by Peter King
She was in a room that was probably once a bedroom, but a long time ago. It did not look like one that was used habitually, but there were charts on the wall and tables with piles of papers. Two constables were on phones, talking in subdued voices. Inspector Devlin was in a cubicle formed by Japanese screens. There was a small table, she had a chair, and I had a chair. That was it. The effect desired was probably intimidation. She fated me with those gimlet eyes.
"I prefer that no one leaves until a few critical points are cleared up," she said.
"I'll be back in twenty-four hours or so and I do have a business to run," I said in my most reasonable voice.
"Is there anyone in London who'll vouch for you?" She made it sound as if anyone with less authority than the Prime Minister did not count. I was ready for the question, though I pretended I had to think for a moment.
"Inspector Ronald Hemingway at Scotland Yard?" I offered, tentatively, as if I were prepared to work my way up through the hierarchy at the Yard and to the Chief Commissioner if Hemingway's name should be insufficient.
It must have been a surprise blow, but she took it well. "Does he know you?"
"Of course. We worked together a while ago. There was a poisoning case, the Circle of Careme. Maybe you heard of it?" I tried not imply the addition of a phrase at the end like "even out here in the boondocks of Hertfordshire."
She did not confirm or deny, but I had no doubt that every detective in the country must have read about the case, either in the daily press or in the detectives' weekly newsletter, or seen the reports on television. It consisted of two spectacular murders, and no sleuth could have been too occupied sleuthing not to know about it.
"What is his extension at the Yard?" she asked.
"Six oh double six," I said as if I called him every day. In fact, I had looked it up before coming to see Inspector Devlin.
She made a pretence of scribbling it down. "Very well. Let me know when you get back tomorrow."
I avoided saying, ` Jawohl," gave her a thank-you nod, and departed. So now, here I was, speeding toward London, where we arrived on time and I was back in the hurly-burly of the great city after the comparative tranquility of the Harlington Castle estate, despite all its visitors.
I took the Metropolitan Line to Hammersmith and walked across to King Street, where my local market was crowded with late shoppers. Len, the fishmonger, greeted me with his usual "What is it today then?"
I riposted with my usual "What's fresh today then?"
There was haddock, scallops, langoustines, prawns, monkfish, halibut ... then Len pointed to a row of swordfish steaks. "Just came in-from the Caribbean. Lovely, they are." I trust Len's advice, so I followed it and picked out a medium-sized steak.
Back in my flat, which is only a few minutes walk from the market and right in Hammersmith, I put on a CD of one of my favorite "cheer-up" pieces of music. An encounter with death can leave one needing that. This time, I picked Georges Enesco's Romanian Rhapsody. The surging throb of those massed violins never fails to lift my spirits. I looked at the mail, which was only bills, poured a mild scotch and soda, sat down and let those wild Gypsy fiddlers send their music flowing over me and soaring to the heavens. I made sure that a bottle of Pouilly Fuisse was in the cooler and went into the kitchen.
This was going to be a simple meal. I make polenta periodically, enough to last two or three weeks, so I had some prepared. I cut a few slices and put them in a baking pan with a little butter and some chopped basil, onions, and sun-dried tomato. I put the pan in the top of the oven, set it on grill, put salt and pepper on the swordfish steak, smeared a thin layer of olive oil on both sides, and put it about five inches from the elements. Mixing the sauce was the next step-melting some butter, adding soya sauce, lemon juice, and chopped capers. This does not need cooking, only warming up to temperature, so I let it sit until the fish was part cooked. I steamed some green beans, drained them and sauteed them a few minutes.
All came together at the same time, which was just after I had popped the cork on the Pouilly Fuisse and taken a few analytical sips. It was an excellent meal, even if I say it myself. After the madcap enthusiasm of those forty violins, I accompanied the meal with a selection of Mozart's piano concertos. These were wonderfully melodic and soothing and all thoughts of murder and violence were temporarily excluded.
The District Line Underground had me at Victoria within ten minutes. I don't have a car-the traffic and the parking make it absurd to have one, and though complaints about public transport in London are common, they still do a magnificent job of moving more than a hundred million people a week. From the station, I walked to Horseferry Road, where the twice monthly meeting of P. I. E. would begin in a few minutes.
Meetings have for some years been held in a building that used to belong to the Ministry of the Environment. One of our members worked there and was able to get it for us at a very modest fee. The ministry subsequently moved out to Haywards Heath, presumably because the environment was better out there, and by some bureaucratic omission we were no longer charged for the room. This new low price suited us fine and we continued to use it. Inevitably, some lynx-eyed official will one day discover this and we shall have to express amazement while declining to pay the arrears.
Meanwhile, we still meet in the room where I encountered Ben Beaumont, our genial president, for the first time. I know that presidents are always called genial, but in Ben's case, it was completely appropriate. Beaming, red-faced, and happy, outgoing and never at a loss for a word, he was the ideal man for the job.
The initials P. I. E. confuse a lot of people. Many think we have monthly bake-offs and exchange recipes. In fact, they stand for "Private Investigators Etc." and the group was initially established as a sort of union for that profession. It was effective enough to survive, but eventually membership declined. This was not because there were fewer private investigators-there were more, but many belonged to large operations and didn't feel the need to be part of something. Still, sufficient lone operators remained, and when these began to decline numerically, someone had the bright idea of admitting as members people who were not necessarily detectives but had some connection. We carefully avoided defining "connection."
It worked. We now had writers of private eye novels, editors at major publishers of mysteries, an engineer who made electronic devices for surveillance, and even a few former police detectives. We encouraged the last to let us believe that they intended to become private eyes, and they obliged. One of them even did so.
I chatted with Tom Davidson, who is a marine insurance investigator, and then with Miss Wellworthy. I believe that our secretary is the only person who knows her first name. Every club has to have a "character" and Miss Wellworthy is ours. She fancies herself as a Miss Marple who can spot a conspiracy at a thousand yards. The Hammersmith Town Council is one of the main hatcheries of plots, according to Miss Wellworthy, but their council members do a fine job of keeping her placated without ever a suggestion that they think her a crank.
"I'm not happy with the water supply," she told me in her determined manner.
"It doesn't have a lot of taste," I said.
"That's not what I mean. Do you know how much fluoride is in it?"
"Not precisely," I admitted. "But it's good for the teeth, isn't it?"
"It may be," she said darkly, "but the nervous system! What is it doing to that?"
We discussed this problem for a few minutes and our conversation ended with her assuring me that she was not going to tolerate local government tinkering with the health of the community. I had a couple of minutes to talk to a popular romantic novelist who drops in on us occasionally to ask about the finer points of being a private eye. She feared that the romantic novel had passed its peak and the future lay with romantic suspense, as she called it.
The man I was looking for did not seem to be present and it was time for Ben Beaumont to bring us to order, so we sat and listened to the minutes of the last meeti
ng and a statement by the treasurer. Then followed a reminder that the group was organizing a trip to Edinburgh for a mystery conference, and finally our speaker stepped up. As he did so, I saw the man I had been looking for come in quietly and sit at the back.
Our speaker was Robert Levine, a criminal lawyer. He spoke first on the lawyer-detectives of fiction-Perry Mason, Matthew Hope, Mr. Tutt, Scott Jordan, John J. Malone, Jake Lassiter, Judge Dee, and others. Then he compared the reality where the opportunities for a lawyer to act as a detective were, he said, extremely limited and heavily frowned upon. Lots of questions ensued, and our speaker dealt with them admirably. When we rose afterwards, I was among the first as I wanted to be sure to catch the man I was after.
Edgar Sampson had retired after spending many years as security chief at Millward House in Yorkshire, one of the great country homes in England. A treasure trove of paintings and sculpture, it also possessed a fortune in jewels, gold, and silver. It was a natural target for thieves, and Edgar had a well-deserved reputation for his ingenuity in devising protective measures. After a first retirement from his position at Millward House, he had then become a consultant in security techniques, and he'd been in great demand. He had now retired again and was living a somewhat lonely life since the death of his wife. Clubs like this were a chance to see friendly faces and chat about old times. It was old times that I wanted to talk to him about-particularly at Harlington Castle.
"Yes, sure, I was there a few times," he told me. He was a short, chunky man with a square no-nonsense face that must have comforted many of his clients. "Lord Harlington was a real gent, it was a pleasure to do business with him."
"Any problems?" I asked.
"What's the interest?" Edgar wanted to know, cautious as always.
I told him of the commission to update the food-back to the Middle Ages. He nodded. Food was not high on Edgar's list of priorities. Then I told him of the death, and he looked grim. "Do the police suspect murder?"
"It's a possibility," I said. I could be cautious too. "The critical point is this"-and I proceeded to tell him of the joust that was supposed to feature Richard Harlington and how Kenny came to his death instead.
Edgar stroked his chin. "Never met Richard. He was at Oxford when I went to Harlington Castle. His sister, Felicity, had just come back from school in Switzerland, I remember. A very nice young lady."
"What about the other two children? Were they there? They were younger, maybe they were at school somewhere too."
Edgar frowned. "They only had two children."
"Two? No, they have four."
Edgar shook his head. "Only two.,,
"That's strange. You're sure?"
Edgar snapped his fingers. "Wait a minute. Now I remember. After my last visit there, Lady Harlington died. He must have married again. The other two must be his second wife's children."
"I did think it unusual that they looked so different," I said. "That must be why. But tell me, Edgar, any crimes during your time? Attempted or successful?"
He paused, clearly running through what must have been an extensive mental file. "Nothing big," he said finally. "I recall one instance of a fellow who hid in one of the rooms after the last tour had gone through. During the night, he filled a sack with antique silver, then tried to get out. He was an amateur, didn't know that the alarm system worked the same going out as getting in."
"That was all?"
"A couple of other attempts at break-ins through windows. On both occasions, the thieves took off as soon as the alarm sounded."
Edgar gave me a keen look. "So the police think that it could have been an attempt on young Richard's life? Somebody thought he would be in the joust, didn't know that this Kenny would replace him?"
"Nothing to support it so far. It has to be considered, obviously."
"You were there when it happened, you said?"
"Yes, I was."
"So the police want you to stick around."
"Yes. I managed to get twenty-four hours off for good behavior, though, so that I could come here."
"Who's handling the case?"
"Inspector Devlin, Hertfordshire Police."
Edgar shook his head. "Don't believe I ever met him."
"It's a she."
Edgar pulled a face. He was evidently not a supporter of the movement for women's equality, at least not in the realm of law enforcement.
"Anything I can do to help, let me know," he said.
"If I really get into trouble and you have to smuggle a file in to me, make sure it's in a chicken pie, plenty of chicken, well seasoned, crisp crust . . .
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next morning, a fine drizzle and a gusty wind were the opening salvo in Mother Nature's war on the human race. Rain spattered the window of the train as we rattled and swayed out of Hammersmith Tube station while the smell of wet coats and umbrellas filled the carriage.
The Smithfield Meat Market used to be a vast mausoleum of blood-dripping carcasses, glistening raw rib cages, crimson limbs, and the sickly sweet smell of death. Progress and technology have brought us a sterilized version, all clean and tidy with nothing to offend the eye, nose, or mind.
I made my way through a row of trucks waiting to be loaded and into an office area with wall-to-wall computers. No one paid me much attention and I didn't need any; I knew where Max's office was. Even without that knowledge, he would not have been hard to find, for he was on the phone and his bull-like voice transmitted great distances.
His full name was Max Rittmeister, but everyone knew him as Max the Knife. He had a large bald head and a scar on one cheek that he claimed he had received while dueling as a student in Heidelberg. Another version said he'd inflicted it on himself with a carving knife while drunk, but nobody repeated that version within earshot of Max. He was big and powerfully built. He had been a POW in England during the war after being shot down as a rear gunner in a Dormer bomber. When the war was over, after a brief sojourn in bomb-shattered Germany, he returned to England and resumed his life as a butcher. As long as I had known him, he knew more about the meat business than almost anyone else in London.
He hung up the phone as I came into his office. "Been out of town?" he greeted me. "You only come to see me when you need something."
"Nice to see you again too, Max. No, I haven't been out of town, and yes, I do need something, but it's something that can make you some money."
He grunted his lack of conviction but I knew that was only an act. The mention of making money would have secured his attention. The meat market operates through' individual companies which are, in effect, middlemen between the farms and the customers. Max was one of the establishment's three supervisors; he was responsible only to the meat market but had jurisdiction over the quality of the products sold by the companies. It was the responsibility of Max and his associates to maintain standards by exercising semiofficial control over the farms and the companies. In Max's case, that control could not have been more rigorous if it had been fully official.
"Want to look around first?" he asked.
"Not this time," I told him. I went on, "Livingstone Farms are the supplier in this case."
He made a guttural sound that was as near as Max ever got to approval. I knew it meant that they ran a sound operation because if they didn't, Max would already have taken some action.
I outlined the task facing me at Harlington Castle. I knew that although Max was not an expert on the food of the Middle Ages, he had an encyclopedic knowledge of food history in general. He wouldn't make it easy for me, though.
"So what can I tell you? What can I sell you? You want mutton? I can get you mutton."
"We're considering it, but it's not going to be that popular. People think of it as a food nobody wants to eat any more. Roasts of lamb would be good, don't you think?"
Max shrugged. I knew that the challenge would get through to him quickly. "Could be," he said. "Lamb is a reasonable price right now. They used to eat roast lamb wit
h ginger sauce in those days."
"They needed the strong flavor as the meat was often past its prime. Today, I think we can consider less powerful sauces and bring out the flavor of the meat itself."
He nodded as if he couldn't care less. He was getting more interested.
"Parsley sauce, you think?" I prompted him.
"Lovage," said Max. "They used a lot of lovage in meat sauces, sometimes on its own, sometimes with thyme."
I nodded appreciatively. He was coming round. "In a cream base, you mean?"
"Right. Coriander and onion was another popular combination. They added them to a butter and red wine base."
"I was thinking too of some of. the vegetables, chopped to provide thickening. That way, they also give a different taste from the more obvious sauces."
"Green beans," said Max at once. "They'd chop them with turmeric and cumin, put them into a stock, then add some breadcrumbs at the end to thicken the sauce even further."
"Good, yes, that would be different," I told him. "What about pork? How are your supplies?"
"The pork from Lancashire is hard to beat right now. Good price, too. Of course, a suckling pig is a nice touch. Now they really look Middle Ages."
"Some plum sauce sharpened up with vinegar would go well with that, wouldn't it?"
"Real good."
"How would you supply us the suckling pig, though? The nearer to final preparation the better, I think. There aren't many cooks at the castle who know the tricks like you do."
"We'd clean through the throat and hang from the neck. We'd open the skin under the earflaps so you could squeeze the stuffing in that way. You'd need some calf's brains to make the stuffing really authentic ..."
Max was thoroughly hooked by now. He went on to recommend baked ham as another dish popular in medieval times. "But make sure it's not salted," he cautioned. "They sell you ham loaded with salt today to help preserve it. You want to bring in a salty flavor only through vinegar, fish pickle, and anchovy paste. Never with salt."
An hour later, I had a long list of ideas as well as Max's estimates of prices and quantities. Ever a storehouse of information, he had gone on to veal roasts and a lecture on how a baron of beef should really be prepared. I left, quite sure that the meat side of the medieval banquet problem at least was solved.