Murder Makes an Entree Read online

‘Nah.’

  ‘The Duke of Stockbery, whom I advise, looks for a new supplier.’

  The Duke of Stockbery could fish for it himself, seemed to be their reaction. Auguste had blundered.

  ‘Ramsgate, you wants.’ They turned their backs.

  ‘This week, mes amis. you will look after me. And in return, on Saturday you, and not Ramsgate, will ensure that the Prince of Wales eats well.’

  Slowly they turned round.

  ‘Ah,’ remarked one. ‘Nothing against Teddy, not never.’

  ‘Ah,’ added his companion. ‘Broadstairs scrubs and Margate kings, mind. Ramsgate capons, Peter’s lings.’ They cackled.

  Disregarding this since he could make nothing of it, Auguste pressed on. ‘Bon. So it is agreed. I will come each evening and give you my requests. And you, like efficient men of Kent, will supply them in the morning.’

  ‘Ah.’ They spat in unison, and resumed their seats.

  Auguste shook hands with them, raised his hat, and retired. It was a job well done. Perhaps this seaside would be amusant after all. His imagination began to run riot, fish of all shapes and sizes floating through his mind’s eye, sauces of every hue adorning their fresh magnificence.

  Chapter Four

  The Imperial Hotel proudly faced the sea, halfway between its two rivals, the Albion with its Dickensian associations and the relative newcomer, the Grand Hotel, standing sentinel on the West Cliff. The Imperial, with its solid, ornate façade and a tower at either end, offered comfortable grandeur, like Broadstairs itself. It had been built in the 1860s, to take advantage of the sudden influx of visitors provided by the arrival of the London, Chatham and Dover Railway at Broadstairs. This late start in railway communication with the outside world enabled Broadstairs and the Imperial to gain from the benefits of visitors, while still maintaining their reputation for selectness. Steamers called at its noisy neighbours, Margate and Ramsgate, but Broadstairs, favoured by the discriminating, in the main slumbered peacefully on. The Imperial Hotel exuded the essence of Broadstairs: we are here in our excellence should you have need of us, but we shall not stoop to seek you out.

  Nevertheless its owner was a worried man. Particularly today.

  ‘I don’t know, I’m sure, Mr Dee.’ Mr Cedric Multhrop subsided into one of the comfortable armchairs in his lounge, then leapt up guiltily as though a mere hotel owner had no place to be sitting down in his guests’ domain. ‘Should it be the red carpet or the blue? That’s what I keep asking myself. The red is more correct, but new it is not, Mr Dee. I couldn’t say it’s new, but then could blue be said to be royal? That’s what I ask myself.’

  Auguste, or Mr Dee as he had become over the week, smiled. He was, after all, on holiday even if it was the all-important 5th August, the day of the Grand Banquet, of the arrival of the Prince of Wales. He had grown quite fond of Mr Multhrop with his many worries but, being on holiday, failed to view his ‘problems’ with as much anxiety as Mr Multhrop himself. Auguste had responsibilities of his own. Already early on this Saturday morning he and his pupils were beginning to prepare for the banquet in the Imperial kitchens. The hotel staff had been firmly relegated to a very small part of their own domain for the preparation of luncheon and would thereafter be merely onlookers, apart from serving the food to the hoi polloi of the guests this evening, while Auguste and his pupils served the Prince of Wales’s table.

  ‘Oh, do use the blue, Papa; it’s so pretty.’

  Auguste’s eyes misted at the sound and sight of the lovely Araminta, Multhrop’s eighteen-year-old daughter, rustling down the staircase in a delightful froufrou of petticoats, her large blue eyes fixed on her father, but well aware of every male in sight. Her curls bounced enchantingly as she clung to her father’s arm, dimpling at Auguste. ‘Do say the blue.’

  ‘Then the blue it is, my love,’ said her father fondly, as much putty in her hands as was Auguste.

  This had truly been a bewitching week, Auguste reflected. On Wednesday he had escorted Alice to the Grand Theatre at Margate where they had watched Charley’s Aunt. For himself, he did not find the piece as graceful as could be wished, but Alice seemed to find it most enjoyable and had giggled over its charms ever since. They had returned on the late theatre train, and it had been most pleasant walking down from the railway station and along the seafront so late at night; ah, to have a pretty girl by one’s side, and the touch of her lips on yours. Which girl, however?

  He might have wooed Alice away from Alfred Wittisham had Araminta not stolen his heart. Never would he forget sitting beside her in the night air watching an open-air performance of The Parvenue and listening to the band at Fort House on Thursday evening. Never would he forget the walk home along the promenade afterwards when her delicate little hand, albeit gloved, stole into his. The warm night air had quite gone to his head, and had Araminta not been quite so very unattainable, doubtless other parts also would have shared his intoxication. Fortunately a decidedly unromantic evening breeze had sprung up, subduing ardour in favour of a brisk walk home. Bracing was the word for the English seaside, Auguste had decided.

  ‘Aaah!’ cried out Mr Multhrop in anguish. Leaving his cry wafting after him, he disappeared in pursuit of a housemaid who was busily removing all the clean antimacassars that had only just been placed lovingly in position for the oil-bedaubed heads that would shortly be resting on them. Perhaps even royalty’s oil.

  An army of minions was tidying, dusting and polishing areas that the Prince of Wales could never see, unless he were to perform acrobatics; to Auguste’s eye the scene resembled the gardeners at work before the arrival of the Red Queen in Mr Carroll’s amusing tale. Mrs Multhrop sped around after them, confusing matters more, Mr Multhrop sped after her and Araminta remained still, the cynosure of all eyes, smiling delightfully and of no practical help whatsoever. It was not expected of her. Auguste repressed the traitorous thought that so far as household management went, she would prove like Mr David Copperfield’s ‘child-wife’ Dora. Some discernment she had, however, for had she not made most complimentary remarks about his filets de sole Murat?

  Similar panic was reigning in the kitchens. The Imperial’s staff, torn between a natural amour propre that a rival team had been imported to cook for the Prince of Wales and relief that they would not be responsible for royalty’s displeasure (yet with the ignoble hope that they might get all the credit), watched anxiously to ensure that the incoming team was competent. The procession of raised rook and chicken pies, with their intricate decorations, that made its appearance in the kitchen raised their expectations as high as the pie coffins, as did the jellies vanishing into the larders, and sorbets into the refrigerators.

  Auguste had adjusted the menu to his own standards. His frantic re-reading of Dickens had revealed numerous mentions of grog. Very well, he reasoned, then grog jelly was not too far removed from the mandate he had been given, and no one could object to the addition of a delicious fruit sorbet. Dickens must have mentioned fruit somewhere. They would at least remove the richness of the goose from frightened stomachs. In one corner of the kitchens the lobsters were awaiting their fate. At least there he had been successful. But as to oysters, no. Not till September, his new friends William and Joseph maintained. In vain Auguste pleaded that the Prince of Wales would not wait until September. William pointed out that they had their reputation to consider; French passion met British indomitability, and Auguste yielded. No oysters.

  William and Joseph had glanced at each other.

  ‘Crabs now,’ Joseph said. ‘You could get a nice crab or two.’

  Auguste had not observed the slow smile creeping over William’s face as Joseph placed in his hand a rod with a hook on the end. He looked at it blankly.

  ‘Dat dere’s a pungar ’ook; now you get all the crabs you want, mister; us’ll keep all dem furriners away.’

  It had been fortunate, Auguste reflected bitterly, that no necessity had rested on his catching pungar crabs this morning. One morning’s effor
ts at pungar catching had proved quite enough. First there was the indignity of rolling up his trousers and removing his socks and shoes, then the endless probing of horizontal holes in the rocks to see if pungars lurked within.

  ‘Just you tap away, Mr Auguste, and if you ’it the little feller on ’is back you’ll ’ear ’is ’ollow sound like.’

  It sounded simple; it was not. The hollow sound was the beginning of the game, not the end. For the ‘little feller’, once assaulted, retreated to the back of his hole and dug in. Battle then commenced. At the end of an hour, only one ‘little feller’ too young to know better had been in Auguste’s possession, and William and Joseph were scarcely able to restrain their mirth. French aplomb was to the fore as Auguste handed the crab to them along with the hook, raised his new Panama hat and bade them a courteous farewell.

  Now Mr Multhrop was making periodic incursions into his kitchens, moaning gently, wringing his hands, as he beheld the mountains of food everywhere. The Imperial was used to large banquets, but the added responsibility of the Prince of Wales made molehills into mountains.

  ‘I shall be ruined, beheaded, disbarred from the Buffaloes,’ he wailed.

  In his self-torture he was unable to answer the simplest query, and Auguste was forced to turn to Araminta.

  ‘Miss Multhrop, where are the bains-marie?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Didier, I don’t eat buns.’ Araminta looked distressed. She wanted to help if she could.

  Auguste closed his eyes and counted to three. Perhaps Alice would make the better wife.

  Sixty-seven Literary Lionisers were descending on Broadstairs from several directions. Some were travelling direct from Cowes, most were arriving from London by railway express, and the remainder by carriage from their country houses. The committee, as if for protection against the masses, elected to follow Auguste’s example and had reserved a first-class railway compartment on the 10.45 express from Victoria. Here too the atmosphere was strained. Only Sir Thomas, confident of victory and in his ability to overcome all opposition by his personal charm, was at ease. The edginess of the others only added to his opinion of his own rectitude. His starched collar, sober dark grey tweed suit, and the black bowler hat in the rack above him made no concessions to the seaside.

  Oliver was annoyed that Angelina had deliberately chosen to sit next to Sir Thomas; Angelina was determined to bring Sir Thomas to book as soon as she could; Gwendolen was similarly annoyed at the sight of her rival on Sir Thomas’s other side and bitterly aware that she herself was viewing considerably more of Sir Thomas’s back than of his face. Broadstairs would, however, solve everything, she told herself. Samuel Pipkin was tensing himself for the coming life and death struggle this evening, when the vital decision would be made by the Prince of Wales, and Mr Thackeray would be avenged. Even Lord Beddington was on edge, hands clasped round the duck’s-head handle of his walking stick. He didn’t sleep a wink during the journey. He had a notion something damned odd was going to happen at Broadstairs.

  ‘Welcome to Broadstairs,’ announced Sir Thomas expansively as he stepped down from the railway carriage, flicking a practised hand towards a porter. A flood of Literary Lionisers was already pouring out of the railway station, fighting in well-bred fashion over victorias and landaus. The committee, having done their duty by their flock, were left without transport.

  ‘Came here once,’ commented Lord Beddington morosely, looking round while they were waiting for cabs to return. It was one o’clock, and he needed his lunch. ‘Recognise that’ – he jerked a thumb at the nearby flint-faced water tower poking its head above the railway line, the pride of its engineer, Thomas Crampton.

  ‘Oh, a castle,’ trilled Gwendolen. ‘How romantic,’ she enthused. ‘No wonder Dickens loved Broadstairs so. Did he, I wonder, base Dotheboys Hall upon it?’

  ‘The water reservoir was not built when Dickens stayed here, Gwendolen,’ said Sir Thomas smoothly, smiling at Angelina.

  Gwendolen flushed in shame, her arms trembling in their lace leg-o’-mutton sleeves, then steadied herself. No doubt Thomas was deliberately making her look foolish in public in order to hide his real feelings. Men were strange creatures at times. She swallowed hard and thought about this afternoon’s promenade. If he did not apologise then . . .

  Oliver, set-faced, assisted Angelina into the first victoria that returned. She thanked him composedly and made room for Sir Thomas by her side. Samuel glared at everyone, wishing he were in Tunbridge Wells, the decent civilised sort of place that Mr Thackeray used to visit. Lord Beddington meditated lovingly on a good luncheon, followed by an even better snooze at the Reform. It was, he noticed, distinctly less warm than it had been, with an east wind blowing as they turned into the Parade.

  And in this mood of low spirits, the Week of the Lion began.

  In the kitchens the Imperial’s chefs were now preparing to serve a simple luncheon for the new arrivals, while preparations for the banquet continued apace. Because of the lack of space, Auguste had devised a shuttle system; as luncheon moved out in stages, so more materials for the banquet could be moved in. Heinrich, James and Alfred were poised to drag in the vegetables delivered to the tradesmen’s entrance, as the soup tureens for luncheon moved out. Alice and Emily were already engaged on chopping ingredients for sage and onion stuffing.

  ‘My grandmama says,’ remarked Emily, ‘that it’s unlucky to use sage when it’s blooming. You should never let it flower at all.’ She looked disapprovingly at the cluster of purple flowers amid the handfuls of green-grey leaves.

  ‘Your grandmama will be proved correct, Miss Dawson, if you do not watch your use of that knife,’ Auguste pointed out quickly. ‘You do not concentrate, Miss Dawson. Where is your mind today?’

  Emily’s mind was partly on the enjoyable walk she had taken with Heinrich, who had unexpectedly proved a most delightful companion during the week; partly on the bright green foulard dress she had seen on sale at Bobby’s in Margate yesterday when they visited the famous menagerie at the Grand Hall by the Sea, and partly it was on the coming evening. What, if any, dangers did it hold for her?

  ‘Emily,’ said Heinrich kindly, clearing his throat, ‘the kidneys have arrived. You do not pay attention.’ Having begun the week convinced that Emily, after her attack on his Nesselrode pudding, was one of the stupidest females he had met, Heinrich had seven days later become quite besotted by her beauty, wit and charm. Truly, this seaside air had much to recommend it. He had almost lost interest in a reunion with the Kaiser.

  Alice’s mind was not on kidneys either. She had had a splendid and cultural week. Not only had Auguste taken her to see the amusing Charley’s Aunt, but Alfred had escorted her to Ramsgate to see Harbour Lights. It had been great fun. And even more fun had been the fact that James Pegg had not been present; secure in his knowledge, as he thought, that Alfred was taking an extra lesson in quenelles cookery from Mr Didier. She laughed at the thought of his face next morning when he realised he’d been outwitted – it wasn’t hard to do.

  ‘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 ba
skets 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.