“I know the constituents, and while they are zealous, they are not”—Daniel searched briefly for an appropriate word—“organized enough to carry out these rather daring exploits. They are mostly university students trying to salve their consciences by doing a good deed or two between attending drinking parties and playing cricket.”
“You would know,” Allen said peevishly.
“As you say,” Daniel answered. He ignored the dig. He always ignored Allen’s digs, because it annoyed his sibling so much when he did so. He stared briefly at his brother’s ever-increasing waistline and hamcolored complexion. “You must relax, Allen. I can assure you that none of FOF’s staff—or volunteers—will end in a police lineup. At least, not because of being accused of being The Spider,” he amended scrupulously.
“Hmph!” But Allen slouched back into his chair and took a generous swallow of his brother’s excellent brandy. “You’re absolutely sure of this?”
“Oh, yes,” Daniel said, sincerely. “Now stop fretting before your heart fails and you end up laid out flat with candles at your head and feet. You don’t have the…the constitution for this kind of stress. Comes from having a desk job, I expect. You should try and get out on the links once in a while.”
“Easy for you to say,” Allen answered in a complaining tone. “No one in your office—if you even had an office anymore—would be in a lather over this criminal! Your environmentalist friends probably even applaud his arrogant, anti-progress attitude.”
“Probably,” Daniel agreed, all the while feeling it was a shame that his only brother had turned out such a boorish prig. Another glance at his watch revealed that only two minutes had slipped by. He took another swallow of brandy.
“And now we’re seeing Rabelaisian graffiti and flyers all over the city,” Allen went on complaining.
“Um.” Daniel had seen several at the last FOF staff meeting he’d dropped in on. “Have another brandy,” he suggested.
“It won’t help,” Allen said.
“Well, no. But it might make you feel better.”
“Hmph!” Allen snorted again, but went to pour himself another generous tot. “You’re going to the Green Gala?”
“No,” Daniel said regretfully. “Angelica and Hubert will be there for FOF, but I think that I best head north to see Biggs. He’s not so hearty these days and has been asking after the family. And I’d like to get in a spot of fishing while the weather holds.”
“Lucky dog. Mary and I were supposed to go on holiday next week, but it’ll never happen now. Unless we arrest this…this…”
“Folk hero,” Daniel suggested.
“He is nothing of the sort!” Allen snapped, rising like a trout to the bait. “The man’s a damned thief.”
“He’s also very popular.”
“Only with you and others of your ilk. He’s a bloody tree-kisser! If Mary ever gets a hold of him—”
“Hugger,” Daniel corrected.
“What?” “Tree-hugger. Not even the Americans have taken to putting lips to the shrubbery.”
“Whatever. He’s damned inconsiderate—thieving during the August holiday? I think he does this on purpose. The selfish swine is ruining my life!”
“Yes, well, there is that,” Daniel agreed, not mentioning that while The Spider hadn’t started his thieving with an eye to upsetting Allen’s holiday plans, the fact that he had succeeded in doing so was a definite bonus as far as Daniel was concerned. He suggested pointedly: “Another drink before you go?”
“I haven’t finished this one.”
“Hm.” Daniel headed for the rapidly depleting decanter.
“You are becoming an alcoholic.” But Allen didn’t urge his sibling to take up gainful employment or become involved in any more charitable causes.
“Very likely. It’s one of the hazards…” of having you as a brother, Daniel finished inside his head.
“You’re fixing dinner?” Harmony was relieved. She was getting hungry and hated cooking in a strange kitchen.
“Of course. I have been a terrible host—not feeding you properly after I’ve kept you slaving over your manuscript.” Alex smiled at her with both his eyes and lips, and as always she felt something inside contract with pleasure, anticipation, and just a bit of something akin to fear. “Have you explored all of the cottage now?”
“Not yet. I looked around upstairs and found the gun room. I recognized some of the guns. I’ve never shot a Nitro before. Couldn’t afford one.” She sounded a bit wistful, even to her own ears.
“That Holland and Holland is dangerous,” Alex warned. “If you ever do need to use it, best to prop it against a tree or wall—anything other than your body. That thing is designed to drop a charging elephant. Did you see the Winchester?”
“The over-and-under? Yes. It’s a museum piece.”
“That is a good weapon. Practical. Powerful. Not much call for it now, of course. I never hunt anymore. Still, I keep them as mementos.”
“I also saw some strange bone weapons. They looked nasty.”
“Ah—those are Masai weaponry, a throwing club and a sort of knife that warriors use to kill lions. Both are made from giraffe bone—the femur and the shoulder blade—the densest bone material on earth. You can split a lion skull like a cleaver chops a chicken.”
“Charming.” Harmony grimaced.
“No, but lethal.”
“And the vicious-looking whip on the wall?”
“It is used by the Cossacks for hunting wolves. The weighted tips can kill a wolf with one blow if you strike at the nose. I got rather good with it. It came in handy once the wolves followed the French soldiers back from Russia. They were man-eaters by then. Napoleon’s ill-advised jaunt into Russia during the winter gave the wolves a nice supply of easy prey, and they acquired a taste for it.” This answer shouldn’t surprise her. Killing had been woven into the tapestry of Dumas’s life almost from childhood. He was a gentleman and probably found killing distasteful, but he was also—thank God for both of their sakes—very good at it.
“Ugh. I’m just not a sportsman, I guess. I like guns but not killing.”
Alex took down a glass jar filled with rice and set it beside the crock of butter and a plate of a dozen ripe tomatoes. He then ducked into a small pantry and emerged with a cured ham, a bundle of garlic, and two sausages.
Harmony watched as he pulled out a large copper pan, deeper than a skillet but not as deep as a saucepan. The lid was cone-shaped and slotted almost like a strainer.
“It’s called a chinois,” he said, not waiting for her question. He began chopping tomatoes on a sheet of white marble. He worked with the speed of a professional chef. “The pan is a marmite. It, along with the poleon, is a kind of what we used to call a casserole. We did not cook in earthenware dishes in my day. In many places they did not have any sort of oven, you see. You can have no idea how different kitchens were then.”
“You use gas here?”
“Yes. As I mentioned before, I keep my interactions with electrical items to a minimum.” Harmony believed this. She had found his office. It was full of books, stuffed floor to rafters with old tomes in many languages. The only two concessions to modern living were an old rotary phone and a fax machine—on top of which rested a pair of rubber gloves. There wasn’t even a lamp on the antique desk. Just a candlestick.
Alex lit a burner on the old stove. It puffed once in indignation, but stayed alight. It hissed like the old style of Coleman lantern her father had used when they went camping. Fascinated, Harmony boosted herself onto the high table that served as a counter, watching with interest as Alex tossed sliced tomatoes and water into a pan. He added a generous dollop of butter and gave it a quick stir.
“Tomatoes—fruit of the south where they grow quite sweet. Not like those horrid things I get in New York. Do you like to cook?”
“I cook some but prefer baking,” she told him.
“Of course. It is much the same, though—a bit of fantasy, boldne
ss, but not brutality. Food—with few exceptions—must be coaxed, not beaten into submission.” Alex’s accent was slowly reappearing. Perhaps he was unable to suppress it when he was distracted and feeling passionate. It had been quite thick while they were making love in the gazebo, she thought. He glanced up at her. “It is rather sensual, no?”
“Yes.” If one meant it was of the senses. No tomato could compete with Alex, though. Harmony leaned over the pan and inhaled deeply. The sauce was turning a beautiful scarlet color, and the butter smelled a bit of nuts. A clove of garlic was smashed flat and flicked into the pan. The pungent aroma burst out immediately and enveloped her. She sighed happily. Maybe Alex had a point. This smell of garlic pleased her far more than that of most of her past boyfriends.
“Ah! Garlic. Did you know in ancient Greece that those who ate garlic were refused entrance at the temple of Cybele? The Greeks absolutely abhorred it. The Romans liked it more, but then, they ate everything.” His brow furrowed. “As I recall, Alfonso, king of Castile, in the fourteenth century actually founded an order of knights that had to swear not to appear at court for a full month after they had eaten either onion or garlic. How sad to be a Spaniard then. It is true that garlic is odorous, but the whole world smelled bad in that era because of the repugnance of bathing. That is what perfume was for. The French, we are always more sensible. More fun.” Alex began chopping ham and sausage with great enthusiasm.
“Very sensible, if by that you mean unafraid of flavors and smells. Um, are we feeding all of the village?” Harmony asked after a while as he kept on chopping until the ham was gone. It didn’t take long. Alex was good with a knife.
“Oh. No.” He sighed. “I forgot. Whenever I cooked here, it was always for a crowd. I don’t like to cook just for myself.” He began adding the ham to the casserole. Brightening, he added, “It is very good on the second day. We can have it for breakfast.”
“Hmmm.” Harmony was noncommittal. She wasn’t a huge fan of breakfast, and when she did indulge it was in more traditional fair. However, she was willing to do a lot to avoid cooking in this very old-fashioned kitchen.
Alex added the ham and sausage and then poured in an entire jar of rice. He threw in a fistful of kosher salt. He truly did not seem to know how to practice moderation in the kitchen.
“You don’t measure anything?” she asked, impressed and a bit horrified.
“No need. Experience has taught me well, and I am none too fond of rules.” He added water almost to the top and then put the dunce cap on top of the pan. “Now for the lobster and a few oysters—just for luck.”
“Lobster? Someone delivered lobster and oysters?” Harmony was surprised.
“Fresh off the fishing boat and beach. Millie prearranged it.”
“Your Millie is an amazing woman. I hope you pay her well.”
“Indeed. In fact, I think you would agree that her pay borders on obscene. She is ugly to look upon but has a true genius for organization,” he replied with obvious relish. “Now, attention, please. This is a recipe I perfected years ago for crayfish. Or crawfish, as they say in Nouvelle Orléans. Another time I shall prepare spitted lobster. It is not so common a dish now, I think because it is difficult to tie the lobsters to the spits. I cook them with a light basting of champagne. And when the fire is hot, you toss them on. The shell breaks at once and then crumbles away like chalk. It is so much easier to dismantle that way, and less meat is lost.”
Harmony shuddered at the image.
“A lobster auto-da-fé—no, thanks.”
“Don’t look so horrified. They are simply large, delicious insects, not pets.” Alex sounded amused. He had also never been so chatty or relaxed.
“You’re not helping. I don’t like the thought of eating bugs either.”
“Ah, but if they are delicious…”
Alex reached into the cupboard overhead and pulled down a cauldron with two handles. As he did so, Harmony saw that he had a pistol tucked into the band of his pants. They had left their other weapons in Mexico, so this meant Alex had retrieved a weapon after their arrival at the cottage and felt the need to wear it—and not for hunting, which he didn’t do anymore. She shouldn’t be surprised. He had told her that he never went unarmed, but she had hoped he meant only in Mexico. Weren’t they safe here in this island retreat?
Alex turned to the window and inhaled deeply.
“‘The sea, the only love to whom I have been faithful.’ Byron said that. I have always agreed with him on this. I would be in Paris and begin to feel tormented by the filth and crowds, so I would invent a reason and either rent a carriage or take the train to Trouville or perhaps Le Havre.” He laughed suddenly. “I recall now that I did feed a village once. It was in Fecamp. I had become so stifled at home that I thought I would go mad, and heard from a friend of this seaside village where the fishing was grand and the boatmen were willing to take on passengers for a small fee. That was the first time I caught a lobster. I went out with a boat for the day, and we also caught two mackerel and an octopus.”
“Did you cook them?”
“Naturally. As per my instructions, the janitress at the hotel had been attending the pot-au-feu, and it was ready on our return. I would have made my own soup, but it must cook all day to be flavorful. The woman seemed competent, and so I trusted her to follow my instructions. She had also prepared two chickens who were there waiting for me, naked and ready, and also a beef kidney, which she had left blessedly free of sauce. A kidney cannot be dressed ignorantly, and so few have the art of it.” He glanced at Harmony and chuckled. “You wrinkle your nose, but that is because you have never had it done properly. It seems only the English cook them anymore, and they are still mostly barbarians in the kitchen.”
“Hm,” Harmony said again, unwilling to interrupt Alex’s memory with an argument about who were the greater culinary barbarians.
“We also had some asparagus—running to seed but still delicious in the hands of a master. It took an hour and a half to prepare the meal because of the strange kitchen, but it was child’s play really.” Alex’s accent was now quite thick, and his face was animated. He carried the cauldron to the sink and filled it a third of the way with water. Returning to the stove, he put the pan on another burner and lit it as well. He turned the fire up high, letting the flames lick up the sides of the pot where they attacked the stray drops of water that ran down the squat slopes. Then, peering through the slotted lid at his first dish, he slightly reduced the flame under the rice.
There came a soft thumping from the pantry, like a mouse—or a gremlin—knocking on the door.
“Alex?” Harmony asked nervously when he didn’t react. “Is someone here?”
“No. And it isn’t rats. The lobsters are in the dry sink. I fear that our dinner realizes the end is near and has grown restive.”
“They’re still alive?” she asked, dismayed.
“But yes. One must leave them alive until they are on the spit or in the pot. It isn’t safe to eat long-dead lobster.” He went to the kitchen’s lone window and forced it open another few inches. From the window box outside he plucked several stems of herbs. The pungent odor of thyme and rosemary filled the room, along with an eddy of ocean air.
“It smells like Thanksgiving,” Harmony said, closing her eyes. It had been years since she had had a traditional Thanksgiving dinner, and she felt a gentle wave of nostalgia pass over her.
“Not for long. This is the season for a picnic, not a heavy feast. Watch now.” Reaching for the porcelain head of a fox mounted on the wall, he pulled a length of cotton twine from the vixen’s mouth and cut it with his knife. “I am making a bouquet garni for the court boullion. Next we need cayenne peppers and some carrots and onion.”
“Cayenne?”
“It will infuse the lobsters with wonderful flavor. Have faith—the faint heart ne’er won the fair lady, nor honors in the kitchen.”
The tapping from the pantry came again. It was louder this time. Har
mony, looking at the slow-boiling cauldron, began to squirm. “If you say so.”
“I do.” Alex pulled a napkin away from a bowl where a handful of oysters waited in a bed of crushed ice.
Harmony looked away from the stove and into the dark closet where the scrabbling continued. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Alex boiling their dinner alive. She liked lobster a lot, but was not in the habit of killing her own food. That made her feel a bit wimpy and hypocritical, but she knew that she was unwilling to change. If she had to kill her own food, she’d be a vegetarian.
Harmony looked back at the executioner chef. “Do they really scream when you cook them?”
Alex glanced at her kindly as gouts of murderous steam began to billow from the cauldron of death. The flames had joined hands around the pot and were dancing wildly in the current that came through the open window.
“Perhaps you should set the table while I see to this,” he suggested, pulling open a bin and reaching for an onion. He halved it with one blow and threw it into the pot, skin and all. A carrot followed, halved the long way but not chopped. “There is no need to see this part, and you’ll want your appetite intact. I promise, this is a meal like no other you have had.”
“Okay.” Harmony slid off the table. Before she had time to consider, she said, “You know, I wish we could have brought the dog. She would have liked having this dinner with us, I think.” But that wasn’t the only reason. A dog would bark if they had visitors. An early warning system would make her feel more at ease.
Alex didn’t laugh at her. “I wish it too. A house is empty without pets, isn’t it? In Paris, though I am very busy just now, I have made a place for a new cat—Lady de Winter. She is…very elegant.” Alex headed for the pantry, pulling on a pair of gauntlets. “Of course, with a cat, it is less that one adopts them than that they commandeer you.”
“Where are the plates?” Harmony asked hastily.
“The dining room is down the hall and to your left,” Alex called. “There is a cabinet in there. Use the Limoges—the Normandy pattern. It has flowers, apple blossoms, I think. And bring me two platters. I must butter them before I serve. Too many people neglect this step. You will notice a difference.”
Divine Night Page 20
