Murder Makes an Entree (14 page)

‘Suicide!’ had been their doubtful diagnosis.

Gwendolen was clad in her dark blue serge travelling dress, this being the nearest to mourning she could manage. A sleepless
night had convinced her that in the event of Thomas’s death her role was forlorn fiancée.

‘Nonsense,’ she cried. ‘Suicide? Out of the question. Why? When we were happily betrothed?’

Her listeners agreed, suicide was unlikely given Sir Thomas’s character, but there agreement stopped.

‘Happy!’ snarled Samuel. ‘Forgive me, dear lady, but that did not appear to be the case last night.’

‘Fiancée?’ Oliver blurted out. ‘But Angelina was engaged to him.’

Angelina turned a cold eye on him.

‘We were affianced, Mr Michaels. I feel I should know my own situation best,’ said Gwendolen tartly. ‘Dear Thomas and I were
on the point of announcing our engagement. And have you never heard of lovers’ tiffs, Mr Pipkin?’ Grandly. ‘Ah, do you think,’
her face blanched, ‘that he poisoned himself because of our quarrel? Over
me
?’ The word ended in a wail, and Angelina ran to her to try to forestall a further attack of hysteria.

‘Thomas, Thomas,’ Gwendolen moaned quietly to herself, and made no further bid for the limelight.

‘What we have to do,’ said Samuel, taking advantage of her exit from the ring, ‘and I take it no one objects if I now chair
this committee,’ he added off-handedly, ‘is to decide
whether the Week of the Lion should continue or be cancelled.’

‘I fear we have to make a quick decision,’ said Oliver ironically, looking out of the window and seeing a departing victoria.
News had travelled fast.

‘We have no choice ourselves,’ Angelina pointed out. ‘We have to stay. I have no doubt the police will need to ask us questions.’

Samuel paled slightly. ‘But surely – how could we be thought responsible, if the food or wine were poisoned?’

‘Quite easily,’ said Oliver blithely. ‘It would have been possible for one of us to have poisoned his food, perhaps. He was
hardly a popular man with any of us.’

‘He was with me,’ moaned Gwendolen.

‘With you, of course,’ he agreed gently. ‘Forgive me.’ But everyone was uncomfortably aware of last night’s scene. ‘It seems
to me more likely he may have taken too much medicine when he left the table yesterday,’ he continued slowly.

‘Yes, yes, his weak stomach,’ said Gwendolen eagerly.

‘But we can’t be sure it wasn’t murder – yet. If it’s confirmed, our Lionisers will begin disappearing very rapidly.’

There was a gasp at this public utterance of the forbidden word.

Lord Beddington was somewhat disgruntled. He had offered his services to this Scotland Yard fellow in his role as a magistrate,
only to have them refused. ‘Damn cheek,’ he told his colleagues. It was a sign of their anxiety that no one noticed this strong
language despite the presence of ladies. ‘Anyway, he wants everyone to stay. All seventy of them.’

‘In that case,’ said Oliver, ‘we’ve no choice. We’ll have to carry on with the Week of the Lion tour if only to give these
good people something to do.
And
ourselves,’ he added.

Samuel glared at him. He was going to have this young Snodgrass off his committee in double quick time. ‘This was precisely
the point I was going to make, Michaels. I put it to the committee.’ He looked round, somewhat disappointed his first resolution
met no opposition.

‘This afternoon we were – are – due for a walk to Ramsgate.’ Everyone looked outside to the still overcast sky. ‘We shall
decide after luncheon,’ Samuel announced firmly.

Walking down the Promenade to the Albion Hotel for luncheon, with Samuel striding ahead like Stonewall Jackson, and Gwendolen
having found an apparent soul mate in Lord Beddington, Oliver found himself forced to walk next to Angelina.

‘So Sir Thomas had two fiancées,’ he said politely. ‘Please accept my sincere condolences.’

She glared at him. ‘Oh, Oliver,’ she said, pushing her parasol open vigorously, ‘don’t be so foolish. You can’t really believe
I was engaged to Sir Thomas, can you?’

He displayed complete surprise. ‘Why not? He told me you were. Mrs Figgis-Hewett told me yesterday you were. I saw you leaning
together very intimately yesterday afternoon; he was kissing your hand.’

‘Having one’s hand kissed does not, so far as I know, oblige one to marry a man,’ she answered shortly.

‘Then why didn’t you disillusion me?’ he demanded angrily. ‘It was cruel of you.’

She stopped abruptly by the gate to the Albion’s gardens, whirled on him, snapping her parasol shut again: ‘Because I was
annoyed with you that you could even think such a thing. And why should I assume you’d be interested anyway?’

‘You know—’ He broke off. Did she know? Of course she did. She was avoiding the issue. ‘Then why were you deliberately setting
your cap at Sir Thomas all the while? I watched you, Angelina.’

‘I had my reasons,’ she said, after a pause.

‘Is that all you’re going to say?’ he demanded.

‘Yes.’ She put her nose high in the air and stalked up the garden. He followed her, troubled.

Marginally refreshed, Auguste made his way back to the Imperial Hotel late that afternoon. In the Victoria Gardens, the Oxfordshire
and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry band were regaling their audience with tunes from
The Shop Girl
, promenaders were risking the doubtful weather and adorning the seafront in their Sunday afternoon best. Tomorrow was Bank
Holiday Monday, the highlight of the holiday for all but the most upper and select of classes, and this weekend was a kind
of holiday rehearsal for it, albeit muted in respect for the Sabbath.

Auguste was thankful when he turned into the doorway of the hotel, the sight of other temptations removed from him. There
were few guests to be seen. The reason for that, he was to discover, was that Mr Multhrop had made speedy arrangements with
the Albion and Grand Hotels to serve luncheon, his own kitchens being
hors de combat
.

Araminta, a vision in grey, came forward somewhat reluctantly to greet Auguste. ‘Papa says you may be a murderer,’ was her
ingenuous opening gambit.

Auguste suppressed a moment’s irritation with his beloved, but not his uncharitable thoughts towards Mr Multhrop.

‘No,
chérie
,’ he explained kindly, ‘I am not a murderer. It is merely that they wish to question me, for I had responsibility for the
food last night. It is possible but by no means certain,’ he added firmly, ‘that the poison was taken by Sir Thomas during
the meal.’

‘Like the Borgias,’ breathed Araminta, in a rare display of erudition.

‘Precisely,’ said Auguste, trying to see Gwendolen Figgis-Hewett in the role of Lucrezia Borgia.

‘All the same,’ said Araminta thoughtfully, ‘Papa says I’m not to see you again till it’s over, and you’re either arrested
or cleared. I would have liked to,’ she added wistfully. ‘Oh, Auguste, you
will
get cleared, won’t you?’ Her lovely eyes brimmed over until he almost forgave the disloyalty.

Mr Multhrop rushed into the foyer like the White Rabbit, saw them and tried to edge away, but Auguste caught him.

‘Mr Dee, you know how it is,’ he said, smiling appealingly.

‘
Non
, Mr Multhrop, I do not know how it is. I have asked my friend from Scotland Yard to help. Now would I do that if I were guilty?
He is in charge.’

Multhrop thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said doubtfully, then brightened. ‘They’ve had a lot of cases of bribery at Scotland
Yard, haven’t they?’

Auguste looked him in the eye. ‘I will inform Inspector Rose that you fear he and his department are as corrupt as that of
Chief Inspectors Clarke, Druscovich and Palmer.’

Mr Multhrop’s eyes bulged. ‘Please don’t bother,’ he said nervously, envisaging himself carried off for criminal libel. Or
was it slander? ‘I’m sure any friend of yours . . .’ His voice trailed off unhappily.

‘
Bon
. Then Araminta may accompany me to the sands.’

‘I suppose so,’ clearly weighing up the chances of Auguste’s swimming underwater to the women’s bathing machine section and
drowning his beloved daughter. But there, one had to take some chances in life.

‘Come for your turn on the gridiron, Auguste?’ Rose, complete with baggage and Edith, had returned to take up new quarters
in the Imperial Hotel.

‘Inspector Egbert Rose and Mrs Rose, Mr Multhrop,’ said Auguste feebly. ‘Multhrop is the Imperial’s owner, Inspector. And
this is Miss Multhrop, Edith, Egbert.’

Araminta was clearly impressed.

Edith looked around her. It wasn’t as cosy as Mrs Burbanks’ guest house or even as Highbury. But it was certainly very nice.
Quite grand in fact. It might not be Ramsgate, but Broadstairs might prove to be quite enjoyable after all. She would have
something to tell the Highbury Ladies’ Circle at any rate.

Egbert Rose woke up to grey skies over Broadstairs, cheered up as he realised he was on holiday, and then remembered that
he was not. With a regretful look at Edith still slumbering at his side in the huge mahogany bed, he swung his feet down to
face the day.

One hour later, after a breakfast that reminded him of his French experience in its meagreness, and made worse by the perpetual
drone of Mr Multhrop’s stream of nervous apologies to each new arrival, he was ready to greet Auguste and his flock.

Yesterday afternoon he and Naseby, with Auguste hovering in the background, had crawled over Sir Thomas’s suite of rooms and
interrogated every single member of the Imperial’s staff on duty the previous evening. A terrified housemaid, eyed sternly
by Mr Multhrop, admitted to seeing Sir Thomas in his room during the course of the evening.

‘’E came in when I was turning down ’is bed,’ she volunteered, curtsying to Rose in fright, somewhat muddled between his
ranking and that of the Prince of Wales. ‘About half past eight it was,’ she added, impressed by her own powers of recollection.
‘’E went into the bathroom, and I went. Then I saw ’e’d gone, so I comes back to finish orf. And then ’e comes in again.
Says ’e ’as to change his clothes. Back in the bathroom, so I turns down the bed, and goes.’ She wasn’t going to leave this
time, however; having got over her initial fright, curiosity made her follow the
detectives into the large bathroom, with clawfoot bath standing proudly mid-floor and a matching rose and violet embossed
pedestal water closet.

‘Fond of his medicine, wasn’t he?’ commented Rose as he opened the cabinet in the bathroom where a row of bottles and jars
indicated Sir Thomas’s concern for his health. ‘Wasn’t leaving anything to chance. Homoeopathic, patent, the lot. Ipecacuanha,
tincture of hellebore viridis, Nux vomica, Dr J. Johnson’s Pills, Blair’s Gout Pills, Dr Grinrod’s Remedy for Spasms, Cockles’
Anti-bilious pills – oh, and Mexican Hair Renewer – Dixon’s Rhubarb and Tartar Emetic, and Ward’s Red Pills. Made of antimony
and dragon’s blood, they say.’ He grunted. ‘Dragon’s blood,’ he repeated disgustedly.

‘’E was making funny noises,’ the maid offered importantly, and, pleased at the instant attention this won her, added, ‘Like
when me ma’s ’aving another.’ Naseby and Rose inspected the sanitary ware closely, but if Sir Thomas had indeed been sick,
then there were no traces left.

‘You’re sure of this, girl?’ barked Naseby. ‘Sure that’s what the noise was? A retch.’

The housemaid clearly took this as a side comment to Rose on her character. ‘I’m an ’onest girl, sir,’ she pointed out, affronted.
‘This is what I ’eard. Listen.’

The sounds that followed from her would have qualified her to audition for Mr Dickens’s Infant Phenomenon.

‘All right, that’s enough,’ said Rose hastily. ‘But that noise needn’t have been a retch – could have been all sorts of things.’
He cast a scathing eye at the rows of bottles. ‘He did suffer from gastritis, we know that.’

Naseby had positively glowed with satisfaction at the revelations of this budding Sarah Bernhardt. ‘Seems to put it squarely
on the meal to me, Rose. Too much of a coincidence for Sir Thomas to feel ill and then to be poisoned
after that. Doesn’t look too good for our mutual friend, does it?’ He was almost jovial.

‘Didn’t know you were a Dickens enthusiast, Naseby.’

Naseby looked blank and then dismissed this as more evidence of London eccentricity.

Fortunately this morning Rose had contrived to rid himself of Naseby’s services. He wanted to be able to draw his own conclusions,
without Naseby’s helpful commentary.

The once proud members of the Auguste Didier School of Cuisine looked a doleful group as they followed Auguste. Bringing up
the rear was Sid, but even he was subdued this morning. Their attire was a mixture of the sombre and seaside wear. Gone were
the frivolous hats and bright blazers. Seaside wear seemed inappropriate, yet they could not see that they had reason to mourn
the passing of Sir Thomas Throgmorton. A certain resentment was becoming evident among them, which the sight of the desolate
kitchen enhanced. On Saturday night, they had worked hard on their holiday for the sake of the Prince of Wales, and this was
all the thanks they got. Here they were, objects of suspicion to be interrogated by the police, and not even noticed by the
one or two newspaper men who had arrived at the hotel.

The death of Sir Thomas Throgmorton after a sudden illness was worth a paragraph in view of his role of international banker.
The coincidental presence of the Prince of Wales in Broadstairs for a brief private visit to a friend on the same evening
converted it into a two-paragraph story. Three newspaper men with nothing else to report, since the Transvaal crisis was deemed
beyond their capability, were despatched to Broadstairs to try to rootle out any facts that might justify a further paragraph.
Apart from the fact that the breakfast was bad and the service worse and that one or two police constables appeared to be
taking their holidays in the hotel, they had picked up nothing of interest.

Rose firmly closed the door as he heard Mr Multhrop’s
anxious voice coming distinctly nearer to the now unlocked kitchens. He had clearly discovered the fact that the dining room
too was locked against him. The empty dishes, china, and uneaten food had been taken away for examination, so the sight and
smell were somewhat more palatable than they had been the day before.

Auguste braced himself to sound casual: ‘
Alors, mes amis
, Inspector Rose wishes us to perform a play for him. We will show him course by course just what happened on Saturday evening
– as far as we were concerned. Dish by dish, course by course, you will each re-enact your roles.’

‘But there aren’t any dishes,’ pointed out Emily matter-of-factly.

‘In pantomime, Miss Dawson,’ Auguste explained gently. ‘And then,
voilà
, Inspector Rose will get to the bottom of the mystery and we can enjoy our holiday.’

Even Auguste felt his voice lacked conviction, and his pupils to judge from their faces were similarly unconvinced. Scotland
Yard meant serious trouble, and though this thin-faced lugubrious-looking man might seem mild at first, there was a quiet,
controlled purposefulness about him that made holidays seem a long way away.

Rose glanced at the menu with which Auguste had supplied him. ‘We’ll start with the soup,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Mrs Dickens’s
mutton broth. Who prepared that?’

Algernon cleared his throat and spoke a little more shrilly than he had intended. ‘Me. But everyone had soup,’ he added defensively.
‘There can’t have been anything added to it.’

‘The Prince of Wales didn’t have the broth,’ said James zealously, a believer in accuracy.

‘Does that make him the murderer?’ whispered Alice in an aside to Alfred.

Auguste, overhearing, frowned at this frivolity. Murder,
as he had reason to know all too well, was a serious business.

‘Who served it?’ repeated Rose, and as no one spoke, picked on the most nervous-looking individual. ‘Lord Wittisham?’

‘I was outside serving drinks. Isn’t that right, Mr Didier?’ he almost bleated. He was aware that everyone was looking at
him, and it was clear what they were thinking. He was the only person to serve drinks. He and no one else could have adulterated
the wine. ‘I couldn’t . . . It would have been seen.’

‘Not in the red wine,’ Algernon pointed out, as if conscientiously.

‘So who served the soup?’ repeated Rose patiently.

‘Me,’ said Heinrich grudgingly.

‘And me,’ volunteered James. ‘Heinrich and I were with each other all the time. We’d have seen if one of us had tipped something
into the soup.’

‘Show me,’ said Rose, shortly.

Self-consciously they took the tureens from the kitchens into the dining room, placed them on the trolley, and took it round
an empty table. It was evident that without three hands James Pegg could not have infiltrated poison into the soup bowl.

‘The people next to Sir Thomas could have added something,’ suggested Alice helpfully.

Rose glanced at the table plan: ‘Lord Beddington, miss, or the Prince of Wales?’

‘Oh.’ Alice subsided.

Rose stared at the table, imagining it full of people, talking – but surely not blind. ‘Think it possible for anyone to add
poison to a dish intended for Sir Thomas, Mr Didier?’

‘Only Lord Beddington,’ said Auguste. ‘Mrs Langham would have to reach across the table, surely impossible. Unless there was
some incident that diverted and concentrated the general attention, but I noticed nothing.
Did you?’ He looked round the group, but there was no sign of any reaction.

‘Very well. Clear away for the next course,’ said Rose. He hadn’t expected anything definite to emerge, but it was useful
background. Emily Dawson cleared imaginary soup bowls.

‘I prepared the lobster salad,’ said Alice bravely. ‘I put all the ingredients together and put them on individual plates,
but lots of people helped get the lobster out of their shells, and Alfred made the mayonnaise. Sid helped me carry them to
that table ready for serving. Miss Dawson did the garnish,’ she explained in a rush.

‘She did it twice,’ pointed out Algernon officiously. ‘It fell on the floor, if you remember, Emily. You did a fresh lot at
the last moment.’

Emily went pink, reflecting that if she’d had charge of this youth in his formative years, things might have been different.
‘What if I did?’ she cried, near to tears. ‘How do you poison cucumber ribbons and why should I anyway?’ No one answered.

‘Very well, serve the salads.’

Heinrich and Algernon once more moved imaginary plates from an empty table, staggered under their load into the dining room
and served another empty table.

‘Perhaps Sir Thomas ate a bad lobster,’ offered Sid brightly. ‘I remember my gran ate a bad winkle once.’

‘It was all mixed up,’ said Algernon who seemed to be appointing himself
ad hoc
detective.

Rose tried to suppress the memory of all those smelly shells now being analysed. ‘Which of you gave Sir Thomas his salad?’
he enquired casually.

Algernon and Heinrich glanced at each other. ‘He did,’ said Algernon, just as Heinrich came in with ‘Herr Peckham.’ Rose made
no comment.

‘I cleared the dishes,’ Emily said shrilly, defensive of
Heinrich. ‘I’m sure he ate it all. He wouldn’t if he didn’t like it.’

‘You cleared the dishes of every course?’

‘Yes, she did,’ said Alice, ‘and I laid them. Except the lobster of course.’

‘The tureens, now,’ said Auguste.

‘More soup?’

‘No, the entrée.’

Rose began to feel he was back in the maze at Stockbery, but doggedly continued making notes. He’d work this jigsaw puzzle
out later. ‘Kidneys,’ he said, consulting the menu. ‘Mrs Crupp’s.’

‘They were my concern, Inspector,’ said Auguste proudly. ‘Not Mrs Crupp’s kidneys, but kidneys
à la Didier
. The ingredients were gathered together for me by Lord Wittisham, the kidneys themselves prepared by Mr Pegg, and I attended
to the final cooking and preparation of the sauce.’ There was a certain defiance in his tone. How could his beautiful champagne-based
sauce be indicted for murder? He went to the hob, and mixed vigorously. Behind him stood Sid, holding an imaginary tureen.
‘Herr Freimüller served it,’ said Auguste.

‘No, I not do that. Mr Pegg do it,’ Heinrich said hurriedly.

‘Why was that?’ Rose looked at Pegg blandly.

‘I suppose Heinrich was too busy,’ said James uneasily. Then seeing this was inadequate, continued, ‘He was ready to take
the removes from the ovens, so I took the kidneys in. I put two dishes on His Royal Highness’s table and Sid took the rest
through to the other kitchen.’

‘Yes. I takes the lot in there for the lower orders,’ said Sid. ‘Hallow me, Inspector to present yer with me movements on
the evening in question.’ He ran vigorously to and fro between the two kitchens.

‘It was all cooked together, Inspector, but that for the high table was placed there,’ Auguste explained, pointing
to a corner table, ‘and the rest was carried into the other kitchen, which is usually used for the preparation of food and
storage. There it was collected and served by the Imperial’s own staff to the rest of the guests.’

‘Could any of them have come into this kitchen?’ asked Rose.

‘No, Inspector,’ Auguste replied. ‘We would most certainly have noticed. I had forbidden it,’ he added unhappily.

‘So, Mr Pegg, you placed these kidneys on the table, and they served themselves, right? In two tureens. Who dished them out?
Did you notice?’

There was a speedy consultation. Alfred, in the best position to see, thought it was the Prince of Wales. Auguste considered
this unlikely. His own impression was that Sir Thomas had served his end of the table. Algernon voted for Lord Beddington.
Rose sighed. So much for witnesses.

‘I go to fetch with Herr Peckham the quail and cutlets,’ Heinrich declared grandly, if dolefully. He could see fingers of
suspicion approaching nearer every minute. If only the Kaiser had not beaten
Britannia
at Cowes. Sometimes, disloyally, he wondered if the Kaiser were not a little too enthusiastic about the honour of Germany.

‘They were my idea, Inspector, in case, as proved to be so, the Prince did not like goose. And Dickens does mention both,
I am told,’ Auguste added anxiously in case Rose too should look down upon this departure from the true Dickensian menu.

‘I see. Tell me how you served these removes, Mr Freimüller.’

‘I take quails, Peckham take cutlets. I go to the Prince of Vales first. He refuse it. Then to Mrs Langham and to Mrs Figgis-Hewett.
They refused them too. Then Sir Thomas. I do not remember if Sir Thomas had quail,’ he said unhappily. ‘Always I ask myself
this, but I cannot answer myself.’

‘The poison isn’t too likely to have been in a quail,’ Rose said soothingly. ‘Easier to put in a sauce or gravy.’ Auguste
stiffened.