Murder Makes an Entree (13 page)

‘
Quo corpus
, Naseby?’ Rose provoked him with dim memories of schoolboy Latin. ‘Where’s your body?’

‘That’s what he’s got to tell
us
,’ Naseby retorted, coming back like Jem Mace.

In the event it was not going to be Auguste who gave this information but Naseby’s own sergeant, who burst in with the news
that the Cowes harbour master had telephoned to announce the arrival of the yacht
Osborne
with the Prince of Wales aboard.

Naseby’s face fell, as Auguste’s spirits rose.

‘There might have been coercion,’ Naseby muttered hopefully. ‘Removing a witness from the scene of a murder is an important
crime. Ten to one, the Prince of Wales saw him do it,’ pointing at Auguste. ‘Vital witness. I’ll be speaking to His Royal
Highness about this.’

‘I do not think that you will find the Prince overjoyed to be reminded of his presence here,’ said Auguste.

‘I don’t need advice from you, Didier. You aren’t out of the wood yet. Far from it. You were the cook of this banquet. And
we’ve got a corpse on our hands as a result. An important corpse. He must have been given the stuff in his food.’

‘Or when he left the table on two occasions,’ Auguste said firmly, remembering Sir Thomas’s absence after the meal, which
had been longer surely than it took merely to change his clothes for those of Bill Sikes. Had he felt symptoms then? Or earlier,
when he first left the table? Was what they had taken to be a problem of the stomach something more deadly? Were the paleness
and emotion on his face as he arrived not fury at Pipkin’s performance but symptoms of poison? Or – a thought struck him –
was it in the water from which he drank at the reading lectern?

‘The doctor tells us that if it’s the stuff he thinks it is, it can take a little while to work, especially if Sir Thomas
drank coffee. Might have brought some of the stuff up while he was away from the table. Took coffee, did he?’

Auguste nodded. ‘Several cups.’

Naseby smiled. A trump had been deftly played.

‘Just a minute,’ said Rose mildly. ‘Let’s take things from the beginning. How do you know it’s murder not suicide, Naseby?’

‘No letter,’ replied Naseby scathingly. ‘Important man like that wouldn’t go without a note.’

He had a point there, agreed Auguste reluctantly, remembering Sir Thomas’s character. ‘The reading, Eg—, Inspector Rose, this
was a high moment of Sir Thomas’s evening. Why should he miss it? Why not take poison later instead of during the meal or
the reading itself?’

‘Could have had a sudden shock,’ snorted Naseby, forgetting which side he was on, and unwilling to concede anything to Auguste.

‘How would he obtain the poison so quickly?’ Auguste asked.

Naseby leapt up from his corner seat in a temper. ‘Look here, you. You’re here to answer questions, not ask them. You’re a
suspect, not a detective, and don’t you forget it. You don’t go committing murders on my territory, no matter what the Yard
says.’

Rose remained diplomatically silent. Uncomfortably Auguste was made aware in the gentlest way that he was indeed a suspect
at this early stage. He had been the cook.

‘Tell us about the banquet,’ barked Naseby, aware he had scored a minor victory.

‘It began with mutton broth,’ said Auguste unhappily.

Egbert Rose’s eyebrows rose gently.

‘It is not usual in August, this I know,’ fiercely, ‘but I do not compose this menu. I am told what to do. It is composed
of dishes that Charles Dickens liked.’

Naseby nodded knowledgeably. ‘And you cooked everything yourself?’ he asked comfortably.

‘Ah no. There are six pupils at my school. They assist me.’

‘You’re still a learner, eh?’ smirked Naseby.

Auguste shot him an indignant glance. ‘I am the owner of a cooking school – through the generosity of the Grand Duke Igor,’
he added as a throwaway, pleased at the look of fury on Naseby’s face. ‘My pupils accompanied me here for a fortnight’s holiday
during which they would acquire the art of fish cookery.’ It occurred to him with a sudden pang that this was now in jeopardy.

‘And how did you get into the Imperial, you and your six cooks? Ulterior motive, it seems to me.’

‘We had no motive other than to enjoy our holiday,’ said Auguste a little pathetically. ‘The Prince of Wales discovered that
I was to be at Broadstairs at this time; my cooking pleased him,’ he added simply, ‘and
voilà
, he asked for me to cook this banquet too. How could I say no?’ he asked rhetorically, vowing next time he would do just
that.

‘Seems very fishy to me,’ said Naseby.

‘No need to make silly jokes, Naseby,’ said Rose haughtily. ‘This is a serious business. There’s been a murder, remember.’

Naseby, who had not been aware of making a joke, glared at Auguste. This was all his fault. ‘Where are these people now, Didier?’

‘At the house where we are staying, I expect. Blue Horizons on Victoria Parade. I do not know. I have not been there since
yesterday morning.’ Weariness swept over him.

‘Six potential murderers, and you don’t know where they are? Is that because you know they aren’t murderers, Didier? Because
you did it yourself?’

‘It is not,’ yelped Auguste, wishing Egbert would help.

At last he did. ‘It seems to me,’ he announced, ‘we’d
better see all these pupils together.
After
we’ve learnt the post-mortem results. You’ve sealed the kitchen, of course, Naseby? Your men stopped any clearing up, naturally.’

Naseby’s face glazed over.

‘I did this myself yesterday evening,’ said Auguste.

Naseby glowered. ‘You went in the kitchen yourself though, I’m sure,’ he said viciously.

The kitchens smelled and looked terrible. Even at the best of times, a kitchen after a banquet for over seventy was hardly
appetising. This time, without even the zest of being able to assess the success of his recipes from the quantities consumed
or left on plates, it seemed to Auguste a sorry place indeed. The scullery was full of dirty pans and half-washed china; the
larders littered with cold geese, cutlets and vegetables everywhere; the tables groaning with unappetising-looking dishes
of kidneys, tureens of soup and half-eaten tarts.

Rose and Naseby gulped, for once their thoughts in accord. There were a lot of dirty dishes to sort through, one by one. Rose
sighed. ‘Just give us an idea where to start, Mr Didier, and we’ll get a team in,’ Naseby nodded fervently. ‘I suppose,’ continued
Rose, looking around hopelessly, ‘we can’t say that the top table had a different menu. It wouldn’t be as easy as that.’

‘
Non
, Inspector, everyone had the same – oh, save for the Prince of Wales for whom I made a special soup.’

Naseby positively glowed. ‘And who’s to say Sir Thomas didn’t eat it instead?’ impressing even himself by his quickwitted
thinking.

Auguste shrugged, ‘Perhaps someone saw. I cannot say. You could ask the Prince of Wales – if you think he is a reliable witness,’
he added ironically.

Naseby’s eyes narrowed as he indicated that this would be an early priority.

‘But I do not see why Sir Thomas should eat it. The Prince does not like mutton broth. He does like almond soup. Sir Thomas
himself ordered the mutton broth on the menu.’

‘So you say.’

‘And anyone else will say,’ snapped Auguste, losing patience, and earning himself a warning look from Egbert.

‘Very well. Show us this broth.’ They duly investigated the remains of the huge tureens of soup.

‘Next was the lobster,’ said Auguste, waves of tiredness sweeping over him. ‘Everyone had his own salad prepared in the kitchen.’

‘Where are the plates with the remains?’

Auguste took them into the scullery. ‘The plates at least for the first four courses are washed as they come out of the dining
room.’ Rose groaned. ‘But I do not see how the lobster could be poisoned. It was all prepared together, the mayonnaise mixed
up with it and then the mixtures put in shells and the shells put on plates.’

‘So only the person who served the lobster or put it on the plates could have poisoned it?’

Auguste agreed bleakly, but it seemed so unlikely.

‘Here are the dishes for the
entremet
courses, some of those for the roast course, those for the cheese, the savouries and the desserts, the glasses and the coffee
cups. Only the glasses for the roast and dessert wine, of course. The others would be washed first as a priority. And the
brandy glasses are here.’ Wearily he pointed out each stack. ‘And there,’ he said to Naseby, ‘in that bin you will find the
lobster shells in which each portion of salad was arranged.’

A smile was almost brought to Auguste’s face at the thought of Multhrop’s reaction as half the Imperial’s china vanished into
medical detectives’ laboratories.

‘Next the entrées.’ Auguste indicated the large dishes of dark brown stickiness. He had been so proud of that sauce now so
stale and unappetising. Truly the creations of one
day are the rubbish of the next. ‘And the remove, the quails and cutlets.’

‘Could anyone tell which quail and cutlet would be served to Sir Thomas?’

‘Or the Prince of Wales?’ put in Naseby indefatigably.

‘Or the Prince of Wales,’ repeated Rose. It was after all possible – if they had a madman among them.

‘The cutlets yes, certainly, since the Prince rejected them first time round, and asked for them later,’ dredging up memories
from the depths of his mind. ‘But Sir Thomas – I suppose only the person who served them could be sure.’

‘And who was that?’

‘I really can’t recall,’ said Auguste. ‘Somewhere there is a list.’

‘Wouldn’t be you, by any chance?’ enquired Naseby sourly.

Auguste did not bother to reply. ‘The geese,’ he said shortly. ‘The vegetables,’ leading the way into the huge meat larder.
‘
Voilà
, Inspector Naseby, here you will find the cabbage steamed with cocaine, the potatoes mashed with morphine, the parsnips baked
with pilocarpine.’

‘Know a lot about poisons, do you, Mr Didier?’ put in Naseby suavely.

Auguste flushed red.

‘Go home and get some sleep, Mr Didier, that’s my advice,’ said Rose kindly. It was clearly an order, and Auguste obeyed it.

He walked slowly into Blue Horizons, longing for sleep, knowing that he had first to face six anxious faces. In fact it was
only five. Algernon Peckham in a display of bravado had chosen to walk to Kingsgate. His companions sat round the kitchen
table, the remains of an inadequate breakfast in front of them. This was the room where only last week they had eagerly discussed
the merits of anchovy (protagonist
Auguste) versus red wine sauce for fillets of John Dory; whether sole on prawn mousse covered with aspic (Alice’s invention)
brought out the true flavours of the fish, or smothered them; whether mussels were preferable simply cooked in white wine
or whether, as Emily contended, with cream and sorrel sauce added. Her grandmama, it appeared, had a recipe.

‘Vot is happening?’ demanded Heinrich heavily. They had all returned after the closing of the kitchen.

‘I’m afraid that Sir Thomas is dead,’ said Auguste sombrely.

‘Have a cup of coffee, Mr Didier,’ said Alice practically, handing him a cup. He took it gratefully.

‘Will that mean they have to talk to us, Mr Didier?’ whispered Emily after a pause. Heinrich moved closer to her.

‘A formality,’ said Auguste reassuringly. ‘Naturally the police will wish to make enquiries. We cooked and served the meal
that Sir Thomas had recently eaten; it is true he could have taken the poison afterwards, however, or when he was away from
the table during the
entremets
. He suffered from a weak stomach. Perhaps he took too much medicine.’

Their faces began to brighten, but in spite of his words Auguste could not share their optimism. Stomach medicines would not
contain sufficient belladonna, if belladonna it was.

‘Anyone could have dropped poison into his food,’ objected James stolidly. ‘It’s not fair we should be blamed. It could have
been anyone passing by the serving table, or in the kitchens, or sitting near Sir Thomas—’

‘The Prince of Wales, perhaps?’ suggested Auguste drily.

‘You don’t think the poison was intended for him, do you, Mr Didier?’ asked Alice, with horrorstricken face.

‘I do not know, I do not know,
mes enfants
.’ Auguste covered his face with his hands. There was immediate and
respectful silence. The maître
did not know
. This had never happened before. Alfred broke it.

‘Suicide, I expect.’

‘Bills,’ mumbled Heinrich to general puzzlement. ‘He could have been taking bills.’

‘He had a weak stomach,’ pointed out Emily in support of this theory.

Auguste uncovered his face. ‘We must continue our holiday –’ the word struck a curious note – ‘as best we can. I am glad to
say my friend Inspector Rose of the Yard will investigate. This means it will be done quickly – and there will be no mistakes,’
he said reassuringly. ‘After all,’ he concluded, rising to his feet, ‘why on earth should any of you choose to murder Sir
Thomas? No, it is a formality only.’ He half-stumbled out of the room up to his bed and blessed, blessed sleep, where his
dreams were a mixture of lobsters with evil intent towards the Prince of Wales, of Charles Dickens teaching him how to catch
a pungar, and of Araminta, receding further and further into a boiling sea of mutton broth.

In the kitchen, without his restraining presence, discussion broke out animatedly. Only Alfred did not join in. He was uncomfortably
aware that Auguste was wrong. One at least of their number had every reason to wish Sir Thomas dead.

Huddled in one corner of the first-floor sun lounge, the remains of the committee of Literary Lionisers were holding an emergency
meeting before facing their sundry charges. Three couples had already been seen leaving the hotel with baggage. News of Sir
Thomas’s death had hit them hard in different ways.

Samuel Pipkin tried to keep excitement from his voice; in truth he was as shocked as any of them at the reality of what in
his mind he had longed for. That Throgmorton had died by poison was hard enough for them to take in, when
all had assumed sudden acute stomach illness. Accident – the mushrooms, the lobster. Food poisoning. Only later did Oliver
Michaels come back with the sobering news that the hotel was strangely full of policemen, that there was no breakfast to be
had save for coffee and muffins, without a trek to the Albion Hotel, and moreover there was thought to be something odd about
Sir Thomas’s death which no one would specify.