Authors: Amy Myers
‘Which ladies?’ Auguste was on familiar ground now.
Peeps eyed him disapprovingly. ‘We don’t bandy ladies’ names about in England, Mr Didier.’
Auguste sighed to himself. ‘Naturally, Mr Peeps. I just thought if by any chance the ladies were connected with any of Plum’s gentlemen, it might provide a motive for Mr Erskine to be attacked.’
Peeps thumbed a corner of
The Times
, a habit he reserved normally for Holloway. ‘That young Briton fellow’s got a pretty wife, they say,’ then flushed at this betrayal of his humanity.
‘That is so, Mr Peeps,’ said Auguste gravely.
‘Mind you, it’s all some madman, you’ll see,’ Peeps said hastily. ‘And something to do with that Colonel Worthington, I reckon.’
Auguste gave up. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mr Peeps.’
‘Hrrumph,’ said Peeps, settling down to his duties once more. ‘Mind you,’ he flung in a spirit of truce at Auguste’s departing back, ‘Mr Preston don’t like Mr Erskine.’
‘Antimony,’ remarked Rose gloomily, gazing out of the kitchen window on to the unprepossessing basement area beyond, where Auguste’s parsley boxes were sprouting with spring enthusiasm. ‘’Course, it’s doctors mainly like this sort of trick. Got any doctors in Plum’s?’
‘One, yes,’ said Auguste, busily stirring the provençale sauce. ‘But he is a highly respected nonagenarian, who
attends upon Her Majesty. I think it highly unlikely he stole into the luncheon room to put poison in a fellow member’s food.’
‘Overdose of emetic that’s all,’ said Rose, disregarding Auguste’s statement. ‘He threw it up before it could do any harm. No, it’s a joker all right. Not a job for me. I might put someone on to getting to the bottom of these letters. Twitch perhaps.’ Rose thought malevolently of his underling, Sergeant Ambrose Stitch. Serve him right. It wasn’t really a CID sergeant category crime either, but with all these lords and what-nots around, McNaughten of the Yard would need to impress.
‘Ah, no, Inspector, not Sergeant Stitch,’ Auguste pleaded. He had had little to do with the sergeant, but what he had so far seen of him did not propel him to improve his acquaintance.
‘Don’t want Stitch, eh?’ Rose said idly, eyeing the lobster pie wistfully.
‘That is for luncheon,’ said Auguste firmly.
‘Ah. Well, Monsieur Didier, if you disdain my best sergeant, you’d better hurry up and solve the mystery yourself to get him out quick, eh? How far have you got?’
‘I have certain trains of thought, monsieur. Not yet complete, you understand,’ replied Auguste guardedly, desperately wondering how best to disguise the fact that these trains of thought provided a mere garnish to a dish at the moment consisting of little more than the equivalent of a few unpeeled potatoes. Had Peeps been present he would have been gratified to hear his theory being given credence.
‘We had to decide,
mon cher Inspecteur
, whether Mr Erskine is the main ingredient of our villain’s recipe or whether he is but one.’
‘I can’t say I follow, Mr Didier. Let’s stick to simple facts, shall we? Most crimes start out that way.’ It was true. When Polti, the Italian anarchist, had been arrested back in ’94, they’d picked him up because he’d been to buy the ingredients for a bomb. After that it was easy. Sergeant Sweeney followed him around till he caught him with the bomb in his possession. On top of a London bus. Simple, clear-cut. ‘Now the fact here is that we have a practical
joker, that’s all. One with a nasty sense of humour, I admit. But no sign that he’s out to kill, or he’d have done so by now. None of this hocus-pocus. This joker is either someone who’s trying to scare Mr Erskine or someone who’s got it in for Plum’s and reckons Mr Erskine’s his best target, being in the public eye.’
‘In either case I believe you are wrong, Inspector. There may well be some sour sediment at the bottom of our claret. And this sediment may lead to murder.’
‘No. You mark my words, Didier. Your murderer doesn’t advertise his intentions in advance. Just a practical joker. Twitch will find him,’ he added meanly.
‘
I
will find him, monsieur,’ said Auguste simply.
Agnes was breathless with excitement. Here she was alone in Monsieur Auguste’s private sanctum and since she could think of no sins she had committed recently, save for over-salting the
gratin dauphinois
, the reason for her summons could only be good. His eyes would be fixed on her alone. She began to read all sorts of hidden messages in their dark, eloquent depths. In her dreams last night he had swept her into his arms in the midst of her raising the pork pie, and murmured sweet words against her mouth, praised her eyes, her hair, her Victoria pudding . . .
This morning he did not sweep her into his arms, but he was asking her help, the next best thing, she supposed, a little wistfully.
‘Anything strange, Mr Didier?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘I don’t know, I’m sure. There was that young man kissing Mary—’
‘No, no,
ma petite
, nothing like that. In the club.’
Agnes racked her brains, anxious to please, and came up with gold. ‘That book – the Suggestions Book. There was some pages ripped out.’
‘Yes.’ This did not interest Auguste. The question of the admission of ladies was irrelevant beside the other matters.
‘Well,’ said Agnes, deflated, ‘I saw who did it. It was that Member of Parliament, Mr Preston.’
‘Samuel Preston,’ repeated Auguste thoughtfully. True, he had thought the question of the admission of ladies
irrelevant, but the name of Preston following Peeps’ last cryptic remark was too much of a coincidence. But what did it mean? Did it mean it was Preston’s suggestion of which he later repented? Or did it mean something more sinister . . .?
High in his small office in Scotland Yard, Inspector Rose was regretting his hasty decision to leave Plum’s to Stitch – or rather to Didier and Stitch. Sometimes his sense of humour got the better of him, he decided grumpily. He had forgotten about the feast of Plum’s Passing. He’d dearly love to be there . . .
From the gardens, lurking near the tradesmen’s entrance, a slim figure gazed up at Plum’s. Gaylord Erskine would be here for Plum’s Passing. Undoubtedly. The run of
Hamlet
was finished and the new production would not start till next week. And Mrs Erskine would be at Plum’s as well. A smile of pure happiness crossed the watcher’s face.
The only begetter of the feast was for a rare moment in his life doubting his abilities. Sitting in Emma’s sitting room, he had temporarily put aside the club misfortunes and was running over for the umpteenth time the menu for Plum’s Passing. It was his second Passing since he had joined the club but this year it was the fiftieth anniversary. Clearly the best of Auguste Didier was going to be called for.
For the umpteenth time also, the image of Alexis Soyer rose before his mind. In his rational moments, Auguste knew Soyer to have been a lovable, talented, generous man. In his more irrational moments he saw him as a devil set to taunt and mock him; in his mind’s eye Soyer was forever the barrier his own genius could not surpass. ‘I tell you, Emma, when I get to the gates of heaven, St Peter will say, “Ah, but Auguste, you cannot enter. Your
cailles bardées awe feuilles de vignes
were inferior to Monsieur Soyer’s.”’
‘Whereas I shall be right in there, swapping receipts with dear Alexis,’ said Emma smugly.
‘Not,
ma mie
, if you contrive to be so niggardly and use inferior brandy in your mincemeat—’
‘My mincemeat,’ snapped Emma dangerously, ‘is between me and St Peter.’
‘Very well, my love. Very well,’ said Auguste hastily. ‘But tell me, Emma,’ pleadingly, ‘am I right – should I perhaps serve a dinner
à la Russe
instead?’
‘Anything Soyer could do, you can outdo,’ said Emma forthrightly. Auguste cast a look of doubt at such unexpected support, but accepted the compliment. Once again he stared at the menu in front of him, his own, and compared it with the seemingly incomparable menu of the banquet given for Ibrahim Pasha in 1846, cooked by Soyer. 1846 had been the year of Plum’s founding, and perhaps Plum’s presence at the Soyer banquet had inspired the very begetting of Plum’s.
Seize potages.
Well, that was simple. But he, Auguste, could do better. Victoria soup, soup
à la Louis Philippe
, no. Plum’s should dine on wine soup, and perhaps chestnut or lobster. He brightened a little. Sixteen fish dishes, four each of four different fish dishes. There, too, he would excel. No one could beat Auguste at a
sole normande
, for instance, not even the recipe of the great Grimod de La Reyniere. And a salmon pudding perhaps.
Seize relevés
, the roasts. No problems there. Fifty-four entrées.
Fifty-four?
All by himself? He paled a little. Yet he knew it would be necessary. Out of the 200 members of Plum’s at least 150 would be packed in for Plum’s Passing. Anybody who could come by train, steerage, carriage, foot would be there.
Seize rôtis – bon.
Easy. Fifty-four entremets. He began to read:
six de gelées macédoine de fruits au Dantzic, six de croquantes d’amandes aux cerises, six de tartelettes pralinées aux abricots
. . . his eye slipped to the savoury ones.
Quatre de haricots verts au beurre noisette.
Ah, safer ground here. Then the desserts, those crowning marvels of spun meringue, the
pièce montée, crème d’Égypte à l’Ibrahim Pasha
, an honour to the distinguished guest. True it would crumple at the first touch of a knife, but no matter. The glory was in the creation . . . like the
pièce montée
he had created at the Galaxy . . . no, he would not think of the Galaxy – or of darling Maisie.
His face grew paler and paler as he read on grimly.
Perhaps he should simplify his menu? He compared the two again. No, that he could not do. It was necessary. He must rival Soyer.
Emma Pryde watched him amusedly. She had never seen him look so downcast. ‘Tell you what, Auguste,’ she offered, ‘I’ll come in and give you a hand . . . They can manage ’ere without me for a day. I’ll put the fear of God into ’em, if they can’t.’
Auguste regarded her with horror. True, she was the famous cook Emma Pryde, but a woman? She was his idol, it was true, but his partner? In his art? Work with him? But, on the other hand, no one had such a hand with the desserts, with pastry and patisserie, as had Emma.
She watched the conflicting emotions cross his face, understood them very well, and at last, putting him out of his misery, said, ‘You’ll be the maitre, Auguste. Naturally. I’ll just be a pastrymaid for the evening. Keep my tongue to myself for a change.’
He regarded her suspiciously. ‘But is that possible,
ma chériel
,’ he asked simply.
‘Absolutely,’ she said gravely. ‘I’ll tell you
afterwards
what I think, and follow your instructions while it’s ’appening.’
‘You will do this for me?’ said Auguste, impressed, for he understood what this meant, this delegation of power. Especially from Emma.
‘It’ll give me a chance to snoop around and find out what’s going on. You don’t seem to be getting very far.’
She had said the wrong thing. He glared.
‘
Ma mie
, since you have refused to discuss your
friends
’ (heavy emphasis) ‘with me, I am a little hamstrung.’
She was silent for a moment, then said almost pleadingly, ‘Charlie
is
my friend, Auguste.’
‘If he is innocent, he has nothing to fear,’ he said loftily.
‘Yes, but – oh very well,’ she snapped. ‘But it isn’t just Gertie Briton, you know. Erskine has leaving shops all over London.’ Offhandedly she rattled off three more female names, then, ‘Sylvia Preston—’
Auguste drew in his breath sharply. ‘Mrs Preston!’
‘No, daughter,’ said Emma crisply, not looking at him.
‘That is bad.’
Emma did not comment, but swept on: ‘There are others, too, besides Erskine. Peregrine Salt and James Prendergast, for example.’
‘
What?
’
She laughed. ‘Not like that. A feud, that’s all. Over Africa. Lord Bulstrode, Colonel Worthington. Over a hat.’
‘A
what
?’
‘A hat. Really, Auguste. Do listen. Rafael Jones, Colonel Worthington. Reasons unknown.’
‘Stop. All this? In that place of peace, Plum’s?’
‘Of course,’ said Emma, clucking at Disraeli, ‘it’s a club. Now do let me ’elp you detect – or cook – it’ll be a romp.’
‘A romp!’ he echoed, scandalised. ‘A romp is not how I see my art.’
‘Don’t be so stiff and starchy, Auguste. It doesn’t suit you. You’re not like that in bed.’
Auguste opened his mouth, then reflected, and shut it again.
‘They are hardly the same thing,’ he remarked.
‘Oh yes, they are,’ said Emma, ‘you think about it. The hors d’oeuvres, the entrées, the re—’
‘Perhaps,’ said Auguste hastily, ‘but for Plum’s Passing we keep them separate,
hein
?’
She laughed. ‘I tell you, Auguste. This will be an evening we’ll never forget.’
And in that she was entirely accurate.
Luncheon the next day was unusually quiet. Only three members were lunching, and one of them was Worthington, for once subdued.
Nollins could not understand it, for he had seen the morning room unusually full of people, talking animatedly in earnest little groups, heard the murmur of excited raised voices. But suddenly most of them had melted away. Did they think they were going to be poisoned perhaps? This new spectre haunted him, in his mind’s eye the graph of restaurant receipts taking a severe and irreparable plunge, sinking Plum’s into bankruptcy.
A more immediate result was that Auguste’s best grouse
pie was wasted. The chef took this as a direct insult against himself, and set out to discover why.
People came into the club, and half an hour later were seizing their hats back from Peeps and retiring again. This was unusual. Was it to do with the weather outside?
It wasn’t Derby Day was it? Nollins asked himself anxiously.
By four o’clock the place was like a morgue.
It was Worthington, retiring after his lunch to make use of the facilities, who provided the solution. Red-faced he came steaming up to Nollins: