Murder Makes an Entree Read online

  ‘My canapés,’ screamed Algernon Peckham, clutching his head. ‘This is what happens when you let governesses into the kitchen,’ he stormed at Emily.

  ‘You can’t talk to a lady like that,’ said Lord Wittisham, shocked, offering an impeccable handkerchief to Emily.

  Alice Fenwick glared.

  ‘Only a butcher’s son could say such a thing,’ sobbed Emily, goaded out of her usual timidity.

  Algernon turned red at this double attack on his pedigree, and opened his mouth to retaliate, but was frustrated by Auguste’s frenzied: ‘Les anges,’ called forth not in supplication for external and higher assistance, but from the smell of burning. Alfred Wittisham promptly detached himself from Emily and rushed for the stove, colliding with his two admirers, Alice Fenwick and James Pegg. The latter acted as a sort of bulldog protector to his lordship, who had won his devotion quite accidentally by inviting him to dine at Plum’s under the impression that Clubland was James Pegg’s usual evening haunt. At the moment James’s chief object was to protect his lordship from the attentions of Alice Fenwick, whether through jealousy at his own rejected suit at the hands of Alice, or an altruistic desire to preserve his lordship from matrimony was not clear. In any case, it was immaterial, since his lordship, oblivious to these efforts on his behalf, had matrimonial plans of his own, unknown to any of his fellow pupils.

  In silence the six apprentices of the Auguste Didier School of Cuisine regarded the three ruined entremets, while their maître stood by unable to speak through shame. But, rising to emergency, Auguste dexterously dressed the Nesselrode with marrons glacés to hide the white smears of removed cream, arranged the cream on the canapés to resemble a recent brainwave on the part of a master cook and despatched a fresh set of angels on horseback to the frying pans.

  ‘A chef,’ he told his pupils severely, ‘must be at all times prepared for disaster.’

  The immediate damage was repaired, but Auguste’s worries were not so quickly dispelled. For six months they had worked together in apparent amicability, and now suddenly it seemed to be breaking down. Perhaps they all needed a holiday. And thank goodness they were just about to have one.

  It had been an inspiration on his part to go away with his class on a Fish Fortnight. It was July, and so they would combine the pleasures of work with those of a holiday. They would go where all the English went in the summer: to the seaside. What fun it would be. He had never been to The Seaside in the sense in which the English used it, and he was eager to try its delights. To the French, it was a strange idea to wear odd clothes, to watch marionettes when this could be done equally well in the Tuileries jardins, even odder to climb into clumsy damp bathing machines, where one changed into unbecoming, vulgar garments, and was pulled by a large horse into the water. Why not take the waters in more elegance at an inland watering place, argued the French, where respectable food might be obtained and enjoyed with the comforting thought that any unhealthy humours resulting from it might be disposed of the following day at the spa?

  Nevertheless, Auguste Didier was willing to try all experiences, and he wished to see what this Seaside was like. Moreover the Bank Holiday Monday would occur while they were there. He had passed many bank holidays in his years in England, but these, he had been told by dear Egbert, were a mere nothing compared with one spent at The Seaside. Very well, he would go. And moreover they would have the advantage of being able to cook with fish freshly caught from the sea, bought from the local fisherman or from local markets. What pleasures were in store there. No tired, flabby, dull-eyed offerings, as so often found in London. No more smoked fish, so prevalent in the cities. But fresh John Dory, fresh crabs—

  ‘Mr Auguste,’ a voice broke in on his musings, ‘what’s the Prince of Wales like when you meet him?’

  ‘A flounder,’ replied Auguste dreamily.

  The sight of Alice’s surprised face brought him back to reality. Auguste blushed. He had been guilty of absent-mindedness in the kitchen. How often had he reproved his pupils for this heinous crime. He brought his full attention back to the important matter in hand: food. Broadstairs must wait.

  Interesting touch, this cream. Several floors above them the Prince of Wales was giving due attention to the canapés named after him. He did not appear to be doing so, for he had long cultivated the art of apparent courteous attention to his companions, while musing to himself on far more enjoyable subjects. For once, however, he did allow his thoughts momentarily to be deflected to the matter on hand. Why on earth had he allowed himself to be elected honorary president for the year? Literary Lionisers indeed. It didn’t seem too much of a chore when you dictated a letter about how pleased you’d be, and so on, but just see where it could end up. It wasn’t all Poularde Derby. Far from it. What it meant in the end was that you couldn’t arrive at Goodwood in decent time for the start tomorrow, and then you had to be dragged away hard on the heels of Cowes, deprived of celebrations at the Royal Yacht Club for what must undoubtedly be a victorious week for Britannia. All to go to some bally literary dinner. Dickens indeed. And at Broadstairs of all places, which he always associated with Mama, since she was always going on about what fun it had been in her youth. Fun! Not a good game of baccarat anywhere. Thank heavens, he’d be leaving for Marienbad shortly. Mind you, they didn’t have angels on horseback at Marienbad. Not like these anyway. He concentrated on food again. That Poularde Derby took him right back to his own younger days and Monte Carlo. He sighed. He was getting on he supposed. Nearly sixty. His Monte Carlo days were over. Thank heavens Poularde Derbys went on for ever. My word, but this chef was good.

  He shuddered at what Broadstairs might produce. Glancing round the table at the six committee members of the Literary Lionisers, he had little faith in their ability to ensure a tolerable Brown Windsor, let alone a Poularde Derby; it must have been Emma behind tonight’s fare. A good chap she’d hired. What a group these were. The young woman had possibilities perhaps, and that young fellow, for all he had the cheek to wear a short dinner jacket. Where the devil did he think he was? America? In all these societies it was the old ’uns ruled the roost, though. Right and proper too, except when it came to matters affecting Albert Edward’s stomach.

  ‘You will truly enjoy the evening, Your Royal Highness,’ trilled one frightful-looking woman. He’d a notion he’d met her husband once, poor devil. Something in the city. ‘Especially the readings after the banquet. Such a pity you cannot arrive for the afternoon walk around Broadstairs. Where he trod and laid his head, you know.’ She lowered her voice in appreciation of this year’s hero. ‘Our English Watering Place, he called it. Oh, how he loved it. As you would too, sir. Would indeed you could attend for the whole week?’ Her voice rose in enthusiasm, while the Prince of Wales hastily made a note to make sure that Mama invited him to lunch at Osborne on Sunday and that his yacht Osborne (tactfully allotted the same name) arrived well after the appointed time for the afternoon torture.

  ‘Indeed a pity, madam,’ he sighed. ‘A most worthy writer, Mr Dickens.’

  ‘My own tastes are for Thackeray,’ put in a rounded gentleman who, for all his preferences, resembled Mr Pickwick in girth.

  For once Albert Edward, his mind still running on the glories of the food of Auguste Didier, picked up the wrong word, and was about to enquire whose chef Mr Thackeray might be, but was saved from this unfortunate gaffe by the intervention of the Society’s chairman, Sir Thomas Throgmorton.

  ‘I myself,’ said Sir Thomas pompously, ‘consider Mr Dickens a giant who stands alone. Imagine a series of readings from Thackeray.’ The Prince of Wales could not. ‘Compare this to the gamut of Mr Dickens from the immortal Pickwick to the majesty of Bleak House. From the humour of Scrooge to the savage glories of Oliver Twist. I myself,’ he coughed deprecatingly, ‘shall be reading from this dramatic work after the banquet.’ A repressed snort from ‘Mr Pickwick’, as the Prince had mentally named Thackeray’s advocate.

  ‘You are always so brave,’ said
That Woman in hushed tones, though with a slight note of sarcasm, so it seemed to the Prince. He brightened up. A little bit of discord in the hen coop sometimes cheered these events up. ‘It was,’ she informed the Prince sweetly, ‘the reading from Oliver Twist that is supposed to have led to his death.’

  ‘Whose death?’ asked the Prince bewildered.

  ‘The Great Man’s,’ explained That Woman. ‘His doctors advised him that the strain of these readings was too much for him, but he persisted. His public came first.’ She wiped a tear from her eye with a lace handkerchief. A hurmph of a snore greeted her remark. The Prince of Wales turned a frosty eye on the offender, as he awoke from his peaceful refuge. Albert Edward took a dim view of social lapses in his presence, even from elderly gentlemen.

  ‘I myself,’ intoned That Woman remorselessly, ‘in the character of Agnes Wickfield, shall be reading from David Copperfield.’

  The Prince of Wales in a rare fit of flight of fancy thought the literary lady from The Pickwick Papers might suit her better, but his air of polite approval did not betray this for one second.

  ‘And you, madam?’ He bent his eye with relief on the decent-looking female, who answered complacently:

  ‘I shall take The Death of Little Nell, sir.’

  ‘The harrowing scene from The Old Curiosity Shop. You will recall, sire, the American public crowded at the quayside as the ship arrived from England with the latest instalment demanding to know whether this brave child still lived,’ added the young man.

  Albert Edward looked at him sharply. Did he detect a note of parody in his voice? Perhaps so, for there was a distinct edge to Sir Thomas’s voice, as he quickly replied: ‘A natural death, of course. Unlike my death of Nancy at the ruthless hands of Bill Sikes.’

  This literary conversation was getting too much. A spark of annoyance crossed the Prince of Wales’ face, just as Sir Thomas added: ‘At Broadstairs, sir, you will hear of murder. A most foul and harrowing murder.’

  Auguste sank back in relief. It was over. He and his pupils sat down around Gwynne’s largest kitchen table to partake of their own supper before vacating the premises to allow Emma’s staff to embark on the somewhat less rewarding task of washing up. Normally Auguste would insist on this being done by his pupils, even himself, but this evening was different. They were guest artistes. Each of his pupils was now engaged on silent appraisal of how successful the others’ dishes had been. An ill-assorted group they might be, Auguste thought, but, he put it to himself in all modesty, they were at one in appreciation of the standard of cuisine which only Auguste Didier could impart to them. Cooking had made strange kitchen-fellows, however. Who would have thought that that somewhat vacuous but patrician Lord Wittisham would befriend the stolid and definitely non-patrician James Pegg? Although the slowness of Pegg’s movements concealed the intelligence of his brain, Auguste suspected. His thoughts were speedily removed from such considerations as the door opened with a crash, and seven pairs of startled eyes turned to the newcomer.

  ‘Ah, it is only Monsieur Sid,’ said Auguste resignedly.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Didier.’ Sid, or Mr Sidney Hands, to give him his full name, dressed for the evening in the livery of Gwynne’s Hotel, was Auguste’s general factotum at Curzon Street, a nineteen-year-old from Stepney. Normally a lively eel, under everyone’s feet and in everyone’s way, this evening he had been detailed ostensibly to remain on duty at the doors of the suite, but in fact to report on the company’s reactions to the delights before them.

  ‘One of ’em said I was like Sam Waller, Mr Didier,’ Sid offered cheerfully. ‘Who’s ’e? I’ve ’eard of Lewis Waller.’

  ‘Weller, Sid, not Waller. And Mr Sam Weller is not related to the eminent and popular actor. He is a character from Dickens.’

  ‘Dickens.’ Sid was struck by a happy thought. ‘That wuz ’oo they was talking about up there. Some banquet they’re going to have. ’E’s a writer, ain’t ’e? Saw one of ’is plays at the penny gaff once. The True Story of Oliver Twist. It wasn’t ’arf long – took twenty minutes. There wuz only me left in the place at the end and I wuz only there, ’cos I was with—’

  ‘Enough of your romantic revelations, Sid,’ said Auguste sternly, well aware of the reason for the popularity of penny gaffs. ‘Kindly tell us what comments you heard about the food.’

  But Sid was not to be deflected now. ‘They said there was to be a murder, Mr Didier.’

  Murder! Auguste was oblivious to the gasps from his pupils as they interrogated Sid. The word murder made him recoil. All too often murder had appeared in his life. At Stockbery Towers, at the Galaxy Theatre, at Plum’s Club for Gentlemen; it had even followed him to his native town of Cannes. And see how it had ended there! He firmly dispelled the spark of misery at the thought of Tatiana, lost to him for ever. It was true that in exchange murder had brought him the warm friendship with Inspector Egbert Rose of Scotland Yard, and his wife, dear Edith, but at what price.

  ‘I wonder what it’s like to murder someone?’ Algernon was murmuring as he elegantly sipped soup.

  ‘I shall have great pleasure in finding out, Mr Peckham,’ said Auguste exasperatedly, ‘if you retain that disparaging expression whilst partaking of my Consommé à la Prince de Galles.’

  ‘You’ve investigated quite a lot of murders haven’t you, Mr Didier?’ Alice regarded him admiringly. ‘I read about you in the Harmsworth Magazine. The new Auguste Dupin, they call you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Auguste shortly. Not the great cook, no, just a penny-halfpenny detective. Not even one in his own right, but merely ‘a new Dupin’. For this he was to be renowned. At times it gave him great pleasure, for it was indeed true that his powers of detection were extraordinary, but this was not one of those times.

  ‘You must be very clever,’ said Emily timidly.

  ‘Non,’ said Auguste, pleased. ‘Ah, perhaps just a little, for it is like cooking, you understand. You have the ingredients, the evidence. You put them together, you stir them, you have the solution – voilà the dish is ready. It is a matter of logical deduction, plus a little bit of the extra genius of the detective, or the cook. I am a maître chef of detection,’ he ended grandly.

  ‘Yer a marvel, Mr Didier,’ commented Sid cheerily. ‘His Nibs up there liked that chicken thing you sent up,’ he added, recalling at last his duty for the evening. ‘I expect that’s what he wants to tell yer.’

  ‘When?’ asked Auguste bewildered.

  ‘Now, I s’pose. ’E asked to see yer. ’Course,’ he flung after Auguste’s retreating figure, rushing wildly out of the door, hurling imprecations behind him that did not betoken well for Sid on his return, ‘it might be because ’e thought it was orf.’

  The Prince of Wales, already hatted, cloaked and walking-sticked, was leaving. He had reached Gwynne’s foyer when Auguste’s figure hurled itself to stand to attention by the door.

  ‘So you’re the cook?’ Albert Edward paused. Pity his punctuality wasn’t as good as his cooking. Nevertheless: ‘Fine supper, fine supper. That Poularde—’ The Prince of Wales paused. His brows knitted. ‘Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’

  ‘In Cannes, Your Royal Highness. The – er – cricket pavilion,’ Auguste murmured apologetically.

  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 skie
s. 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.