Murder Makes an Entree (10 page)

They had been sitting on the sands all day. It was not so warm today, so Edith had stopped eyeing the bathing machines wistfully
and wondering if she dared. Rose dared all right. He went down early each morning and jumped up and down in the briny, enjoying
every minute of it. His habitual London expression, cagey and mournful, was never to be seen. He kept firmly away from Ramsgate
police court. He was having a nice seaside holiday with the added pleasure of Auguste’s presence and without that of murder.

Auguste caught a brief glimpse of himself in the small mirror he had unobtrusively arranged in order that he might keep an
eye on events taking place behind his back; the surreptitious addition of Mrs Marshall’s abominable Coralline pepper, for
example, to an imperfect sauce. It was one of the less pleasant aspects of his present occupation that the Didier School of
Cuisine was constantly mentioned in the same breath as Mrs Marshall’s nearby School of Cookery. He trained master chefs; Mrs
Marshall trained domestic servants. There was a considerable difference.

Now he groaned. He looked every bit as ridiculous as he feared. The ultimate insult had been thrown at him: he, the Maître
Auguste Didier, had been obliged, nay commanded, not only to appear in Dickensian dress but to don the unmistakable apparel
of Alexis Soyer: tight white drill trousers, matching tunic, short jacket, ridiculous cummerbund, slotted into which was his
own kitchen knife (no doubt for a speedy self-martyrdom after the imminent disaster of this meal) and, worse, the horror on
his head.

He peeped again into the mirror, hoping the sight might have vanished. It hadn’t. A wide pancake-shaped black cloth hat with
a huge brim rolled back on one side adorned his dark hair. He was expected to superintend a grand banquet looking like this.
Like Soyer! It was too much, even for the sake of cooking for the Prince of Wales.

‘Monsieur, what are you doing?’ Auguste’s agonised shout was addressed to the rear end of a gentleman, whose head was in an
oven apparently examining a goose at close quarters.

‘Just doing my job, Mr Didier.’ The Prince’s detective emerged, flushed.

‘You expect to find an assassin masquerading as a goose?’ Auguste enquired scathingly.

‘Hidden weapons,’ declared the detective mysteriously.

‘If an assassin were to dare to enter my kitchen,’ Auguste announced in tones that made it clear that no villain would have
the temerity, ‘do you not think that poison would be his chosen means, rather than an arsenal of rifles hidden in a kitchen
range?’

‘If you knew the criminal mind like I do, Mr Didier,’ began the detective loftily, but he left the sentence unfinished, belatedly
recalling Auguste’s reputation in criminal circles. He took advantage of the noisy arrival of Auguste’s staff to beat a judicious
retreat, as Auguste hurled imprecations after him, based largely on the fate that would await him should the goose come to
any harm as a result of his incursions into the chef’s sovereign territory.

Auguste had granted his pupils a half-hour respite in which to change into their enforced Dickensian dress, and was now confronted
with all six apparently sharing some enormous joke. It was intensified when they noticed the attire of their maître. Even
Algernon’s expression changed from sneer to genuine laughter.

‘The Maître Soyer would be proud of you, maître,’ he chortled.

‘I like the hat, Mr Didier,’ giggled Alice, tweaking it to one side.

Auguste regarded them grimly and with foreboding. No serious attention would be paid to cuisine while his pupils were cavorting
around in this outlandish dress parade.
Alfred was waving a white-stockinged leg in the air, Heinrich experimentally bending over in his black knee breeches; James
was pulling at his skimpy short jacket, puffing out his chest like Beerbohm Tree as d’Artagnan, Algernon was dancing a Highland
fling showing off his black slipper shoes, and Alice and Emily were swishing merrily arm in arm through the kitchen in their
huge, gathered black skirts covered with large, bibbed, lacy aprons. Sid, being unlikely to be displayed to the company, had
been excused Dickensian dress.

‘
Attention!
’ Auguste’s cry came too late and a dish of ribboned cucumber, garnish for the lobster salads, landed upside down on the floor.
He rushed to the rescue of the lobster mayonnaise which was teetering ominously.

‘That was you,’ said James accusingly and with satisfaction to Alice.

‘It vas not,’ rumbled Heinrich. ‘Mr Peckham makes the table shake. I see this.’

‘It wasn’t me,’ shouted Algernon. ‘That’s not fair.’

‘It was Miss Dawson,’ said Sid casually.

Pandemonium ensued as discussion took place on the onus of responsibility.

‘Enough,’ shouted Auguste angrily. ‘
Mes amis
, do you forget? What has happened to you all?’ He looked at them in bewilderment as they stood, abashed. ‘The Prince of Wales
is coming. We have to serve a grand banquet in forty-five minutes.’ At this point Mr Multhrop arrived, sensed the tension
and promptly departed again. ‘
Enfin
,’ said Auguste grimly. ‘Miss Fenwick, more cucumbers. Mr Peckham, clear up this abomination.’ He pointed disdainfully to
the green soggy mess and broken china on the floor. ‘And you,’ his eyes took in the other four, ‘to your tasks, if you please.’
Chastened, they donned their protective aprons, and set to work in silence.

Auguste began to make his final checks. The broth was
smiling happily, still clear and unclouded. He had caught it in time. The lobster salads were temptingly ready save for the
cucumber garnish; kidneys and sauce awaited his last-minute cooking; the quails and cutlets awaited their ovens, the geese
were browning nicely, the
entremets
, the dessert, cheeses, the prepared savouries – Auguste’s practised eye ran over them all in expert fashion. He had done
this so often before. His brain told him that all would be ready in time, yet anxiety remained. One day it might not be, unless
careful attention was kept. One day disaster would come. And despite all his brave words, even he could not be prepared against
all
disasters.

In a small lounge, polished and dusted five times today by the Imperial’s housemaids, four committee members were awaiting
the arrival of the Prince of Wales, Sir Thomas and, oddly, Gwendolen, who had inexplicably not yet arrived. Outside the door
hovered Alfred, detailed by Auguste to serve drinks when royalty had arrived. He was not happy in his duties tonight. He wished
anyone but he were here, for the prospect of serving Sir Thomas was not a welcome one. He wondered whether he should have
taken up farming instead of cooking.

Inside the room, tense silence reigned. Angelina, for instance, was wondering why Oliver had such a furious expression on
his face. ‘What do you think of my costume?’ she enquired politely.

Lord Beddington and Samuel Pipkin made complimentary grunts. Oliver remained obstinately silent. He glanced at her Little
Nell attire, the white pantaloons peeping out from under layers of petticoats, the bright blue skirt, white shawl, and the
becoming poke bonnet. She looked beautiful, but he was not going to tell her so.

‘I see,’ she said sweetly to Oliver, ‘that you feel no need to adopt Sam Weller’s cheerfulness as well as his apparel.

Oliver swept off his battered top hat in ironic acknowledgement of her sally. Oliver’s sharp sensitive features and figure
adapted well to Sam Weller, but tonight he wished he’d chosen anything rather than the trial scene from
The Pickwick Papers
to read. He didn’t feel at all humorous. He felt as black as John Jasper, and wondered even now whether to switch to
The Mystery of Edwin Drood
. Murderous was just how he felt. He would read
Edwin Drood
rather well, he thought savagely.

‘Have you seen Mrs Figgis-Hewett?’ Angelina enquired anxiously of Samuel Pipkin, since Oliver was clearly in no mood to converse.
‘It’s unlike her to be late.’

‘No, my dear lady, I regret I have not. I – er – do not think she is in the best of spirits. Perhaps she has decided not to
join us,’ he added innocently, hugging to himself his knowledge of the dramatic scene he had encountered. He intended to press
for a re-vote and one member less of old Throgmorton’s supporters would suit him nicely.

Angelina fidgeted, worried but unable to leave as the Prince of Wales was due at any moment. With sudden resolution, she opened
the door to despatch Alfred in search of the missing lady, but seeing Auguste just arriving for his final check that all was
in order with the drinks, she appealed to him instead. Reluctantly, he disappeared in search of the missing Lioniser.

Samuel had his own thoughts, lost in a dream of vengeance. He, too, was thinking lovingly of murder. He was dressed as Dr
Marigold, the cheap-jack trader from
The Christmas Stories
, his top hat fitted out with advertisements for Dr Robinson’s Purifying Pills and Soyer’s Magic Stove. A large white cravat
and black jacket unfortunately accentuated his Pickwickian paunch. He had reluctantly decided against John Jasper, for the
good reason that there being nothing distinctive about his dress, no one would realise who he was.

Lord Beddington, though silent, was not for once asleep. His head was itching too much from the dreadful old grey wig. This
was the last time he would don fancy dress, otherwise next year they’d have him in doublet and hose, no doubt. Scrooge indeed.
That had been old Throgmorton’s idea. He brooded. Could it have been a roundabout reference to that old scandal? No. Thomas
was a tight old so-and-so, but even he would let it die now. Or would he?

Interesting to have seen that young sneak thief about in the hotel, Lord Beddington switched thoughts, disturbed by memories
of unhappier days. If he was Multhrop he’d be watching the teaspoons. That young man was the sort to fly high, having cut
his teeth, so to speak, on – what was it? Ah yes, the paste diamond jewellery of old Higginbotham’s wife at Radstone Hall.
He’d been lucky to get off with a year for that. Darned counsel with tears in his eyes, murmuring about stalwart butchers’
sons who strayed from the path, and, after all, it was only paste. Meanwhile here was he, the magistrate, in tight breeches,
dirty cravat and too tight a collar stud, dressed as Scrooge.

A sudden flurry, as of a dozen Multhrops simultaneously prostrating themselves, and the doors were flung open. Angelina sprang
up, expecting Gwendolen. The others joined her. The Prince of Wales had arrived, soberly and correctly clad in formal evening
attire. Behind him came Sir Thomas similarly clad. Four pairs of eyes fastened momentarily on this and absorbed the fact that
they had been cheated. Sir Thomas was not dressed as Bill Sikes. They alone were in unorthodox dress.

The Prince of Wales’s eyes flicked speedily over the unusual evening dress of the gathering as battered top hats were speedily
removed from heads and a lady with long droopy drawers swept a curtsy. He hadn’t seen anything like that since his sister
Vicky left the nursery.

Oliver still raged impotently, unable to believe that he could have been so mistaken in a woman. She was to marry this mountebank,
this hypocritical toad of a Sir Thomas. Samuel was convulsed with fury at this new evidence of skulduggery, resolved that
no holds would be barred now. Even Lord Beddington was upset, being made to look like a damn fool before Her Majesty’s son.
None of them betrayed their feelings, however, as they paid obeisance to the Prince, who gravely offered his hand in turn
to Mr Scrooge, Dr Marigold, Mr Weller and Miss Nell.

Alfred somewhat nervously served drinks, aware of uncomfortably tight breeches. He was wondering wildly what had happened
to Auguste who had promised to be at his side when, as he fully expected, glasses of this revolting potion were flung over
his head by the irate tasters.

‘A Dickensian mint julep, sire,’ explained Sir Thomas, as the Prince of Wales apprehensively eyed the contents of his glass.

Mint? That was to be taken with roast lamb, not adulterating his drinks. The Prince of Wales replaced it and took the punch
instead. He sipped the concoction cautiously. After the first sip he was wishing some awful fate on every Lioniser in the
world. He could distinctly taste cold tea. He didn’t know or care whether Dickens liked this stuff, but he was damned certain
he didn’t. Only Throgmorton seemed to have any idea of civilised behaviour. At least he was properly dressed, not looking
like something out of one of Mama’s precious charades at Windsor. It then dawned on him disagreeably that not only was he
in for a Dickensian banquet (although he had taken care of that problem, he remembered cheeringly) but for Dickensian readings.
Suddenly, Mama’s charades seemed the more appealing. Even the thought of lunch at Osborne House again tomorrow didn’t seem
too bad an idea, even if it did mean listening to Mama telling him how she heard nightingales
in the garden at Pierremont House and how she walked all the way to Pegwell when she was twelve and ate shrimp paste at the
Bellevue Tavern.

Sir Thomas coughed deferentially. ‘The little matter I spoke of, sire.’

Samuel’s eyes suddenly riveted on his hated rival. The Prince of Wales came to with a jolt. He hadn’t been paying much attention
to what Throgmorton had been talking about on the way here, but he recalled his ears had caught the unpleasant words ‘casting
vote’, and ‘your important role as president’. ‘Splendid, splendid,’ he had said cordially and automatically at the time.
Now he felt somewhat more cautious about the matter. He was going to be responsible for something that he didn’t know or care
the first thing about. Could it have political repercussions? Would Mama hear about it? He looked round sharply. As he feared,
all eyes were on him. This was going to be awkward, without a doubt. He’d been caught without a script.

Alfred handed him another drink, and the Prince of Wales absent-mindedly took it. He gulped. At least the disgusting taste
of mint concentrated his mind. He watched warily as the little fat chap with bits of paper in his hat leapt to his feet. They
were all mad, these people. Who was he meant to be? Pickwick came back to him dimly as a Dickensian character.

‘I vote, sire, instead of your casting vote, we should have a re-vote when Mrs Figgis-Hewett arrives, our remaining committee
member. I feel we may be able to avoid troubling you, sire.’

The Prince of Wales perked up. The chap was more sensible than he looked.