by Peter King
Eyes blazing, Angela ignored Neville and dragged the handle down. It moved smoothly and a grinding noise came from the inside wall of the chamber. The metal frame moved and the whole center section of the wall swung inward.
Water rushed in, a white cascade, boiling and bubbling, and the floor was knee-deep in seconds. The chamber must adjoin the moat and it was going to flood the chamber-the traditional way of disposing of unwanted prisoners.
Neville chopped down on Richard's fingers with the edge of his hand. Richard let go the bars of the gate with a cry and Neville seized the massive key and began to turn it.
I gave the champagne bottle another hasty shake and aimed it. The cork came out with a noise like a shotgun.
I have spent many years opening champagne bottles, always carefully holding them so as not to hit anyone. This was the first time I had taken deliberate aim. If I had had time, I would have argued that if I could miss people at will, then I could hit one at will.
The cork hit Neville in the face, just under one eye. He yelped and let go of the key. Richard promptly wrenched the gate ajar. I turned for Felicity, snatched at her arm.
The spray from the incoming maelstrom now obscured everything. We could not see one another and I had not gone more than two or three steps when the surging waves were already chest-deep. The noise reached a crescendo that deadened the senses.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
On the west side of Harlington Castle, above the residential wing, a roof had been reinforced and rebuilt as an outdoor dining and lounging area. Large umbrellas kept the scorching English sun from burning those at the tables. At least, that was the fond hope, although the sun rarely cooperated.
Crenellated battlements permitted a view of the green countryside that rolled away to the horizon. It was a pleasant day, with only a few billowy white cumulus dotting the blue sky.
Felicity, Richard, and Norman sat there with me and we had gone through a number of "if only's" and "perhaps we should's."
Norman broke the silence that ensued. "From what you tell me, I suspect that Angela would have preferred to drown rather than face life. If so, she got her wish. I doubt if Neville felt the same way, though."
"The last I saw her," Richard said somberly, "she was trying to grab Neville. I couldn't see whether she was helping him or trying to save herself."
I thought that another possibility existed-that Neville was more concerned about saving himself, even if it was at Angela's expense. But I didn't say so. He had drowned too, so my speculations were irrelevant.
"You've known for some time, haven't you, Norman?" Felicity asked.
Norman looked up at the sky. "She started to show signs of uncontrollable behavior when she was eighteen. She concealed it very well."
"We were all aware of her swings of mood," Felicity said, "but we didn't realize how much further they had gone."
"You shielded her a lot, didn't you?" asked Richard.
Norman nodded miserably.
"But you didn't suspect her of murder?" Richard persisted.
Norman hesitated. "I-I was aware that she was capable of it. I knew she was jealous of Felicity, but I kept telling myself that she would never really kill anyone."
"One thing I don't understand," said Felicity, "is who shot at her during the culling?"
It was my turn to look up at the sky. "Someone who wanted to divert suspicion from her, I suppose," I said. Norman flashed me a glance, then looked away.
One of the staff arrived with a pot of coffee. She set out cups and poured.
"It was when you were away in America, Felicity." Norman said suddenly. "Angela went to the Plantation quite often. At first, I was surprised she was even interested, but then I realized she saw herself in your place. I watched her. She'd parade around the Plantation giving orders to Dennis as if she knew what she was talking about."
"Some comment by Dennis must have drawn her attention to the owisfoot that had sprung up," I suggested. "She took an old book out of the library and read the description of it."
Norman nodded. "She must have read up on it, picked some, and squeezed out the juice."
I knew that the police had searched her room and found the incriminating book that had told her all about the deadly owlsfoot. Felicity shuddered. "I'm sorry, Norman, but I can't help feeling sorry too for those poor people who came to the castle while Angela was experimenting. None of them died, fortunately."
"I still find it hard to believe that you went to Dr. Wyatt's cottage thinking she had phoned you," Richard said to me. His tone was not exactly belligerent but it was critical.
"I had never heard Dr. Wyatt's voice." If I sounded irritated it was because Inspector Devlin had spent some time harping on the same point. "The voice on the phone did sound familiar but I didn't suspect at the time that it was Angela. When she said she was Dr. Wyatt, I accepted it."
Inspector Devlin had gone on from there to hint that the ploy to have me shoulder the blame for poisoning Dr. Wyatt might have worked had not Inspector Hemingway intervened. It was the nearest to a concession I had heard her make.
"It would have been a nice touch to have me accidentally drowned along with you two," I added. "Alleviate a lot of suspicion that you two alone were the targets."
"Thank you for not being obliging," Felicity said wryly. She sighed. "We knew, of course, that Angela and Neville were-well, were lovers. Between half cousins it's supposed to be acceptable, but still it's the kind of relationship that families tend to sweep under the carpet. We ignored it. Perhaps we should-Oh, I don't know." She turned away and I knew that despite everything, she had nurtured a strong affection for her stepsister.
"How are the preparations for the Empire Historical people coming along?" Richard asked me. He caught my surprised look. "I'm taking much more responsibility for the operations here from now on," he said. "My father has suffered enough, it's time for him to take it easy."
"It's all well in hand," I told him. I didn't think it appropriate to congratulate him on growing up. Neither did I intend to tell him I was glad he had given up the jousting or that I hoped he had finished fooling around with the village girls. "I'll be keeping in touch with Victor on that. As for the changes in the routine banquets, most have been made and I'll be back next week to confirm a few more. By the way, there are a couple of minor changes in administration I would like to suggest. Perhaps you can see they are put into practice?"
"Certainly," he said briskly. "What are they?" He sounded as if he really meant it.
"Victor should take more time away from the kitchen to check suppliers. A schedule should be set and adhered to. The supplies office should handle the arrangements for the visits and file Victor's reports. Check sheets should be prepared." I saw no reason to mention Seven Seas.
Richard nodded firmly. "I'll see to that. Anything else?"
"Tighter security at the gates. On vehicles."
He frowned. "Care to elaborate on that?"
"Better all round if I don't," I said pleasantly. I had already talked privately with Madeleine, Victor Gontier's efficient assistant in the kitchen, and referred obliquely to Roberto's restaurant in the village. A few inquiries had quickly revealed that "Roberto" was really Robert, Madeleine's cousin. The blue van had been taking him "surplus" foods from the castle kitchen where they were not missed, so as to help him in these early days when finances were tight. She was too valuable a member of the kitchen staff to lose and she had accepted my warning in the right spirit.
Richard was about to pull rank on me and demand more information, but Felicity caught his eye and in his new role he merely nodded. "One further suggestion," I added while he was in a compliant mood.
"The Muffin Man is an outstanding bakery. Much more could be done with it. A young woman called May has been running it since her father had a stroke. He didn't want his condition made public; he was afraid it might lose him business. She has a very good knowledge of the baking side of the operation, but she's weak on the busines
s part-sales, marketing, and so on."
"What are you recommending?" Richard asked, and Felicity was listening curiously.
"I think you should buy it. The price can't be too high. If the Muffin Man does recover, have him run it for you. If he doesn't, his daughter can take over with a little help. The castle consumption of The Muffin Man's products alone would justify it and outside sales would quickly turn it into a real moneymaker."
"Sounds like a good idea," Richard said. "Unusual and different kinds of bread are popular."
"Have you got the people coming in to repair the flooding mechanism, Richard?" Felicity asked. "We don't want that to happen again, even by accident. Particularly if you're thinking about reopening it as a torture chamber."
"You hadn't mentioned that," I said. "It's an excellent notion." I finished my coffee. "Have to go," I said. "A final word with Inspector Devlin."
I shook hands with Richard and Norman. Felicity gave me a peck on the cheek, making it linger long enough to murmur softly, "I'll see you when you come back next week."
There were two of them in the hall. "Ah, two inspectors with one stone," I greeted them. Hemingway was his usual imperturbable, well-groomed self. Devlin had given her hair one stroke of a brush that had not even partly tamed it.
"We have most of what we need," said Inspector Devlin in her uncompromising voice. "I will probably want a further statement from you in the next days."
"I am at your disposal, Inspector," I told her in my most cooperative manner.
She nodded brusquely and turned to Hemingway. "Thank you for your support on this case, Ronald."
Ronald! Had it been this case that had brought them to first names? Or did they already know each other that well? Were there some things I didn't know? Had I been manipulated?
"You were correct, too," she added to Hemingway. "Your advice worked out well."
I looked from one to the other. Was I going to be let in on this?
Not by Hemingway-he gave me his tightest smile. Devlin, however, was not one to be constrained by tact or subtlety. She turned to me. "Inspector Hemingway suggested that I give you your head and you would blunder into the truth."
I had been manipulated. Devlin had known all the time of my contact with the Food Squad.
"Glad to be of help." I tried to sound bitter but it was a dismal failure. Hemingway just eyed me pleasantly and Devlin gave me her usual bleak gaze. "If my blundering can be of further assistance, just let me know," I added, doing the best I could to make it sound caustic. It was about as effective as pouring chocolate sauce over profiterolles.
"Meanwhile, I have to go," I said icily. "I need to talk to Victor Gontier before I leave."
Victor was staring at several large fish. Brownish scales glistened on their backs and golden scales gleamed on their flanks. The tiny mouths had four fleshy appendages around them.
"They're not large enough to be mirror carp," I said. "Too bad, they have the most delicate flavor. They're probably Kollar carp, almost as good. Where are they from, Belgium?"
"They are Kollar," said Victor. "They're from Seven Seas."
Well, well, I thought, so Dennis Violet is trying to hold his position as a supplier by coming up with something special.
"They probably are from Belgium," said Victor.
"What do you propose to do with them?" I asked. "Carp have been coming into England for five hundred years. They are a perfect medieval dish."
"Alsacienne? Stuffed and then poached in white wine?"
"A la juive?" I countered. "Sauteed with onions in oil, sprinkled heavily with flour, then cooked with white wine, garlic, and cayenne?"
He nodded. "Yes-or how about Polish style, cooked with red wine and ginger snaps, then served with a sauce of sugar, butter, and vinegar?"
"Hungarian style," I tossed out. "Seasoned with paprika, placed on a bed of onions in a baking dish, sour cream, and lots more paprika and baked."
"Matelot style-"
"Grilled-"
"Roasted-"
"I'm surprised you haven't suggested Carp Chambord," I told him.
Turn the Page for a Delicious Excerpt from the Gourmet Detective's Next Adventure
Roux the Day
Available in Hardcover from St. Martin's Minotaur!
It was my first visit to New Orleans but I felt I knew it. Unforgettable images of black bands swaying through the street playing jazz music as they followed a funeral were largely responsible. The dazzling and colorful abandon of the Mardi Gras with its spectacular costumes, its nonstop music and its floats that had escaped from the world of fairy tale had to be held accountable, too. Delicately lacey wrought-iron balconies came into my slightly hazy memory, too, though these tended to have elegant ladies with shawls gazing down with casual disdain as they sipped mint juleps. This probably came from an earlier period although the balconies remained.
I had lunched in a veritable museum of classic New Orleans cuisine, Arnaud's. The restaurant spreads over an entire city block, twelve buildings all connected by hallways and stairs. It has a true sense of history; one wall in the main dining area was completely covered with photographs from 1918 onward. The only underground wine cellar in New Orleans is here, too. From the street, the leaded windows portray an earlier era, and inside are the potted palms in five-foot-high pots on pedestals, the dark wood panels, the twenty large ceiling fans and the fifteen crystal chandeliers. We had walked through this main dining room on our way to a small alcove that had undoubtedly seen it's share of romantic trysts in its day.
I reminded myself sternly that I was here on business and firmly refused the offer of another Sazerac. But my host insisted and I was gracious enough to yield. He leaned forward, doubtless to press home his advantage while my mood was still mellow but not yet inebriated.
"You'll take the commission, of course. Franklin said you wouldhe also assured me that you were the best man for the job."
He had outlined the job between the main course and the dessert. It was superb timing. I was in a state of utter culinary satisfaction after a dozen plump oysters on the half shell followed by a delicious shrimp-and-crab etouffee.
I was mildly irked by his statement that Franklin had said I would take the commission. Franklin does not make decisions for me-well, he likes to do so but I don't always fall into line with his wishes, his dictates, really. The sop he had tossed out afterwards, saying that I was the best man for the job, was possibly true although it was just as likely that Henry O'Brien in Dublin and Jacques LaPoche in Montreal had been asked and turned it down.
"You will enjoy the event anyway-you must have been to a lot of these but as you will learn while you are here in our wonderful city, New Orleans knows how to put a different slant on many aspects of life."
Eric Van Linn was a robust (I avoid the word fat even for people I don't like), florid (I prefer it to red-faced) persuasive (it sounds better than domineering) individual. He was a well-known lawyer in New Orleans, I learned, and though I share the human race's feelings about the profession, I accepted when he phoned me in Los Angeles where I was attending a Food Fair. A client of mine wanted the fair assessed so that he could decide how heavily to invest in such an endeavor next year. The purpose of Van Linn's phone call was to invite me to stop over in New Orleans on my way back to London.
Why me? Well, I operate under the name of The Gourmet Detective. I seek out lost recipes and rare spices, find substitutes for disappearing or suddenly expensive food ingredients. I advise on topics like the food to serve in a film set in the seventeenth century or at a suitable "theme" banquet for the fiftieth anniver sary of a department store. The occasional job turns up such as attending the Los Angeles Food Fair-not noticeably lucrative but easy to do and a good chance for me to pick up one or two prospective clients.
The phone call I had received in Los Angeles came in a richly rounded voice. Van Linn said that I had been recommended to him by a mutual acquaintance in London, Franklin Bardo, a lawyer with whom I
had done a mercifully small amount of business. Would I, Van Linn asked, like to stop in New Orleans for a couple of days and fulfill a simple mission? It would take only a few hours and all expenses paid, of course.
The Big Easy happened to be one of the few major culinary cities in the civilized world I had not visited, and the suggestion had a certain lure. While talking on the phone, my elbow rested on a copy of the Los Angeles Times showing floods in London after days of torrential rain and predicting that worse was yet to come. I made a decision.
The decision was, naturally, not an immediate agreement. It was a decision only to stop in New Orleans and have the job explained. Van Linn said he preferred to do that in person rather than on the phone so that even if I declined to take the job, I would have a free stopover in New Orleans. He added in a persuasive courtroom tone that he could not contemplate a refusal on my part. So naturally, I said yes to the first part and "happy to hear about the job and consider it" to the second part.
Eric Van Linn proposed lunch at the prestigious Arnaud's Restaurant, which I certainly knew by reputation. So here we were after a superb meal and Van Linn was using all his legal training to cinch the deal.
"It's not a difficult task, as I told you," Van Linn continued. He leaned his bulk back in a big chair that the restaurant had had built with sufficient strength to support those diners who had eaten too much of their food. "This book auction is a major event and is always well-attended. You'll meet a lot of very nice people and have an agreeable day."
"Books are a bit out of my line. People call me The Gourmet Detective because I-"
"Yes, yes, you explained that-but this isn't a matter of merely buying a book. We could get anyone to do that. It's the contents of the book that we are concerned about. The book probably sounds authentic to ninety-nine out of a hundred. You're the hundredth-you're an expert who can verify that the recipes are exactly what they purport to be."