by Ellery Adams
“Right. Now, that you’ve been paired off, we’ll begin with fish sausages,” Mrs. Hubbard continued.
Mrs. Pratt turned to her cooking partner, a man in his sixties with glasses and thick gray hair. “The combination of fish and sausage doesn’t sound the least bit appealing to me.”
“Nor me,” he said. “But we must soldier on.”
Jane’s partner was Michael Murphy, the ginger-haired BackStory Club officer. He pointed at the teacup on the counter in front of him and frowned. “How much is a teacup of fish? Do we loosely fill the cup or cram the fish in?”
Seeing mass confusion in her kitchen, Mrs. Hubbard showed the group exactly how much haddock to put in their teacups.
“As for the dried herbs, the resourceful cook would have used whatever was available in the garden. We have parsley and thyme, harvested from our own herb garden.”
Jane and Michael moved in sync to mix the fish, cooked rice, and a beaten egg. Next, they rolled their mixture into finger-sized sausages. Michael’s looked more like tater tots than sausages.
He surveyed his creations with a helpless shrug. “I’ve had less-appetizing-looking food.”
Because they were pretending to be out of flour, the students rolled their sausage in oatmeal before frying them in boiling fat.
Mrs. Hubbard waited until everyone had finished cooking their sausages and had set them aside to cool before praising her students for their excellent work. “For our second recipe, we’ll be making parkin.”
Jane had never heard of this dish. Her face must have reflected her puzzlement, for Michael leaned close and whispered, “It’s a gingerbread cake from Northern England, usually made with oats and black treacle. Treacle is the British version of molasses.”
“How do you know so much about British food?” Jane asked, hoping Michael would turn chatty.
“I have family in England and Ireland,” he said.
As they began to assemble their ingredients for the wartime parkin—coarse oatmeal, butter, ground ginger, salt, treacle, and milk—Jane tried to learn more about her cooking partner.
“I’m a professor at NYU,” he explained. “Currently on sabbatical. When the centennial tour is over, I’ll have to stop puttering around and get back to work. My department has been very supportive of my involvement in this tour, though I’m sure they’ll expect me to publish a few thousand pages about it.”
While Michael tried to figure out what kind of measurement a breakfast cup was, Jane asked if it had been hard to spend a year on the road. “Your family must have missed you.”
“My fiancée has been a great sport,” he said before turning away to reread the recipe.
In the front of the room, Mrs. Hubbard banged on a pot with a wooden spoon. “Attention, my dears! There’s no need to fret over the breakfast cup. Think of a nice mug of milky coffee. Or, in mathematical terms, fill a standard measuring cup once, and then add another smidgen.”
“One point two cups?” Mrs. Pratt’s partner asked.
“Precisely!” Mrs. Hubbard beamed at him, and he smiled with pleasure.
Jane and Michael mixed the ingredients for their parkin and stared at their bowl.
“It’s supposed to look like a firm paste,” Jane said, studying the recipe again.
“Ours looks like granola clusters.” Michael laughed. “The recipe called for a little milk, but I guess we used too little.”
While Michael stirred another splash of hot milk into the dough, Jane glanced to her left to see what Mrs. Pratt was up to.
She was clearly having a ball. Her partner, a debonair gentleman in a sky-blue dress shirt, a polka-dot tie, and silver spectacles almost identical to Sinclair’s, was just her type. Of course, she preferred men in kilts, but Jane could see that Mrs. Pratt wasn’t disappointed to be cooking with a dashing academic.
While the parkin baked, Mrs. Hubbard told her class to remove the white napkins covering the metal trays at each of their stations. “I’m a big fan of The Great British Bake Off. I particularly love the challenges without recipes, so I’ve made a Great War technical challenge for you. You’ll be making apricot charlotte without the aid of a recipe. This will help you understand how women were forced to cook in wartime. They learned to improvise and become more creative with food. Let’s see how you’d do in their shoes.”
“Yikes,” Jane said, removing the napkin. “I hope you know how to make an apricot charlotte.”
Jane was pretending for Michael’s sake. She’d watched Mrs. Hubbard bake dozens of charlottes over the years.
“I think we have to line the mold with cookies or sponge cake and then fill it with pudding.” Michael’s brow creased in thought. “However, we haven’t been given cookies or cake. Just bread.”
Picking up an apricot, Jane pressed the soft flesh. “Fortunately, we won’t have to soak these. That’s been done for us. I’ll butter the mold, and you can line it with the bread.”
Intent on her task, Jane didn’t notice Aunt Octavia’s arrival.
“May I have your attention?” Mrs. Hubbard’s voice easily rose above everyone else’s. “We have a celebrity judge for this recipe. It’s my honor to present Octavia Steward, Mistress of Storyton Hall.”
Jane looked up from her tin and saw her great-aunt preening. “Let’s not stand on formality. I’m just the old lady who lives upstairs. Jane is the true mistress. Hi, love!” she wriggled her fingers.
After waving back, Jane turned to Michael. “She has a very discerning palate.”
“Damn,” Michael muttered. “Is she bribable?”
“You’d have to get your hands on a nineteenth-century children’s book in excellent condition.”
Michael pretended to be crestfallen. “We’re out of luck, I’m afraid. I’m a college professor living in a shoebox in Manhattan, which means I don’t have the funds or the room for nice books. My collection concentrates on my area of study, and most of my books are not-so-gently used. You’d probably cringe if you saw them.”
Jane smiled. “I don’t think so. I think a book is like a good climbing tree. They both yearn to be touched.”
“I like that,” Michael said with a grin. “Okay, the bread is in the tin. What’s next?”
“We add the apricots and the brown sugar. I guess we still have the luxury of sugar at this point in our wartime cooking.”
Michael topped their filled tin with a plate and put it in the oven for thirty minutes. The cooking time was a guess, but Jane and Michael decided that half an hour was a safe bet.
While the apricot charlottes were baking, Mrs. Hubbard passed out samples of the wartime fare she and her staff had cooked that morning. There was pea soup, Saturday pie—meat, potatoes, and onions—and 1918 Cake. Jane wasn’t fond of the latter. It was similar to fruitcake, but denser and less moist. Mrs. Hubbard said that the consistency was due to the lack of eggs and the extremely thrifty amount of added fat.
Reviewing some of the recipes in the binder Mrs. Hubbard had given to all of the participants, Jane ruminated over how portion sizes had changed since the Great War. What served a family of four in 1915 would now serve two.
The egg timer at their workstation went off, signaling the end of their thirty-minute bake. Jane pulled their apricot charlotte from the oven. After that, there was nothing to do except watch as Aunt Octavia went around the room, tasting any dish cool enough to eat.
When she reached Jane’s station, she addressed the class.
“Don’t worry, ladies and gentlemen, Jane isn’t allowed to win the prize. And I suspect she’ll be quite disappointed when she sees it.” Looking at Michael, Aunt Octavia added, “You’re still in the running, my dear. Let’s see if your dessert is a winner.”
Michael took in Aunt Octavia’s purple and lime green housedress, her triple strand of pearls, and her Mary Janes, which were festooned with silver sequins. All of Aunt Octavia’s dresses, which were handmade by Mabel, featured bold prints and multiple pockets. Jane had seen her great-aunt produ
ce an astounding number of gadgets and goodies from these pockets. Having been diagnosed with diabetes, she’d stopped hiding sweets in her housedress and had made a Herculean effort to avoid sugar. Today was obviously an exception to this rule.
“Very nice,” she told Michael. After daintily wiping her mouth with a napkin, Aunt Octavia returned to the front of the room.
“Do we have a winner?” Mrs. Hubbard asked in a theatrical whisper.
Aunt Octavia nodded. “The best apricot charlotte was made by Mrs. Eugenia Pratt and partner. Forgive me, sir. What is your name?”
Mrs. Pratt’s partner, who was currently being enfolded in a congratulatory embrace, extricated himself and said, “Roger Bachman, ma’am.”
“It is my pleasure to award each of you with a vintage First World War cookbook.” Aunt Octavia held up two gift-wrapped books. “Mrs. Pratt, I present you with Everyday Foods in Wartime, publication date, 1918. Mr. Bachman, I present you with The Conservation Cook Book, publication date, 1917.”
There was a round of applause as Mrs. Pratt and her partner accepted their prizes with unfettered delight. Jane was impressed when Roger offered Mrs. Pratt her pick of the books. Batting her eyes, she asked if he’d like to compare them over cocktails that evening. Roger hesitated until Mrs. Pratt added that Mr. Pratt was no longer in the picture. Hearing this, her partner readily agreed.
Is she sleuthing or does she genuinely like the man? Jane wondered.
Collecting the cups, bowls, and utensils she and Michael had used, Jane carried them to the dishwashing area. When she turned to fetch the rest, Michael was right behind her, his hands loaded with dirty dishes.
“Oh, please don’t,” Jane protested. “You’re a guest. We’ll see to these.”
“I’ve been well trained by my fiancée,” Michael said. “When one of us cooks, the other washes up. And since you and I shared the cooking, we should share the cleaning.”
Jane smiled. “That’s a good system. Luckily for everyone, the kitchen staff will take care of the cleaning. I’m used to loading my things into the dishwasher, because I’m always sneaking treats back to my office, and I try to hide the evidence of my theft.”
“Thefts are my area of expertise,” Michael said as they returned to their cooking area.
Jane didn’t have to pretend to be fascinated. “Really? What kind of theft?”
“Though art looted in World War II constantly makes headlines, a precedent for stealing art was set during the previous war. I teach a class on looting. It’s pretty popular. More so than my Economy of the Great War class.”
As a test, Jane said, “Crime is always interesting, especially if you’re talking about the theft of a priceless or irreplaceable item.”
“That’s true,” Michael agreed. “However, all the treasures discussed in my course have a price. Examining the value in 1917, per se, versus the current market value, is an excellent way to illustrate an item’s worth. My students aren’t impressed by much, but they’ll look up from their smartphones if I mention a multimillion-dollar price.”
Jane couldn’t think of another way to lure her cooking partner into revealing that he was more than a history professor from New York. She’d already learned that he’d been a member of the BackStory Club for going on five years now and that he had a parrot named Doughboy in honor of American infantrymen. Michael’s fiancée was a little afraid of Doughboy. Though Michael spoke of his fiancée with warmth and affection, he never mentioned her name.
Michael and the rest of the participants filed out of the kitchen, undoubtedly heading for the Agatha Christie Tearoom. Mrs. Hubbard had organized an array of Great War treats including a war cake flavored with raisins and brown sugar, butter tarts, almond paste cannoli, Genoa cake, orange jelly, boiled ham and biscuits, buttered graham rolls, and more.
The last historian had just left when Uncle Aloysius entered the room.
“Octavia.” The name came out as a hoarse rasp.
Jane, who’d been gathering other soiled cooking implements, abruptly stopped what she was doing and looked at Uncle Aloysius.
His face was chalk-white. One arm was pressed against the wall as if he’d drop straight to the floor without its support. His lips kept moving, but no sound came out. Something was very, very wrong.
“Aloysius!” Aunt Octavia rushed to her husband’s side. “What is it? Are you ill?”
Jane sprang into action. She grabbed a chair and hurriedly placed it behind her great-uncle. As she coaxed him into it, Mrs. Hubbard appeared with a glass of water.
“I think he’s had a shock,” she said to Aunt Octavia.
Aunt Octavia waved off the water cup. “Black coffee. Not too hot.”
Mrs. Hubbard dashed away, her eyes wide and panicked.
She probably thought Uncle Aloysius was having a heart attack. At his age, it was a possibility. But Jane didn’t think his heart was the cause of his distress.
“Are you in pain, my love? Did you hurt yourself when you were visiting the mews?” Aunt Octavia asked, tears springing to her eyes. “Talk to me!”
Uncle Aloysius grabbed his wife’s dress with a clawlike grasp. Though he clung to her, he gazed at Jane in horror. “I saw . . . Jane . . . it can’t be. But he was there. At the mews. I saw a ghost.”
* * *
A half hour later, with Uncle Aloysius resting on the sofa in his apartment, Jane finished telling her great-aunt and great-uncle all she knew about William.
Of course, Aunt Octavia had swooned upon hearing the news, and Jane was soon doling out shots of whiskey to her elderly relatives while they struggled to make sense of the incomprehensible.
Eventually, after answering the few questions she was able to answer, Jane made a time-out motion with her hands.
“I know this is hard to take in. I get that. But I have to go home and see the twins. The historians are watching a double feature of War Horse and All Quiet on the Western Front, so I should have time to talk to you both later, check on Edwin, and find out what William’s been doing.”
“It’s too much!” Aunt Octavia cried. “How can you handle all of this at once? Oh, where is my beloved Muffet Cat when I need him?”
Jane knelt next to her great-aunt. “I can’t handle it all. Not without help. Do you have any ideas?”
Uncle Aloysius, who’d recovered some of his natural color, and was no longer in danger of passing out, sat a bit straighter. When Jane started to fuss over him, he waved her off. “My body might be old, my dear, but my mind is still fit as a fiddle. And my Octavia could outwit the cleverest of men. Here’s what I suggest. Let us spend time with William. Allow us to assess him. If nothing else, we’ll keep him out of the public eye. We can’t have the boys bumping into him.”
“What will we do about Mrs. Hubbard? She heard your talk of ghosts.” Aunt Octavia fanned herself with a magazine. “Oh, good Lord. No one can stop that woman’s tongue. I love her dearly, but she is a force to be reckoned with.”
“She can’t hold a candle to you, my girl.” Uncle Aloysius smiled at his wife.
Out of nowhere, Muffet Cat suddenly appeared in the doorway between the living room and the master bedroom. The portly tuxedo, who’d once been a bedraggled kitten lost in a storm, padded over to Aunt Octavia as if he wanted everyone in the room to admire his shiny fur and magnificent tail.
His display certainly worked on Aunt Octavia. Scooping him up, she covered his head with kisses and dumped a small pile of cat treats on her lap. Muffet Cat devoured them in seconds. He then curled into a circle of black and white fur and glanced around. His smug expression reminded Jane of Ramsey Parrish.
As if reading Jane’s mind, Aunt Octavia said, “Let’s focus on this Parrish person. How do you plan to convince him that he’s found the secret library?”
“I’m going to lead him into the passageway between the two conference rooms. Sterling will accompany me. Without going into details, I can say that Mr. Parrish will eventually be relocated to less-luxurious acco
mmodations than the Mystery Suite.”
“And you’ll release Edwin,” Uncle Aloysius said.
Jane nodded. “Though Parrish undoubtedly anticipates these maneuvers, I have no other choice but to execute them. It’s the only way I can force him to show the ace he has up his sleeve.”
“We’ll see to William,” said Uncle Aloysius. “If the man’s an imposter, it will be made plain once Mr. Parrish disappears.”
Aunt Octavia poured herself another splash of whiskey. “Exactly how long are you prepared to hold Mr. Parrish prisoner?”
Jane’s expression instantly darkened. “Forever, if necessary. Who knows how many people he’s held captive over the years? Who knows what ultimately became of them? Parrish orchestrated the plot to abduct my sons. For him, there’ll be no mercy.”
* * *
After the Fins had given her the all-clear, meaning that Parrish was attending the evening’s film festival, Jane entered the secret passage leading to the Mystery Suite to visit Edwin.
They embraced for a long moment before Jane showed Edwin the bottle of wine she’d brought with her. “I think we deserve this, don’t you?”
Edwin looked at the label. “Stag’s Leap Cask 23. Nice.”
“A gift from Butterworth,” Jane said, handing Edwin a corkscrew. She watched him deftly remove the cork, her gaze fixed on his pianist’s fingers. She remembered the last time those fingers had traced her jawline, the swell of her breast, the curve of her hip. It had been months since they’d touched each other that way, and she had no idea when, or if, they’d be together like that again.
After Edwin filled their glasses, Jane raised hers and said, “To not missing you anymore.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
Jane wanted to savor her time with Edwin, but that was impossible. She’d have to soak up all she could and carry the memory around with her.
Trying to keep things lighthearted, she asked Edwin if he’d been given enough to eat and was told that he was being stuffed like a Christmas goose. Meals were being delivered five times a day, despite Edwin’s protests. He explained that he was unused to so much food—rich food at that—and couldn’t eat it all.
