by Peter King
The banquet hall had high, beamed ceilings and had probably really been the banquet hall in medieval days. Strains of melodious ballads drifted down from the minstrels' gallery, high above the main doorway.
Half a dozen tables had about eight diners at each. A large silver saltcellar was the centerpiece of each table setting and a jeweled model of a ship contained various spices, all labeled. Two wassail bowls contained wine, one white and one red. We helped ourselves with the silver ladle, though four businessmen opposite me preferred to have the serving wenches do it for them. The girls did it charmingly, having to lean over the table so that their breasts threatened to pop out of their exceedingly low-cut dresses.
A spit turned slowly in the huge fireplace. The large slab of veal on it had already been cooked in the kitchen and the fire was keeping it warm. The smell was rich with the odor of thyme and a hint of garlic. The juices still dropped and sizzled on the hearth.
Torches burned in wrought-iron sconces on the walls and colored candles flickered on the tables. A jester in a colorful costume was going from table to table telling jokes and confiding scandalous secrets about the serving wenches. Loud laughter came from the next table where a group of Asians, probably Koreans, seemed to be enjoying the jokes tremendously, even though they were laughing in all the wrong places.
I was sitting between a Scottish couple, who were a little disconcerted by the whole event, and a travel journalist from South Africa, a young fellow who admitted that he was new at this. We were served soup first. It would have been called a broth, though it had a few vegetables in it. I was listening for comments on it but there were none, which was fair because it was that kind of soup.
Next, the waitresses brought a choice of two fish dishes. One was salted herrings, a popular dish of medieval days and still favored today in Scandinavian countries. I chose the alternative, which was shrimp and pieces of crab in a spicy sauce. The discernible spices were cumin and turmeric, both as popular today as they were when they were essential to covering up shortcomings in the fish or meat. Both of the dishes received comments that were approving but not wildly so. The journalist and I tasted each other's. Across the table, a young couple from Norway were probably on their honeymoon and enjoying everything, especially the herrings.
Trays of miniature appetizers were handed around by the girls. Some were chopped chicken liver on a triangle of toast. These would have been made with cod liver in medieval days. Others were similar, but with a meat paste somewhat similar to deviled ham. That can be a cheap and easy spread and has been known to be a way of getting rid of meat scraps, aided by the use of a hot mustard as yet another coverall. The serving of appetizers after soup and fish was not routine, but came from the custom of offering a dozen or more courses, and the order of these could vary widely. People in those days ate very much more than we do today, and even if they were to pick and choose from among the various dishes, their total intake was still much greater.
The South African was reluctant to be derogatory, but with a little prodding, he confided that the appetizer pasties popular in South Africa were much better, especially the keeries-South African for curry. The curried meatballs rolled in pastry were a hit at any function in that country.
Up to now, the food had been so-so. When I had helped set up the menus previously, there had been several dishes that I thought I remembered as being tastier. Certainly, many changes had been made and some of them for money-saving reasons. I made a mental note that these earlier courses would be an ideal place for one of those eel dishes-perhaps the eel pie. Our ancestors had served them with vegetable purees, which should be very acceptable today.
A small sole accompanied by a few boiled potatoes followed. It was served in meuniere style-lightly sauteed in butter and lemon. This was universally popular. Then came the main course: the veal roast. It was placed on the table with a flourish by two of the serving girls. It sat on a silver platter and had already been carved into slices. It oozed flavor as the bowls of carrots, green beans, and peas were brought in.
"Shouldn't this be roast beef?" questioned the South African upon learning that the roast was veal.
"Beef was traditional," I answered, "but by no means as common as most people think. The reality was that cattle were working animals. It didn't make economic sense to kill them at the age of ten or twelve in order to eat them when they had another twenty years of work left in them. A further factor was that when they were old, their hide was worth more. It was thicker and stronger as well as bigger, so it brought more money."
"So they ate veal roasts? Like this one?"
"Yes, and pork roasts, too. Pigs have always been a good provider of meat-so much of them can be eaten, right down to the feet and jowls."
I reminded the Scottish couple that in their country, the veal would have been presented with a main side dish of blancmange. Today, this is still popular in England-even though it has declined considerably in recent decades-as a dessert.
It consisted of shredded chicken boiled in milk. Over the centuries, sugar was added, then the chicken was omitted so that it became a dessert. In medieval times, though, blancmange would come with a main course as often as potatoes. It could be considered as an alternate to the frumenty I had mentioned to Victor Gontier as an accompaniment to venison. Both blancmange and frumenty would have been found in middle- or upper-class homes where snobbishness prevailed to the extent of looking down on potatoes as peasant food.
Brown bread was being placed on the table throughout the meal and I made a mental note about that, too. It was an ordinary wheat bread and I thought an improvement was due. Bread made from rye or barley would be good choices-different tastes and textures would be imparted by both.
Trifle was an uninspired dessert. Foreigners unaccustomed to it would enjoy it, but surely English visitors would look for something different and special. This trifle was acceptable-the spongecake was fresh, you could just taste the sherry, and the custard was creamy and eggy. On the critical side, it was too sweet, it did not have enough peaches and strawberries (both essential for an authentic trifle), and it had no flavor of brandy. All economy measures, I presumed.
Glasses of foaming mead were brought. No one was really dissatisfied and I had a lot of notes for improvement. We all left happy.
CHAPTER TEN
I breakfasted before most of the guests. Grapefruit juice, an English muffin with marmalade, and coffee were just enough to stave off morning hunger pangs, and I was leaving the dining room when a uniformed constable intercepted me. A number of them were still on the premises. A few seemed to be stationed here but others apparently came in from Hertford as required.
This one was a polite young man. "I wonder if you could accompany me, sir. Just a couple of points ..." Being interviewed by the redoubtable Inspector Devlin was not the way I would have preferred to start the day, but I was in no position to be selective so I said, "Certainly," and followed him.
To my surprise, he did not head for the main castle buildings. He went in the opposite direction, toward one of the car parking areas. "Where are we going?" I asked. He waved a vague hand. "Just over here, sir."
I examined him as we walked. He certainly looked like a constable. I memorized the number on his shoulder, then became aware that it would not be of any help if he were not genuine.
The car park had only a handful of cars at this early hour. The constable headed for a large black Vauxhall. The windows were not exactly blacked out but I had a twinge of apprehension when I could not see inside. Then a door opened and a face appeared. "In here," said a female voice. Then, "Thank you, Constable."
The face was that of Sergeant Winifred Fletcher of Scotland Yard. It was a well-known face to me, for we had worked together on the Circle of Careme case in London. "Winsome Winnie," I had dubbed her then. "Come on in," she invited, and I climbed into the cavernous interior of the police Vauxhall. It was not really cavernous but a half-stretched model that permitted the installation of
additional seats facing backwards, toward the occupants of the back seats. There was one other occupant. He was Inspector Ronald Hemingway, Winnie's superior and the head of Scotland Yard's Food Squad.
I had always thought of Hemingway as perfect Hollywood casting for the commandant of a Foreign Legion fort. His eyes seemed ideal for scanning the Sahara horizon for hordes of Bedouins, and the tight mouth under the trim mustache looked as if it should be barking commands to the guards on the battlements. He even had an erect military bearing, which aided the illusion, though the flawlessly cut suit from Gieves & Hawkes of Savile Row and the Pierre Cardin tie ruined it.
His role, and that of the Food Squad, arose out of the growing importance of food and restaurants in present-day society. Food had became a powerful and wealthy business, and like any wealthy business, it had attracted crime and criminals. Scotland Yard had had an Art 'Squad and a Fraud Squad for some time. Recent additions to their organization had been the Computer Squad, the Business Squad, and-most recently of all-the Food Squad. Winnie gave me an encouraging smile. I interpreted it to mean that I was not in any trouble as far as her department was concerned-not at the moment anyway.
Inspector Hemingway was already speaking and his tone was friendly. "Nice to see you again. It appears that you will be working with us once more. Let's hope it turns out as well as the Circle of Careme affair."
I looked from him to Winnie and back again. "You're part of the investigation into Kenny Bryce's death?" I asked.
"No, we are not, not yet at any rate. Sergeant, do you want to fill in the details here?"
Winnie's red-lipped smile was good to see again. In the case that Hemingway had referred to, we had become very well acquainted. From a suspect, I had progressed to a Scotland Yard helper, and from there on, Winnie and I had become-what is the euphemism?-"very good friends." I had not seen her for some time as she had been in Northern Ireland on a case, but she looked as delectable as ever. I had to force myself to pay attention to her words.
"Several cases of poisoning have come to our attention. No deaths have resulted, fortunately, which is why little publicity has been attached. The symptoms were similar, which led us to believe that all of them had a common cause. We didn't get in on these cases right away because the local police authorities didn't see any reason to report them to us. Once we were onto it, we could see what looked like a pattern.
"When the report of a poisoning here at Harlington Castle showed up, we had another piece of the puzzle. As this one resulted in a death, we were authorized to look into it."
"You've talked to inspector Devlin, I presume."
Inspector Hemingway nodded. He had the same cool, confident look that I remembered. "Yes. That's when your name came up. She said that you had, er, mentioned working with us."
"I was trying to avoid being listed among the suspects," I said.
Hemingway's mouth twisted in a slight smile. "Well, of course, I gave you a good name. I added that that did not eliminate you as a murder suspect, but I said I doubted very much if you shared any guilt."
"Thanks," I said. "Inspector Devlin is what could be called a tough cookie."
"A very responsible officer," said Hemingway with a perfectly straight face.
"She said yesterday that she was going to issue a press release today. Is it out yet? What does it say?"
"As there are the previous poisonings to take into account now, the case here takes on a new complexion. In order to avoid spreading alarm, the release is cautiously worded-"
"Does it give the cause of Kenny Bryce's death?" I asked quickly.
"No," Hemingway said. He glanced at Winnie.
"But you know."
It was Winnie who answered. "An amino acid called boroamine."
"I don't think I've heard of that one," I said. "Is it a known pharmaceutical compound?"
"Not much is known about it. It isn't used as a pharmaceutical compound. It has been isolated in the laboratory but no use has ever been proposed for it."
Hemingway added, "The poisoning case that we already had on our books-the one that resulted in a death-was the only one we could backtrack to, as it was the only one where we had knowledge of stomach contents. An autopsy had to be performed, and when we asked for further analysis, we had confirmation. Death was due to boro-amine."
"How could anybody get hold of it?" I wondered.
Winnie shook her head. "We don't know."
"We've asked our people in Chelmsford to synthesize some so it can be studied," Hemingway said. "We'll know more then." I knew that the Forensic Laboratory in Chelmsford had a fine reputation throughout Europe.
"Could it be related to histamine in any way?" I asked.
"Why do you ask?" Hemingway countered smoothly.
"I saw Kenny Bryce immediately after the joust. He had facial flushes, heavy perspiration, deep and irregular breathing, faint pulse-all of the classic symptoms of histamine poisoning."
Hemingway nodded. "That accounts for your unwise and premature statement to the Entertainments Director, McCartney, about him-let me see, what were your words?-ah, yes, having `all the symptoms of having been poisoned.' "
The Food Squad had done its homework. I should not have expected anything less from them. I glanced at Winnie. There was a hint of a supportive smile there and I took encouragement from it.
"Those were my words, yes. I probably wouldn't have said them if I'd known there was an epidemic of such cases, and besides, it was disturbing to see him that way. I spoke without thinking."
"Quite understandable," Hemingway said imperturbably.
"Of course, there are other poisons that generate the same symptoms as the histamine group," I reminded him.
"Several," he agreed. "There's one other bit of information we've learned from the lab before they get their full investigation underway." He paused, then said: "Boro-amine contains a significant amount of vitamin K."
I thought about that for a moment. "Does that mean something?"
They both looked pensive, but neither spoke until Hemingway said, "Not as much as we want it to. At least, not yet." He looked at his watch. "We have to be going. Before we do, though, I wanted you to know that our investigation of those other cases was already underway. We didn't really know in which direction it was going, but this death could be the clue and may provide more data. There's one other detail ..." He gave me his most penetrating stare.
"When we heard about this case, we had just had some computer correlation. It showed that all of the people we knew to have been affected had visited Harlington Castle recently. It took some time for this to emerge because we had to interrogate all the friends and relatives of the victims. They are not all from this area, of course.
"As a result of this, we had decided to send someone here to do some on-the-spot investigating. We are a bit shorthanded at the moment, so learning you were here was good news."
I had the sinking feeling that I had been volunteered without my cognizance.
"You mean-"
"Yes," said Inspector Hemingway. "A bit of luck for us. We have a man on the inside. You!" He tapped on the glass partition to alert the driver. "Keep us informed, won't you? Sergeant Fletcher will be your contact as before. Leave liaison with Inspector Devlin to me. And remember, no more rash diagnoses."
Winne pulled the door open for me and I stepped out. There didn't seem much to say so I didn't say it.
It was a pleasant day with just a hint of rain in the air but also the likelihood that it might pass. As I approached the main castle building, I recognized the figure coming toward me, Don McCartney.
"Have a good day in London?" he asked. News evidently traveled fast.
I gave him a brief outline of my visits regarding both meat and fish without elaborating too much on the Seven Seas. "Sounds like you're making progress," he said.
"One thing I wanted to ask you."
"Yes, what is it?"
"I understand all supplies are purchased by a central oper
ation. Who runs that?"
"Donna Rowlands." Then he asked, "Is there some problem with food supplies?"
I have learned that an answer to a different question often suffices when you don't want to answer the original question. "We are going to be trying some foods that haven't been served before. Hopefully, we can use the same suppliers."
He nodded. "Donna will be very helpful. She's had a lot of experience."
He left me to hurry across to the adjoining buildings. As I approached the castle doors, another figure materialized beside me. She was attractive and smartly dressed and gave me a slight smile as I opened the door for her. She went in, crossed the hall, and disappeared.
I mulled over the Seven Seas situation. I could not believe that anyone visiting the facility would be satisfied with it. Gontier's responses were not entirely satisfying. He had not visited Seven Seas for at least a year. He said that the supplies office handled the ordering and added that he "had nothing to do with that." I was just deciding that the supplies office should be my first task of the next morning when I saw a couple approaching.
Angela, the younger daughter of the Harlington clan, wore a light blue mini-slip of a dress that combined the modern with the medieval very cleverly. Her flawless complexion was without makeup, but the damp English climate kept it fresh and appealing. Her dark eyes looked bigger than ever as she introduced the young man with her. "My cousin, Neville Woodward."
He was lean, almost thin, and had an aristocratic face with a mouth that looked as if it were about to sneer. After a few minutes of conversation, I realized that I was not necessarily the target of such an expression-it was natural.
"You got out of the maze all right, I see," she said with just a tinge of amusement.
"No problem," I said, airily if untruthfillly. I looked at Angela. "I'm surprised at you, though, Angela. Hope you don't send paying customers in there. You might not see them again."
Her face was all innocence. "I didn't say a word. It was Norman who directed you that way. He considers it a short cut."