Three seconds later he was gone, and I started laughing, in relief, maniacally, uncontrollably. I, Karl Larsen, was not a thief but an instrument of fate. Through means that were as incalculable as a spin of the roulette wheel, the bouncing ball of my criminal masterstroke had changed the track of a man's life, to the immeasurable benefit of himself and of society. If this could happen, anything could happen. Storm had been right and his advice good: Never give up trusting Lady Luck.
When I stopped laughing, I went back into the storage room, sat down in my leather armchair, and lighted a Romeo y Julieta. Now, as morning approaches, I sit here still, shrouded in swirls and coils of cigar smoke, and I dream of endless possibilities.
Copyright © 2012 Tore Boeckmann; translation Copyright © 2012 Tore Boeckmann
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* * *
Fiction: MURDER UNCORDIAL
by Amy Myers
Auguste Didier is British author Amy Myers's first series character and the star of many of her novels. In recent years, however, the Victorian chef has continued his adventures exclusively in short stories. Here he is in a case involving the politics of his day. The author's most recent novel features antique car detective Jack Colby. See Classic Calls the Shots (Severn House; June 2012).
There was something seriously wrong. One did not serve oyster forcemeat with a delicate guinea fowl. Auguste Didier despaired of the modern standards of cuisine. Worse, Tranton Towers, the stately Kentish residence of Lord and Lady Bromfield, seemed to be a most mysterious mansion. Instead of concentrating on the delights of a menu prepared by Master Chef Auguste Didier, His Lordship's household seemed far more interested in politics.
It was a small comfort that the dinner, for which Auguste's services as chef had been specially arranged, was in honour of the President of the French Republic, during his return journey to Paris. The reason for his visit to England had been to seal the knot of friendship between the two countries with the Entente Cordiale, and so the menu for the evening demanded the best of Auguste Didier's art. But that, he fumed, would not be possible with the assistant chef with whom he had been provided. Oyster forcemeat? Non, non, non.
“Why not?” assistant chef Francoise Dagarre had asked demurely.
Usually Auguste was only too happy to work with women in his kitchens, especially attractive ones like Mademoiselle Dagarre. After all, this was 1903. Nevertheless, he drew the line at those who pretended to be chefs and were not. She was a good cook, yes, but a chef? No. He had even considered the possibility that she was a secret agent, a spy, as the reason for today's banquet was that the German ambassador would also be present. It was generally known that the Kaiser viewed the Entente Cordiale between France and England with deep suspicion, and the Foreign Office had suggested this gesture to show that Germany had nothing to fear from this new rapport between its two rivals. All three nations were, and would be, the best of friends.
Auguste tried to convince himself that with the ambassador's presence, the French would not require a spy in Tranton Towers, as the President would not only have his entourage with him, but would be accompanied by Scotland Yard detectives throughout his visit. Nevertheless all sorts of fearful visions filled Auguste's head, from assassination to his delicate Swan of Savoy E0 la Chantilly being smashed by an intruder in his kitchen bent on ruining this important occasion.
It was not too late to prevent catastrophe, as Monsieur le President and the other guests would not be arriving until five o'clock this afternoon. He must take his concerns to Lord Bromfield immediately.
* * * *
“A spy?” Lord Bromfield roared. “By heaven, Didier, this is England, man. We don't hold with spies here. Not gentlemanly.”
“But Mademoiselle Dagarre is not what she seems, sir.”
“Nonsense. What would she be spying on, might I ask?”
“I don't know, sir.” It seemed obvious to Auguste, but Lord Bromfield was the politician, not him.
“Well, I do know. Nothing. Stick to your trade and cook.” Then he added a conciliatory note. “Look here, Didier, you're a good fellow, but you're French.”
“Half French, sir.”
This was waved aside. “You don't understand the way we do things here. This is a private dinner, so as a matter of honour politics are left at the dining room door.”
Not in Auguste's experience, but he maintained a diplomatic silence.
“Good Lord, what's that?” The monocle dropped from Lord Bromfield's eye in his astonishment. He had been standing by the window and something was clearly amiss in the forecourt below. Auguste hurried to join him.
Drawn up in front of the pillars of the grand entrance to Tranton Towers he could see a horse-drawn charabanc, towards which the butler, Mr. Jennings, was hurrying as fast as his dignity permitted. One of His Lordship's grooms was bemusedly holding the reins, and out of the charabanc spilled surely the strangest array of people ever to grace the portico of Tranton Towers.
Auguste's fascinated eyes fell on a thin man busily donning a one-man-band harness, jangling cymbals, trumpets, a drum, and sundry other instruments; a well-rounded gentleman in a large checked suit and battered top hat; a dapper man with moustache and melancholy expression, clad in dinner suit and huge bow tie; a large solid man of many muscles; a lady of middle years and girth who seemed to be covered in purple feathers waving from her costume and hat; and a young—no, not so young—lady clad in a tight-bustled white dress with pink frills and sporting a large and very flowery hat. She was grasping the leads of three small yapping dogs. Behind her streamed several others, including a lady in male attire. In all, Auguste counted twelve unexpected visitors.
Whoever they were, they were not the President of the French Republic.
* * * *
“Look here, Your Lordship.” Mr. Check Suit was obviously the leader, Auguste noted, and was only too happy to explain their presence. “Charlie's my name. The Great Charlie, I am, and what we're all here for is what you promised.” He gave a hearty chuckle as he waved a letter in front of his surprised Lordship's eyes.
Mr. Jennings, having been forced to summon higher authority to deal with the calamity, stood by ashen-faced at this challenge to his ability to deal with any domestic emergency. Since no one seemed to object to his presence, Auguste edged closer to Lord Bromfield, whose face had assumed a bright shade of red.
“That's my writing paper,” he roared.
“'Course it is.” The Great Charlie sounded surprised. “So here we are, straight from the Wapping Palace of Varieties. Daisy, dear, introduce yourself.”
“Pleased to meet you, Your Lordship,” trilled the lady in the tight frilly dress. “Sweethearts,” addressing the dogs, “bow to His Lordship.” Her charges reluctantly stood on their hind legs, wobbled, and dropped down again.
“And this,” Charlie said proudly, “is the Wapping Blackbird, Miss Emmeline Foster.” This was the large lady with the feathers—an apt stage name, Auguste thought, as the Blackbird kissed His Lordship's hand, much to his horror.
The one-man-band, Joachim Schmitt, made no attempt to follow suit, being laden with jangling musical instruments, but managed a toot on the trumpet to acknowledge Charlie's introduction. The dapper gentleman was introduced as “our own, our very own Caruso, Soulful Songster Stefan Meyer.” Joe Jones, the strongman, looked all too eager to crush His Lordship's hand but Lord Bromfield hastily backed away. The rest of the group took their turn, as His Lordship struggled to give vent to his feelings.
At last he found his voice: “What the blazes are you doing here?”
Charlie looked puzzled. “Come to take a tour of the house, dine with you, and perform for a few guests. That's what you asked in your letter, sir.” He waved it again, and this time Lord Bromfield snatched it.
One glance and he'd seen enough. “Not my writing. Looks like it, but it's a forgery. My apologies, Mr. Charlie, but you've been grossly deceived and so have I. Mr Jennings—” the butler approac
hed him almost in tears—"kindly arrange for these good people to be recompensed and see them off the property.”
The faces of the good people promptly changed from cheerfulness to dismay, and rebellion looked likely to break out as they murmured angrily amongst themselves.
“Can't do that, Your Lordship,” the Great Charlie said firmly. “A contract's a contract, and who's to say whether it's your writing or not? What's more, it's against the professional code of Wapping Palace of Varieties not to perform when contracted so to do.”
“And what about our grub?” Joe, the strongman, demanded.
“Looking forward to our little tour, I was,” Daisy wailed tearfully, thus making the dogs yelp again and the Wapping Blackbird move forward to the attack.
“I was to sing,” she informed Lord Bromfield with heaving bosom. “Are you telling me that the Voice of the Wapping Blackbird is not good enough for your guests?”
Soulful Songster Stefan hurried to support her. "Meine Liebling has the voice of an angel.”
He was swept aside by the Wapping Blackbird's dismissive hand, which indicated she could fight her own battles.
His Lordship, Auguste thought, highly amused, looked as though speedy retreat would be his preferred tactic in the fight, but he managed to stand his ground.
“Kindly leave,” Lord Bromfield almost squeaked in response, but in vain. The mutiny was growing in strength. It was time for his own version of diplomacy, Auguste decided.
“Your Lordship, suppose we served an early luncheon on the south lawn for these artistes, followed by a short conducted tour of the house? Your guests do not arrive until five, and if the charabanc leaves by two o'clock, no one need be incommoded.”
“Yes, yes.” Lord Bromfield clutched at this compromise. “You'll make a politician yet, Didier.”
The Great Charlie still looked doubtful. “What about our show? We got a contract.”
Lord Bromfield took a firm stand. ‘So have I, and mine's with Scotland Yard. Personally, I would, of course, have greatly enjoyed your performance, but I have already given the Yard a list of those who will be attending today, and due to this misunderstanding, it does not include you. Another time, perhaps.”
There followed a brief consultation between Charlie and his colleagues. “We get our dosh and our tour, then?” he finally asked His Lordship. “And grub?”
“Jellied eels,” Daisy eagerly demanded.
“Victoria sponge,” requested the Wapping Blackbird.
“Kugelhopf,” the Soulful Songster pleaded.
“And booze,” Joe added firmly.
“Plenty of everything,” His Lordship assured them.
* * * *
At last the magic hour of two o'clock arrived. It had taken its time doing so, Auguste thought, breathing a sigh of relief as he watched the well-fed and well-oiled uninvited guests lurching their way out of the servants’ wing towards the charabanc. Fortunately, Mademoiselle Dagarre had not only superintended their luncheon and drinking requirements (only the kugelhopf proved a problem), she had offered to help Mr. Jennings escort the group round the house, an arrangement with which Auguste had eagerly concurred. Not only had he been able to continue with the delightful preparations for the banquet ahead, he had been relieved of the anxiety of superintending his assistant chef's every move in the kitchen—particularly any threat of her moving towards his guinea fowl or Chantilly Swan.
The tour had duly taken place, ending with a second visit to the servants’ hall to reclaim any property left there and also—in Mademoiselle Dagarre's discreet words—to prepare for the journey home. A wise precaution, Auguste thought, in view of the copious amount of drink consumed.
Auguste decided to follow the eventual exodus, if only to support Mr. Jennings, who was still glassy-eyed with shock. Just as it was rejoining the charabanc, however, the party decided to stop to express its thanks.
“Let's have a song for His Lordship,” shouted a bleary-eyed Great Charlie.
His Lordship had not appeared, but they sang it all the same, perhaps under the illusion that Mr. Jennings had been elevated to a position of rank. “Goodbye, Dolly Gray” was their choice, and an enthusiastic rendering took place. They were still singing it as they climbed onto the charabanc, and with Charlie taking the reins, the horses were turned and made their merry way down the drive.
But surely there was something wrong...
Belated realisation sent Auguste running after the charabanc yelling, “Stop!” No one heard him, or if they did, no one took any notice. Mr Jennings was pulling him back, shouting, “Are you mad?” and between that and “Dolly Gray” Auguste's pleas went in vain. “Dolly Gray” grew fainter and fainter.
Auguste groaned, to Mr. Jennings’ annoyance. “What is wrong with you, Mr. Didier? His Lordship instructed that they all depart by two o'clock. It is now five minutes past.”
“Everything is wrong,” Auguste replied. “They did not all depart.”
“Are you inebriated, Didier? We saw them go.”
“Twelve arrived, but only eleven left.”
* * * *
Lord Bromfield was instantly summoned, but a ten-minute search of the house failed to find Joachim Schmitt, for which His Lordship appeared much relieved. “Obviously,” he announced, “the fellow has decided to walk into the village and get the train back. What was his name?”
“Schmitt, sir,” Auguste replied. The one-man-band harness and instruments had been found in the servants’ hall, where they had been left before the tour began, and to him this discovery would seem to rule out His Lordship's theory. Auguste's visions of calamity came back with a rush.
“German, eh?” Lord Bromfield looked momentarily taken aback.
“It is not uncommon in music halls,” Auguste tried to reassure him.
“That is so, Your Lordship. The Soulful Songster fellow is also German.” Mr. Jennings too was anxious to calm his master.
Lord Bromfield seemed slightly cheered. “Mere coincidence that there are two of them, then. Anyway, this Schmitt isn't in the house now and the other fellow's left, so that's that. Besides, the German ambassador's dining here himself, so he can report to the Kaiser on what's going on. That puts paid to any of your damned spy nonsense, Didier.”
Auguste nerved himself. “The French too might have their spies. There is—”
“You're out of your mind, Didier. The French don't have spies any more than we do,” Lord Bromfield interrupted crossly. “Like us, they're gentlemen.” He thought about this. “Almost.”
Should he mention the possibility of assassination? Auguste wondered frantically. As the German ambassador was hardly likely to leap up in the midst of a Didier-inspired menu to kill the President personally, a hired killer would be required, and thus Herr Schmitt should be tracked down without delay. But with His Lordship's present attitude, he could say nothing. In any case, his attention had been caught by what he could see outside the morning-room window.
“Good thing Scotland Yard's accompanying the President, eh?” Lord Bromfield added a forced laugh.
Auguste cleared his throat. “It is indeed, sir. However, it appears to have arrived here already.”
The charabanc was once again coming to a halt outside the Towers, with eleven noisy occupants, some crying, some angry, some shouting. Auguste was more interested in the carriage following it, however. Two men were stepping out of it, one of whom was very familiar. It was Detective Chief Inspector Egbert Rose. Lord Bromfield hurried outside to greet the other man, and Auguste promptly followed him.
Egbert's face registered a mixture of pleasure and wariness when he saw Auguste. “Trouble,” he said gloomily. “Wherever you are, I find trouble. What is it this time?”
“A missing man.”
“Not this Schmitty that this lot are on about? Got left behind, did he?”
“I hope that is all, but he hasn't yet been found, and his one-man-band instruments are still here.”
Rose frowned. “Good thing
I came down early. Monsieur Lapelle here is one of the President's private secretaries. He's convinced someone is out to slaughter the President, and he wants to go through the house with a tooth comb before the main party arrives. First thing we found was this charabanc blocking the gateway as they argued over whether to come back or not. Back, I told them. No one leaves this house without my permission, I said, or my governor will have my guts for garters. Now you're telling me you can't find this German bloke. Got drunk and lay down for a snooze somewhere?” he asked hopefully.
“I think not. It's at least possible that he planned to stay behind and has hidden himself all too well. A thorough search is needed, and, Egbert, there is something else.” Auguste passed on his doubts about his assistant chef in a discreet whisper.
To his annoyance, Egbert chortled. “Probably planning to jump out of a cake in pink tights and do the dastardly deed herself.”
“Perhaps she is,” Auguste replied with dignity, with a nightmare vision of his Swan of Savoy being so desecrated.
“You're right,” Egbert said hastily. “We'll get this search going. Can you look after this mob for me?”
Auguste faced the prospect with sinking heart. “We can entertain them in the servants’ hall.”
This was easier said than done, as Daisy and Emmeline had to be restrained from rushing into Tranton Towers immediately to conduct their own searches for the missing Schmitty. Lured by the promise of tea and cakes, however, they meekly followed Auguste back into the servants’ hall.
“Poor Schmitty,” wailed Daisy, dabbing at her eyes with a delicate handkerchief with one hand and restraining her dogs with the other, “what's happened to my poor darling?”
“That's not what you were calling him last night,” the Wapping Blackbird snapped. “Not when you found out he has a wife and children back in Germany.”
EQMM, August 2012 Page 18
