by Myers, Amy
‘Here you are, Stitch – and welcome to ’em. When I get back,’ Rose added straightfaced, ‘I expect to see progress.’ Progress? He hadn’t made any himself for months on those files, and Stitch knew it.
His face glowed with enthusiasm. ‘You will, sir,’ he said smugly. ‘You will.’ Modesty was not his strong point.
Rose left the Factory a happy man, a man about to be set free from investigation and care, a man shortly to leave for Ramsgate.
The house in Curzon Street retained its elegant appearance outside, but inside the whole of the basement and ground floor had been converted to kitchens. The ground floor formed Auguste’s teaching area, the basement was for the pupils’ own experiments. The first floor housed a library, and here Auguste lectured his pupils on the theory of cookery. The rest of the house was his own domain, a far cry from his former lodgings in King Street. From time to time one or other of the pupils remained overnight, even Alice on occasion, though she had remained disappointingly aloof. It had not been a tribute to his charms.
On this Wednesday morning, the so-called Isle of Thanet, in particular its seaside resorts, was as much in the air in Curzon Street as at Scotland Yard. Messrs Carter Patterson would shortly be calling for the advance luggage. The card had been placed in the window in ample time, the first visible statement that the holiday season was here. Most of the pupils’ luggage and Auguste’s was in the hall, ready to go. Even Sid’s modest baggage managed to appear in time. Essential kitchen equipment had also been lovingly packed under Auguste’s anxious supervision. Much would be provided in the house he had rented in Broadstairs, but he could not expect a rented house to possess sufficient refrigerators, bains-marie, salamanders and salad basket. Ah, but this all took so much organisation, and his pupils thought his fees were expensive! They were cheap. Besides, you could put no price on art.
‘Where is the boning knife?’ he cried.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Didier, I’ve got it,’ came Alice’s reassuring voice.
‘Mademoiselle Fenwick, happy the man who marries you,’ said Auguste fervently.
He saw Alice blush slightly, as she glanced at Alfred Wittisham. He wished her luck, but privately doubted Alfred had even noticed. Besides, had he not seen his lordship dining at the Savoy with a young lady recently? A somewhat large young lady, in personality as well as size, beside whom Alice in her subdued grey poplinette working dress would stand little chance. He had been visiting Maître Escoffier, and Alfred and his companion had seemed deep in conversation – if ever Alfred could be said to be deep in anything.
The sound of the door knocker boomed through the house. ‘There is the excellent Mr Carter Patterson,’ exclaimed Auguste thankfully, tired of clambering over boxes and baggage.
But it wasn’t Carter Patterson that greeted Sid. Outside was a carriage, not over-ornate but one unmistakably marked with the arms of the Prince of Wales.
On the step a soberly clad gentleman in black tail-coat and dark grey trousers was handing a missive to Sid, which was speedily removed by Auguste, who had come quickly up behind him.
‘I am to wait,’ announced the visitor, stepping inside, and averting his gaze from the luggage that took up nine-tenths of the space.
‘You are not Carter Patterson?’ enquired Auguste unnecessarily.
Eyebrows were raised. ‘No, I don’t believe I am. I am—’
But there was no need for Auguste to listen, for he had seen, with a strange, sinking feeling, the royal coat of arms on the seal of the letter. He ripped it open with scant respect for the thick cream paper hand-made in the Maidstone mills.
Seven pairs of eyes fixed on him interestedly, crowding him in the narrow hallway. Word had gone round about the carriage.
‘It seems,’ announced Auguste slowly, looking up at his pupils at last, ‘that—’
‘Your reply, Mr Didier,’ interrupted the courier courteously but firmly. ‘I take it I may tell His Royal Highness you accept?’
Auguste bowed his head in acquiescence, and the door closed behind the envoy.
‘It seems,’ Auguste said in a voice heavy with foreboding, ‘that our Fish Fortnight holiday is to be interrupted. His Royal Highness has com— requested that we should cook the banquet for the Society of Literary Lionisers on Saturday week. Apparently, Sid, the event to which you heard them refer is to take place at Broadstairs.’
‘Murder, Mr Didier?’ asked Sid eagerly.
‘No,’ said Auguste hastily. ‘The Grand Dickens evening. I am to see the chairman Sir Thomas Throgmorton to discuss the menu.’ He managed a wan smile. This was not going to be the carefree seaside holiday he had imagined. ‘Very well,’ he continued melodramatically, ‘but I shall tell this Sir Thomas that if I, Auguste Didier, sacrifice part of my holiday to this banquet of which I am in charge, then I am to be in complete control. We, mes amis, shall do everything. We shall shop, we shall prepare, we shall wait, we shall clear, at least on the Prince of Wales’s table. This way and this way alone we are assured there will be no disasters at Broadstairs, unless,’ he added grimly, ‘you forget yourselves as happened yesterday evening.’
For all his brave words, however, Auguste remained sunk in gloom, even after Carter Patterson had called to alleviate his mind of one problem. What unfortunate luck that this wretched banquet should occur at Broadstairs of all places! Normally the words ‘wretched banquet’ would never emerge in juxtaposition from Auguste’s lips, but just now holiday had an even more attractive sound than banquet. Last time he attempted to take a holiday it had ended in disaster. True, this time, for all Sid’s prognostications – goodness knows what he thought he’d heard – murder could surely not again take the stage, but all the same, cooking for, he gathered, sixty people, was not the best of all possible ways of spending a holiday weekend.
For the Prince of Wales, he would do it. He would achieve miracles no matter what the fare. He felt no enthusiasm for Mr Dickens himself. He had read with some difficulty several of his novels in his youth, since his English mother was a champion of his works. Reading of the rookeries of London, however, amid the green fields of Provence redolent with the perfumes of Grasse, the words made little impression on him save that they were too long and, for someone struggling with the English language, distinctly tedious. The great Mr Dickens had taken a tumble in Auguste’s estimation, and it was years before he read another, inveigled into doing so by a stage performance of Nicholas Nickleby. Now he enjoyed the novels. Even so, he did not understand this English habit of making clubs for everything. A society just to appreciate literature? Would respectable Parisians form a society to appreciate Flaubert and travel to eat in a town he liked? Why not eat in Paris?
No matter. This was an English form of enjoyment. Like the seaside. The dinner would be but a brief interlude, one dinner to be cooked and then the rest of the holiday to enjoy, with the smell of the fresh fish early in the morning. He smelled again the fish markets of Paris and of the fishermen of Cannes. The smell of the sea. His spirits began to rise. He looked at the boater and blazer lying on his bed, ready to be packed in his hand case. He tossed the boater in the air, caught it, and executed a little dance with it. Away from cares and dull everyday grind. He was going to The Seaside.
Chapter Two
The noble Society of Literary Lionisers had come into being almost twenty-five years previously, founded by a group of gentlemen who, indignant at being unable to gain admittance to the Literary Club, convinced themselves that the proud traditions of Dr Johnson’s Club were being eroded. The Society set itself the modest ambition of instilling in the masses, or such masses as could afford their membership fee, a greater appreciation of the works of the literary giants of Great Britain, with a passing acknowledgement to the achievements of less favoured nations. Alas for good intentions: the Lionisers found their ideals somewhat more difficult to sustain than they had supposed and, moreover, since lovers of literature are not necessarily noted for their organisational abilities, the committee i
n particular suffered from squabbling and undercurrents no less vicious for their being somewhat concealed than they had been in former times when David Garrick was so brutally blackballed from Johnson’s Club.
Only the presence of the Prince of Wales had prevented the passions of the present committee from overspilling into open warfare during their dinner at Gwynne’s. The committee numbered six, an awkward number for efficient functioning, but the founders of the Society had blithely assumed that between men of culture no quarrel could possibly arise that could not receive amicable resolution.
Although the monthly meetings held at St George’s Hall or the Savoy Hotel fulfilled the original aims of the Society, the committee meetings held in a private suite in nearby Gwynne’s Hotel most definitely did not. Occasionally, especially since the appointment of Mrs Langham and Mr Michaels, accord was achieved without verbal bloodshed. However, the meeting to which the six members were now making their way was, they all knew, not going to be one of those occasions.
Each year a literary figure was chosen (by the committee) as the Lion of the Year. For twelve months the members would study the works of the great man (or, occasionally, woman), listen to learned authorities discussing his work and to actors declaiming it, and endeavour to instill in various dignitaries the overwhelming case for statues, monographs, busts and commemorative china, and, most importantly, the need for preservation of buildings and places known to and described by the current Lion.
The highlight of the Society’s year was the Week of the Lion. En masse, the Society would descend on his ‘Lair’, the haunts where the Lion had roamed in fact or in his imagination on his pages, in order more fully to appreciate his every word, and to ensure that his homestead and/or other locations described by him were being maintained in the proper respectful spirit.
At first the choice of the Lion of the Year had been sacrosanct; now, regrettably, impure considerations were creeping in to his selection. Before he received the accolade of the Society, it was necessary that thought should be given as to whether he had been sensible enough to reside in or describe in his works a suitable venue for the Week of the Lion. A particularly zealous committee had one year lit upon Daniel Defoe as a subject, thereby consigning the Society to a choice of a week’s holiday in Stoke Newington, an unknown desert island, or a Tour through the Whole Island of Great Britain. The following year, Lord Byron, with his more enticing prospect of foreign travel, was hastily selected by a more practically minded committee.
Obligingly, Mr Charles Dickens presented no such problem. After some anxious debate as to whether the location for the Week of the Lion should not more suitably be Rochester, it was unanimously decided that Broadstairs, with a day visit to Rochester, would be blessed with the Society’s presence. This discreet resort, presenting none of the disadvantages of crowded Ramsgate or merry Margate, was a highly suitable venue and Mr Dickens was silently congratulated by the committee for his convenient choice of watering place. True, he had ceased to visit it long before his demise, having complained it was spoiled by increasing numbers of visitors and, even worse, the noise made under his windows by itinerant musicians in the streets, but forty years on people were more accustomed to such annoyances.
The overriding concern of the committee this evening, however, which threatened to tear the Society apart and indeed bring about its entire disbandment, if certain threats were carried out, could not be laid at the door of Mr Dickens. It was next year’s Lion who was to blame: Mr William Shakespeare. He had been selected as the obvious choice of Lion for the prestigious year of 1900, the first year of the new century (despite vigorous argument on this point in the columns of the press). The Society’s year conveniently began on Shakespeare’s birthday, 23rd April, St George’s Day, and the chairman’s four-year reign being at an end, Sir Thomas Throgmorton would have stepped down and a new chairman preside over the day’s festivities.
Or would he?
‘To Gwynne’s, Hobbs.’
Sir Thomas Throgmorton had gazed, displeased, at the usual dusty roadway exacerbated by the hot dry weather and summoned his carriage. It might only be ten minutes’ walk from his Mayfair home to the hotel, but for this all-important meeting, he needed to present himself impeccable in both appearance and argument. He had half the committee on his side (counting himself). He frowned. Perhaps he had made a mistake in alienating Gwendolen? Surely she would not waver in his support, however? How could he have foretold what illusions the foolish woman was harbouring? He had had no choice but to act as he did. Beddington would be sure to support him. After all, Throgmorton told himself, he had right on his side. His years as a manager of an international bank had taught him the value of that. True, there was a small flaw in his argument, but with luck no one would see it. People would overlook anything, however obvious, if you were confident enough of your case – or appeared so. He’d learned that in banking too. Perhaps even Angelina would see the justice of his case, if he put it to her once more. He had found her dissension quite inexplicable. When they were married, he would gently and firmly make this plain to her.
Angelina Langham had no intention of changing her views. Accompanied by fellow committee member, Oliver Michaels, the young playwright with whom she had just shared a most enjoyable dinner at the Savoy, she too was thinking about the Lionisers. As a newcomer to the committee, and moreover one championed by Sir Thomas himself, and as a ‘young’ woman – she was twenty-eight – she was aware that she was expected to know her place. As was Oliver Michaels, elected to represent Youthful Attainment (at thirty he was already a successful playwright). For her part, she had no intention of remaining in her place. That was not what had made her seek Sir Thomas’s acquaintance after the death of her husband nearly three years ago. A middle-aged and mild-natured poet of some distinction, he and not Alfred Austin would undoubtedly have been next Poet Laureate, had not circumstances decreed otherwise. His distinction, although he was deceased, vicariously entitled her to sit on the committee, where she was naturally not expected to play an active role.
Oliver Michaels handed Angelina down from his pride and joy, his recently acquired Peugeot, and approved once more her slight, golden-haired figure with its air of Madonna-like calm hidden at present behind a rather ugly motoring veil. He held on to her hand, remarking as he glanced at Gwynne’s portals:
‘Oh Sairey, Sairey, little do we know wot lays afore us.’
‘You, Oliver,’ replied his madonna sweetly, throwing back the veil, ‘to quote from the same immortal work, “will make a lovely corpse” if you compare me to Mrs Gamp.’
Oliver laughed. ‘Very well. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day, instead, dear Angelina?’
She shuddered. ‘This evening, Oliver,’ she remarked firmly, ‘I fear Mr Shakespeare is not a welcome thought.’
‘Very well, let us beard the Lions in their den, and meet our end with dignity.’ Offering her his arm, he escorted her into the foyer of Gwynne’s Hotel.
‘The female of the species,’ Gwendolen Figgis-Hewett muttered to herself in the hansom cab.
She had no escort. Even when Mr Figgis-Hewett was alive, she had frequently had no escort, for his interests outside making money were not hers. Drinking and gambling were no occupations for a lady of literary talent. Her poem had been accepted by the Ladies’ Companion. True, they had not published it, but acceptance was the important thing. Mr Figgis-Hewett had been dead five years now, and his widow was tired of being alone, however pleasant it was to be so wealthy. Since Sir Thomas was a widower of about the same duration, she had seen no reason why they should not pool their common grief. Even now she could not quite believe what had happened on that dreadful evening after the Prince of Wales’s dinner.
Mr Rudyard Kipling never wrote a truer word. Now she felt much deadlier than the male.
‘We’re here, sir.’ The disembodied voice of the cab driver boomed through Lord Beddington’s dreams, as he reclined dozily on his way to Gwynne’s. The Garrick
dinner had been pleasantly relaxing and only with difficulty did he recall that he was bound for Gwynne’s and not the Reform this evening. He was not quite sure what all the fuss was about, but he had no doubt Sir Thomas was right. Anyway it was more sensible to vote for him, for matters were more quickly concluded that way. It was probably only that fellow Pipkin making a mountain out of a molehill. Sitting on committees was rather like the Lords or the magistrate’s bench; you could think your own thoughts, and just wake up for the vote.
‘Oh me, oh my. Your time is nigh,’ said Samuel Pipkin triumphantly to himself, his mind full of Thomas Throgmorton.
The secretary of the committee of the Society of Literary Lionisers almost bounced down in glee from his cab outside Gwynne’s Hotel. The time of reckoning had come. With the enthusiasm of a Pickwick in pursuit of a Jingle, he launched his corpulent frame through the doors of the hotel, eager for combat. Like Angelina, however, he would not have welcomed the Dickensian comparison, for Samuel Pipkin was not a Dickens man. Far from it. He was through and through dedicated to the works and memory of William Makepeace Thackeray. He disliked Dickens and everything to do with him, and in particular his own undeniable resemblance to Mr Pickwick. This was merely physical, however, for it is by no means an infallible rule that all fat men must be benevolent and Samuel was seldom benevolent. Resemblance to cartoons of Thackeray he deemed an honour, references to Pickwick an insult.
Since the choice of Charles Dickens in preference to his own idol, Mr Thackeray, as this year’s Lion, relations between himself and Sir Thomas had reached a low only equalled by those that existed for many years between their respective heroes. Sir Thomas was of course a Dickens man, deliberately cultivating the grave aspect of the author presented in his later portraits and ignoring all evidence of the younger, sprightly, exuberant writer. The thought of what Sir Thomas was now proposing was beyond endurance for Samuel Pipkin. Outrageous! Greater even than the affront to the immortal Mr Thackeray by that common upstart Dickens. ‘Tis strange what a man may do, and a woman yet think him an angel,’ he mused. How truly Mr Thackeray spoke when he wrote that. He might have had Sir Thomas in mind. Throgmorton must be exposed, and this evening was the time or his name was not Pipkin.
