Murder Makes an Entree

by Myers, Amy

  A Fish Fortnight: how had he been foolish enough to imagine this holiday would be a pleasure? How could the school ever return to learning about crabs and crayfish and cod? What would happen to his future after two murders connected with his school? Perhaps he should return to France, admit defeat to working in England. Yet in France too lay an impassable road. Paris could not be for him, not while Tatiana lived there. He could go perhaps to Bordeaux to start a small restaurant. He viewed the prospect without enthusiasm. He could, he supposed, create a simple menu, suitable for those who loved the sea, with all the splendid seafood of the Atlantic coast. Just one or two dishes per course; perhaps he could set a new fashion in sauces, less heavy, less rich. Allow the true flavour of the fish to emerge, as in England. Sauces – his mind returned against his will to his champagne-sauce entrée. His dish of kidneys poisoned. How could it have been – and, moreover, why should it be? He still felt that if only these questions could be answered, all would be clear. The reason why must surely be that it pointed away from the entrée to another course. Or, he thought suddenly, concealed the fact that it really had been in the entrée. He frowned. Surely this was nonsense. Yet the thought persisted and hummed round his brain as the bees in the clover on this lonely clifftop.

  He flung himself on the grass and closed his eyes. Ghosts crept through his daydreams, ghosts of old loves, stealing in and out of his heart, ghosts of happy days, ghosts of sad songs, ghosts of the man in the iron mask – he flinched – and now ghosts of Dickens! In the sunshine of the day it was easy to laugh at the ghost of Mr Dickens sitting placidly in the ladies’ retiring room at the Albion. He closed his eyes. Shadows of light danced before them, forming themselves into Mr Dickens – who rose to his feet to greet Little Nell. A line from The Old Curiosity Shop, which still lay unfinished by his bedside came into his head: ‘Always suspect everybody.’ So let Mr Dickens show the way. Auguste let his mind play and it revolved with such fantastic ideas, such strange notions, that it was idle to pursue them. They must be nonsense. He did not dismiss them, however. Like English meat, like English cheese, he left them to mature in his mind. Just in case.

  ‘We were there of course,’ Oliver tentatively pointed out to Angelina as he escorted her on a walk over the sands to the Dumpton Gapway.

  ‘Where, Oliver?’ Angelina had her mind on the beauty of the day, the sharp fresh smells of the sea, and on Oliver himself. Not on murder.

  ‘In the house where that poor fellow was drugged.’

  ‘So we were,’ she replied. ‘I did not realise it was the same day. And so I suppose we’re suspects, but what reason would any of us have to kill that cook?’

  ‘Why on earth should any of those cooks want to kill Sir Thomas?’ countered Oliver reasonably. ‘It’s almost as if there were two murders, two murderers.’

  ‘Do you think that’s possible?’

  ‘Of course. Someone could have taken advantage of the first murder to make the police believe the two were linked.’

  ‘So that’s why the Inspector doesn’t want us to leave. We – I mean those of us on the committee – could have murdered Sir Thomas.’

  ‘Yes. Only you make it sound rather like a joint committee decision.’

  ‘No. It points to me.’ Angelina shivered. ‘I don’t think I care for being a suspect. But it’s more likely that one of those people at Blue Horizons committed both crimes, isn’t it?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘We both know, and I’m sure the Inspector does too, that you didn’t kill him,’ Oliver stated firmly.

  ‘Sir Thomas’s murder was planned. It must have been. Could you see Mr Pipkin or Mrs Figgis-Hewett carefully plotting such a crime? She might do something on the spur of the moment like appearing in that wedding dress as Miss Havisham.’ Angelina smiled despite herself. ‘Looking back, it was rather funny, wasn’t it? I felt sorry for the poor Prince. But it’s sad too. You won’t do that to me, will you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Leave me at the church.’

  Oliver stopped still, took both her hands and regarded her sternly. ‘You’re rather forward, my dearest. You haven’t yet allowed me to fall on one knee to present you with my heart.’

  ‘You may do so now,’ she informed him graciously. To the great interest of one old beach scavenger and three small boys, and to the detriment of his white flannels, he did so. Her acceptance was immediate and enthusiastic, and the ensuing embrace took so long that even the scavenger lost interest.

  ‘Angelina,’ remarked Oliver some time later, ‘has it occurred to you to wonder just how Gwendolen happened to have the wedding dress with her, if the idea was as immediate as you suggest?’

  She stared at him. ‘No,’ she said, ‘it hadn’t occurred to me – and I don’t know the answer.’

  ‘You didn’t like him, Alice, did you?’ stated Alfred, pointblank, as they sat in the Victoria Gardens.

  ‘That’s no reason to go and murder someone,’ she pointed out reasonably enough. ‘Oh, Alfred, you are foolish. Why on earth should I wish to kill James?’ Alice was offended by his implied accusation. Then she began to worry. It had to be one of them at Blue Horizons. Alfred had swum out after James. Alfred had wanted to marry Sir Thomas’s daughter; had threatened Sir Thomas’s life. Who more likely for the Inspector to pick upon than Alfred? Alice clung to his arm. I won’t let them take you, she vowed to herself. I won’t.

  ‘Who do you think did it, Heinrich?’ Emily whispered in a small voice as they waited for Uncle Mack to begin. ‘It must have been one of us.’

  ‘I do not know,’ he replied steadily, keeping his eyes glued to the stage. ‘Accident perhaps.’ But his voice had no conviction in it. ‘Emily,’ he turned to her, but could not continue. Should he go to Rose or not?

  ‘I think,’ said Emily carefully, ‘whoever did this thing is indeed a very wicked person.’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered in a strangled voice as Uncle Mack struck up with ‘Oh Susannah, don’t you cry for me’.

  Algernon Peckham was wandering about on the pier on his own. Where should he go from here? He was quite confident that no charge could be laid at his door; he had a high opinion of his own capabilities as a criminal. But he was also growing increasingly interested in his abilities as a cook, which had greatly surprised him. The original reason that he had taken up cookery was receding rapidly in its attraction. If only the police weren’t hovering quite so near. If only he were free to choose.

  Sid also left Blue Horizons alone that afternoon, but he was not wandering aimlessly. Far from it. Sid had an appointment with a lady.

  Edith Rose was growing weary of promenading Broadstairs on her own and had been beginning to think longingly of Highbury. But this evening was offering a brighter prospect than usual. With Egbert absent, Auguste had offered to escort her to dinner in the Imperial’s dining room and to the hotel concert afterwards. Mr Multhrop was less delighted at the prospect, clearly thinking that Auguste would arrive secreting a bottle of atropine in his pocket.

  Edith carefully rearranged the fichu in her best lace evening blouse for the umpteenth time and sallied forth to meet a formally tail-coated Auguste.

  ‘Is this rich?’ she asked Auguste doubtfully, gazing nonplussed at the menu some half an hour later.

  Auguste followed her eye and gently removed the menu from her hands. ‘If you will permit me to choose, chère Edith, I will order for you.’

  She yielded her independence gratefully, with mingled fear and pleasant expectation. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Auguste, but he didn’t know her stomach the way she did and she had to bear in mind that he was French. French stomachs, she was convinced, were built on an entirely different pattern to plain English ones. True, Egbert had somewhat surprisingly survived his visit to France, but this she regarded as an act of mercy on his Creator’s part and not a tribute to French cooking.

  ‘What is it?’ she enquired, looking with doubt at the filets de sole Provençale put before her.

  ‘Ta
ste, dear Edith.’

  She obeyed and tasted, then tasted again. ‘Is it French?’ she enquired. ‘I do like it.’

  ‘English,’ said Auguste firmly. ‘An old English recipe.’ The waiter, who disdainfully overheard this remark, began to instruct Auguste on cuisine, an initiative speedily put an end to by Auguste.

  Several courses later, Edith set down spoon and fork with a sigh. ‘That really was very nice,’ she proclaimed in high praise. ‘Mind you, I do think the china helps a lot. It tastes better somehow off pretty china. You never get a nice cup of tea except out of a piece of bone.’

  ‘A piece of bone, Edith?’ said Auguste, at a loss.

  ‘Bone china, I should have said.’ She giggled. ‘It must be this nice lemonade you’ve given me.’

  Auguste smiled. These English and their china. But he was glad she liked the dessert wine. He had worried it might be a little strong.

  ‘And now, dear Edith, let us sample the entertainment Mr Multhrop has in store for us.’ He took Edith’s hand and kissed it.

  ‘Really, Auguste,’ she said, pink with pleasure, ‘what will people think?’

  By the time Egbert Rose returned late on Saturday night, Edith had retired and Auguste was waiting sleepily in the smoking room with a sulky Sergeant Stitch. Stitch had not dined at the Imperial but on inferior fish and chips. He was regretting it. Rose’s gaze, as he entered, fell on Stitch. He beckoned, an evil look in his eye. ‘I’ve a lesson for you, Stitch,’ he said agreeably. ‘Next time, tell me exactly what was said. The full story with no deductions on the part of Sergeant Stitch. Clear about that? Quite clear?’

  ‘No, sir. Yes, sir,’ mumbled Stitch, a question mark rearing itself out of the blue over that promotion. ‘What did I do, sir?’

  ‘You told me, Stitch, that the groom who stole those bonds was dead.’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘What you did not tell me, Twitch,’ Rose didn’t correct his error, ‘was that the groom was not just dead, but murdered.’

  ‘Yes, but that was in France, sir,’ Twitch pointed out, aggrieved, as though that far-off place should not affect his career. ‘And it was years ago. Does it make any difference?’

  ‘Oh, it makes a difference all right. Get the files out in the office, Stitch. We won’t be retiring yet awhile. I’ll be along in five minutes.’

  Stitch, crestfallen, departed, and Rose sank down in a chair. ‘After a stiff whisky and soda,’ he added to Auguste, summoning the waiter.

  ‘You get used to seeing things around,’ he explained. ‘My fault entirely. I’ve seen that French report on unsolved crimes come through so many times, I know it backwards – and forgot all about it. I remembered the story of the necklace because that was a new addition to the list. Forgot the others because they’d been around so long. Groom murdered by wife thought to be English. Poison suspected. Atropine.’

  Auguste was no longer sleepy.

  ‘Was there mention of a wife in Sir Thomas’s report of the theft? Did Sir Thomas—?’

  Rose held his hand up. ‘Wait a minute. It’s been a long day.’ The whisky and soda arrived and Rose took a deep drink. He put the glass down half empty. ‘The wife’s name was Elizabeth, twenty-six years old at the time. Maiden name on the marriage certificate was Creasy. Married in ninety in France. Probably met her out there. It would be all too neat if she was in Sir Thomas’s household too, but I’ve spoken to Miss Throgmorton who doesn’t remember anyone else being involved, and Sir Thomas didn’t report an accomplice either—’

  ‘Can I speak to you, sir?’ A nervously correct Stitch was drawn up to attention by the side of the whisky and soda.

  Rose looked up resignedly. ‘What is it Stitch?’

  It’s Inspector Naseby, sir, he’s just telephoned. Those bottles in the cupboard he took. One was laudanum right enough; the other had solution of atropine in it. He wants you to arrest Mr Didier.’ So abject was Stitch that even this good news did not enliven his miserable face.

  ‘The trouble with Naseby is,’ Rose said viciously, ‘that he don’t know proof from prog.’

  Auguste stiffened, more at Rose’s use of such a derogatory word for cuisine than for fear of arrest.

  ‘I’d like to see him stand up at the Old Bailey with a case dependent on two bottles in an unlocked cupboard in a kitchen open to all and sundry,’ Rose continued.

  Auguste did not share his wish. He could all too clearly see Naseby closing in like an avenging nemesis.

  ‘And sir –’ bleated Stitch, shifting from foot to foot. ‘There’s someone to talk to you and Mr Didier.’

  ‘It can wait till I’ve finished this drink,’ said Rose firmly.

  ‘I don’t think so, sir,’ said Stitch humbly. Not quite as humble as Uriah Heep, but still a sight worth seeing.

  As they entered the office, a familiar figure turned towards them.

  It was Heinrich Freimüller.

  ‘I vish,’ he said heavily, ‘to confess to the murder of Sir Thomas Throgmorton and Mr James Pegg.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Sergeant Stitch advanced purposefully towards Heinrich, but Rose motioned him to stop. ‘Sit down,’ he told Heinrich curtly. ‘I want to know why. I want to know how.’

  Heinrich sat stiffly on his chair; he cleared his throat and embarked stolidly on his story: ‘I put the poison in the soup, as I serve it to Sir Thomas. This is simple. Mr Pegg, I think, does not see me, because I am very careful. Afterwards when the dishes come back to the kitchen, I put some poison in the entrée dish – so that no one suspects the soup,’ he explained carefully. ‘But later I find I have to kill Mr Pegg, for he did observe me. I think I will not use atropine; if it worked immediately I would be suspect. I have some laudanum, however, for medicine, which contains opium. This will make sure that Mr Pegg will be drowsy when he enters the water and will drown when he swims further out. If he does not drown, I will try again. I put the laudanum in his coffee. This too is easy – I pick the cup up and hand it to him. No one remarks on it. Why should they? Later, I put the bottles in Herr Didier’s cupboard. For this I apologise.’ He bowed stiffly in Auguste’s direction. ‘I did not think anyone would suspect Herr Didier.’ Auguste looked slightly mollified.

  ‘I’d like to know—’ Rose began, but Heinrich was in full flow and continued in the same unemotional voice: ‘Mr Pegg swam out, and he was drowned. I stood in the less deep water and watched him. I obtain the atropine from the Embassy stables,’ he added.

  ‘Tell me again. Slowly,’ said Rose firmly.

  ‘Vy?’ demanded Heinrich, puzzled. ‘I tell you that I have killed Mr Pegg and Sir Thomas.’

  ‘Just how did you manage to get this atropine from the stables? Not usual for a cook to wander round the stables, is it?’ Rose remembered Stockbery Towers and its rigid hierarchies of outdoor and indoor staff.

  ‘I take them out food for a picnic. I find the atropine there, unregarded in a corner. It is an old bottle. I remember it and it gives me the idea.’

  ‘Convenient,’ remarked Rose. ‘So you put it in the soup and then you handed the plate to Sir Thomas.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Mr Didier, ask Mr Multhrop for a few of his plates, would you?’

  Mr Multhrop viewed the prospect of his plates disappearing into his lost office with great suspicion. ‘You won’t do anything to them, will you?’ he enquired anxiously.

  Resisting the temptation to inform Multhrop that he would smear them with atropine and slide them back into the kitchens unobserved, Auguste gravely assured him that they would be completely safe under police control.

  ‘Now, Stitch,’ said Rose, ‘you be Pegg. Herr Freimüller, show us how you managed it.’

  Heinrich awkwardly and self-consciously held the soup bowl in his left hand while Stitch distastefully poured imaginary soup into it. If this was reconstruction of the crime, he was not impressed. Heinrich extracted an imaginary lump of poison from a pocket and secreted it in his large hand, dropping it into the bowl while Stitch
, by a great feat of inventiveness, was wheeling the imaginary trolley onwards.

  It was at this moment that the crime became vividly real for Auguste, revolted that his soup – albeit only Dickens’s mutton broth – was being used for this terrible purpose. Could any of his pupils so have abused their calling? he asked himself. He could not bring himself to believe it.

  ‘What would you have done if Sir Thomas had refused the soup and you were forced to pass the plate to someone else?’

  Heinrich hesitated. ‘I had asked him,’ he said simply after a moment.

  ‘Any particular reason you decided to murder Sir Thomas?’ Rose asked ironically.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Heinrich said more confidently. ‘Herr Inspektor, I kill him because of an old quarrel. I am not a clever man, and I like cooking. My family do not approve, for they think I should be ambassador, not work in his kitchens.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I was a student many year ago at the University of Heidelberg. I met there Sir Thomas; he was just Thomas Throgmorton then. I did not like him. We quarrelled over an affair of honour and fought a duel. It is the custom, you know, in Germany to obtain scars in such honourable contests. This was not that kind of duel. We were fighting in earnest. Sir Thomas won, just; I was wounded, almost killed. I am a clumsy man –’ he glanced at his broad fingers – ‘I am not good at fighting with swords. He took the lady, but he did not marry her. I discover years later that he abandoned her and broke her heart. She had killed herself and I vowed that Sir Thomas Throgmorton would pay. I have never married. I come to England and I work at the Embassy. I have almost forgotten about Throgmorton, for time passes and though old wounds may not heal, they close over. Then, suddenly, I hear the name of Sir Thomas Throgmorton. It must be the same man. We are to cook a banquet at Broadstairs for him. This is my opportunity to avenge my Greta. But how? I cannot fight a duel now, then I think of poison, and of the atropine in the stables. I bring it with me just in case. But I will give my enemy a chance.’