitchen with suspicion and fear. Destroyed the suppliers’ trust in Soyer and the kitchen. Almost brought down this club. And tried to poison hundreds of hungry men, women and children. It must truly be a mighty hatred.”

  Percy met his gaze but said nothing.

  “When did it start? Soyer said you asked him to take you on. Did you admire him then, or did you always hate him? Or did it change when he stopped letting you pad your pockets? Or is it that you cannot see why you are not the master here? You should have been a doctor, a respected man of independent means, if your father had not lost his business.”

  “Oh, spare me,” said Percy.

  It came to me that Blake did not expect Percy to confess but was making the case to Loin.

  “And the poison. I thought at first that you were testing your dosages. Now I think you were quite decided on your methods: a slow, drawn-out stirring up of fear and confusion. Then strychnine, as well as arsenic, just to show them it was no accident. Poison is the worst of deaths, don’t you think? Takes all a man’s dignity and gives him unendurable pain. And, of all poisons, strychnine—it’s a monstrous death. Most who use it don’t know how cruel it is. But you knew, didn’t you?”

  Percy gave him a strange look. It reminded me of nothing so much as a benevolent uncle indulging a young nephew. It was infuriating.

  “How did you do it, Percy? My bet is you put it in the wine. Tipping in a few grains before you poured a glass. Tell me, Percy, I know
you want to, I know you do.”

  Percy lowered his eyes.

  “When did you decide that it would be the soup kitchen and not the banquet? Was that always your plan? And how many did you expect to harm? A hundred, two hundred? Only, say, fifty? Likely more, because the Spitalfields poor are ill-fed and their bodies have little to fight the poison with.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Percy.

  “Not necessarily?” Blake said.

  “Not necessarily. A healthy body will succumb to poison just as a sick one will. It simply takes a little longer.” There was a silence. “As you say, I had some doctoring training.”

  “And all to discredit one man.” Blake sat back, and the room was quite still. “Sometimes I find myself wishing I still believed in hell.”

  “I poisoned no one, Mr. Blake. You have no evidence for it, only your own suppositions.”

  “You must admit, Percy, that your current manner is strange enough to raise suspicion,” I said.

  Percy paid me no heed. “Why are you here, Mr. Blake?” he said, almost kindly. “Are you not due back in prison in only an hour or two?”

  Blake stood up. “Last chance.”

  Percy did not answer.

  “I’m off,” Blake said.

  The policeman nodded. “Make the most of your freedom, Mr. Blake. You have a few hours before morning.”

  I followed him to the door.

  “Stay here,” said Blake. “Tell Loin your story.”

  “Is Matty safe?” I said.

  “She’s abed. Wake her after dawn. She can give an account of seeing Percy adding something to the soup—it’s something.”

  “So there is nothing to keep him?”

  “Not nothing, but not enough.”

  “And what will you do? I mean, I would understand if you chose to go. To take that ship. You cannot live in Collinson’s pocket. Maybe now is the time.”

  He touched me gently on the arm. I watched him walk away.

  I gave my account of the soup kitchen and the riot to Loin.