Murder Makes an Entree (15 page)

‘Anyway,’ said Emily stoutly in mistaken loyalty, ‘only Heinrich could be certain that Sir Thomas would receive the poisoned
quail.’

Heinrich looked at her doubtfully. ‘I do not poison quail,’ he said definitely.

For the first time Auguste began to feel a tinge of fear with this relentless questioning. He had been so certain that his
food could not be tampered with. Had he been wrong?

‘Goose,’ announced Rose. ‘It says here Bob Cratchit’s goose.’

Auguste paled. Goose had haunted his dreams for ten days. It would be the last straw if the bird had been poisoned. Memories
of the Prince of Wales’s detective emerging from the oven came back and he wondered wildly whether some abstruse method of
murder had been performed before his very eyes. True, it seemed a curious way of implanting poison but— He pulled himself
back to sanity. ‘The goose for the high table was taken into the dining room for carving, together with the vegetables,’ he
explained.

‘We all helped serve the goose,’ said James, ‘except Alfred.’ Heinrich admitted to carrying in the bird, Auguste to carving,
James and Algernon to transporting the results, Alice and Emily to transporting vegetables, sauces, forcemeats and gravy.

‘Just a minute,’ Rose interposed sharply. ‘These sauces. Were they served or put on the table?’

‘On the table for guests to help themselves, so it wouldn’t be possible to make sure that Sir Thomas’s portion was poisoned,
would it? Not by us, anyway.’ Emily almost clapped.

‘Who served Sir Thomas’s goose?’ He’d nearly said cooked.

There was a silence. James and Algernon glanced at each other. Nothing was said. Auguste came to the rescue. ‘Inspector, this
is the problem. Anything tampered with in the kitchen could not be guaranteed to reach Sir Thomas unless the poisoner served
it himself. And then it would have to be an individual dish – the lobster, the remove or the coffee or wine.’ He went doggedly
on, ignoring feeble expostulations from Alfred and Heinrich. ‘Or else the server would have to add poison at the last moment
– surely very risky. Otherwise it was added at the table – or to the glass of water he drank at the lectern. Or something
he took in his room.’ His trump cards.

‘When we get the report from the laboratory, we’ll know a bit more,’ Rose said noncommittally.

‘I didn’t serve him,’ said James suddenly, since this, to his mind, put him out of the running for the culprit. Algernon and
Heinrich stared at him.

‘It wasn’t me,’ said Algernon simply. ‘I served the old gentleman next to him.’

‘The Prince of Wales?’ asked Rose.

Heinrich was as horrified as if the Kaiser himself had been insulted. Algernon merely grinned. ‘Other side.’

‘Lord Beddington.’

‘No,
I
served him,’ said James quickly. They glared at each other, neither budged their position. Rose quietly made a note.

Inexorably Rose moved on through the
entremets
and coffee, sending eight people scurrying in all directions as he masterminded the performance, the objects of which were
far from clear to Auguste.

‘And the drinks, Lord Wittisham,’ concluded Rose. ‘You served all Sir Thomas’s wine? And the drinks beforehand?’

‘I watched him much of the time, Inspector,’ said Auguste, an anxious sheepdog watching Alfred’s eyes glaze over.

‘I’m sure, Mr Didier. Just covering all possibilities.’

‘No one would poison wine,’ stated Alfred categorically, presumably on the basis that this would be an ungentlemanly act.
Food was a different matter.

‘It wasn’t the wine, it was the salmon, eh?’ said Rose.

‘Lobster, Inspector Rose,’ said Alice helpfully.

‘Beg your pardon, miss. Just a quotation from Mr Pickwick.’ It was one of Mrs Rose’s favourite books. ‘Any of you met Sir
Thomas before?’ he continued smoothly.

‘He was at the dinner we cooked for them and the Prince at Gwynne’s,’ said Emily. Alfred was suddenly extremely grateful that
none of his colleagues knew of Beatrice Throgmorton’s place in his life. But problems were about to arise.

‘Ah yes, so he was,’ said Rose easily. He had an idea at least some of the party were keeping something back. ‘Miss Throgmorton
will be here at lunchtime. She’ll want to meet you, I’m sure.’ Quite why Sir Thomas’s daughter should be keen to make the
acquaintance of some kitchen staff he did not explain. It was enough to get a reaction though.

Seven subdued people left the Imperial Hotel to walk back to Blue Horizons. Preoccupied, they failed to notice that something
had changed about Broadstairs. The weather might be dull, it might be drizzling, but Broadstairs promenade had changed almost
beyond recognition. Where selectness and restraint had reigned, boisterousness and laughter had taken their place. Fashionable
rose-pinks and muted blue dresses had given way to garish reds, bright yellows topped with sailor hats or boaters with matching
ribbons. The sands were crowded with these strange bright parrots, accompanied by young gentlemen with unorthodox headgear
and unbuttoned waistcoats. Itinerant vendors buzzed everywhere, ignoring all Pier and Harbour Commission rules. More parrots
were lined up along the shore, skirts hitched to their knees, paddling and screaming
in the chilly water. Brakeloads and omnibuses were arriving on Victoria Parade full of fresh supplies, and swarming down the
High Street towards their mecca was the first cheap, fast trainload of ’Arrys and ’Arriets in search of entertainment.

The downcast Didier School of Cuisine personnel stared in disbelief. They had completely forgotten it was Bank Holiday Monday.
All the more dispirited as they entered Blue Horizons, they discovered that somehow Joe’s dabs, bought with enthusiasm this
morning to prepare for luncheon, failed to seem so attractive. Each one of their prospective cooks was preoccupied.

Heinrich was thinking over all the implications of the last hour, and what he would do if he were correct. He was concerned
he would be locked in an English jail, and wondered if he should seek Embassy asylum. It would be most unfair if he should
suffer for the Kaiser’s unpopularity. In any case, the Kaiser was a most charming man, much misunderstood. Emily was just
scared. Alice walked hand in hand with Alfred, though it was obvious his thoughts were not with her. Where were they? Panic
began to seize her. What could he be worrying about? Alfred’s thoughts were fixed in fact on Beatrice Throgmorton, and the
unpleasant scene that had taken place three weeks ago. Algernon was trying to judge what danger, if any, he was in. James
was trying slowly to work something out in his mind. And nearly all of them were conscious that they had not told Inspector
Rose the whole truth.

Mr Multhrop at least was happy. His kitchens and dining room were open once more and he was bustling about, as jolly as Mr
Fezziwig, envisaging happy hordes of merry luncheon-takers. Not, he trusted, Harrys and Harriets, as the popular press termed
them. Rose steered Auguste firmly clear, and into the office. So happy was Mr
Multhrop that he failed to resent the purloining of his room.

‘
Now
,’ Rose said, once they were settled. ‘Tell me about them, Auguste. Who’s the German?’

‘Heinrich Freimüller, from the German Embassy,’ began Auguste awkwardly, feeling torn between two loyalties. ‘The Embassy
wishes to raise the standard of its present cuisine.’ His expression suggested this would not take much doing. ‘He is a good
chef. His pastry has the makings of a
vrai maître
. It is true that his mastery of patisserie—’

‘Not food, Auguste. Tell me about
him
,’ said Rose patiently.

‘My friend, I
do
tell you about him. As the chef is, so is the man.’

A grin passed on Rose’s face. ‘Have it your own way. Political chap, is he?’

‘No,’ said Auguste doubtfully. ‘I have never heard him speak of politics.’ Suddenly he wondered why. ‘Yet he is most loyal
to his country, as Mr Pegg is to his. James Pegg is the solid Englishman. He wishes to advance his cooking career. He is sound,
very sound, but in my opinion lacks the extra something that can create a maître chef. With meat, however, he has a great
affinity. His father is a veterinary surgeon, and he himself assisted his father for a year or two and then became a groom.
Now he wishes to be a chef.’

‘Cures them, coaxes them and cooks them, eh?’ said Rose. ‘Curious mixture, ain’t it?’

‘He is a practical man. There are animals to be saved. He does it. There are those to be cooked. He does that too. In one
respect is he noteworthy. In his devotion to Lord Wittisham.’

‘One of
them
, is he?’

‘I do not think so. Indeed,’ remembering Araminta bitterly, ‘I am sure. He sees himself as a protector. He is proud of their
friendship.’

‘And what about Wittisham? Can’t get used to the idea of a lord hard at work, getting his hands dirty.’

Auguste smiled. ‘Ah, Lord Wittisham too is a simple man, as is Pegg. But he works differently in cuisine. When he creates
a dish he begins and carries on until instinctively he knows the dish has reached perfection. Nothing is left undone, nothing
left to chance. There are not many dishes he creates so, but those he does create are truly magnificent. In the rest he is
merely mundane. And as for his private life, I do not think it is James Pegg he desires. I think he is beloved by Alice Fenwick,
but does not see her devotion. One day he will, and proceed to create from her the perfect dish of a wife and peeress.’

‘And this Alice?’

‘Alice Fenwick. She too wishes a career, like Rosa Lewis, like Emma Pryde. She is the daughter of an officer in the army,
but I think now alone in the world and with little money. She is determined to succeed, and she is thorough. Nothing will
be omitted, where Alice is concerned.’ He smiled. ‘She spreads a warmth and comfort in her cookery and spreads this warm cocoon
around her, drawing you in. It is the desire of her life that Lord Wittisham realises her love. She would make him a good
wife,’ he added wistfully, looking into his own bleak future.

‘And the other lady?’

‘Emily Dawson. Ah, Miss Dawson is interesting. A governess who decided to make a change. She had a windfall of money and decided
to have a new career. She is a deft cook with many interesting touches to her work. Her desserts, her confectionery, her sauces
are magical, though the rest of her work remains only average. But yes, she has something or I would not have taken her. I
am training her so that she can cook for royalty,’ Auguste declared grandly.

‘And the young cock of the walk?’

Auguste smiled. ‘Our Mr Peckham? Mr Algernon
Peckham I find difficult, since he is, unfortunately, an admirer of Soyer.’ Tones of disgust. ‘I cannot claim I
know
Mr Peckham. Yet of all of them I think that he is the nearest to possessing genius. He wishes to be a chef to travel the
great country houses of Europe.’

‘Nothing if not ambitious.’

‘Very. His father was a butcher, I discovered.’

‘Another affinity to meat, eh?’

‘
Non
. Or at least Mr Peckham pretends to have none. Give him game, fish, vegetables,
entremets
, patisserie, and he is superb. Give him meat and the results are a
vin ordinaire
.’

Rose nodded. ‘And Sid?’

‘I do not see what Sid could have to do with this affair,’ said Auguste, illogically shocked. ‘He was helping in the kitchen
all the time fetching and carrying. He is – well he is Sid.’ He shrugged helplessly.

‘I see,’ said Rose, who did. Eleven years on the Ratcliff Highway beat had taught him about Sids. And on the whole they didn’t
go around poisoning roast geese. ‘But he was in the kitchen.’

‘Not in the dining room, though. Sid came to me,’ admitted Auguste, as though honour-bound to disclose all relevant information,
‘on the recommendation of Mr Higgins.’

‘Did he now,’ said Rose, highly amused at this resurgence into their affairs of the biggest fence in London. ‘Well, if Mr
Multhrop’s teaspoons or Mrs Figgis-Hewett’s jewellery vanishes, we’ll know where to look.’

‘Sid is not like that,’ said Auguste indignantly.

‘Interested in cuisine, is he?’

‘No but—’

‘Why does he work for you then?’

‘He – I suppose he likes me,’ said Auguste inadequately.

Rose looked at him kindly. ‘We’ll never make a policeman out of you, Auguste.’

‘Sir Thomas was not a popular man, Inspector,’ declared Oliver, not looking at Angelina. The five committee members of the
Literary Lionisers were subdued; they had talked about the horrors of Saturday night incessantly the day before. Now, in the
face of formal interrogation, they were restrained and cautious. All but one.

‘He was, he was. I loved him,’ moaned Gwendolen defiantly. Then Auguste’s presence in the small lounge caught her attention.
‘What’s this fellow doing here?’ she shouted, puffing out her hastily improvised dark veil which rose and fell with each indignant
gasp. ‘He’s a waiter.’

‘Mr Didier is here at my request, madam. He was overseeing the banquet and had Sir Thomas under his surveillance nearly all
the time. It is possible he may have observed something you were not in a position to see,’ Rose explained diplomatically.

‘It’s also possible he poisoned poor old Thomas,’ rumbled Lord Beddington. ‘Don’t forget that.’

Auguste went pink. ‘Sir, I did not know him.’

‘Dammit, I remember you at Gwynne’s,’ said Samuel Pipkin indignantly. ‘Of course you did.’

‘That is true, sir. It is also true that I disagreed with his choice of menu, but that is hardly cause for murder.’ This man
was not to know that it very nearly was, by Auguste’s reckoning.

‘You might have been paid to assassinate him,’ went on Samuel objectively. ‘He was an international banker. Lots of people
might have wanted to kill him.’ He skirted over the small matter that he was one of them.

‘I think you can take it from me,’ said Rose firmly, ‘that Mr Didier did not murder Sir Thomas,’ earning himself a look of
gratitude from Auguste. ‘Now, Mrs Figgis-Hewett, I gather that you had a disagreement with Sir Thomas. You were threatening
to bring a breach of
promise action, or so you announced on Saturday evening.’