Eat, Drink, and Be Buried

by Peter King

  Her chin rose. She looked very patrician in profile. "Difficulties were made to be overcome," she said loftily.

  I reached over the barrier between us. She turned and leaned toward me. "A partial solution," I said a few minutes later. "Not wholly satisfactory, though."

  "There's another piece of furniture over there," she murmured. I didn't look to see what it was. I let her take me over to wherever and whatever ...

  I wondered if sweeter music had ever filled that room.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Gontier was in a harassed mood when I approached him. He tried to shrug me off with a "too busy right now but perhaps tomorrow" attitude, so I had to introduce pressure by namedropping. Don McCartney's name produced only a mild reaction, but Sir Gerald's did the trick. I confirmed first that he had the menu already planned for the banquet after the upcoming Battle of Moreston Marsh. He did, and we went over it and I made a few suggestions. It was to be quite a formal affair as a number of local people, prominent in one way or another, always attended. Consequently, the theme of the meal, while suitably medieval, was not too dramatically radical.

  Don McCartney had also told him of the forthcoming visit of the Empire Historical buffs. I added a doctored version of my conversation with Lord Harlington, emphasizing that, for this, we really needed to dig deep into Middle Ages cuisine. We went into the kitchen office.

  "The first thought I had," I told him, "is from the English nursery rhyme, I wonder if you know it? `Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie' is how the first line goes. This was in fact a popular feature of medieval banquets."

  He looked at me, a tinge of horror creeping across his face. "Blackbirds?" he murmured.

  I could have reminded him of the popular and still repeated English belief that the French will eat anything that flies, walks, crawls, or swims. Such a catalogue would easily encompass blackbirds, making his look seem both superfluous and hypocritical. Knowing that such an attitude would serve no purpose, I held my tongue on that score and explained.

  "What they did was to bake an enormous pie, then make a separate false crust to place on top. The pie was cooked in the normal manner. Then, just before serving, twenty-four blackbirds were placed on top and the false crust pressed into place. When it was broken, out came the birds, to everyone's astonishment."

  His expression was not encouraging. "I think I may have heard of that," he admitted. "I thought the blackbirds were in the pie to be eaten."

  So there was substance in the English belief concerning French tastes after all. I said, "Most people think that, taking the line literally. But, you see, the birds weren't eaten-because the rest of the rhyme continues, `When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing.' That means that they couldn't have met with death by baking. They flew out, of course, and then the real pie beneath was cut."

  He was warming to the idea slowly.

  "I don't think I've heard of any chef preparing such a dish today."

  "Good," I said promptly. "It will be new to everybody."

  "Still, I don't think we-"

  "Let's go through the meal course by course," I suggested. "We can look at the problems later. In the Middle Ages, a banquet started with a salad."

  "In France, we usually eat the salad at the end of the meal," said Gontier.

  "True, but while we want to achieve historical authenticity, we also need to bend, even if unnoticeably, to modern tastes. Most of the guests on this occasion will be used to eating their salad first."

  Gontier was in an argumentative mood this morning. "If you want to give them something different, one way is to serve the salad at the end."

  "These guests will expect a sweet course at the end," I countered. "I am sure you can understand that. Wasn't it Louis the Fifteenth's court that served sweets after every course?"

  He mumbled an acknowledgment of that and I moved on swiftly. "You are very fortunate here in having the Plantation. The salad can be made mainly of herbs, as it was in the Middle Ages, and you grow all your own. This type of salad can be disappointing when made with dried herbs."

  He couldn't find any objection there. I continued: "Watercress, leeks, scallions, fennel, parsley, rosemary, mint, sage, and thyme would be excellent. A simple dressing of olive oil and wine vinegar could be added just before serving."

  "Simple is often best," he conceded, and made a note. In order to cajole him into cooperating still further, I asked his opinion.

  "As you know, it was customary to put everything on the table at once in those days. It was only in Victorian times that service d la Russe was introduced and the meal was broken up into courses. What do you think?"

  I had already decided on my own stance, but I knew I had a fifty-fifty chance of getting his agreement. If I didn't get it, I had another argument to face. Fortunately, he said, "I think.guests today are firmly in the habit of eating meals in separate courses. It is better to keep it that way."

  He gave me a provocative look that challenged me to dispute him. I made a show of considering his point, then said, "You're right. I had thought that perhaps we-but no, you're right. Separate courses it shall be."

  Our meeting progressed a little more smoothly after that. We debated at some length the ingredients of the soup for the next course. "In medieval times, soup was a big dish of fish or meat boiled with vegetables," I reminded Gontier. "We don't want to have a soup that would be out of harmony with the rest of the meal."

  "Something lighter," he said.

  "But not a consomme, I don't think. People feel cheated when they are given a clear soup. They prefer soups with content, with meaning."

  He thought about that for a moment. "You are right. They do."

  "One of the most popular soups at banquets used to be mussel soup," I said, "but not everybody likes mussels."

  He shook his head firmly. "Not mussels. Perhaps a soupe au pistou?"

  "Good idea. The Provence style, you think, rather than the Genoese?"

  "Yes," he said. "Beans, potatoes, leeks, garlic, and tomatoes."

  We put the soup on the list. A fish dish had to follow and we agreed on Thames whitebait, cooked fresh and crunchy. "A more substantial fish dish as well, you think?" he asked. "Perhaps salmon steaks?"

  I was not sure that the dubious Seven Seas operation could be relied on, but this was no time to introduce that fly in the ointment and there were plenty of other fish suppliers, so I simply agreed.

  Three main courses would come next. A spit-roasted baron of beef would be the star attraction, and suitably garbed page boys could do the basting as the beef turned slowly in the huge fireplace in the dining room. "Page girls," suggested Gontier thoughtfully and I concurred enthusiastically.

  So that non-beef eaters could be accommodated, we proposed ham with Madeira sauce. Oven-browned potatoes, rice, and pasta would all be on the table. Vegetables from the Plantation would be available, of course, and then we came back to the pie that had started it all. Gontier was amenable to this idea by now. "Pigeons were used in those pies, weren't they?" he asked. "I don't think we want to use them."

  "They were used but I agree we should leave them out. We could use chicken instead, couldn't we?"

  He nodded. "Fried bacon would help," he added, "and we have excellent mushrooms from the Plantation. We should put those in."

  "Right," I said. "Raisins were a common ingredient, too. Season with cloves"-I caught myself just in time and added-"and of course whatever other seasonings you think are appropriate."

  "White wine and butter will be sufficient for the liquid," he commented.

  "Excellent. The crust is more of a problem, though," I reminded him. "Medieval cooks would have used a hot-water crust paste, but to suit the modern palate, a short crust would be crisper and have more taste."

  "Madeleine is a very good patissiere; she can do that. We'll set large tables," he went on. "Six or so. That will be more festive and friendly. We will need only six pies that wvay."

  I expected him to
complain about having to procure a hundred and forty-four blackbirds but he didn't. I had been ready to reduce the count. Maybe he figured that the guests would be too impressed by their exit from the pie to bother to count.

  "Dessert," Gontier said finally. "They will expect some different desserts."

  "We'll give them great desserts," I promised. "Quaking Pudding for a start."

  Gontier frowned. "I don't know that. What is it?"

  "It contained mainly cream and eggs. It was very popular because it was so rich while the two main ingredients made it very wobbly-hence the name. It also had white wine, sherry, and eggs "

  He looked dubious. For a moment, I thought bringing up this dish had been a mistake. But then he nodded. "Yes, I can certainly look into that."

  "Any other ideas for desserts?" I asked quickly.

  "We should make use of the Plantation's fruit," he said.

  "Absolutely. Have you ever run across chardequince?"

  "I think so. It originated in regions where the fruit season was short. Excess fruit was cooked very slowly and for a very long time-isn't-that the one?"

  "That's it."

  "It turns the fruit into a paste that keeps for months." He was getting enthusiastic now that he was recalling memories from long ago. "Quinces were the most popular fruit for making it, but apples and pears were used too-we have lots of those here. Sweet wine and honey sweetened it, and they added something spicy."

  "Ginger, turmeric, and cinnamon were used, yes."

  "We have lots of berries here." Finally, he was really into the spirit of the thing. "We bake a lot of pies with them, but maybe we could do something medieval?"

  "You're really challenging me now," I told him. "In the Middle Ages, they ate berries fresh off the bushes. They didn't cook them as a rule. Still, I'm sure we can think of something."

  We had a brief discussion of tableware. To be really authentic, we should just give every guest a knife, but we agreed that might be overdoing the authenticity. So forks were not invented until much later-would we get any complaints? We decided not.

  Our meeting ended on considerably better terms than it had begun. As I left the kitchen office, I wondered if I could now make similar progress on the mystery hanging over the castle.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I strolled through the grounds, absorbing the fresh air and hoping it would stimulate the investigative glands. Either it was the wrong stimulant or there were no such glands. I knew there must be something I ought to be sleuthing but I had no idea what it was.

  On a grassy area by the jousting arena, I spotted some figures moving, so I walked over to see what was happening. I approached four strapping young fellows in leather pants and jackets. All had long swords and they were fighting in pairs. The blades clanged and clashed, swooping and darting in search of an opening. It looked very convincing except for the omission of any actual injury to any of them.

  The pairs moved closer and closer together, then two of them backed into one another. They promptly switched opponents and resumed the contest. I watched them until they tired.

  By then, half a dozen more similarly clad young men had arrived and were going into combat a dozen yards away. One pair consisted of a pike-wielding warrior and another with only a shield. Another pair was a swordsman against a fellow with a fearsome-looking two-handed ax. The others had long-bladed daggers.

  I walked over to the original four, the swordsmen, who were sitting on the grass resting.

  "Ever have an accident?" I asked. "Even by accident?"

  One of them grinned and answered in a strong Birmingham accent, "No, we're all too good." The others laughed. One of them, clearly a Londoner, said, "This leather is a lot of protection, more than you might think. It would take a lot of the sting out of a strike, especially when you examine these closeup." He motioned to the swords and I looked at one of them lying on the grass. The tip had been rounded and the edges dulled.

  "I recall reading somewhere that they boiled leather in those days," I said. "It would turn an arrow when properly hardened that way."

  "I remember reading that, too," said another, a six-foot, fairhaired lad with a Somerset accent. "Good as chain mail it was, and a lot lighter."

  "You look like you're getting ready to repel an invasion," I told them.

  "The Battle of Moreston Marsh," the Birmingham boy said. "It's coming up in a couple of days. A mock battle, needless to say, but we're going to make it look good."

  "Going to be here for it?" asked the fellow from London.

  "I expect so," I said.

  "Well, don't get alarmed when you see blood," said the fourth one. He had just enough of a singsong intonation to place him as being from Wales, and I now recognized him as Frank Morganthe other stuntman, along with Kenny Bryce, who substituted for Richard Harlington as Sir Harry Mountmarchant. The rest chuckled.

  "Blood?" I questioned. "Even when it's not mine, I don't like to see it."

  "It's our own version of ketchup," the Somerset fellow explained. "Looks real even when you're close."

  "Richard doesn't take part in that one too, does he?" I asked, keeping my tone casually light.

  "He likes to," said London.

  "But pressure's on him to stay out of it," added Birmingham.

  "You think it's too dangerous for him?"

  None of them answered at once. "There's no danger out here," said Frank Morgan slowly. "Kenny Bryce wasn't killed out here, was he?"

  "Poisoned," London said. "That's nasty."

  "Do they know how it happened?" I asked innocently.

  Somerset shook his head. "Haven't heard. Kenny was a friend of mine. No reason for anybody to kill him, so it must have been Richard who somebody didn't like."

  "I wonder what the police think about them both having the same girlfriend?" said Birmingham.

  Neither of the others commented but it caught my attention.

  "I hadn't heard that," I said. I tried to use a tone that invited more spicy confidences.

  "It was a while ago that Kenny went out with her," Birmingham said.

  "But she'd already started going with Richard, hadn't she?" London asked.

  Wales was looking at me with a tinge of suspicion.

  "Not a plainclothes policeman, are you?"

  I laughed at such a ridiculous thought. "I'm just here for a few days. Working in the kitchen. Sort of updating it."

  It appeared to satisfy them.

  "I heard somebody talking about it possibly being an accident?" I said, still angling.

  "Food poisoning, somebody said it might be." The contribution came from Birmingham. "Maybe it was something he was allergic to. That can happen. Heard of a fellow in Aston who died that way. They thought it might be something in the fish and chips he'd eaten."

  London looked skeptical. "Hadn't he ever eaten fish and chips before?"

  "Yes, but it was a different fish," said Birmingham.

  I had a fleeting concern about the Seven Seas operation. Perhaps that needed further investigation.

  Somerset was waving to someone behind me. The others were looking in that direction, too. I turned. It was Angela.

  She was wearing a flimsy summer dress in periwinkle blue. Her black hair was even more shiny in the sunlight and her large dark eyes seemed as active as ever in the smooth-skinned face. She acknowledged every one of the stuntmen by name as they all gazed at her admiringly.

  "Thinking of volunteering for the pike brigade?" she asked me with a slight challenge in her voice.

  "Wouldn't dare to tackle any of these fellows," I said. "With a brigade of men like these, King Harold would have driven William the Conqueror back into the Channel and history would be different."

  "Where were you last night, Martin?" she asked the tall, fairhaired one with the Somerset accent. "Thought I'd see you in the restaurant after dinner." She struck a provocative pose with one hip thrust forward.

  He grinned self-consciously. "Didn't see you. I went into the village
."

  "Better-looking girls there?"

  "None better looking than you, Angela," he retorted. But she had already turned to Will, from Birmingham. "Maybe I'll see you tonight, Will. What happened to that moonlight stroll you promised me?"

  "I'll be there," he said eagerly. "Even if I have to bring my own moonlight."

  The others set up a chorus of catcalls and they all laughed.

  "Will's not the only one with moonlight," came the soft singsong voice from Wales.

  "Is that right, Frank?" Angela's voice was a tiny bit contemptuous. "Do you have some, too? Or is yours more like moonshine?"

  More laughs came.

  "Sorry, Angela," said London. He picked up his sword. "But it's back to work. Got to get these ragamuffins into training to fight those rebels."

  The others reluctantly picked up their weapons and once again the air rang with the clash of steel on steel. Angela sauntered over, not looking at me but watching the swordsmen. "They're good, aren't they?"

  "They certainly are. Very expert. It must take as much training to avoid lopping off a man's arm as it does to do it."

  "Weapons fascinate men, don't they?"

  "Yes," I admitted. "They do. I suppose the more primitive weapons like these bring out the baser instincts."

  "I haven't taken you on a tour of the armory yet, have I?" She was still watching the mock battle.

  "I would certainly have remembered if you had-but no, you haven't."

  "I'll have to do that very soon," she murmured and drifted away like a blue wraith, her gaze still on the combatants.

  I contemplated the latest tidbit of information as I walked back toward the castle.

  So Kenny had been a boyfriend ofJean Arkwright, too. Would Richard have been jealous of him? The answer to that would seem to be a resounding affirmative. A blueblood of Richard's caliber would surely feel jealousy more deeply than normal, for there would be an innate feeling that no commoner should have the gall to challenge a nobleman.

  Or had I read too much Sir Walter Scott as a boy? Perhaps twentieth-century democracy and the principle of the equality of man had long buried such preposterous sentiments.