Murder Makes an Entree

by Myers, Amy

  Their faces began to brighten, but in spite of his words Auguste could not share their optimism. Stomach medicines would not contain sufficient belladonna, if belladonna it was.

  ‘Anyone could have dropped poison into his food,’ objected James stolidly. ‘It’s not fair we should be blamed. It could have been anyone passing by the serving table, or in the kitchens, or sitting near Sir Thomas—’

  ‘The Prince of Wales, perhaps?’ suggested Auguste drily.

  ‘You don’t think the poison was intended for him, do you, Mr Didier?’ asked Alice, with horrorstricken face.

  ‘I do not know, I do not know, mes enfants.’ Auguste covered his face with his hands. There was immediate and respectful silence. The maître did not know. This had never happened before. Alfred broke it.

  ‘Suicide, I expect.’

  ‘Bills,’ mumbled Heinrich to general puzzlement. ‘He could have been taking bills.’

  ‘He had a weak stomach,’ pointed out Emily in support of this theory.

  Auguste uncovered his face. ‘We must continue our holiday –’ the word struck a curious note – ‘as best we can. I am glad to say my friend Inspector Rose of the Yard will investigate. This means it will be done quickly – and there will be no mistakes,’ he said reassuringly. ‘After all,’ he concluded, rising to his feet, ‘why on earth should any of you choose to murder Sir Thomas? No, it is a formality only.’ He half-stumbled out of the room up to his bed and blessed, blessed sleep, where his dreams were a mixture of lobsters with evil intent towards the Prince of Wales, of Charles Dickens teaching him how to catch a pungar, and of Araminta, receding further and further into a boiling sea of mutton broth.

  In the kitchen, without his restraining presence, discussion broke out animatedly. Only Alfred did not join in. He was uncomfortably aware that Auguste was wrong. One at least of their number had every reason to wish Sir Thomas dead.

  Huddled in one corner of the first-floor sun lounge, the remains of the committee of Literary Lionisers were holding an emergency meeting before facing their sundry charges. Three couples had already been seen leaving the hotel with baggage. News of Sir Thomas’s death had hit them hard in different ways.

  Samuel Pipkin tried to keep excitement from his voice; in truth he was as shocked as any of them at the reality of what in his mind he had longed for. That Throgmorton had died by poison was hard enough for them to take in, when all had assumed sudden acute stomach illness. Accident – the mushrooms, the lobster. Food poisoning. Only later did Oliver Michaels come back with the sobering news that the hotel was strangely full of policemen, that there was no breakfast to be had save for coffee and muffins, without a trek to the Albion Hotel, and moreover there was thought to be something odd about Sir Thomas’s death which no one would specify.

  ‘Suicide!’ had been their doubtful diagnosis.

  Gwendolen was clad in her dark blue serge travelling dress, this being the nearest to mourning she could manage. A sleepless night had convinced her that in the event of Thomas’s death her role was forlorn fiancée.

  ‘Nonsense,’ she cried. ‘Suicide? Out of the question. Why? When we were happily betrothed?’

  Her listeners agreed, suicide was unlikely given Sir Thomas’s character, but there agreement stopped.

  ‘Happy!’ snarled Samuel. ‘Forgive me, dear lady, but that did not appear to be the case last night.’

  ‘Fiancée?’ Oliver blurted out. ‘But Angelina was engaged to him.’

  Angelina turned a cold eye on him.

  ‘We were affianced, Mr Michaels. I feel I should know my own situation best,’ said Gwendolen tartly. ‘Dear Thomas and I were on the point of announcing our engagement. And have you never heard of lovers’ tiffs, Mr Pipkin?’ Grandly. ‘Ah, do you think,’ her face blanched, ‘that he poisoned himself because of our quarrel? Over me?’ The word ended in a wail, and Angelina ran to her to try to forestall a further attack of hysteria.

  ‘Thomas, Thomas,’ Gwendolen moaned quietly to herself, and made no further bid for the limelight.

  ‘What we have to do,’ said Samuel, taking advantage of her exit from the ring, ‘and I take it no one objects if I now chair this committee,’ he added off-handedly, ‘is to decide whether the Week of the Lion should continue or be cancelled.’

  ‘I fear we have to make a quick decision,’ said Oliver ironically, looking out of the window and seeing a departing victoria. News had travelled fast.

  ‘We have no choice ourselves,’ Angelina pointed out. ‘We have to stay. I have no doubt the police will need to ask us questions.’

  Samuel paled slightly. ‘But surely – how could we be thought responsible, if the food or wine were poisoned?’

  ‘Quite easily,’ said Oliver blithely. ‘It would have been possible for one of us to have poisoned his food, perhaps. He was hardly a popular man with any of us.’

  ‘He was with me,’ moaned Gwendolen.

  ‘With you, of course,’ he agreed gently. ‘Forgive me.’ But everyone was uncomfortably aware of last night’s scene. ‘It seems to me more likely he may have taken too much medicine when he left the table yesterday,’ he continued slowly.

  ‘Yes, yes, his weak stomach,’ said Gwendolen eagerly.

  ‘But we can’t be sure it wasn’t murder – yet. If it’s confirmed, our Lionisers will begin disappearing very rapidly.’

  There was a gasp at this public utterance of the forbidden word.

  Lord Beddington was somewhat disgruntled. He had offered his services to this Scotland Yard fellow in his role as a magistrate, only to have them refused. ‘Damn cheek,’ he told his colleagues. It was a sign of their anxiety that no one noticed this strong language despite the presence of ladies. ‘Anyway, he wants everyone to stay. All seventy of them.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Oliver, ‘we’ve no choice. We’ll have to carry on with the Week of the Lion tour if only to give these good people something to do. And ourselves,’ he added.

  Samuel glared at him. He was going to have this young Snodgrass off his committee in double quick time. ‘This was precisely the point I was going to make, Michaels. I put it to the committee.’ He looked round, somewhat disappointed his first resolution met no opposition.

  ‘This afternoon we were – are – due for a walk to Ramsgate.’ Everyone looked outside to the still overcast sky. ‘We shall decide after luncheon,’ Samuel announced firmly.

  Walking down the Promenade to the Albion Hotel for luncheon, with Samuel striding ahead like Stonewall Jackson, and Gwendolen having found an apparent soul mate in Lord Beddington, Oliver found himself forced to walk next to Angelina.

  ‘So Sir Thomas had two fiancées,’ he said politely. ‘Please accept my sincere condolences.’

  She glared at him. ‘Oh, Oliver,’ she said, pushing her parasol open vigorously, ‘don’t be so foolish. You can’t really believe I was engaged to Sir Thomas, can you?’

  He displayed complete surprise. ‘Why not? He told me you were. Mrs Figgis-Hewett told me yesterday you were. I saw you leaning together very intimately yesterday afternoon; he was kissing your hand.’

  ‘Having one’s hand kissed does not, so far as I know, oblige one to marry a man,’ she answered shortly.

  ‘Then why didn’t you disillusion me?’ he demanded angrily. ‘It was cruel of you.’

  She stopped abruptly by the gate to the Albion’s gardens, whirled on him, snapping her parasol shut again: ‘Because I was annoyed with you that you could even think such a thing. And why should I assume you’d be interested anyway?’

  ‘You know—’ He broke off. Did she know? Of course she did. She was avoiding the issue. ‘Then why were you deliberately setting your cap at Sir Thomas all the while? I watched you, Angelina.’

  ‘I had my reasons,’ she said, after a pause.

  ‘Is that all you’re going to say?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes.’ She put her nose high in the air and stalked up the garden. He followed her, troubled.

  Marg
inally refreshed, Auguste made his way back to the Imperial Hotel late that afternoon. In the Victoria Gardens, the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry band were regaling their audience with tunes from The Shop Girl, promenaders were risking the doubtful weather and adorning the seafront in their Sunday afternoon best. Tomorrow was Bank Holiday Monday, the highlight of the holiday for all but the most upper and select of classes, and this weekend was a kind of holiday rehearsal for it, albeit muted in respect for the Sabbath.

  Auguste was thankful when he turned into the doorway of the hotel, the sight of other temptations removed from him. There were few guests to be seen. The reason for that, he was to discover, was that Mr Multhrop had made speedy arrangements with the Albion and Grand Hotels to serve luncheon, his own kitchens being hors de combat.

  Araminta, a vision in grey, came forward somewhat reluctantly to greet Auguste. ‘Papa says you may be a murderer,’ was her ingenuous opening gambit.

  Auguste suppressed a moment’s irritation with his beloved, but not his uncharitable thoughts towards Mr Multhrop.

  ‘No, chérie,’ he explained kindly, ‘I am not a murderer. It is merely that they wish to question me, for I had responsibility for the food last night. It is possible but by no means certain,’ he added firmly, ‘that the poison was taken by Sir Thomas during the meal.’

  ‘Like the Borgias,’ breathed Araminta, in a rare display of erudition.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Auguste, trying to see Gwendolen Figgis-Hewett in the role of Lucrezia Borgia.

  ‘All the same,’ said Araminta thoughtfully, ‘Papa says I’m not to see you again till it’s over, and you’re either arrested or cleared. I would have liked to,’ she added wistfully. ‘Oh, Auguste, you will get cleared, won’t you?’ Her lovely eyes brimmed over until he almost forgave the disloyalty.

  Mr Multhrop rushed into the foyer like the White Rabbit, saw them and tried to edge away, but Auguste caught him.

  ‘Mr Dee, you know how it is,’ he said, smiling appealingly.

  ‘Non, Mr Multhrop, I do not know how it is. I have asked my friend from Scotland Yard to help. Now would I do that if I were guilty? He is in charge.’

  Multhrop thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said doubtfully, then brightened. ‘They’ve had a lot of cases of bribery at Scotland Yard, haven’t they?’

  Auguste looked him in the eye. ‘I will inform Inspector Rose that you fear he and his department are as corrupt as that of Chief Inspectors Clarke, Druscovich and Palmer.’

  Mr Multhrop’s eyes bulged. ‘Please don’t bother,’ he said nervously, envisaging himself carried off for criminal libel. Or was it slander? ‘I’m sure any friend of yours . . .’ His voice trailed off unhappily.

  ‘Bon. Then Araminta may accompany me to the sands.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ clearly weighing up the chances of Auguste’s swimming underwater to the women’s bathing machine section and drowning his beloved daughter. But there, one had to take some chances in life.

  ‘Come for your turn on the gridiron, Auguste?’ Rose, complete with baggage and Edith, had returned to take up new quarters in the Imperial Hotel.

  ‘Inspector Egbert Rose and Mrs Rose, Mr Multhrop,’ said Auguste feebly. ‘Multhrop is the Imperial’s owner, Inspector. And this is Miss Multhrop, Edith, Egbert.’

  Araminta was clearly impressed.

  Edith looked around her. It wasn’t as cosy as Mrs Burbanks’ guest house or even as Highbury. But it was certainly very nice. Quite grand in fact. It might not be Ramsgate, but Broadstairs might prove to be quite enjoyable after all. She would have something to tell the Highbury Ladies’ Circle at any rate.

  Chapter Seven

  Egbert Rose woke up to grey skies over Broadstairs, cheered up as he realised he was on holiday, and then remembered that he was not. With a regretful look at Edith still slumbering at his side in the huge mahogany bed, he swung his feet down to face the day.

  One hour later, after a breakfast that reminded him of his French experience in its meagreness, and made worse by the perpetual drone of Mr Multhrop’s stream of nervous apologies to each new arrival, he was ready to greet Auguste and his flock.

  Yesterday afternoon he and Naseby, with Auguste hovering in the background, had crawled over Sir Thomas’s suite of rooms and interrogated every single member of the Imperial’s staff on duty the previous evening. A terrified housemaid, eyed sternly by Mr Multhrop, admitted to seeing Sir Thomas in his room during the course of the evening.

  ‘’E came in when I was turning down ’is bed,’ she volunteered, curtsying to Rose in fright, somewhat muddled between his ranking and that of the Prince of Wales. ‘About half past eight it was,’ she added, impressed by her own powers of recollection. ‘’E went into the bathroom, and I went. Then I saw ’e’d gone, so I comes back to finish orf. And then ’e comes in again. Says ’e ’as to change his clothes. Back in the bathroom, so I turns down the bed, and goes.’ She wasn’t going to leave this time, however; having got over her initial fright, curiosity made her follow the detectives into the large bathroom, with clawfoot bath standing proudly mid-floor and a matching rose and violet embossed pedestal water closet.

  ‘Fond of his medicine, wasn’t he?’ commented Rose as he opened the cabinet in the bathroom where a row of bottles and jars indicated Sir Thomas’s concern for his health. ‘Wasn’t leaving anything to chance. Homoeopathic, patent, the lot. Ipecacuanha, tincture of hellebore viridis, Nux vomica, Dr J. Johnson’s Pills, Blair’s Gout Pills, Dr Grinrod’s Remedy for Spasms, Cockles’ Anti-bilious pills – oh, and Mexican Hair Renewer – Dixon’s Rhubarb and Tartar Emetic, and Ward’s Red Pills. Made of antimony and dragon’s blood, they say.’ He grunted. ‘Dragon’s blood,’ he repeated disgustedly.

  ‘’E was making funny noises,’ the maid offered importantly, and, pleased at the instant attention this won her, added, ‘Like when me ma’s ’aving another.’ Naseby and Rose inspected the sanitary ware closely, but if Sir Thomas had indeed been sick, then there were no traces left.

  ‘You’re sure of this, girl?’ barked Naseby. ‘Sure that’s what the noise was? A retch.’

  The housemaid clearly took this as a side comment to Rose on her character. ‘I’m an ’onest girl, sir,’ she pointed out, affronted. ‘This is what I ’eard. Listen.’

  The sounds that followed from her would have qualified her to audition for Mr Dickens’s Infant Phenomenon.

  ‘All right, that’s enough,’ said Rose hastily. ‘But that noise needn’t have been a retch – could have been all sorts of things.’ He cast a scathing eye at the rows of bottles. ‘He did suffer from gastritis, we know that.’

  Naseby had positively glowed with satisfaction at the revelations of this budding Sarah Bernhardt. ‘Seems to put it squarely on the meal to me, Rose. Too much of a coincidence for Sir Thomas to feel ill and then to be poisoned after that. Doesn’t look too good for our mutual friend, does it?’ He was almost jovial.

  ‘Didn’t know you were a Dickens enthusiast, Naseby.’

  Naseby looked blank and then dismissed this as more evidence of London eccentricity.

  Fortunately this morning Rose had contrived to rid himself of Naseby’s services. He wanted to be able to draw his own conclusions, without Naseby’s helpful commentary.

  The once proud members of the Auguste Didier School of Cuisine looked a doleful group as they followed Auguste. Bringing up the rear was Sid, but even he was subdued this morning. Their attire was a mixture of the sombre and seaside wear. Gone were the frivolous hats and bright blazers. Seaside wear seemed inappropriate, yet they could not see that they had reason to mourn the passing of Sir Thomas Throgmorton. A certain resentment was becoming evident among them, which the sight of the desolate kitchen enhanced. On Saturday night, they had worked hard on their holiday for the sake of the Prince of Wales, and this was all the thanks they got. Here they were, objects of suspicion to be interrogated by the police, and not even noticed by the one or two newspaper men who had arrived at
the hotel.

  The death of Sir Thomas Throgmorton after a sudden illness was worth a paragraph in view of his role of international banker. The coincidental presence of the Prince of Wales in Broadstairs for a brief private visit to a friend on the same evening converted it into a two-paragraph story. Three newspaper men with nothing else to report, since the Transvaal crisis was deemed beyond their capability, were despatched to Broadstairs to try to rootle out any facts that might justify a further paragraph. Apart from the fact that the breakfast was bad and the service worse and that one or two police constables appeared to be taking their holidays in the hotel, they had picked up nothing of interest.

  Rose firmly closed the door as he heard Mr Multhrop’s anxious voice coming distinctly nearer to the now unlocked kitchens. He had clearly discovered the fact that the dining room too was locked against him. The empty dishes, china, and uneaten food had been taken away for examination, so the sight and smell were somewhat more palatable than they had been the day before.

  Auguste braced himself to sound casual: ‘Alors, mes amis, Inspector Rose wishes us to perform a play for him. We will show him course by course just what happened on Saturday evening – as far as we were concerned. Dish by dish, course by course, you will each re-enact your roles.’

  ‘But there aren’t any dishes,’ pointed out Emily matter-of-factly.

  ‘In pantomime, Miss Dawson,’ Auguste explained gently. ‘And then, voilà, Inspector Rose will get to the bottom of the mystery and we can enjoy our holiday.’

  Even Auguste felt his voice lacked conviction, and his pupils to judge from their faces were similarly unconvinced. Scotland Yard meant serious trouble, and though this thin-faced lugubrious-looking man might seem mild at first, there was a quiet, controlled purposefulness about him that made holidays seem a long way away.

  Rose glanced at the menu with which Auguste had supplied him. ‘We’ll start with the soup,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Mrs Dickens’s mutton broth. Who prepared that?’