by M. J. Carter
“They will not like it, any of it.”
“If they wish to keep their jobs and to prevent more deaths, they will do what they’re told.”
Soyer looked downcast.
“We have a poisoner to catch and a dozen calls to make,” said Blake irritably. “You chefs all claim that a well-run kitchen is like an army. You should be able to manage it.”
Soyer gave the most ridiculous, noisy sigh I had ever heard.
Blake ground his teeth. “Avery and I will talk to the soldiers. You must, however, call your senior chefs together and convince them that, despite the apprehension of a suspect, there is still a chance the poisoner is at large and they must be vigilant and accept the scrutiny of the soldiers. Then you will do the same to the whole kitchen. Percy and his clerks can arrange who takes charge of what dishes. I imagine there will be some, like Monsieur Benoît, who will not make things easy. And you must do something about Matty.”
“I will have her sent a good lunch.”
“Alexis!” It was almost a snarl.
“I do not know! What must I do?” said Soyer pleadingly. “I will write to Lord Marcus saying I’m certain she is innocent. I will write to the police officer, the station . . . What must I do?”
Blake gave in again. “Send her a good lunch and a note, and make sure it gets to her. We will find the real culprit.”
Once Soyer had left us, I said carefully, “You changed your mind.”
“What do you mean?” said Blake irritably.
“You were kinder than I expected.”
He muttered something that I could not quite hear, set his cap on his head and stalked away.
In the butler’s room, Percy gave me a list of the club’s chief suppliers. It was dispiritingly long. “Our biggest suppliers are those from whom we purchase vegetables and fruits at Covent Garden: Solomon’s or Bentley and Adams’s. For meat, we were using Hastings Bland in Smithfield Market and, for poultry, Slater in Leadenhall Market. But our trade with Bland’s has declined; we have not ordered from them tonight, and in future we shall be using Robinson’s.”
The first of the deliveries that Soyer had angrily sent back had been from Hastings Bland.
“Why are you no longer using Bland?”
“He’s a difficult cove, a Smithfield slaughterman turned butcher. We dealt with him direct, as he had good meat, and prices are better if you buy direct. But he was not sending us good enough meat and was argumentative over the bills. Tiresome. As for our smaller suppliers, just now we use Grove’s of Bond Street and Jay’s of Hungerford Market for fish; for specialist poultry, Bailey’s in Davis Street; and for fine game, Newland’s in Air Street. We use Mold’s for foie gras, truffles and mushrooms; items may also be ordered from Paris. Butter and cheese from Roberts of Swallow Street. We use a number of wine merchants, most recently Davey and Pane in South Audley Street.”
“And for milk and flour?”
“Wilson’s brings fresh milk to us from just past Clapham. Flour comes from an excellent flour mill in Shropshire.”
“How do you choose your suppliers?”
“They are quite simply the best in London. Chef would accept no less.”
Outside in the kitchen, a small knot of soldiers had already arrived. Morel and two of the kitchen clerks were attempting to herd them into a corner near the butchery, but even there they seemed to be in the way. Blake took Percy aside, and they muttered for several minutes.
“We’ll take the soldiers up to the hall for the moment and gather some footmen to corral them,” Blake said when he came back.
Morel strode past. He managed to look both anxious and morose.
“Monsewer Morel!” Blake grinned and clapped him on the back. Morel winced.
“Mr. Maguire, I regret that I do not have the time to engage you in discussion just now. I have the aspics and creams for sixteen entremets to oversee and I do not know what we are to do with all these fighting men.”
“Maybe you should put us to work, Monsewer Morel,” said Blake, his smile broadening.
“You and your master have your work,” said Morel curtly. “We would simply like you to complete it.”
We had both been officers. It did not take us long to organize the men, give them their orders and furnish the two lieutenants who had accompanied them with a set of instructions.
It was now about one o’clock.
“What do we do now?
Blake set his jaw. “We’ll do as we planned. We’ll check the suppliers to see if we can trace any contamination. We’ll hear what they think about the Reform’s reputation. Then we will tackle Francobaldi and, if necessary, Collinson’s Russians, if they are truly a threat. Collinson sees conspiracy everywhere, and he loves to overcomplicate. In any time that’s left, I shall be in the kitchen, watching.”
“What about Duncombe and Molesworth?” I said.
“All right, Duncombe and Molesworth, too.”
“We should visit Matty first.” I thought of it as a small mutiny before we gave in to Collinson’s will. “Or, rather, I should visit Matty. After yesterday with Loin, I cannot risk you in the presence of policemen.”
He shrugged. “I’ll stay in the kitchens.”
• • •
VINE STREET was a dismal alley behind the eastern end of Piccadilly, and its police station a dour, flat-fronted brick building with great iron bars across its windows. One could hear shrieks and shouting coming from within.
Inside, a noisy crowd of drunken men and unfortunate women were protesting as constables rounded them up and herded them into the cells. I pushed my way to the desk, where I asked to see Miss Horner.
It was a cold, rank little room with an iron door, one small, high window and a bench against a wall. Matty sat on this, her knees clasped to her chest and wrapped about with a blanket. She was pale and tired, and her usually neatly coiffed hair had half tumbled out of its pins.
I hardly knew what to say.
“I am so sorry I was not there when you were taken.”
She shook her head. “Loin saw to it I had the cell to myself and gave me a blanket.” She spoke on one low note and did not meet my eyes.
I unwrapped a pie I had brought and gave it to her. “Eat,” I said. She took a mouthful, almost mechanically, as if she were hardly aware of what she did.
“Has he told you how long they plan to keep you?”
“No. He just said he’d come back today to talk to me.”
“Be of good cheer, Matty. We will get you out of here, I promise you. We will find the one responsible for all this and have you set free.”
She looked at me now, dully. “It’s like I told you, Captain. No one wanted it to be the kitchen but, if it has to be, then the quicker the culprit—any culprit—is found, the sooner it all returns to how it was. They want it sorted so they can open the club and have their dinner. They don’t want to look further than me.”
“Then their poisoner will still be at large. And Blake and I will not rest until we have him.”
“Or her,” she said, with a thin smile.
The constable rapped on the door. “Time’s up.”
“Matty, I promise you,” I said. I put my hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I promise you, we will not abandon you.”
She closed her eyes and a tremor ran through her, but she did not cry.
When I returned to the front counter, Loin was waiting.
“How is she?” Loin said.
“How do you expect? She thinks the world has conspired to take from her the little she has won for herself and that nothing can stop it.”
He had the grace to look discomfited. “The evidence against her is circumstantial. I’d doubt there’s enough to charge her, but I’ve no other leads and I’ve had words from above. I must treat her as a suspect.”
“What words from above?”
He shrugged.
“There are plenty of other leads,” I said. “You are in the Detecting branch. Detect! The club is full of feuds. Did you not see that all the dead men are Whigs? What about the radicals? There are plenty who have no love for the Whigs. Or, worse, what of the divisions between the Turks and the Egyptians?”
“The fact remains that, if food has been poisoned, the most likely source for it is the kitchen,” said Loin.
• • •
I PLODDED DOWN PICCADILLY, back to the Reform, my steps increasingly reluctant.
On the steps of the club, a woman in a brown cloak and red-trimmed bonnet was remonstrating with the porter. He looked exasperated. No doubt he had been turning angry gentlemen away all day. Below her on the pavement, her maid stood amid a sea of baggage. A few paces away, a constable stood awkwardly, pretending to ignore the scene. I should have known her figure anywhere but so utterly unexpected was the sight of her that it took me a moment to believe it. She turned, saw me.
“William?”
It was my wife.
Chapter Eighteen
Helen! Good heavens!” I said.
“You took your time!”
“Helen, my dear—”
“The porter would not let me in, nor tell me whether you were here,” she protested, her voice wobbling slightly. “He insists the place is shut. And here is a constable of the famous Metropolitan Police who would do nothing to help me. I suppose that is what one must expect from Whigs. If your father knew you were here!”
“I’d rather you did not tell him.”
“I arrive in London and go to the Oriental, thinking to surprise you, only to be told your belongings were moved three days since. And not a word to me.”
I tried to put my arm about her and steer her away from the porter. “I did write, my dear,” I said, in a low voice. “I just rather skated over the matter of the Reform. If you had asked Louisa, she would have—”
“You told your sister before you informed me. Of course.”
“I did not want to concern you, with Frederick unwell. And it is an awkward matter, requiring discretion, not a social one, I assure you.”
“I suppose it’s all to do with the sainted Blake?” she said, rolling her eyes. I changed the subject.
“You look lovely, my dear. But what are you doing here? Where is Frederick? How is he? Is he eating well?”
“I look perfectly dreadful, and the baby is perfectly well. He has the nursemaid and wet nurse and Louisa, who is, of course, marvelous with him.” Too late I saw that I had been tactless to press her on the baby. “I thought, since you had escaped to London, why should not I? I had a fancy for a few days in town. You promised me a visit years ago, and I am still waiting.”
“I’m sorry,” I said guiltily. “But you did not travel on your own?”
“Of course not. Sir Henry Darrow was kind enough to escort us. He had business in London. He was very gentlemanly. We spent the night in the railway hotel in Swindon. It was remarkably uncomfortable.”
Sir Henry Darrow was an older widower who had taken a shine to Helen.
“And now the man will not let us in. I am exhausted. What are you going to do?”
“Sir.” It was the porter, descending the steps to us. “I’m very sorry, but the lady cannot stand here. This is a gentleman’s club.”
“This is so insulting. I am a lady. I should be treated with respect,” said Helen, somewhere between fury and tears, a place I knew better than I wished.
“You know me,” I said to the porter. “I am staying here at the behest of Lord Marcus Hill and the committee. Could you at least let my wife into the hall to rest while we resolve what to do?”
He shook his head. “More than my job’s worth,” he said, or some such unhelpful nonsense. “And I’m afraid, sir, that the lady must take herself off the steps and away from the door. We cannot have a commotion on the steps.”
“Then you must send a message at once to Mr. Percy or, if you cannot find him, Mr. Scott. Tell them Captain Avery is in need of immediate assistance.”
“I’ll do what I can, sir,” said the porter dubiously.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, William, be a man!” said my wife, but she marched down the steps to where Sarah, her maid, stood forlornly among the baggage.
Her words stung me. I began to gather up the cases and bags.
“Morning, Sarah,” I said. “Long journey.”
“Marning, master, it was.”
“Follow me,” I said. “I shall take you in. We shall enter through the kitchens.”
“The kitchens!”
Mr. Scott appeared at the front door, looking most disgruntled. I had never been more glad to see him. He was followed by Lord Marcus Hill.
Lord Marcus raised his thick brown eyebrows almost to his hairline and said, “Why, Captain Avery! Are you quite all right?”
“Lord Marcus, may I present my wife, Helen, who has traveled from Devon most intrepidly to give me a delightful surprise. Our arrangements, however, turn out to be a little at odds, as I have of course given up my rooms in Mayfair. My dear, this is Lord Marcus Hill, chairman of the Reform Club.”
Lord Marcus swept down the steps, followed by the porter. He was all smiles. “My dear Mrs. Avery, it is a great, great pleasure to meet you. May I?” Helen offered her hand; he brought it to his lips. “Your wife is enchanting, Captain Avery.”
She was very pretty. She looked up at him through lowered eyelashes and smiled. My uppermost feeling was relief.
“And you have arrived to discover you are without shelter! And it is all our fault!” He spoke in that slightly exaggerated attentive way that certain still-presentable older men speak to younger women. “We prevailed upon your husband to help us in our hour of need and pressed him to decamp to our humble lodgings. How thoughtless of us. And you must be so tired after your journey.”
“I am quite fatigued, Lord Marcus, it is true,” said Helen, tilting her chin and opening her eyes very wide. “But I have been so very foolish. I wished my arrival to be a surprise to my husband. I did not think before I came. And now, you see . . .”
“I think we absolutely must make an exception for Mrs. Avery and let her rest in the lobby while we hatch a plan to resolve the matter. Don’t you, Scott?”
Scott, who had been skulking behind him, said, “Well, the rules—”
“Fiddlesticks to the rules,” Lord Marcus snapped. “The club is closed, and the lobby is the least we can do. You”—he summoned the porter with a deft switch of his hand—“take Mrs. Avery’s bags. Scott, bring some tea.”
He took her hand and escorted her up the steps. The porter took as many of the bags as he could, until he began to stagger. Sarah, the maid, remained upon the pavement, unsure whether she should follow.
“And something for Sarah, too, my dear,” I called.
“Of course, my dear,” she said, turning her head very slightly.
“Captain, I think I may have a notion to please everyone,” Lord Marcus said, and, seeing me holding a bag, “But where is your manservant?”
Helen said, “Your manservant?”
I interrupted her. “Mr. Maguire is on an errand. He will be back shortly.” I took her hand and squeezed it urgently. “Helen, my dear, we have much to discuss later. Would you excuse me for just a few brief moments? I will join you in the lobby.”
She gave me a look both mutinous and complicit.
I rushed down to the kitchens. Blake was standing in the corridor by Soyer’s office, whence he could see into three kitchens at the same time.
“My wife has arrived. I was not expecting her. I do not know where she will stay, but I must resolve it. Lord Marcus mentioned my manservant. She does not know that you have escaped from prison, but she knows I was in London to see you an
d I cannot think that she will not recognize you.”
“I’ll make my way out of here. I’ll be in Crown Passage, the Red Lion Tavern.”
“I’ll tell her I cannot stay long. But I will have to dine with her tonight,” I said. “Perhaps after, we might manage a late visit to the Provence to find Francobaldi? And we must see the butcher, Hastings Bland at Smithfield.”
When I reached the lobby, my wife was sitting in an armchair, attended by Lord Marcus, Mr. Scott and Mr. Percy.
“William,” said she, “you did not tell me that Alexis Soyer cooks here! And these gentlemen have been speaking so highly of you, I found myself blushing!”
Lord Marcus took my arm and drew me aside. “Captain Avery, I should like to apologize for my earlier ill temper. May I say how grateful I was for your sensible and timely support at the committee meeting. Most British! It was a dreadfully close-run thing.” Then, more loudly, “I think I have a capital solution to our quandary. My brother and I own a building off St. James’s Square, very close to here. There is within it a small apartment in which we occasionally lodge foreign dignitaries who come to visit the party. I should be honored if you and your delightful wife were to occupy it. As I was just telling Mrs. Avery, it is very well appointed—three fine rooms with gaslights and heated water. Somewhere for the servants to lay their heads.”
“Well, I—”
“Oh, William, do say yes!”
“Do, Captain Avery,” said Lord Marcus. “I think it will resolve matters perfectly. I feel this is the least I can do for you. I can arrange for it to be made ready for your arrival in a matter of hours. In the meantime, dear lady, I would offer you a tour of our famous kitchens—they are a veritable wonder of the world—but I must confess they are shut today.”
“To tell the truth, I am very tired.”
“The club does have strict rules about the admission of ladies,” said Lord Marcus, “but since it is closed today I am sure that, just this once, we may permit Mrs. Avery to withdraw to her husband’s room for a few hours to recover from her journey.”
