Murder Makes an Entree (8 page)

‘Lord Wittisham,’ called Auguste, agonised. ‘You are behind in your schedule. It is time –’ seeing covered dishes of roasts
exiting from the kitchen – ‘to collect the quails and mutton cutlets.’

Guiltily Alfred sped to the door.

‘I’ll help you, Alfred,’ called Alice. ‘I’ve finished chopping.’

James, hands covered with chicken entrails, could only watch helplessly. Perturbed, he swung the cleaver viciously, chopping
fowl after fowl into pieces. He wished that Alice Fenwick could be dealt with so simply.

Algernon whistled as he worked, a habit picked up from his father, who was given to musical expression while chopping up meat.
It was thus a sure sign that his thoughts were far away. They were certainly not on recipes, Mr Soyer’s or Mr Didier’s.

Fifteen minutes later, Auguste shot out of the kitchen entrance in search of Alfred and Alice – or – more precisely, his quails
and cutlets. Surely it could not take this long to gather up a few baskets of food? As he reached the corner of Chandos Place,
Sir Thomas Throgmorton was descending from a carriage in front of the Imperial, handing down Angelina with impeccable politeness
and leaving young Oliver Michaels to help down Gwendolen. Auguste failed to see the hidden tensions and passions behind these
simple manoeuvres; to him it only signified that the banquet had acquired a reality. The Literary Lionisers had arrived.

Past the stationary victoria came a donkey cart in which, to his relief, he saw Alfred and Alice serenely sitting side by
side bearing familiar baskets. The quails and the cutlets were safe. He could relax.

‘Ah,’ he cried out to them. ‘
Mes amis
, do not delay.’

Attracted by the shout, Sir Thomas glanced first at
Auguste, then at the donkey cart. He frowned for a moment in shock.

‘What the devil are you doing here?’ he said slowly.

Alfred blushed. ‘I – er – work here,’ he announced with dignity.

Auguste listened with interest to this social interchange which clearly was transgressing barriers.

Sir Thomas looked blank. ‘Work here?’ He stared at him and there was a pause. ‘I’ll have a word with
you
later,’ he said grimly, turned his back on Alfred, gave his arm to Mrs Langham and advanced into the hotel.

‘Welcome, Sir Thomas.’ Mr Multhrop smiled nervously. He didn’t as a rule greet all his guests, but this was different. It
was a rehearsal for the reception of the Prince of Wales this evening.

Sir Thomas, preoccupied, took no notice.

‘Who,’ demanded Auguste despairingly, as the tempo quickened in the kitchen, ‘is responsible for
this?
Mr Peckham,’ his eye fell on the culprit, ‘
you
are responsible for the mutton broth. Why do you not remember the words of Brillat Savarin: the pot must smile. Not
boil
, Mr Peckham.’

‘Because the words of Maître Soyer are boil gently,’ announced Algernon cheekily.

‘Maître
Didier
says smile, and so we smile, Monsieur Peckham,’ replied Auguste, his voice steely.

‘Yes, Mr Didier.’ The look in Algernon’s face boded ill for somebody.

‘Will His Royal Highness
like
mutton broth?’ wondered Alice doubtfully. ‘It
is
August.’

‘This menu is not my idea,’ pleaded Auguste despairingly. ‘I have prepared some dishes which I know will please the Prince
of Wales. The quails and devilled bones, also the mutton cutlets give him much pleasure. But this mutton
broth. Bah! I am told Dickens partook of it at home.’ The tones of disgust indicated Auguste’s reasons for dreading a wife.
Suppose he were to marry only to be faced with mutton broth? ‘I have therefore made a small portion of almond soup. Surely
in all Mr Dickens’s vast works there must be some mention of almonds, and if not,’ he said firmly, ‘remember that in France
this dish is named hedgehog soup. I feel sure Mr Dickens must mention hedgehogs.’ He looked around, but no one had views on
this. ‘And if he does not,’ he continued, ‘the Prince of Wales will not mind. It is better than mutton broth in August.
Eh bien. Les entrées
. The kidneys. Where is Mr Pegg?’ He looked automatically at Alfred.

‘’E went to ’elp Miss Araminta with the coffee,’ said Sid brightly.

‘He has no business to be assisting Miss Araminta,’ said Auguste crossly. ‘Not when kidneys require his attention.’

‘I think he’s sweet on her,’ volunteered Emily. ‘I saw them spooning on the beach,’ she added, rather wistfully.

‘Our guests will be deprived of their chance of spooning this soup, unless you watch this broth, Mr Peckham,’ said Auguste
viciously, returning to the fray. James Pegg a rival in Araminta’s affections? Impossible. ‘Kindly adjust the temperature,
Mr Peckham, before it boils away, and then be so good as to ask Mr Pegg if he can spare the time to rejoin us.’

Auguste busied himself checking the stuffing, unable to get to the root of his unease. Eventually he did so. His pupils were
developing minds of their own, behaving out of character, no longer the dull but devoted group of enthusiasts he had taught
so constructively for six months. Did the seaside do this to people? Or was it more than the influence of the Broadstairs
sands?

In the lounge Lord Beddington was taking a short rest after
the exigencies of luncheon. He had made no concessions to the seaside. He was wearing a decent black cloth lounge suit, and
had no intentions of changing his mode of attire. He opened an eye as a door closed with a bang. One of the cooks came in,
judging by the white apron. He shut his eye again, then opened it once more, and glared. Algernon Peckham glanced at him,
and there was a momentary pause before he moved on to speak to James Pegg.

Beddington closed his eyes, but this time he was not asleep. He was curious to remember where he’d seen that impudent young
face before. At last he did.

There’d been a bench between them at the time.

Once luncheon was over, the afternoon began in earnest for both groups of devoted toilers. The Literary Lionisers, having
commanded their maids and valets, if they had them, to unpack, or if they had not, scurried through this tedious task themselves,
were gathering for the first event of the week, the promenade around Dickens’s Broadstairs. Armed with their texts of the
Lion’s own travel guide to the town,
Our English Watering Place
, The Lionisers were arrayed in their seaside apparel, no less excited at the beginning of their week’s holiday than had been
Auguste’s pupils. For some of them, the sands were taking precedence over the works of Mr Dickens, as they gathered to await
their leader amid the potted palms in the first-floor sun lounge overlooking the Victoria Parade, the sands and the sea.

In the kitchens below, the other group of devotees, those addicted to cuisine and at the moment wondering why, were entering
the most vital and concentrated period of Auguste’s schedule. Everyone worked in tense silence, concentrating on their own
particular task. Vegetables were being prepared; eight dozen quails were ready for the ovens; trays of mutton cutlets, to
be served with caper sauce in an attempt to please the Dickensian purists (as well as the Prince of
Wales) were waiting for their moment to come. Ingredients for the lobster salads were being assembled, the kidneys being sliced
for
Rognons à la Didier
, herbs were being chopped or minced to the accompaniment of the words of wisdom of Emily’s grandmama.

Grave discussions between the wine waiter, Auguste and Alfred were in progress; Alfred had been detailed to serve beverages
and wine to the top table this evening, at which the Prince of Wales and the committee members would dine. It had been hard
to convince the Imperial’s
sommelier
of the necessity for the presence of porter and ginger beer. When appealed to for her support over the ginger beer, Araminta
had laughed. It was not helpful, but she looked so beautiful in her blue muslin that Auguste forgave her instantly. The need
for ginger beer was agreed and put down to French eccentricity.

In the sun lounge, Sir Thomas addressed his flock. ‘We shall progress along the Parade and Albion Street, up to Fort House,
known as Bleak House, and thence to the pier,’ he announced grandly, pointing with his Golden Jubilee cane.

‘A queer old wooden pier,’ quoted Gwendolen blithely, determined to be noticed in her new sailor hat.

‘Quite,’ said Sir Thomas shortly. He marched off at a brisk pace, leading his party of fifty or so, including two in bath-chairs
intent on taking the tour, come hell or high water, the latter being most probable.

‘Pitch,’ bleated Gwendolen, ‘the pier was covered in pitch, Mr Dickens says.’ No one commented.

Uncle Mack’s Broadstairs Minstrels performing on the sands, the Punch and Judy man, the donkey boys and the fruit vendors
were stunned into momentary silence at the sight of this huge party moving along the seafront, like a leviathan as large as
the one washed up at Fishness Point in 1574. Sir Thomas was in full flood, though his
performance seemed to lack its usual fortissimo, thought Oliver to himself. It was almost as if his thoughts were not wholeheartedly
in it for some reason. The group came to a halt outside an old cottage on the front. ‘There,’ Sir Thomas announced dramatically.
‘Betsy Trotwood’s cottage from
David Copperfield
. Until recently assumed to be at Dover.’

‘Donkeys, Janet!’ trilled Gwendolen at his side.

‘We shall be viewing it later in the week, by kind consent of the owner,’ Sir Thomas continued, ignoring this contribution.
He turned to take Angelina’s arm ostentatiously, in full view of Gwendolen’s watchful gaze and that of Oliver.

The mass of promenaders bulged along in the committee’s wake, creating some difficulty as they turned into the narrow High
Street and into Albion Street. Six Broadstairs matrons attempting to shop at Marchesi’s the confectioners, two errand boys
buying bloaters from Mr Goodman the fishmonger, a few afternoon revellers strolling out from the Dolphin Inn and an eager
group from the Tourist Cycling Club staying at the Balmoral Bijou Hotel found themselves swept along with the crowd as they
pursued their leaders down Harbour Street under the ancient York Gate (which being without specific Dickensian associations
hardly received a glance). Numbers had swelled to eighty by the time the group reached the old Tartar Frigate Inn and poured
onto the pier.

‘The chances are a thousand to one that you might stay here for ten seasons and never see a boatman in a hurry,’ quoted Sir
Thomas loudly to his brood, waving a lordly hand towards William and Joe who were enjoying a quiet chew of tobacco at the
end of the pier. Eighty pairs of eyes focused on them with interest, clearly thinking them Dickensian relics.

‘Visitors, Bill,’ said Joe slowly, barely pausing in his chew.

‘Ah.’

‘Dey says dey wants to see us ’urry.’

‘Ah.’

They rose slowly and deliberately to their feet like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. ‘’Dat young Dickens, ’e were allus in an ’urry,
weren’t ’e, Bill?’

‘Ah. I remembers dat,’ announced William. ‘Used to come tearing down ’ere ’e did. Perch on the rail there, chattin’ away baht
’is books an’ all. Bill, ’e used to say, I got summat in mind for you. How d’yer feel about ’Am? ’Am?’

‘’Am, Bill?’ queried Joseph in tones of one who has asked before.

‘Aye. ’Am. ’Am Peggotty. That’s what I’ll call yer. An’ ’e did, didn’t ’e, Joe?’

‘’E did, Bill,’ agreed Joseph, with a wink only visible to his partner. ‘’E put yer into
David Copperfield
.’

With a gasp of pleasure, impressed with this firm evidence of Dickensian times, the crowd moved forward to inspect the relics.

In one lightning movement the two fishermen picked up two pails of stinking fish heads and flung them lovingly at the Lionisers’
feet. Fifty-two grateful seagulls swooped, breaking up the ranks amid cries and squeals of distress.

‘Ah,’ remarked William again. They resumed their seats as the Lionisers retreated.

‘I hear,’ said Sir Thomas hastily by way of conversation, ‘the news from Cowes was not good. The Kaiser won the Queen’s Cup.’

‘Shouldn’t mention it to His Royal Highness, Throgmorton,’ rumbled Lord Beddington. ‘He was banking on
Britannia
winning.’

‘The Kaiser is determined to win at everything,’ observed Oliver, ‘especially on the sea.’

‘Damned fellow,’ said Beddington surprisingly energeti
cally. ‘Rules our lives now. You can’t go into the Foreign Office or the club without some new story about young Willie’s
spies.’

‘Spies?’ squealed Angelina in mock alarm, clutching for protection at Sir Thomas’s arm.

‘They’re everywhere,’ grunted Lord Beddington. ‘Look at that German band down there. Spies, every man jack of them, I’ll be
bound.’

‘Not all spies for Germany are German,’ pontificated Sir Thomas. ‘In this modern age, they are everywhere, the enemy in our
midst.’

‘Not in the Literary Lionisers?’ squealed Angelina.

Sir Thomas smiled patronisingly and held her arm the more tightly.

Tempers in the kitchens rose with the temperature as ovens burned and broth smiled on. Kitchen tables resounded to the sound
of chopping herbs and eschalots by Emily. James was occupied on lobsters and kidneys, and Algernon, studiously avoiding meat,
on vegetables. Alfred had already trussed and stuffed the geese. Only Sid whistled cheerfully throughout, fetching, carrying,
soothing. ‘Herr Freimüller,’ Auguste shouted in sudden alarm, ‘where is the prune stuffing? You have provided only the sage
and onion.’ But there was no sign of Freimüller.

‘Here it is, Mr Didier. Just needs mixing with the pork,’ came Alice’s calm voice.

‘Alice, you are a blessed jewel among women,’ said Auguste fervently.

Alice hoped that Alfred was listening and taking due note. In fact he was not. He was wondering what Sir Thomas meant by his
threat to see him later. And just what he intended to say. And what he would do in return.

Fifty people (the other thirty had disengaged themselves at
the first mention of Dickens) were now taking tea in the gardens of the Albion Hotel under the shelter of parasols. The weather
was sultry, not sunny, today but you never knew when a lurking sun ray might attempt an assault upon the complexion.