The Devil's Feast

by M. J. Carter

  “Who was passing dishes last night?”

  “We all took a turn, I believe—myself, Perrin, Chef, Percy.”

  “Who carries the plates to the lift, sir?”

  “Cooks and junior chefs bring them to the delivery windows or to us, then either kitchen maids or apprentices will carry them to the lift. Desserts and confectionary are taken on wheeled tables, as the distance to the lift is further. Once they are upstairs, the footmen take them to the tables.”

  “Do you think the poison could simply have been sprinkled on top of a dish, or would it have needed to be stirred in?” said Blake.

  “Since I have never poisoned anyone, Monsieur,” said Morel faintly, “I cannot tell you.”

  “Then can you advise me on what might be a suitable dish for such contamination?” Blake persisted.

  Morel sank his head into his hands.

  “I know far less than Monsieur Morel about these things,” Percy broke in, “and nothing of poisons save for using a little arsenic on bedbugs, but as I consider it, coffee could work, or something that requires flour, for it could be mixed into that. The richness and sharpness of certain desserts might disguise bitterness, don’t you think, Chef? For example, the pineapple cream—”

  “And wines and spirits?” Blake interrupted.

  “It is certainly possible. The sherry and the port would already have been opened; one might add a pinch of something. The claret, too, would likely have been decanted before it came to the table. My underbutlers do that, and the kitchen clerks keep a note of what is opened.”

  Blake nodded.

  “No one in the kitchen has been ill, then? Not at all?” he said.

  Percy and Morel glanced at each other.

  “Is there something I have not been told?” I said.

  “I’m sorry, sir, it simply did not occur to us that it might be connected,” said Percy. “Three weeks ago, two kitchen maids fell ill, and a junior sauce cook—an infection of the stomach, we thought. Now I think of it, it may well have been the night Mr. Cunningham fell ill.”

  “And you did not think to say! Does Soyer know?”

  “Sir, we were only told about Mr. Cunningham yesterday. And I am sure Chef had no notion of it. It is a large staff. I am truly sorry. I will point them out to you when you speak to them. But may I ask, how long will the club have to remain closed, do you think?”

  “Until we discover the cause of this,” I said.

  “May I speak plainly, sir?”

  “By all means.”

  “Mr. Scott will insist the club cannot pay wages if it is not drawing in money. We know the finances are in a tangle, not least because of—well, it’s not my place to say—and it is the staff who will suffer. I have a little put by, but there are plenty with families to feed, or who have nothing to fall back on because they are foreigners. Perhaps you might have a word with the committee?”

  “I will do what I can.”

  Mr. Scott appeared at the door to announce that Lord Marcus Hill was waiting for me.

  I followed him out. He was watching the kitchen maids cleaning.

  “Mr. Scott,” I said sharply, “you failed to get me the list of what the gentlemen ate last night. I had to ask Mr. Percy instead. I hope you have managed to undertake the other tasks?”

  A kitchen maid bent over to scrub the floor. Scott stared at her in a manner I can only describe as hungry. “I am doing my best,” he said, not moving his eyes, “but I have to see to the accounts. We are losing money dreadfully since we are not open today. I must know what is coming in, and how much is being spent on food and spirits. Monsieur Soyer can be rather evasive on the matter, Captain Avery.”

  Percy cast his eyes up at the ceiling.

  “Summoning Mr. Wakley and informing the families take precedence over your accounts, Mr. Scott,” I said irritably. “And calling in the police.

  “Mr. Scott!” I said again.

  “Oh, yes, right away—” he started, and, seeing my expression, set off across the kitchen.

  “I hope you will not take it amiss, Captain Avery,” said Percy feelingly, “if I say that, in my opinion, Mr. Scott’s suggestion that the kitchen is evasive is perfect nonsense. I must admit I am not cool on the subject: we in the kitchen find his claims to oversee us both irksome and lacking.”

  “And dishonest, Mr. Percy?” said Blake.

  “Disorderly, I should say, Mr. Maguire,” said Percy, sighing. “Not up to the mark.”

  Blake fussed about me, dusting down my frock coat and straightening my collar. “Don’t offer Hill too much,” he muttered into my necktie. “Get what you can from him.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was the footman I knew who conducted me to the Strangers’ Room.

  “Been at the club long—?”

  “Jeffers, sir,” he cut in, “from the other day?”

  “Yes, I do remember,” I said, a touch irritated.

  “Since it began, sir, and proud to be here.”

  “I do not suppose you knew Mr. Addiscomb and Mr. Rickards?”

  “The gentlemen that passed away, sir?”

  “One is recovering,” I said. “I suppose everyone knows now?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. And as a matter of fact, I did know them, sir. Served them regularly.”

  “Anything to report?”

  “Well, sir, since it is you that is asking, they were not the liveliest gentlemen, and neither were they young. Liked their dinner, and dined here at least once or twice a week, often together. Mr. Addiscomb was very appreciative of Monsieur Soyer’s menus. Liked to say it was the finest dinner in London.”

  There was a fire in the Strangers’ Room, the only one in the whole club, I guessed. Lord Marcus Hill, his hair combed flat against his brows, his emphatic eyebrows arched with friendliness and concern, stood in front of it.

  “The committee is about to meet, and I wished to see you. I am told Henry Rickards is recovering. Have you come to any conclusions?”

  “I am all but certain Mr. Addiscomb and Mr. Rickards were poisoned, but, while Rowlands was killed with arsenic, I believe these two had unknowingly taken strychnine. I have called Mr. Wakley back so as to be sure.”

  “That troublesome radical—” said Lord Marcus.

  “—a respected surgeon and coroner,” said another voice. I started. Mr. Molesworth was standing behind me. In true butterfly dandy style, he wore a yellow-and-black tartan silk waistcoat, a black silk cutaway and yellow trousers. The opposite of mourning. “And he is both knowledgeable in and skilled at such matters.”

  Hill waved his hand. “If you say so.”

  “I assume you now believe Rowlands was murdered?” said Molesworth.

  “It seems likely. And from the doctor’s reports, it seems highly likely that the man who fell ill in the street, and later expired—Cunningham—had entirely the same symptoms.”

  “Do you have any thoughts as to the perpetrator?”

  I could not quite bear to say no, so I listed everything we planned to do and all the lines of inquiry we planned to pursue.

  “So you have no idea at all,” said Molesworth.

  “What about foreign intervention?” asked Lord Marcus.

  “The Russians, you mean?” I said. “We have so far found no one in the kitchen whom we believe could plausibly be working on their behalf. But I will look into the matter further as soon as our interviews with the staff are done. I will be consulting with Sir Theo Collinson.” The thought oppressed me. I cleared my throat. “Gentlemen, may I in turn ask you both a question?”

  “Ask away,” said Lord Marcus, his thick brows rounded in surprise.

  “I should like you to tell me what you know about Mr. Addiscomb and the Honorable Henry Rickards. I can find no one who knew them well.”

  “Addiscomb is—was—a member of
Parliament; Rickards used to be. He retired from his seat at the last election,” said Lord Marcus. “They were old friends.”

  “Did you regard them as friends?” I said.

  It was Molesworth who answered. He gave a sort of gasping laugh. “No, indeed. They were dyed-in-the-wool Whigs.”

  “Like Cunningham and Rowlands?” I said.

  “Do you believe that to be significant?” said Molesworth.

  “This is nonsense! Cunningham has barely been active in the Commons since 1832,” said Lord Marcus.

  “Did they have any obvious enemies?” I asked.

  “What a question!” said Lord Marcus. “This is a place of conviviality. A broad but friendly church. There are no enmities or divisions played out here.”

  “Pardon me, Your Lordship, but I have heard that there is a good deal of hostility between those of the Whiggish persuasion and the radicals.”

  “I must ask where you heard such nonsense. Gossip in the kitchen? Not from Soyer surely?”

  “I do not think Monsieur Soyer has the slightest interest in the politics of the club. It has come from other members.”

  “Well,” said Lord Marcus peevishly, “that may have been the case some years ago, but I really do not think it is so now.”

  “My dear Lord Marcus,” said Molesworth, “you must know that such gossip is common currency. As a radical myself, I cannot deny that I am disappointed that the club seems to have abandoned its original principle of furthering reform.”

  “Mr. Molesworth, what would you say about these men?” I said.

  Lord Marcus looked quite petulant. Molesworth ignored him.

  “I do not like to speak ill of the dead, but they were notable for their old-fashioned notions and their particular opposition to change. They poked fun at my radical colleagues, sneered at their political convictions and their dress. It was unedifying in men in late middle age.”

  “At radical dandies like Duncombe, for example?” I did my best not to stare at Molesworth’s canary-yellow trousers.

  “Some may refer to him thus,” said Molesworth.

  “Captain Avery, this is ridiculous. A distraction. These are not grounds for murder. This is the healthy cut and thrust among men of politics. It is the way of the world.”

  “Let us move on,” said Molesworth, languidly inspecting his perfectly gloved left hand. “As far as we know, we have three dead men, one very ill, and no obvious suspect. We have called a meeting of the committee. We must act before circumstances catch up with us. There will be talk. We must decide how long the club should be closed, and whether Monsieur Soyer should resign.”

  “Resign!” said Lord Marcus Hill. “But he makes the Reform Club what it is.”

  “A sad fact for a political club,” said Molesworth coldly. “The truth is, Monsieur Soyer’s name is bound to be attached to this scandal.”

  “What about the banquet?” asked Lord Marcus.

  “It must be canceled. It is not safe for it to take place—unless Captain Avery can produce a plausible culprit by the end of the day. And that”—Molesworth paused—“seems most unlikely.”

  “But it would bring the most dreadful humiliation on the party. Upon our leaders. Upon the club.”

  “It might bring humiliation on Lord Palmerston, but it would be worse if some of our guests actually died as a result of it, don’t you think?”

  “Your Lordship,” I said, “I think that Monsieur Soyer—”

  “We have heard quite enough of what you think, young man,” said Lord Marcus. “You say you have other inquiries to make? I suggest you go and make them.”

  “But his presence will be required at the meeting of the committee later,” said Molesworth. “He must come and explain himself.”

  Without looking at me, Lord Marcus walked heavily out of the room. Molesworth followed lightly behind, in his delicate leather pumps.

  • • •

  WE HAD BEGUN our interviews with the senior chefs of each station, since they knew their own staff intimately and might be helpful in that respect. Alas, we were too optimistic. By the time I returned to the kitchen, Blake had reached Herr Schmidt, the German pastry chef.

  Blake had suggested we look out for the Germans. Many lived under Russian rule and, though he found the whole notion of a Russian conspiracy implausible, an agent would most likely sound German. It was quickly apparent that Schmidt could not possibly be a Russian spy. He had spent twenty years as a pastry chef in London, found Blake’s questions mystifying and simply wished to get back to work—he had castles to build, creams to whisk: the great masterpiece he had planned for Lord Palmerston’s banquet needed attention before he left. No, he had noticed nothing odd, seen nothing strange, he was bewildered by the question: it was a kitchen, and they were there to create pleasure through the medium of nourishment.

  The fish, vegetable and entremets chefs had been much the same: mildly suspicious, bewildered, impatient to get back to their kitchens, somewhere between admiring and envious of their colleagues’ talents, satisfied by most of their underlings, exasperated by a few, reverent of Soyer.

  Monsieur Benoît, the roast chef, who came next, refused to speak English, then was highly displeased to discover that Blake spoke excellent French. His answers, when they came, were reluctantly given and imperious. Monsieur Soyer respected him as an artist and furnished him with the best ingredients. His cooks and apprentices were fools and scoundrels to a man. They were far too stupid to manage anything as complicated as poisoning someone, unless of course they had done it by accident, which would be perfectly possible, save that he, Benoît, would most certainly have caught it, as there was nothing he did not see. As for his fellow chefs, they were good enough, skilled even, though most were sheep who followed their master, not one original thought in their bodies. And as for that Perrin, the saucier—Benoît began to swell with indignation. A mere boy! A charlatan! A pretty scallywag who pretended to invention but who simply copied what Soyer gave him! He smiled too much! Those who claimed him as a great talent were utterly mistaken, he was merely ambitious and designing. He would be found out soon enough. He would come to a bad end.

  Blake steered Benoît, his nostrils almost steaming with fury, from the room.

  His successor was Perrin himself. He was the kind of man one almost wants to dislike, but he was utterly disarming. Quite as preoccupied as his fellow chefs and thus quite as useless, he was cheerful and courteous with it. He pronounced the notion of the poisoning bewildering and unthinkable: “But why would anyone in this kitchen do that? It makes no sense. It must be a mistake. No one here would do such a thing.” He was complimentary about his cooks and apprentices, and told Blake, “But your French is excellent!” He asked me how I had liked the sauce on my lamb cutlets the night before. “Do we put in too much ham and make it perhaps a leetle too salty?”

  Once he had left, I said, “He is so perfect, I wonder if he is too good to be true.”

  “A pretty boy,” said Blake, “with soft eyes.”

  • • •

  AT OUR REQUEST, Morel and Percy had made a list of those who had been taken on within the previous three or four months: a good ten names, two of which were German. One of these was Albert, the dark, greasy young man who had taken so much pleasure in his colleagues’ distress at the roasting station, and whom Matty had named as a bully. They gave us the names of the kitchen maids who had fallen sick three weeks before. They also, reluctantly, picked out two cooks and an underbutler whom they believed to have gambling debts, and five or six more who were struggling to feed extended families and might be susceptible to bribery.

  “Some of the potboys all but live on the street,” Percy added, “though they have little to do with the preparation of dishes. Many are foreign and have no family here to fall back on. I believe most of us are devoted to Chef and would not dream of ill-doing, but life in
London is precarious, and it is possible that someone in a weak moment might be tempted or pressed to do something they would regret.”

  It soon became repetitive, wearing work, coaxing recollections from shy kitchen maids and proper answers from excitable apprentices to see if there was one telling detail that might enlighten us. Nothing sprang out; no one could recall anything that sounded genuinely suspicious, or that might correspond to an act of contamination, though there were a few accusations that we felt obliged to note. Most of the meat cooks confided to Blake that they considered Monsieur Benoît mad and capable of anything. All the sauce cooks admired Perrin. One underbutler said he did not trust another underbutler; the kitchen clerks did not like each other one bit. A vegetable chef swore he had seen one of the fish cooks sprinkle a strange powder over the lobster; since none of our victims had eaten lobster, we nodded and passed on. Two put-upon young junior cooks admitted in low, shamed tones that they hated Albert, the young German roast cook, more than anyone else in the world and would not have been surprised to hear he had committed any crime. As for the new recruits, six—including one of the Germans, a pastry apprentice with a face full of pimples—were obviously too young and innocent to be anything other than potboys and apprentices. Of the rest, three were French and had learned their skills in other kitchens. The other German, who worked in the entremets section, was clearly intelligent and able. Blake, while agreeing he should be watched, said it was unlikely he was our man, as he was Jewish. The Russians, he explained, “were great persecutors of the Jews.”

  We were interviewing the vermin boy, under the supervision of the ghastly Gimbell, about the management of the poisons cupboard, when Mr. Wakley arrived. It was almost a relief to see him surge into the room—there was no other word for it—with his long, golden tresses tossing.

  “Well, young man,” Wakley said, pumping my arm, “good day to you! I was wondering how you were progressing, but this is a facer! Another death, and one sick abed! And, I hear, another death some weeks ago that may have been connected. One death may be regarded as just about acceptable, but three is downright carelessness!” And he laughed heartily at his own joke.