by Peter King
I didn't see Richard as the poisoning type, though. He seemed more likely to walk right up to Kenny and punch him in the face. Still, my friend Winnie Fletcher, on Scotland Yard's Food Squad and no stranger to death, had told me more than once that "almost anyone can commit murder."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I left the dining area just in time to see The Muffin Man's van pulling out of the driveway. I wondered idly if he made two deliveries a day. It was customary for a bakery to deliver early in the morning while the bread was still fresh.
I didn't go away, though. I hung around outside the cafeteria, waiting for the warriors I had been watching. As they were still hard at their task when I left, I presumed they would be eating on the second shift. Sure enough, they showed up in about fifteen minutes. They appeared glowing in health from their activities and not as much as one limb seemed to be missing.
They were in small groups, which suited me fine. Frank was there with Alec from London and Martin from Somerset. I intercepted them as they approached.
"No accidents, I'm glad to see."
Alec grinned. "We've had a lot of practice. Can't afford mistakes."
I looked at the Welshman. "Frank, can I have a few words with you?"
"I suppose so." He didn't seem too surprised.
Alec said, "See you later, Frank." He and Martin from Somerset went on into the cafeteria.
"How about if we talk over lunch?" I suggested.
"Suits me," he said agreeably.
After a careful survey of what was on offer, I selected a tomato salad, a bowl of carrot and lentil soup, and a sandwich of salt beef with horseradish sauce. I don't eat gourmet every meal and believe that, in this way, I enjoy those I do eat all the more. A glass of sparkling water made a suitable accompaniment and I wondered idly what would be on the menu that evening.
"You'll need to eat more heartily than me," I told him. "All that exertion must burn off a lot of calories."
"Never have a weight problem." He took a bowl of potato and carrot soup; a sirloin steak with onions, mashed potatoes, green beans; and a slice of chocolate cake. He poured a cup of coffee and added plenty of sugar and milk. "Keep me going till dinner," he grinned.
He had the typically dark Welsh features, curly black hair and bright blue eyes. Some Welsh look swarthily Gypsy, a similar strain to those known as "Black Irish," but Frank Morgan was more open and friendly. Until now, he hadn't even been curious about why I should want to talk to him away from the others.
"I suppose you're wondering why I wanted to talk to you," I said.
"After three police interrogations, I'm getting used to it."
"It was you out of your group of four who asked me if I was a plainclothes policeman," I reminded him.
"I did-and you said you weren't."
He was scooping up the soup as if he were famished. I assumed that he was. I had had time while standing, waiting outside the cafeteria, to prepare my approach and I didn't intend to rush it. I picked at my salad, enjoying it but eating a small piece at a time.
"That was true. I am not a policeman. Not plainclothes or any other kind."
He paused in his demolition of the soup, looked at me, nodded, then resumed scooping. I went on too.
"I told you I was working with the kitchen people. That was true. What I am doing is helping to rework the food being served in the medieval banquets. Make them more medieval but keep them authentic and even tastier if possible."
He finished the soup, pushed it away, and began on the steak. It didn't stand a chance.
I continued. "As there is a suspicion that Kenny Bryce was poisoned, the police have talked to me on several occasions. I am a food specialist; it was understandable that the police would want to talk to me."
I paused, pleased by how close I was managing to keep to the truth.
"I can hardly expect to uncover any information that the police don't have already, but I was with Kenny when he came into the tent. He was already suffering intensely. I stayed with him until he was taken to the hospital. So I feel a certain involvement. Does that make sense?"
He completed the dispatch of a large quantity of mashed potatoes. "Sure."
"You and Kenny both played Sir Harry Mountmarchant along with Richard Harlington, didn't you?"
"Right
"So you knew Kenny well?"
"Pretty well."
"You know Richard, too?"
"Yes."
"I understand that Richard always ate a salad before he went out to do battle with the Black Knight."
Frank cut another huge piece of steak, made sure it was amply loaded with onions, and put it in his mouth. It was not surprising that his answer was a nod.
"From the buffet," I added.
He kept chewing. The steak looked very tender and I wondered if that much chewing was an excellent habit acquired in childhood or if he was stalling with his answer.
He had to finish eventually. I waited with patience.
"That's right," he said.
"You see the point here, Frank. If Kenny ate anything that Richard should have eaten, that may be how the poison was administered. Of course, if it came from the buffet, that makes it very unlikely. Others would have been poisoned too in that case."
He cleaned his plate and drank most of the coffee.
"It looks that way, right."
"I'm sure you told all this to the police," I said.
"All of it."
"You knew Kenny and you know Richard. There might be some little thing that you didn't think of when you talked to the police. Was there? Anything at all? Now that you think about it more?"
He pulled the cake closer and reached for a fork.
"Can't think of anything."
I had only one more card to play.
"You say that you know Richard. Do you consider him a friend?"
The question took him unawares. "Well, yes-as much as he can be. I mean, he's the son of a lord and-"
"Frank, you must know that if someone wanted to kill Richard and killed Kenny by mistake, they might try again. Next time, they might succeed. Richard's life may be in very grave danger."
His full attention was on the cake. It looked as if four mouthfib might do it.
"I don't want that to happen. I'm sure you don't either. Let me know if you think of anything. Or tell the police. Or even both."
He finished the cake. He looked at me. "It's hard to believe."
"I know it is. Events like this don't normally happen in life. But this one has happened."
He reached for the coffee cup again, although I suspected it was empty. "There is one thing," he said. "One time, when Kenny was replacing Richard, I was walking through the cafeteria with him and he stopped and took a salad, carefully wrapped, from the back shelf of the cooler. Kenny must have been with Richard and seen him do that-I suppose one of Richard's girlfriends in the kitchen made it for him. Kenny grinned and said, `If I'm replacing him, why shouldn't I eat his salad?' "
"If Kenny did that once, he might have done it again," I said slowly. "And it might have killed him."
"I don't know anything about that," Frank said doggedly. "I only saw it that once."
By now the cafeteria was filling up. A girl in a kitchen uniform came to the table.
"Hello, Frank," she greeted him warmly. "Enjoy your lunch? We'll be putting out pork chops tomorrow, your favorite." She had blond curls and a bright smile.
He nodded, drank the cold dregs of the coffee, stood up, and left.
I thought I had accomplished something but the result would be like a souffle-only time would tell.
It occurred to me that this was a good time to intercept people. They all ate at approximately the same time and all could be encountered either entering or leaving the various eating areas. I couldn't think of anyone else leaving the cafeteria whom I might want to talk to, so I decided to try the dining room.
The theory was working. There was Felicity just leaving.
"Eat
ing some of your own produce, I'm sure. How was it?"
She smiled pleasantly, making no effort to refer to the last time we had been together. She was wearing a silky blouse in a sunflower yellow color and a skirt a few shades darker. "It was good-as it usually is. I had prawns in an Indian-type sauce, Jalfrezi, I think it was called. They were not from the Plantation of course, but everything else was-the duchesse potatoes, the lima beans and the grilled tomato."
"Sounds tasteful."
"They do a good job there." We walked along together. "Speaking of jobs, how is yours progressing?"
"Coming along," I said. "Victor and I have the menu worked out for the banquet after the battle on the marsh. This Empire Society banquet, later, is presenting some intriguing possibilities. We're hoping to be really unusual and bring out a few surprises."
"Yes, I'm looking forward to that too," Felicity said.
"Do you get to attend all the banquets here?"
"Oh no, not all. But I was roped in as a patron on this one-or maybe it's a benefactor. I get a lot of those posts, can't always remember which is which."
We paused at the turn that went to the castle. We waited as a vehicle went past us and I noticed the name on its side: "Newmarket Brewery Supplies," it said.
"Is it making deliveries here?" I asked Felicity.
"Yes, to our brewery."
"Your brewery? I didn't know you had one."
"It's only a small one, just enough for our own needs. We used to have a winery, did you know that?"
"I certainly didn't," I admitted.
"We did. It was here centuries ago, then a blight killed off all the vines and the winery went out of business. There were a few tries at reestablishing it but all without success. The winery had made mead, though, and that business continued. After World War Two, when the castle was being repaired and refurbished, the possibility of starting up a vineyard again was considered. But it was decided that the soil wasn't good enough so the buildings were turned into a brewery instead."
"You mentioned mead. I noticed how popular it is at the banquets. So you still make it?"
"Oh yes, we brew all our own."
"Fascinating," I told her. "Can I see?"
Her look was enigmatic. Was she thinking, "You know what happened the last time I showed you a part of the castle"? I wondered.
"I have a meeting of the Women's Institute this afternoon," she said with an enchanting smile, "but there's plenty of time. Come on."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Know much about brewing?" Felicity asked as we entered the squat stone building.
"I've visited a number of breweries in various countries and I'm familiar with their operations. I've probably been in more vineyards, though."
"You prefer wine to beer?"
"I like beer-real beer-but yes, I prefer wine. Like drinking it better than swimming in it, too."
Felicity turned her gaze to me. "That's an unusual practice. Why did you want to do that?"
"It wasn't deliberate. I fell into a vat in France a while ago."
"In the course of business?"
"Yes."
"Vinous espionage, was it? Seeking the secrets of Semillon?"
"It was red wine."
"Some people have lived for days on red wine."
"I wouldn't have on this occasion. I would have been in a bottle before then."
"That's taking wine snobbery to an extreme."
"In a way," I admitted. "Actually, I didn't fall-I was pushed."
"Ah, the classic alternates."
"It wasn't funny at the time," I told her. I probably sounded huffy. "The vats didn't have ladders inside and the walls were slippery."
"At least you couldn't die of thirst," Felicity said. She looked the other way as she said it, I suspect it was so that I wouldn't see her smile.
"I was rescued by a gendarme," I said.
"I'd like to hear the whole story sometime."
"I'll tell it to you. Sometime."
We went into the mead area. The air was heavy with sweetish fumes, thick and cloying, with a vaguely beerish aftersmell. A gnarled old fellow with a mahogany complexion met us. His features twisted into a genuinely pleased expression at the sight of Felicity. She introduced us. His name was Jim and he was the castle brewmaster.
"He's familiar with beermaking," Felicity told him. "More interested in mead. I said you know more about it than anybody else in Britain."
He cocked his head on one side. "Mead is probably the oldest alcoholic beverage known to man," he said. "Cave drawings in Valencia, made twenty thousand years ago, show two people collecting honey to make mead. When travelers to China-Marco Polo and others-finally reached the court of Kublai Khan, they were amazed to find magnificent silver fountains in the city squares. Each fountain had four spouts, all dispensing free refreshments to the populace. One spout served kumiss-the fermented mares' milk that the Mongols drank-another spout served wine, a third rice wine, and the fourth served mead."
I had expected Jim to have a country accent as gnarled as his face, but he spoke with the tones of an educated man.
"That's amazing," I said. "Do you use an old method of making it?"
"We could use sophisticated methods and modern equipment and turn out a pretty good brand of mead if we wanted," Jim said. "But people who come here expect to see everything medieval so we make mead the old way."
"And the old way is ... ?"
"We use traditional oak casks. This is the size known as the firkin. It holds forty.liters, or nine gallons." He pointed to a row of small wooden barrels stacked against the stone wall. "We make mead in batches of this amount. We have these vessels over herethey're stainless steel, but the finish makes them look like pewter so people think they're old. We put in thirty pounds of honey, a few handfuls of ginger, a few handfiils of dried elderflower, and fill with water. We bring it to a simmer and skim. We cool a little, stir in two kitchen ladles of active yeast, and let it sit overnight. There's your mead."
"Simple," I said, "and fast."
"There are some variations," Jim said. "We've tried adding egg whites-they make the liquid clear."
"Is that an advantage?" I asked.
"Most folk like it cloudy. They think it looks more authentic. Then rosemary alters the flavor slightly; so do cloves. We've tried those-and lots more besides-but we find the old recipe the best."
"You don't bottle any?"
"No," Jim said. "It's all consumed on the premises, draft only."
It was a small, compact operation. As Jim said, it could easily be commercialized. The visitors obviously liked it better this way, though-the rough wooden shelves with their canisters and boxes of ingredients, the lack of dials and modern equipment, and the supposedly pewter fermenting pots.
Jim was reaching for a mug and turning the spigot on a barrel. "Try one," he urged. "This is a bit fresh, needs a few more hours fermenting, but it gives you the idea."
It was sweetish but not objectionably so. It had a faintly beery taste.
"Reminds me of homemade ginger beer," I said.
"That can be made the same way. You just use more ginger, replacing the honey."
"How about cider?" I asked.
"We make that. We tried perry, too. That's the same as cider but made from pears instead of apples. It wasn't that popular, and besides, the pears we grow here are the eating kind and not really suited to perry."
"Jim knows better than to offer me mead," Felicity said.
"You don't like it?" I asked her.
"Never have. Give me a good Bordeaux any time."
"Like to see the beer-producing rooms?" Jim asked.
I had toured some microbreweries which are much more popular in the United States because the standard brews produced by the beer giants there are insipid, weak, and uninteresting. Fritz Maytag, the heir to the American washing machine empire, was a lover of good beer and resented the need to import it. He was the first to light the fire of revolution. Dissatisfied with
the sameness and blandness of the routine beers, he bought the Anchor Brewing Company in San Francisco and started to make what came to be called "real beer."
This became the first of many. Today, supermarkets and liquor stores in the United States have a vast array of ales, beers, and stouts made by the microbreweries, plus an extraordinary number of imported beers.
I had been more interested in seeing mead produced, as that is a rare operation, but I wasn't going to turn down an opportunity to see a castle brewery making beer.
This one stopped me in midstride. It wasn't a medieval brewery but neither was it a slick modern microbrewery, either. "This is clever," I said to Felicity and Jim. "You've used copper throughout. Pipes, valves, pans, reaction vessels-everything. They give the place the look of the past but it clearly has the design and functionality of the present."
"That's what we aimed for," Jim said, pleased as Punch.
We walked on through. Even the dials and gauges were mounted inconspicuously in wooden cases, so they did not hit an incongruous note. Here and there, a wooden paddle, scoop, or crate added a further reminder of the past.
"We brew only two beers, a light and a dark," Jim told me. "The dark is quite close to a real medieval brew, while the lighter one is closer to the modern taste. Both are top-fermented, moderate in alcohol content. We don't sell a lot but the operation is self-supporting."
"I heard some of the fellows in the cafeteria making remarks about your cider," I said.
"The cider is made over here." He led the way to a smaller room, a miniature version of the beer operation. "We don't make much any more. Our apple crop has been having some problems and we don't want to have to buy in apples."
"It's non-alcoholic, I believe," I said.
I glanced at Felicity. She rolled her eyes at the ceiling. The gesture of innocence was a sure sign of guilty knowledge.
"I suppose it's difficult to prevent an employee occasionally producing a few barrels of the alcoholic version," I said.
"I wouldn't be surprised," said Jim, keeping a straight face that gave it all away.
Outside, the air was light and fresh after the rich, heady atmosphere inside the brewing areas. We both breathed deeply.