by Myers, Amy
Algernon cleared his throat and spoke a little more shrilly than he had intended. ‘Me. But everyone had soup,’ he added defensively. ‘There can’t have been anything added to it.’
‘The Prince of Wales didn’t have the broth,’ said James zealously, a believer in accuracy.
‘Does that make him the murderer?’ whispered Alice in an aside to Alfred.
Auguste, overhearing, frowned at this frivolity. Murder, as he had reason to know all too well, was a serious business.
‘Who served it?’ repeated Rose, and as no one spoke, picked on the most nervous-looking individual. ‘Lord Wittisham?’
‘I was outside serving drinks. Isn’t that right, Mr Didier?’ he almost bleated. He was aware that everyone was looking at him, and it was clear what they were thinking. He was the only person to serve drinks. He and no one else could have adulterated the wine. ‘I couldn’t . . . It would have been seen.’
‘Not in the red wine,’ Algernon pointed out, as if conscientiously.
‘So who served the soup?’ repeated Rose patiently.
‘Me,’ said Heinrich grudgingly.
‘And me,’ volunteered James. ‘Heinrich and I were with each other all the time. We’d have seen if one of us had tipped something into the soup.’
‘Show me,’ said Rose, shortly.
Self-consciously they took the tureens from the kitchens into the dining room, placed them on the trolley, and took it round an empty table. It was evident that without three hands James Pegg could not have infiltrated poison into the soup bowl.
‘The people next to Sir Thomas could have added something,’ suggested Alice helpfully.
Rose glanced at the table plan: ‘Lord Beddington, miss, or the Prince of Wales?’
‘Oh.’ Alice subsided.
Rose stared at the table, imagining it full of people, talking – but surely not blind. ‘Think it possible for anyone to add poison to a dish intended for Sir Thomas, Mr Didier?’
‘Only Lord Beddington,’ said Auguste. ‘Mrs Langham would have to reach across the table, surely impossible. Unless there was some incident that diverted and concentrated the general attention, but I noticed nothing. Did you?’ He looked round the group, but there was no sign of any reaction.
‘Very well. Clear away for the next course,’ said Rose. He hadn’t expected anything definite to emerge, but it was useful background. Emily Dawson cleared imaginary soup bowls.
‘I prepared the lobster salad,’ said Alice bravely. ‘I put all the ingredients together and put them on individual plates, but lots of people helped get the lobster out of their shells, and Alfred made the mayonnaise. Sid helped me carry them to that table ready for serving. Miss Dawson did the garnish,’ she explained in a rush.
‘She did it twice,’ pointed out Algernon officiously. ‘It fell on the floor, if you remember, Emily. You did a fresh lot at the last moment.’
Emily went pink, reflecting that if she’d had charge of this youth in his formative years, things might have been different. ‘What if I did?’ she cried, near to tears. ‘How do you poison cucumber ribbons and why should I anyway?’ No one answered.
‘Very well, serve the salads.’
Heinrich and Algernon once more moved imaginary plates from an empty table, staggered under their load into the dining room and served another empty table.
‘Perhaps Sir Thomas ate a bad lobster,’ offered Sid brightly. ‘I remember my gran ate a bad winkle once.’
‘It was all mixed up,’ said Algernon who seemed to be appointing himself ad hoc detective.
Rose tried to suppress the memory of all those smelly shells now being analysed. ‘Which of you gave Sir Thomas his salad?’ he enquired casually.
Algernon and Heinrich glanced at each other. ‘He did,’ said Algernon, just as Heinrich came in with ‘Herr Peckham.’ Rose made no comment.
‘I cleared the dishes,’ Emily said shrilly, defensive of Heinrich. ‘I’m sure he ate it all. He wouldn’t if he didn’t like it.’
‘You cleared the dishes of every course?’
‘Yes, she did,’ said Alice, ‘and I laid them. Except the lobster of course.’
‘The tureens, now,’ said Auguste.
‘More soup?’
‘No, the entrée.’
Rose began to feel he was back in the maze at Stockbery, but doggedly continued making notes. He’d work this jigsaw puzzle out later. ‘Kidneys,’ he said, consulting the menu. ‘Mrs Crupp’s.’
‘They were my concern, Inspector,’ said Auguste proudly. ‘Not Mrs Crupp’s kidneys, but kidneys à la Didier. The ingredients were gathered together for me by Lord Wittisham, the kidneys themselves prepared by Mr Pegg, and I attended to the final cooking and preparation of the sauce.’ There was a certain defiance in his tone. How could his beautiful champagne-based sauce be indicted for murder? He went to the hob, and mixed vigorously. Behind him stood Sid, holding an imaginary tureen. ‘Herr Freimüller served it,’ said Auguste.
‘No, I not do that. Mr Pegg do it,’ Heinrich said hurriedly.
‘Why was that?’ Rose looked at Pegg blandly.
‘I suppose Heinrich was too busy,’ said James uneasily. Then seeing this was inadequate, continued, ‘He was ready to take the removes from the ovens, so I took the kidneys in. I put two dishes on His Royal Highness’s table and Sid took the rest through to the other kitchen.’
‘Yes. I takes the lot in there for the lower orders,’ said Sid. ‘Hallow me, Inspector to present yer with me movements on the evening in question.’ He ran vigorously to and fro between the two kitchens.
‘It was all cooked together, Inspector, but that for the high table was placed there,’ Auguste explained, pointing to a corner table, ‘and the rest was carried into the other kitchen, which is usually used for the preparation of food and storage. There it was collected and served by the Imperial’s own staff to the rest of the guests.’
‘Could any of them have come into this kitchen?’ asked Rose.
‘No, Inspector,’ Auguste replied. ‘We would most certainly have noticed. I had forbidden it,’ he added unhappily.
‘So, Mr Pegg, you placed these kidneys on the table, and they served themselves, right? In two tureens. Who dished them out? Did you notice?’
There was a speedy consultation. Alfred, in the best position to see, thought it was the Prince of Wales. Auguste considered this unlikely. His own impression was that Sir Thomas had served his end of the table. Algernon voted for Lord Beddington. Rose sighed. So much for witnesses.
‘I go to fetch with Herr Peckham the quail and cutlets,’ Heinrich declared grandly, if dolefully. He could see fingers of suspicion approaching nearer every minute. If only the Kaiser had not beaten Britannia at Cowes. Sometimes, disloyally, he wondered if the Kaiser were not a little too enthusiastic about the honour of Germany.
‘They were my idea, Inspector, in case, as proved to be so, the Prince did not like goose. And Dickens does mention both, I am told,’ Auguste added anxiously in case Rose too should look down upon this departure from the true Dickensian menu.
‘I see. Tell me how you served these removes, Mr Freimüller.’
‘I take quails, Peckham take cutlets. I go to the Prince of Vales first. He refuse it. Then to Mrs Langham and to Mrs Figgis-Hewett. They refused them too. Then Sir Thomas. I do not remember if Sir Thomas had quail,’ he said unhappily. ‘Always I ask myself this, but I cannot answer myself.’
‘The poison isn’t too likely to have been in a quail,’ Rose said soothingly. ‘Easier to put in a sauce or gravy.’ Auguste stiffened.
‘Anyway,’ said Emily stoutly in mistaken loyalty, ‘only Heinrich could be certain that Sir Thomas would receive the poisoned quail.’
Heinrich looked at her doubtfully. ‘I do not poison quail,’ he said definitely.
For the first time Auguste began to feel a tinge of fear with this relentless questioning. He had been so certain that his food could not be tampered with. Had he been wrong?
Auguste paled. Goose had haunted his dreams for ten days. It would be the last straw if the bird had been poisoned. Memories of the Prince of Wales’s detective emerging from the oven came back and he wondered wildly whether some abstruse method of murder had been performed before his very eyes. True, it seemed a curious way of implanting poison but— He pulled himself back to sanity. ‘The goose for the high table was taken into the dining room for carving, together with the vegetables,’ he explained.
‘We all helped serve the goose,’ said James, ‘except Alfred.’ Heinrich admitted to carrying in the bird, Auguste to carving, James and Algernon to transporting the results, Alice and Emily to transporting vegetables, sauces, forcemeats and gravy.
‘Just a minute,’ Rose interposed sharply. ‘These sauces. Were they served or put on the table?’
‘On the table for guests to help themselves, so it wouldn’t be possible to make sure that Sir Thomas’s portion was poisoned, would it? Not by us, anyway.’ Emily almost clapped.
‘Who served Sir Thomas’s goose?’ He’d nearly said cooked.
There was a silence. James and Algernon glanced at each other. Nothing was said. Auguste came to the rescue. ‘Inspector, this is the problem. Anything tampered with in the kitchen could not be guaranteed to reach Sir Thomas unless the poisoner served it himself. And then it would have to be an individual dish – the lobster, the remove or the coffee or wine.’ He went doggedly on, ignoring feeble expostulations from Alfred and Heinrich. ‘Or else the server would have to add poison at the last moment – surely very risky. Otherwise it was added at the table – or to the glass of water he drank at the lectern. Or something he took in his room.’ His trump cards.
‘When we get the report from the laboratory, we’ll know a bit more,’ Rose said noncommittally.
‘I didn’t serve him,’ said James suddenly, since this, to his mind, put him out of the running for the culprit. Algernon and Heinrich stared at him.
‘It wasn’t me,’ said Algernon simply. ‘I served the old gentleman next to him.’
‘The Prince of Wales?’ asked Rose.
Heinrich was as horrified as if the Kaiser himself had been insulted. Algernon merely grinned. ‘Other side.’
‘Lord Beddington.’
‘No, I served him,’ said James quickly. They glared at each other, neither budged their position. Rose quietly made a note.
Inexorably Rose moved on through the entremets and coffee, sending eight people scurrying in all directions as he masterminded the performance, the objects of which were far from clear to Auguste.
‘And the drinks, Lord Wittisham,’ concluded Rose. ‘You served all Sir Thomas’s wine? And the drinks beforehand?’
‘I watched him much of the time, Inspector,’ said Auguste, an anxious sheepdog watching Alfred’s eyes glaze over.
‘I’m sure, Mr Didier. Just covering all possibilities.’
‘No one would poison wine,’ stated Alfred categorically, presumably on the basis that this would be an ungentlemanly act. Food was a different matter.
‘It wasn’t the wine, it was the salmon, eh?’ said Rose.
‘Lobster, Inspector Rose,’ said Alice helpfully.
‘Beg your pardon, miss. Just a quotation from Mr Pickwick.’ It was one of Mrs Rose’s favourite books. ‘Any of you met Sir Thomas before?’ he continued smoothly.
‘He was at the dinner we cooked for them and the Prince at Gwynne’s,’ said Emily. Alfred was suddenly extremely grateful that none of his colleagues knew of Beatrice Throgmorton’s place in his life. But problems were about to arise.
‘Ah yes, so he was,’ said Rose easily. He had an idea at least some of the party were keeping something back. ‘Miss Throgmorton will be here at lunchtime. She’ll want to meet you, I’m sure.’ Quite why Sir Thomas’s daughter should be keen to make the acquaintance of some kitchen staff he did not explain. It was enough to get a reaction though.
Seven subdued people left the Imperial Hotel to walk back to Blue Horizons. Preoccupied, they failed to notice that something had changed about Broadstairs. The weather might be dull, it might be drizzling, but Broadstairs promenade had changed almost beyond recognition. Where selectness and restraint had reigned, boisterousness and laughter had taken their place. Fashionable rose-pinks and muted blue dresses had given way to garish reds, bright yellows topped with sailor hats or boaters with matching ribbons. The sands were crowded with these strange bright parrots, accompanied by young gentlemen with unorthodox headgear and unbuttoned waistcoats. Itinerant vendors buzzed everywhere, ignoring all Pier and Harbour Commission rules. More parrots were lined up along the shore, skirts hitched to their knees, paddling and screaming in the chilly water. Brakeloads and omnibuses were arriving on Victoria Parade full of fresh supplies, and swarming down the High Street towards their mecca was the first cheap, fast trainload of ’Arrys and ’Arriets in search of entertainment.
The downcast Didier School of Cuisine personnel stared in disbelief. They had completely forgotten it was Bank Holiday Monday. All the more dispirited as they entered Blue Horizons, they discovered that somehow Joe’s dabs, bought with enthusiasm this morning to prepare for luncheon, failed to seem so attractive. Each one of their prospective cooks was preoccupied.
Heinrich was thinking over all the implications of the last hour, and what he would do if he were correct. He was concerned he would be locked in an English jail, and wondered if he should seek Embassy asylum. It would be most unfair if he should suffer for the Kaiser’s unpopularity. In any case, the Kaiser was a most charming man, much misunderstood. Emily was just scared. Alice walked hand in hand with Alfred, though it was obvious his thoughts were not with her. Where were they? Panic began to seize her. What could he be worrying about? Alfred’s thoughts were fixed in fact on Beatrice Throgmorton, and the unpleasant scene that had taken place three weeks ago. Algernon was trying to judge what danger, if any, he was in. James was trying slowly to work something out in his mind. And nearly all of them were conscious that they had not told Inspector Rose the whole truth.
Mr Multhrop at least was happy. His kitchens and dining room were open once more and he was bustling about, as jolly as Mr Fezziwig, envisaging happy hordes of merry luncheon-takers. Not, he trusted, Harrys and Harriets, as the popular press termed them. Rose steered Auguste firmly clear, and into the office. So happy was Mr Multhrop that he failed to resent the purloining of his room.
‘Now,’ Rose said, once they were settled. ‘Tell me about them, Auguste. Who’s the German?’
‘Heinrich Freimüller, from the German Embassy,’ began Auguste awkwardly, feeling torn between two loyalties. ‘The Embassy wishes to raise the standard of its present cuisine.’ His expression suggested this would not take much doing. ‘He is a good chef. His pastry has the makings of a vrai maître. It is true that his mastery of patisserie—’
‘Not food, Auguste. Tell me about him,’ said Rose patiently.
‘My friend, I do tell you about him. As the chef is, so is the man.’
A grin passed on Rose’s face. ‘Have it your own way. Political chap, is he?’
‘No,’ said Auguste doubtfully. ‘I have never heard him speak of politics.’ Suddenly he wondered why. ‘Yet he is most loyal to his country, as Mr Pegg is to his. James Pegg is the solid Englishman. He wishes to advance his cooking career. He is sound, very sound, but in my opinion lacks the extra something that can create a maître chef. With meat, however, he has a great affinity. His father is a veterinary surgeon, and he himself assisted his father for a year or two and then became a groom. Now he wishes to be a chef.’
‘Cures them, coaxes them and cooks them, eh?’ said Rose. ‘Curious mixture, ain’t it?’
‘He is a practical man. There are animals to be saved. He does it. There are those to be cooked. He does that too. In one respect is he noteworthy. In his devotion to Lord Wittisham.’
�
�One of them, is he?’
‘I do not think so. Indeed,’ remembering Araminta bitterly, ‘I am sure. He sees himself as a protector. He is proud of their friendship.’
‘And what about Wittisham? Can’t get used to the idea of a lord hard at work, getting his hands dirty.’
Auguste smiled. ‘Ah, Lord Wittisham too is a simple man, as is Pegg. But he works differently in cuisine. When he creates a dish he begins and carries on until instinctively he knows the dish has reached perfection. Nothing is left undone, nothing left to chance. There are not many dishes he creates so, but those he does create are truly magnificent. In the rest he is merely mundane. And as for his private life, I do not think it is James Pegg he desires. I think he is beloved by Alice Fenwick, but does not see her devotion. One day he will, and proceed to create from her the perfect dish of a wife and peeress.’
‘And this Alice?’
‘Alice Fenwick. She too wishes a career, like Rosa Lewis, like Emma Pryde. She is the daughter of an officer in the army, but I think now alone in the world and with little money. She is determined to succeed, and she is thorough. Nothing will be omitted, where Alice is concerned.’ He smiled. ‘She spreads a warmth and comfort in her cookery and spreads this warm cocoon around her, drawing you in. It is the desire of her life that Lord Wittisham realises her love. She would make him a good wife,’ he added wistfully, looking into his own bleak future.
‘And the other lady?’
‘Emily Dawson. Ah, Miss Dawson is interesting. A governess who decided to make a change. She had a windfall of money and decided to have a new career. She is a deft cook with many interesting touches to her work. Her desserts, her confectionery, her sauces are magical, though the rest of her work remains only average. But yes, she has something or I would not have taken her. I am training her so that she can cook for royalty,’ Auguste declared grandly.
‘And the young cock of the walk?’
Auguste smiled. ‘Our Mr Peckham? Mr Algernon Peckham I find difficult, since he is, unfortunately, an admirer of Soyer.’ Tones of disgust. ‘I cannot claim I know Mr Peckham. Yet of all of them I think that he is the nearest to possessing genius. He wishes to be a chef to travel the great country houses of Europe.’