Murder Makes an Entree (3 page)

The royal eyebrows shot up. Albert Edward had no wish to be reminded of that most unfortunate episode.

Their eyes met in unspoken agreement to drop the subject.

‘You run a cooking school, so Mrs Pryde tells me.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘No French holidays this year, eh?’

‘No, sir. We are about to leave for a Fish Fortnight Holiday of Instruction. At Broadstairs.’

Royalty regarded Auguste Didier thoughtfully. ‘Broadstairs, eh?’

Inspector Egbert Rose of Scotland Yard turned over a pile of files in his small office in Scotland Yard overlooking the Embankment.
He was pleasantly happy. July was no month to be working in the Factory; July was a time to be out enjoying those blue skies.
And in three days he would be. Meanwhile he had the enjoyable task of handing all these old chestnuts over to Twitch, or Sergeant
Albert Stitch, to give him his correct title. Let him earn his eagerly desired promotion if he could with this lot. Rose chuckled
evilly to himself.

He was looking forward to his two weeks’ holidays in Ramsgate though, and was even more pleased now he knew Auguste would
be in next-door Broadstairs. Edith had wanted to take rooms, even do her own cooking, but at that
Rose had rebelled. He didn’t want any landlady cooking dinner for him, and he certainly didn’t want Edith cooking herself.
That was part of what a holiday meant, to get away from Edith’s cooking. Moreover he looked forward to partaking of some of
Auguste’s cooking – thank goodness holidays, for Auguste, did not involve abstinence from the kitchen range.

Twitch strutted in, rather like something out of a Gilbert and Sullivan chorus, Rose decided, eyeing his subordinate amusedly.
Pity that he was invaluable in some ways, otherwise he’d have him out of his department quicker than a three-card trickster
off the steps of the Athenaeum.

‘Are you ready to hand over the files, sir?’ Eagerness barely concealed, twitching at the nose.

Rose glanced down at the gems Twitch was so eager to take under his control: report from Special Branch on the supposed setting
up of a German naval spy ring, latest juicy wanted criminals list for the Paris Surété. He had no great faith in Inspector
Chesnais’ not having confused victim and suspect. Nothing much new here anyway. It was notable that the theft of a necklace
formerly belonging to Madame de Pompadour from the château of the Comte de la Ferté (thief thought to be English) took precedence
over the recent mysterious death of William Hugget, circus performer (thought to be murdered by one of his colleagues, all
British). It certainly took precedence over the death of a thirty-year-old groom, Joseph Smith, in Bordeaux, believed to be
a murder by the wife (both thought to be English), the quite definite murder of three young ladies for gain of person and
possession by an unknown hand (thought to be English) in Brittany, and the murder of a chef in Grenoble by one of his apprentices
(two of whom were English); these last three cases had by now accumulated as much metaphorical, if not literal, dust over
them as his own ‘dead crimes’ files. Theft of Madame Pompadour’s necklace indeed. No more
burglaries for him. The last one led him to Cannes, and a whole heap of problems. A nice spy or murder and you had something
to go on.

‘Here you are, Stitch – and welcome to ’em. When I get back,’ Rose added straightfaced, ‘I expect to see progress.’ Progress?
He hadn’t made any himself for months on those files, and Stitch knew it.

His face glowed with enthusiasm. ‘You will, sir,’ he said smugly. ‘You will.’ Modesty was not his strong point.

Rose left the Factory a happy man, a man about to be set free from investigation and care, a man shortly to leave for Ramsgate.

The house in Curzon Street retained its elegant appearance outside, but inside the whole of the basement and ground floor
had been converted to kitchens. The ground floor formed Auguste’s teaching area, the basement was for the pupils’ own experiments.
The first floor housed a library, and here Auguste lectured his pupils on the theory of cookery. The rest of the house was
his own domain, a far cry from his former lodgings in King Street. From time to time one or other of the pupils remained overnight,
even Alice on occasion, though she had remained disappointingly aloof. It had not been a tribute to his charms.

On this Wednesday morning, the so-called Isle of Thanet, in particular its seaside resorts, was as much in the air in Curzon
Street as at Scotland Yard. Messrs Carter Patterson would shortly be calling for the advance luggage. The card had been placed
in the window in ample time, the first visible statement that the holiday season was here. Most of the pupils’ luggage and
Auguste’s was in the hall, ready to go. Even Sid’s modest baggage managed to appear in time. Essential kitchen equipment had
also been lovingly packed under Auguste’s anxious supervision. Much would be provided in the house he had rented in Broadstairs,
but he
could not expect a rented house to possess sufficient refrigerators, bains-marie, salamanders and salad basket. Ah, but this
all took so much organisation, and his pupils thought his fees were expensive! They were cheap. Besides, you could put no
price on art.

‘Where is the boning knife?’ he cried.

‘Don’t worry, Mr Didier, I’ve got it,’ came Alice’s reassuring voice.

‘Mademoiselle Fenwick, happy the man who marries you,’ said Auguste fervently.

He saw Alice blush slightly, as she glanced at Alfred Wittisham. He wished her luck, but privately doubted Alfred had even
noticed. Besides, had he not seen his lordship dining at the Savoy with a young lady recently? A somewhat large young lady,
in personality as well as size, beside whom Alice in her subdued grey poplinette working dress would stand little chance.
He had been visiting Maître Escoffier, and Alfred and his companion had seemed deep in conversation – if ever Alfred could
be said to be deep in anything.

The sound of the door knocker boomed through the house. ‘There is the excellent Mr Carter Patterson,’ exclaimed Auguste thankfully,
tired of clambering over boxes and baggage.

But it wasn’t Carter Patterson that greeted Sid. Outside was a carriage, not over-ornate but one unmistakably marked with
the arms of the Prince of Wales.

On the step a soberly clad gentleman in black tail-coat and dark grey trousers was handing a missive to Sid, which was speedily
removed by Auguste, who had come quickly up behind him.

‘I am to wait,’ announced the visitor, stepping inside, and averting his gaze from the luggage that took up nine-tenths of
the space.

‘You are not Carter Patterson?’ enquired Auguste unnecessarily.

Eyebrows were raised. ‘No, I don’t believe I am. I am—’

But there was no need for Auguste to listen, for he had seen, with a strange, sinking feeling, the royal coat of arms on the
seal of the letter. He ripped it open with scant respect for the thick cream paper hand-made in the Maidstone mills.

Seven pairs of eyes fixed on him interestedly, crowding him in the narrow hallway. Word had gone round about the carriage.

‘It seems,’ announced Auguste slowly, looking up at his pupils at last, ‘that—’

‘Your reply, Mr Didier,’ interrupted the courier courteously but firmly. ‘I take it I may tell His Royal Highness you accept?’

Auguste bowed his head in acquiescence, and the door closed behind the envoy.

‘It seems,’ Auguste said in a voice heavy with foreboding, ‘that our Fish Fortnight holiday is to be interrupted. His Royal
Highness has com— requested that we should cook the banquet for the Society of Literary Lionisers on Saturday week. Apparently,
Sid, the event to which you heard them refer is to take place at Broadstairs.’

‘Murder, Mr Didier?’ asked Sid eagerly.

‘No,’ said Auguste hastily. ‘The Grand Dickens evening. I am to see the chairman Sir Thomas Throgmorton to discuss the menu.’
He managed a wan smile. This was not going to be the carefree seaside holiday he had imagined. ‘Very well,’ he continued melodramatically,
‘but I shall tell this Sir Thomas that if I, Auguste Didier, sacrifice part of my holiday to this banquet of which I am in
charge, then I am to be in complete control. We,
mes amis
, shall do
everything
. We shall shop, we shall prepare, we shall wait, we shall clear, at least on the Prince of Wales’s table. This way and this
way alone we are assured there will be no disasters at Broadstairs, unless,’ he added grimly, ‘you forget yourselves as happened
yesterday evening.’

For all his brave words, however, Auguste remained sunk in gloom, even after Carter Patterson had called to alleviate his
mind of one problem. What unfortunate luck that this wretched banquet should occur at Broadstairs of all places! Normally
the words ‘wretched banquet’ would never emerge in juxtaposition from Auguste’s lips, but just now holiday had an even more
attractive sound than banquet. Last time he attempted to take a holiday it had ended in disaster. True, this time, for all
Sid’s prognostications – goodness knows what he thought he’d heard – murder could surely not again take the stage, but all
the same, cooking for, he gathered, sixty people, was not the best of all possible ways of spending a holiday weekend.

For the Prince of Wales, he would do it. He would achieve miracles no matter what the fare. He felt no enthusiasm for Mr Dickens
himself. He had read with some difficulty several of his novels in his youth, since his English mother was a champion of his
works. Reading of the rookeries of London, however, amid the green fields of Provence redolent with the perfumes of Grasse,
the words made little impression on him save that they were too long and, for someone struggling with the English language,
distinctly tedious. The great Mr Dickens had taken a tumble in Auguste’s estimation, and it was years before he read another,
inveigled into doing so by a stage performance of
Nicholas Nickleby
. Now he enjoyed the novels. Even so, he did not understand this English habit of making clubs for everything. A society just
to appreciate literature? Would respectable Parisians form a society to appreciate Flaubert and travel to
eat
in a town he liked? Why not eat in Paris?

No matter. This was an English form of enjoyment. Like the seaside. The dinner would be but a brief interlude, one dinner
to be cooked and then the rest of the holiday to enjoy, with the smell of the fresh fish early in the morning. He smelled
again the fish markets of Paris and of the fishermen
of Cannes. The smell of the sea. His spirits began to rise. He looked at the boater and blazer lying on his bed, ready to
be packed in his hand case. He tossed the boater in the air, caught it, and executed a little dance with it. Away from cares
and dull everyday grind. He was going to The Seaside.

The noble Society of Literary Lionisers had come into being almost twenty-five years previously, founded by a group of gentlemen
who, indignant at being unable to gain admittance to the Literary Club, convinced themselves that the proud traditions of
Dr Johnson’s Club were being eroded. The Society set itself the modest ambition of instilling in the masses, or such masses
as could afford their membership fee, a greater appreciation of the works of the literary giants of Great Britain, with a
passing acknowledgement to the achievements of less favoured nations. Alas for good intentions: the Lionisers found their
ideals somewhat more difficult to sustain than they had supposed and, moreover, since lovers of literature are not necessarily
noted for their organisational abilities, the committee in particular suffered from squabbling and undercurrents no less vicious
for their being somewhat concealed than they had been in former times when David Garrick was so brutally blackballed from
Johnson’s Club.

Only the presence of the Prince of Wales had prevented the passions of the present committee from overspilling into open warfare
during their dinner at Gwynne’s. The committee numbered six, an awkward number for efficient functioning, but the founders
of the Society had blithely assumed that between men of culture no quarrel could possibly arise that could not receive amicable
resolution.

Although the monthly meetings held at St George’s Hall
or the Savoy Hotel fulfilled the original aims of the Society, the committee meetings held in a private suite in nearby Gwynne’s
Hotel most definitely did not. Occasionally, especially since the appointment of Mrs Langham and Mr Michaels, accord was achieved
without verbal bloodshed. However, the meeting to which the six members were now making their way was, they all knew, not
going to be one of those occasions.

Each year a literary figure was chosen (by the committee) as the Lion of the Year. For twelve months the members would study
the works of the great man (or, occasionally, woman), listen to learned authorities discussing his work and to actors declaiming
it, and endeavour to instill in various dignitaries the overwhelming case for statues, monographs, busts and commemorative
china, and, most importantly, the need for preservation of buildings and places known to and described by the current Lion.

The highlight of the Society’s year was the Week of the Lion. En masse, the Society would descend on his ‘Lair’, the haunts
where the Lion had roamed in fact or in his imagination on his pages, in order more fully to appreciate his every word, and
to ensure that his homestead and/or other locations described by him were being maintained in the proper respectful spirit.

At first the choice of the Lion of the Year had been sacrosanct; now, regrettably, impure considerations were creeping in
to his selection. Before he received the accolade of the Society, it was necessary that thought should be given as to whether
he had been sensible enough to reside in or describe in his works a suitable venue for the Week of the Lion. A particularly
zealous committee had one year lit upon Daniel Defoe as a subject, thereby consigning the Society to a choice of a week’s
holiday in Stoke Newington, an unknown desert island, or a Tour through the Whole Island of Great Britain. The following year,
Lord Byron, with his
more enticing prospect of foreign travel, was hastily selected by a more practically minded committee.

Obligingly, Mr Charles Dickens presented no such problem. After some anxious debate as to whether the location for the Week
of the Lion should not more suitably be Rochester, it was unanimously decided that Broadstairs, with a day visit to Rochester,
would be blessed with the Society’s presence. This discreet resort, presenting none of the disadvantages of crowded Ramsgate
or merry Margate, was a highly suitable venue and Mr Dickens was silently congratulated by the committee for his convenient
choice of watering place. True, he had ceased to visit it long before his demise, having complained it was spoiled by increasing
numbers of visitors and, even worse, the noise made under his windows by itinerant musicians in the streets, but forty years
on people were more accustomed to such annoyances.

The overriding concern of the committee this evening, however, which threatened to tear the Society apart and indeed bring
about its entire disbandment, if certain threats were carried out, could not be laid at the door of Mr Dickens. It was next
year’s Lion who was to blame: Mr William Shakespeare. He had been selected as the obvious choice of Lion for the prestigious
year of 1900, the first year of the new century (despite vigorous argument on this point in the columns of the press). The
Society’s year conveniently began on Shakespeare’s birthday, 23rd April, St George’s Day, and the chairman’s four-year reign
being at an end, Sir Thomas Throgmorton would have stepped down and a new chairman preside over the day’s festivities.

Or would he?

‘To Gwynne’s, Hobbs.’

Sir Thomas Throgmorton had gazed, displeased, at the usual dusty roadway exacerbated by the hot dry weather and summoned his
carriage. It might only be ten minutes’ walk
from his Mayfair home to the hotel, but for this all-important meeting, he needed to present himself impeccable in both appearance
and argument. He had half the committee on his side (counting himself). He frowned. Perhaps he had made a mistake in alienating
Gwendolen? Surely she would not waver in his support, however? How could he have foretold what illusions the foolish woman
was harbouring? He had had no choice but to act as he did. Beddington would be sure to support him. After all, Throgmorton
told himself, he had right on his side. His years as a manager of an international bank had taught him the value of that.
True, there was a small flaw in his argument, but with luck no one would see it. People would overlook anything, however obvious,
if you were confident enough of your case – or appeared so. He’d learned that in banking too. Perhaps even Angelina would
see the justice of his case, if he put it to her once more. He had found her dissension quite inexplicable. When they were
married, he would gently and firmly make this plain to her.

Angelina Langham had no intention of changing her views. Accompanied by fellow committee member, Oliver Michaels, the young
playwright with whom she had just shared a most enjoyable dinner at the Savoy, she too was thinking about the Lionisers. As
a newcomer to the committee, and moreover one championed by Sir Thomas himself, and as a ‘young’ woman – she was twenty-eight
– she was aware that she was expected to know her place. As was Oliver Michaels, elected to represent Youthful Attainment
(at thirty he was already a successful playwright). For her part, she had no intention of remaining in her place. That was
not what had made her seek Sir Thomas’s acquaintance after the death of her husband nearly three years ago. A middle-aged
and mild-natured poet of some distinction, he and not Alfred Austin would undoubtedly
have been next Poet Laureate, had not circumstances decreed otherwise. His distinction, although he was deceased, vicariously
entitled her to sit on the committee, where she was naturally not expected to play an active role.

Oliver Michaels handed Angelina down from his pride and joy, his recently acquired Peugeot, and approved once more her slight,
golden-haired figure with its air of Madonna-like calm hidden at present behind a rather ugly motoring veil. He held on to
her hand, remarking as he glanced at Gwynne’s portals:

‘Oh Sairey, Sairey, little do we know wot lays afore us.’

‘You, Oliver,’ replied his madonna sweetly, throwing back the veil, ‘to quote from the same immortal work, “will make a lovely
corpse” if you compare me to Mrs Gamp.’

Oliver laughed. ‘Very well. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day, instead, dear Angelina?’

She shuddered. ‘This evening, Oliver,’ she remarked firmly, ‘I fear Mr Shakespeare is
not
a welcome thought.’

‘Very well, let us beard the Lions in their den, and meet our end with dignity.’ Offering her his arm, he escorted her into
the foyer of Gwynne’s Hotel.

‘The female of the species,’ Gwendolen Figgis-Hewett muttered to herself in the hansom cab.

She had no escort. Even when Mr Figgis-Hewett was alive, she had frequently had no escort, for his interests outside making
money were not hers. Drinking and gambling were no occupations for a lady of literary talent. Her poem had been accepted by
the
Ladies’ Companion
. True, they had not published it, but acceptance was the important thing. Mr Figgis-Hewett had been dead five years now,
and his widow was tired of being alone, however pleasant it was to be so wealthy. Since Sir Thomas was a widower of about
the same duration, she had seen no reason why they should not pool their common grief. Even now she could not quite
believe what had happened on that dreadful evening after the Prince of Wales’s dinner.

Mr Rudyard Kipling never wrote a truer word. Now she felt much deadlier than the male.

‘We’re here, sir.’ The disembodied voice of the cab driver boomed through Lord Beddington’s dreams, as he reclined dozily
on his way to Gwynne’s. The Garrick dinner had been pleasantly relaxing and only with difficulty did he recall that he was
bound for Gwynne’s and not the Reform this evening. He was not quite sure what all the fuss was about, but he had no doubt
Sir Thomas was right. Anyway it was more sensible to vote for him, for matters were more quickly concluded that way. It was
probably only that fellow Pipkin making a mountain out of a molehill. Sitting on committees was rather like the Lords or the
magistrate’s bench; you could think your own thoughts, and just wake up for the vote.

‘Oh me, oh my. Your time is nigh,’ said Samuel Pipkin triumphantly to himself, his mind full of Thomas Throgmorton.

The secretary of the committee of the Society of Literary Lionisers almost bounced down in glee from his cab outside Gwynne’s
Hotel. The time of reckoning had come. With the enthusiasm of a Pickwick in pursuit of a Jingle, he launched his corpulent
frame through the doors of the hotel, eager for combat. Like Angelina, however, he would not have welcomed the Dickensian
comparison, for Samuel Pipkin was not a Dickens man. Far from it. He was through and through dedicated to the works and memory
of William Makepeace Thackeray. He disliked Dickens and everything to do with him, and in particular his own undeniable resemblance
to Mr Pickwick. This was merely physical, however, for it is by no means an infallible rule that all fat
men must be benevolent and Samuel was seldom benevolent. Resemblance to cartoons of Thackeray he deemed an honour, references
to Pickwick an insult.

Since the choice of Charles Dickens in preference to his own idol, Mr Thackeray, as this year’s Lion, relations between himself
and Sir Thomas had reached a low only equalled by those that existed for many years between their respective heroes. Sir Thomas
was of course a Dickens man, deliberately cultivating the grave aspect of the author presented in his later portraits and
ignoring all evidence of the younger, sprightly, exuberant writer. The thought of what Sir Thomas was now proposing was beyond
endurance for Samuel Pipkin. Outrageous! Greater even than the affront to the immortal Mr Thackeray by that common upstart
Dickens. ‘Tis strange what a man may do, and a woman yet think him an angel,’ he mused. How truly Mr Thackeray spoke when
he wrote that. He might have had Sir Thomas in mind. Throgmorton must be exposed, and this evening was the time or his name
was not Pipkin.

Sir Thomas looked round at his five colleagues, whom he had carefully positioned to separate the opposition. True, this involved
his directly facing the obnoxious Pipkin, but no matter. Angelina was by his side, conveniently placed for him to exert his
full charm upon her.

He beamed at the committee, exulting in the almost palpable tension. Ah, the power of being able to mould people to his way
of thinking. The thought of those who had sworn vengeance on him over the years gave him particular pleasure, for he knew
they would never succeed. Conversely, few ever got the better of him, and he never forgot the rare occasion they did, just
as he never forgot a face. Sooner or later they would pay – and especially one. He’d been made a fool of, and it would never
happen again. Particularly not tonight, much as Pipkin was eager to try.

Already, his chest puffed out in happy anticipation of Sir Thomas’s downfall, Samuel Pipkin was reading the minutes of the
meeting that had heralded the crisis. ‘Although the Society’s year runs from 23rd April to the following 22nd April, and the
chairman holds his position for four years, Sir Thomas Throgmorton moved that his chairmanship should end on 23rd April 1900,
and not 22nd April, relying on Rule four bee bracket small roman three unbracket of the Society’s constitution. It was agreed
after discussion that further consideration be given to the matter and that it be resolved at our next meeting in order to
allow plenty of time for suitable plans to be made for the Event.’

Sir Thomas glanced confidently round the table. ‘And has anyone had further thoughts on the subject before we vote?’ he asked
off-handedly, as though expecting silence. But it was patently clear from the voices that immediately broke out that anyone
had, if not everyone. (Beddington was asleep.) The indignant bellow of Pipkin, however, carried the day.

‘I still maintain your suggestion is preposterous, sir, preposterous. The rule makes it clear that the chairman shall hold
the post for four Society years. Your chairmanship, sir, was inaugurated on 23rd April 1896 and you, sir, therefore desist
from being chairman on 22nd April 1900.’

‘I disagree, as you know, Mr Pick – er Pipkin.’ (He did it on purpose, seethed Samuel. ) ‘The rule also clearly states that
the chairman shall hold the position for three years of three hundred and sixty-five days and one leap year. The year of 1900
is not a leap year. My case is, therefore, that, my fourth year being one day short, I remain chairman until and including
23rd April 1900. The chairman elect, yourself, sir, will take over the position on the 24th. This is the law.’