by M. J. Carter
I regret to inform you that Jeremiah Blake has disappeared.
• • •
I HAD DETESTED the Marshalsea from the first; it was a squalid place. But now the sight of its dull, gray buildings, its dull, gray cobbles and its hopeless men, combined with my throbbing head and a certain bad conscience at finding the message so late, made me furious.
The yard was full of debris: several upturned benches, an odd shoe, shreds of soggy paper. The warden was exceedingly flustered and continually buttoned and unbuttoned his coat.
“This really is a most unusual occurrence. I should go so far as to say—indeed, I would stress—that nothing like it has happened in years.”
“I do not care whether it is common or uncommon, sir.”
“But, really, Captain Avery, you must understand we could never have imagined . . . I hope you will make this clear to Sir Theophilus Collinson when you make your report. Obviously, we will help you with any means at our disposal. Perhaps I might offer you some refreshment?”
“You think I am here on Collinson’s behalf?”
“Well, naturally . . .”
“I want none of your miserable hospitality. I only wish to know what happened, and I can assure you that Collinson will not be assuaged by pathetic excuses.”
The warden nodded, ashen, and began to rub his hands in serpentine knots. I knew my ability to make him squirm derived entirely from my association with Collinson. I did not care.
“Yes, sir, of course. This way, sir. It has taken us a little while to piece together the course of events. It was yesterday afternoon, when most of the inmates were out in the yards. Along here, if you please, sir.”
He led me to the third set of buildings, where Blake’s room had been. We went down a few steps, into a foul-smelling, dark room with two small high windows. The floor oozed wetly. There were stalls in the far wall and a long trough.
“Washing stalls,” the warden said, smiling feebly. “Mr. Blake was washing himself. It seems that another inmate, a man called Nathaniel Gore, called him out and wanted to fight him. Mr. Blake at first refused, but then Gore apparently came at him with a long knife. Mr. Blake was stabbed in the thigh. The witnesses said the blood spurted most dramatically. The terrified onlookers ran into the yard, shouting that Mr. Blake had been killed. The Marshalsea is, as a rule, a place of peaceful debtors, not violent men, so again I cannot stress how unusual this was. We have seen nothing like it in years. The inmates became most excited; they lost all sense of propriety. They began to run about, screaming that they would be killed and that there was a madman loose in the prison. We had to shut the gates, and it took us some time to quieten them and restore order.”
“So he is dead? You knew Nathaniel Gore had a grudge against Mr. Blake. Even I knew he was a danger. You have a great deal to answer for. I imagine Collinson will have you dismissed.”
“Sir, if I may,” said the warden, his fingers tangling in such tight circles I thought he might break them, “that is not the end of the story. As I say, it took some considerable time to calm the uproar, and so there was a delay before a group of trustees managed to reach the washroom. Aside from the bloodstains on the ground”—he gestured at a dark, black patch of floor—“they could find no trace of either man. It appears that Mr. Gore left the jail just after the start of the commotion. Like the other inmates, he was permitted to leave the prison, as long as he remained within the ‘liberty’ of the prison and returned by sunset. The turnkey did not realize he was the cause of the uproar. As for Mr. Blake”—he coughed slightly—“he, too, has disappeared. No one recalls seeing him. A number of frightened inmates did leave the prison before we shut the gates. They all returned later, but neither Gore nor Mr. Blake have been found. We did not realize until the prison closed, then we made a thorough search, but . . .” He ground to a painful halt. “We did write to you last night . . . Of course, we have informed the New Police. Absconders rarely get far.”
My exasperation at Blake’s rashness leached into vexation at the warden. “How bad was Blake’s wound?”
The warden shook his head. I demanded that I take possession of Blake’s things. The warden himself walked me to Blake’s room, his assistant trailing behind, during which time he admitted, without any prodding, that the Marshalsea’s guards and trustees were neither as numerous nor as alert as they should have been.
The warden left, the assistant waited in the doorway. The old shipping clerk with whom he had shared was lying on the mattress with his arm across his eyes. He did not acknowledge my presence. Blake’s few pieces of clothing lay neatly folded on the floor; his books were stacked in a corner under the table. I picked through them, hoping there might be something, some hint. But I could find nothing, just the books themselves and some notes I could not read, on account of their being in Blake’s shorthand.
I rested my elbows on the table and took my head in my hands and shut my eyes. I was tired and bilious from the night before, and my head throbbed.
“Are you quite well, sir?” The warden’s minion stood anxiously at the door.
“I should like a minute, if you please,” I said, without opening my eyes. The door closed, and the room was quiet.
“In the spine.” The shipping clerk’s voice was hoarse, as if it were not often used.
I looked up. He had not moved at all.
“Iss in the big book. In the spine.” The words emerged from behind his arm. “Left it just before he went down.”
I picked up the thickest volume. It was called Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds. I poked my finger into the space between the book’s binding and the spine and carefully fished out a small piece of paper of almost transparent thinness. I unfolded it. It read:
Don’t fret.
I took up the rest of Blake’s belongings and left as quickly as I could.
Chapter Eight
I must do without Blake. The truth of it, now that the evidence was incontrovertible, was harder to accept than I had expected. My intention was to inform the Reform Club that I could not continue with the inquiry, and return to Devon. Even now, I cannot say exactly why I agreed to stay on. I had not revised my opinion of my abilities. It was a confusion of reasons. After the first shock of Blake’s disappearance, the temptation to eke out my London freedom a little longer and my no doubt ill-considered appetite for incident and inquiry began to reassert themselves. It occurred to me that I had already picked up too many threads to drop them now. I was concerned about Matty. I found myself feeling I owed something to Soyer. I had a number of suspicions that warranted further inquiry. And finally, at the back of my mind there was the quite baseless conviction that, if I remained at the Reform, Blake might eventually appear.
What I would say to the Reform about his absence was another matter. I did not want to tell them about the Marshalsea. There was still a small, probably foolish part of me that hoped he might emerge unscathed from the matter. And for what were, I know, personal, petty reasons, I felt news of his incarceration would not reflect well on me, erasing what small standing I had.
I told Soyer first. It was almost luncheon, and today the kitchen was bright, orderly, calm: once more a beautiful mechanism. At every station, heads were bowed over bowls, saucepans, cauldrons and plates. Deliveries had arrived and were piled up on top of each other. Among the sauciers, young Perrin was bent low over a chopping board, shredding herbs with extraordinary precision and at great speed. He looked up and nodded politely. I could not help but observe that there was something, as Matty had described, surprisingly soft and attractive about his eyes.
Soyer was standing with Percy, inspecting three pallets full of cuts of meat. Soyer suddenly reached into the lowest box, pulled out a great piece of burgundy-colored meat edged with a thick slab of yellow fat and examined it.
With an expression of utter disgust, he tossed it back onto the top palle
t.
“What is this?” His voice rang out across the kitchen, throbbing with anger. The cooks and kitchen maids watched covertly.
“I have told your master before, I must have whole sides of beef!” he shouted at the carter who had delivered it. “I will not take delivery of these great lumps. I must have the best quality. These could be anything!” He picked up a joint and brought it to his nose, then flung it angrily away. “I would not serve this to my dog! Take them away, and do not bother to bring your wares here again!”
I have to say, to me, the anger seemed quite out of scale with the offense. I could see nothing wrong with the meat, but then I was not the most famous chef in London. The carter’s response took me aback even more.
“Master says you can take ’em or leave ’em. Says you’re damaged goods yourself, Mr. Soyer. Says the club owes him money. Says we’ll see how long you’ll be in a position to buy anything much from anyone.”
“How dare you speak to me like this!” Soyer said—coming up close to the man, who was a big, heavyset creature in hobnail boots, and much larger than he—and placing himself mere inches from his nose. “You are a nobody! Leave this place and do not come back! Take your shoddy goods with you!”
I thought the carter might strike him, but he retreated, muttering crossly, then Percy took his arm and drew him to the pallets, murmuring while Soyer stalked across the kitchen to his office.
“May I ask whom you serve?” I said to the carter as he lifted his pallets.
“Hastings Bland of Smithfield, best beef in London,” said the man. “Don’t matter, I reckon. He’ll get his money one way or t’other.”
Frenchmen are of course famous for their passionate moods. Or perhaps he was somewhat the worse for wear from the night before. Or perhaps there was more to it. The carter’s words had pricked my curiosity. I resolved to add the name of Hastings Bland to my list of inquirees. In the meantime, I went after Soyer.
• • •
“CAPTAIN AVERY! What a fine evening it was!” he said, getting up from his desk, all smiles. None the worse for wear at all, it seemed.
“It was indeed, and I have a slightly sore head to prove it,” I said. “Might we speak? I imagine you might be preoccupied after that meat business . . .”
“That? Oh, no.” He laughed gaily. “One must keep the suppliers on their toes. It was nothing. What was it you wished to ask me about?”
“I am afraid there is no possibility that Blake will be able to come. He is deeply engaged in another matter—a case. I am deeply sorry.”
He faltered for a moment but recovered himself at once and said brightly, “But I have quite reconciled myself to this! You, Captain Avery, will help us, and when all is done, we shall tease and reprove him together.”
Morel put his head around the door. “Chef?” he said. “Des nouvelles.”
He stood tautly, as if he was struggling to control himself, and his voice was breathless. “I told you last night, Capitaine, that Jo Francobaldi would have something of ours on his bill of fare?”
Soyer sat back in his chair. Now he seemed resigned rather than angry.
“He gives a dinner tonight at the Union Club. He gave the menu to the Morning Chronicle. He serves what he calls a château au pâte, a pastry castle. Within are small chickens stuffed with mushrooms, ox tongue and sweetbreads. On the so-called ‘battlements’ are gold-plated attelettes on which are skewered truffles and crayfish.”
“But it is Monsieur Soyer’s pastry crown to the letter!” I said.
“It is,” said Morel, “and three days before we were to make it a centerpiece of our banquet. This time, he goes too far. Alexis, this time we must act.”
“It has happened often before?” I said.
“Five, six times that we know of,” said Morel. “More, perhaps. Clever, understated dishes of complex flavors. But never before so soon after eating one, and never quite so boldly as to copy a centerpiece.”
“You must call him out,” I said, appalled. “There are the people who ate the pastry crown, who can swear he has stolen your receipt. I should be happy to.”
“Bien sûr!” said Morel. “He is baiting us! We must publish our menu from the dinner first.”
“We will not,” said Soyer, “because we cannot afford to bring attention to ourselves at this moment. He must have realized this from my words last night. In any case, Captain Avery, the stealing of recipes is a strange thing. We chefs all borrow notions from each other, embroider upon them here or there. It is a brave man who claims to have invented something completely new. Indeed, to the public, I think there is little more foolish and ridiculous than the sight of one chef accusing another of having stolen from him. I do not mind being laughed at from time to time, but I will not be seen to descend to such a level.”
“But he goes too far!” said Morel.
“I say,” Soyer said, with just the merest emphasis on the “say,” “we let it pass.”
“Of course, there is his temper,” said Morel, examining the surface of Soyer’s desk.
“I do not fear his moods. Come, André, let us consider how sad it is to be so desperate, how tragique to have to resort to such subterfuges to draw praise and attention, and remind ourselves that we have ten such ideas that are as good or even better. We triumph every time.”
Morel examined Soyer’s desk more closely. He was still deeply incensed.
• • •
LORD MARCUS HILL, Ellice and Beare took Blake’s absence even more complacently, a fact that fed my own uncertainty.
“Well,” said Lord Marcus, “much as we regret that Mr. Blake will not be able to help us, I cannot think of anyone more fitted to understand the club’s situation and sympathize with its members—and with Monsieur Soyer, of course.”
He meant, of course, that I was a gentleman, and professional inquiry agents were not.
“I fear you overestimate my experience and abilities, Lord Marcus,” I said, “but I will do what I can.”
“That is capital. The club is delighted!” said Mr. Ellice.
“How was your evening with Soyer?” asked Captain Beare. “Did you improve your acquaintance? Has he confided in you? Did he tell you about how he was censured by the committee for dishonesty; how his kitchen mutinied against him? Eh?”
“Beare!” said Lord Marcus, looking pained. “Really, this is not helpful.”
“Is it not? What is your move now, Captain Avery?” said Captain Beare.
• • •
I MARCHED DOWN to the kitchen and plucked Matty away from the dessert station again.
“What is all this about foul play and the committee censuring Soyer for dishonesty? And a mutiny among the staff? Is it to be like last time, then? I give you my trust, and you feed me truth, or not, as it pleases you, drip by drip?”
Perhaps it was not fair to take my anger out upon her. The true locus of my exasperation was Soyer, whom I believed had done his best to charm me in order to distract me from pressing him on difficult matters. At every turn, it seemed I discovered that questions I had asked had not been answered truthfully.
“Look, Captain, I could not be more grateful to you,” said Matty stoutly, “but I am done with being a nose. Can I not just be a kitchen maid? This place has been good to me. I have chances. Don’t make me spoil it all with rumors and whispers.”
“I had thought better of you. That you would not shirk from your duty. A man is dead. The sooner we can resolve the matter, the sooner your kitchen may return to its former state of perfection.” My sore head and my frustration made me bullying and churlish.
“But what if that man’s death has nothing to do with the kitchen? You ask me to rake up old stories that do no one any good, for nothing.”
Her words gave me pause; she might not be wrong. “How can I know if they are not connected if you will not tell me
about them? It seems to me that you are doing your best to bury your head in the sand like some ostrich bird.”
“You are right. I don’t want there to be any trouble in the kitchen. If there is trouble in the kitchen, death and such, then we lose our livelihoods, all of us, and I am tossed back onto the street.”
“Matty.”
“You tell me where Blake is,” she said, folding her arms, “and I’ll answer your questions.”
“I cannot. He made me swear.”
She held her folded arms more tightly and glared at me. I do not know what another man might have done. I capitulated. In truth, I trusted her.
“He was in the Marshalsea,” I said, or rather blurted. It was a relief to speak it. “Unjustly. A long story, a dispute with his patron. He could have freed himself, but he would not. Now he has disappeared. There was a riot. It seems he walked out and did not return.”
“Reckoned I couldn’t keep a secret? Just a cheap servant girl?”
“Do not be so foolish. I have told no one else, and I have broken my promise by telling you.”
“Where is he now?”
“I have no idea. On a boat somewhere, perhaps.”
“What do you mean?”
“The last time I saw him, just before I visited you two days ago, he told me he would not be there long. This was what he meant. I went to the prison this morning. I found a piece of paper hidden in the spine of a book telling me not to worry.”
“So he planned it. Where would he go?”
I shook my head. “Beyond the grasp of the law.”
“I don’t believe it. He would not have left a message if he did not mean to help you. To help us.”
“Jeremiah draws admiration and loyalty. I’ve never been sure how much he reciprocates it. And if he were to appear, he would be at once arrested and find himself back in jail, or worse. Now it is your turn. Tell me about the committee and Soyer.”
“A few months back, the committee accused him of being on the take.”
