Eat, Drink, and Be Buried

by Peter King

  "But it's the food you're interested in talking about," she concluded.

  "Right," I agreed, coming straight to the point. "I would have wanted to talk to you anyway, but I was at Seven Seas and that's what I'd like to discuss first."

  "The seafood people. What do you want to know?"

  "Quality-control visits. Who visits them and how often?"

  She reached for a file. I saw that the big label said "QC." She turned the pages.

  "Victor does that," she said. "On an annual basis."

  I didn't respond immediately and she was quick to frown. "Something wrong?"

  "Routine, I take it?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you have copies of his reports?"

  "No, they're kept in the office at the kitchens." She wasn't satisfied with my diversion. "Nothing wrong, is there?" she asked.

  "Just details," I said airily, and she looked relieved.

  "How about bread?" I asked before she could pursue her question.

  "We buy from a bakery in Stony Stratton."

  "That's near here, isn't it?"

  "About fifteen minutes in a bakery van. That's one reason we chose it. Always fresh. `The Muffin Man.' "

  "Is that what it's called? Cute name."

  "They have a good product and they're reliable. Do you want to go and see them?"

  "Yes. I'd like to talk to them about the possibility of rye and barley breads. The wheat bread you serve now is not bad, but one of these others should be more tasty and also more authentic."

  She reached for the phone. "I'll tell them you're coming."

  "I'd rather you didn't. Bakeries run all the time anyway."

  She released the instrument reluctantly. "They often like some warning-

  "This isn't a QC visit. Just a few questions. Who's your contact there?"

  She opened her book again. "That's funny. We don't have a name-I wonder why?"

  I wondered too. The operation at Harlington Castle seemed generally sound but there were some gaps. I went down a different avenue.

  "Vegetables-there's an aspect we haven't touched on yet," I said.

  Donna pushed her glasses back on her nose and smiled. "We grow most of those ourselves. You've heard about Miss Felicity's Plantation, I'm sure?"

  "I have heard about it and I've been wanting to see it. I must do that right away."

  "Oh, you must. She's so proud of it. Yes, she grows most of our vegetables and some of our fruit, too. Some of the exotic ones we have to buy in, like pineapples and oranges and grapefruit, but she grows kiwis, strawberries, and figs in her greenhouses."

  "A clever girl," I commented.

  The phone rang and I left her to wrangle over changes in delivery dates.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Muffin Man was in a smart, neat-looking building on the outskirts of Stony Stratton. The village itself was pretty, well kept, with flowers everywhere. It was the next morning. Clouds scudded low and tried to look threatening but it was mostly bluff. Behind the clouds, blue sky showed and a coy sun peeked through more and more, like a bashful child increasingly bold in showing its face.

  The reception area of The Muffin Man was tiny. They evidently did not do much receiving. A young girl with a ponytail slid open a plastic panel. "Was there something?"

  I explained that I was at the castle and working with the chefs. I said I wanted to see the bakery facilities and discuss their products. She looked nonplussed, as if no one had ever asked this before. "We don't get visitors."

  I gave her my best smile. Sometimes it works. "I'm not a visitor. I just want to look around. The castle is one of your biggest customers."

  She shook her head. "You have to see the Muffin Man."

  "I thought this was The Muffin Man."

  "It's the name of the bakery, right. But it's the Muffin Man that owns it. Like the owner."

  "Fine. I'll see him," I told her.

  "Can't, he's not here."

  "When is he here?"

  For some reason, that question baffled her. She looked at a blank sheet of paper that was on the desk but found no inspiration. She turned to look behind her but there was nobody there.

  "I really need to see someone," I said, pleasantly, but putting a steely ring into the words. The girl was young enough to be intimidated, I reasoned. Maybe she was, but she was also persistent.

  "We don't really have anybody-"

  "Every business has somebody," I assured her. "The master baker will do. If he's busy, his assistant. If he's busy-"

  "Just a minute." She went to a desk just far enough away that I could not hear her words on the phone as she talked with her back to me. She came back. "Just a minute," she said again.

  I waited. There were no chairs, so I stood. I fidgeted and drummed fingers. I walked to and fro; the space was almost big enough for three paces each way. The girl left the panel open but ignored the manifestations of my impatience. Finally, a door opened and a young woman came in, wiping her hands on her apron, which had small hunks of dough stuck here and there.

  "May," she said.

  At first, I thought she was telling me when to come back, but after I told her who I was and why I was here, I found out that her name was May. I went through my presentation about the castle once more. "So I'd like to see the bakery," I said, "and talk to someone about some different breads, say rye and barley for a start."

  She looked nervous. She was petite, with a sweet face and light blond hair that was in a net, presumably to keep it out of machinery. She put up a good defense but I was determined and dogged. She caved in reluctantly. "I can't spare long," she said, and I jumped in with, "Neither can I, but I appreciate your cooperation."

  My desire to learn about the workings of The Muffin Man had been inspired, strangely enough, by the mystery of the Mary Celeste. One of the most famous ships ever to put to sea, the Mary Celeste was found drifting in the Atlantic in the 1870s with not a soul on board. The vessel was in good condition, with ample supplies of food and fresh water. Speculation as to the fate of the crew has continued for more than a hundred years with scores of guesses as to the nature of the danger on board that caused the crew to abandon ship and not one of them ever to be heard of again.

  It has become the most renowned of all naval mysteries and new theories continue to emerge. One recent theory has gained considerable support, and in my line of work, it had a particular fascination. I was determined to establish if it could be considered as a possible explanation for the poisonings at Harlington Castle.

  Ergot, a fungus, infects cereal grains and especially rye. Rye thrived in the cool, damp climates of Northern Europe-the same climates that killed wheat, so rye was widely used for breadmak- ing. Unfortunately, those same climatic conditions make rye susceptible to ergot. It is believed that many deaths among crew members of sailing ships were due to ergotic poisoning: the fungus spreads rapidly through the rye flour carried on such ships. On transatlantic voyages, cold and damp were prevalent, and long periods at sea enabled the fungus to do its deadly work quite unsuspected. This was the reasoning that pointed a finger at rye in the Mary Celeste case.

  Historians have long known that many communities too suffered horrifying disasters as a result of this insidious poison. After centuries of peaceful living, the Scandinavians suddenly and destructively erupted into the violence of the Viking period, burning churches and monasteries, razing crops and carrying off women. In the Rhine Valley in the ninth century, over ten thousand people died, poisoned by ergotic rye bread. In the seventeenth century, extraordinary outbursts from "witches" among the young girls of Salem in Massachusetts resulted in twenty of them being put to death. They claimed to have sensations of flying, to have experienced visions and heard voices. Children in local villages died in unprecedented numbers and cattle deaths were at a previously unknown level.

  In all of these cases, rye bread was the staple diet. It is impossible to prevent ergot from contaminating the rye flour and ergot contains two dozen
poisons. One of these is the hallucinogen LSD, which certainly could account for the exceptional behavior of the girls in Salem. Some unaccountable bloodstains on the deck of the Mary Celeste could have been due to a few crew members running amok with axes or knives. Perhaps the survivors jumped overboard in their madness.

  I thought back to the symptoms of Kenny Bryce as he lay on the cot after the joust: severe abdominal pains, temporary blindness, delirium, and convulsions-the same symptoms that are associated with ergot poisoning. But other poisons can cause these symptoms, so maybe I was going down a cul-de-sac. But I felt I had to follow this possibility.

  We toured the plant. Mills ground down the flour, which went into stainless-steel vats to ripen, aging until it was just right for breadmaking. The air was thick with the rich, strong smell. It went into the mixers, where water, yeast, vitamins, and minerals were added, forming a sponge. After further mixing, this went into the fermentation room. Here, the sponge rose and was returned to the mixer, where salt, sugar, milk powder, water, and other ingredients depending on the type of bread were added. Further fermentation followed, then the dough was shaped; the carbon dioxide from fermenting was forced out; and finally came the baking operation.

  It was fascinating, especially watching the brown, slightly steaming loaves come marching triumphantly out of the ovens in trim, soldierlike lines. But I was itching to get to the storage rooms. If ergot was being allowed to grow, this was where it would be.

  There was no suggestion of it. Storage was under humiditycontrolled conditions and no possibility of ergotine poisoning existed. Determined to be really thorough, I browsed around until I located the rye flour. It was the right color-no trace of the pinkish tinge that would warn of incipient ergotism.

  I could see nothing at all to cause quality problems-and that thought led to my asking, "How long is it since you were visited by someone from the castle?" But May looked vague and said she was not sure.

  We concluded the tour in the shipping and packaging area. May did not plan on showing me these, saying they were not very interesting, but I insisted. She was right, they were not interesting, but both areas were impeccable. May gave me a look which said she hoped I was leaving. "Just one more thing," I said, and repeated my intention to furnish visitors to the castle with rye bread and barley bread.

  She blinked at me. "We do make pumpernickel-it's made from coarse rye, you know-but it's not a real big seller in the local shops."

  "Pumpernickel does have a limited market," I agreed, "but made as a medieval bread, maybe not quite as heavy and served as part of a medieval meal, it might go down well. We could take quite a lot of it."

  "All right. Now, barley is difficult to hull. That makes the bread more expensive. Still," she said, looking like a pensive schoolgirl pondering an awkward part of the eleven times table, "rye and barley both mix well with wheat, and that restores the fiber level as well as keeping the calorie count down."

  It was my turn to blink. May knew about bread for sure. "Could you bake a few dozen loaves of each of those?" I asked. "We'll give them a try. See how the customers react."

  She stood there with a dubious look on her face.

  "What's wrong?" I asked. "You have to check with the Muffin Man?"

  "Er, yes," she murmured finally. Perhaps she was merely pursuing the baking angle in her mind because, after a pause, she said, "We could use rye flour, mix in some yellow cornmeal"-she stopped to think some more, then went on-"add some dark unsulfured molasses and some buttermilk."

  "Sounds great. Let's try that."

  We went on past the baking ovens and the smell was almost irresistible. She didn't exactly show me out. She took me to the door, gave me a demure nod, and disappeared back inside.

  The song from childhood came to my mind, drifting up from schooldays. "Do you know the Muffin Man?" I didn't know him any better now than I had before. The song went on to say that "he dwells in Drury Lane," but this one didn't. He didn't even dwell in Stony Stratton. He was proving more elusive than the Pimpernel.

  The Children's Festival was over when the taxi dropped me at the gates of Harlington Castle. The cleanup crew had swept through like a tornado and hardly a trace remained from the invasion of the little darlings. A single, forlorn ice cream wrapper had escaped and lay desecrating the lawn. I picked it up and dropped it into the nearest barrel.

  In the main hall, a constable was putting on his helmet as he hurried out. Don McCartney, the entertainments director, came through a side door and, seeing me, came over. "That inspector is a demon, isn't she?"

  "Very formidable," I said cautiously. "Has she been grilling you?"

  "She's been asking a lot of questions," he protested.

  "She seems to be good at that."

  "Anyway, how are you getting along? Making progress?"

  I gave him the briefest of summaries of my visits to the Smithfield Market, the fish supplier, and The Muffin Man. I gave him the facts only, no comments.

  "Speaking of meat," he said, "I suppose you'll be at the culling of the deer herds tomorrow?"

  "Haven't heard about it. Victor Gontier did mention that they were culled occasionally and that was when venison went on the menu. I didn't know it was tomorrow, though."

  "Yes, it is. All our crack shots will be there."

  "Not with bows and arrows, I hope?"

  "Bows and-? Oh, I see. Yes, I heard about that incident. Some careless idiot."

  "Probably," I agreed.

  "No, bows and arrows aren't allowed for this kind of thing. The Forestry Commission has strict laws about how herds are culled. Only high-powered rifles."

  "Crack shots, you said. Who are your crack shots?" I asked casually.

  "Lord Harlington has declined this year."

  "Does he usually participate?"

  "This will be the first year he hasn't, but Richard and Norman will be there, of course, and their cousin, Neville. I will be there, and three of our riders who are expert shots. Miss Angela insists on taking part, too," he added in a sort of neutral voice.

  "She's a bit of a tomboy, isn't she?"

  "She certainly is." His voice hid some of his disapproval. Some came through, though I wasn't sure whether it was for Angela or for women in general who participated in such masculine activities.

  "Can she qualify as a crack shot?"

  "She certainly can. With rifle and pistol both."

  "How about with a bow and arrow?" I put the question halfjokingly.

  McCartney took it the same way. With a slight smile, he said, "I think Nature's against her there. I don't think she could pull a forty-pound bow."

  We chatted a little longer, then we parted. He had to receive a delegation of travel agents from Canada, so I went to the kitchens.

  A dark blue van idled outside the back door as I approached. It started up and drove off. I went in to find Madeleine Bristow, the red-cheeked young Lancashire woman who was assistant to Victor Gontier, the head chef. She looked a little flustered and was stroking her hair back into place. A clandestine visit from an admirer (as they called them in Victorian days), I thought, so I put on my most professional air to make it clear that her lovelife was none of my business.

  "The Muffin Man is sending some rye loaves and some barley loaves," I told her. "Perhaps you can keep track of how they go compared to the wheat and white loaves you usually serve."

  She nodded.

  "I had dinner with the guests," I told her. "They all enjoyed it. The sole was popular and the veal roast was very good."

  She nodded again, this time with a little enthusiasm. I guessed she was anxious to talk about food rather than her morning visitor.

  "We might think again about frumenty as an accompaniment to the main meat course," I suggested. "Or blancmange, the nonsweetened version. Something different from rice or potatoes."

  "We could make frumenty the way you mentioned," she said. "Leave out the almonds maybe. And what about polenta?"

  The cornmeal porridge
is a staple of Northern Italian cooking. "Not exactly English medieval," I said, "but it's a good idea. Dishes going with main meat courses need to show more variety. Cool the polenta after cooking, then fry it in slices is maybe the best way. It doesn't have a great deal of flavor."

  "As much as potato," Madeleine argued, "and there are ways of increasing the flavor. Garlic, flecks of sun-dried tomato."

  "That's true." I was glad to be getting some input. "The Corsican style is to use chestnut flour. That's much tastier."

  "How about mixing that with the cornmeal? We could get some interesting combinations."

  "Good. Will you try that?"

  She assented eagerly. "Victor is over in the main dining room. I'll talk to him as soon as he comes back. He's anxious to try some eels, by the way."

  "Good. And I hear venison is going to be on the menu," I said. We discussed the times and ways of hanging it. Then I said, "Talking about food always makes me hungry. What's on the menu for lunch today?" She listed the courses for me and I decided to have something light with the staff. "And I've looked up one or two of my old cookbooks," she told me. "Rissoles should be popular. I'm going to try some tomorrow "

  "Try them out on the staff," I suggested. "I'll have some, too." I turned to go, then remembered, "By the way, we have to do something about the desserts. They have become a bit routine."

  "I was thinking about those, too. IT have some suggestions for you by tomorrow."

  She was getting almost bubbly by now. I was making some progress.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Frank Morgan, the other stuntman who played Sir Harry Mountmarchant, was in the staff cafeteria and gave me a nod. I saw a thick mop of curly hair and recognized Daniel, he of the Dancing Bears. Lisa, the West Indian woman from the library, was just leaving and gave me a smile. The diminutive Eddie was there too, with three or four cronies-that word seemed to suit his table companions perfectly. They were engaged in a story-swapping contest, it appeared, and gales of high-pitched laughter kept breaking out, so I left them to it.