Murder Makes an Entree

by Myers, Amy

  ‘I thought you had run away, Mr Dee,’ cried Multhrop in relief. ‘So did the police,’ he added. A speculative glance from the constable at Mr Didier.

  ‘My superiors would like to see you, sir. Very upset they were, sir, when they heard you’d gone missing.’

  ‘I had not gone missing, Constable,’ retorted Auguste with dignity. ‘Is there any reason that I should not take an early stroll on the beaches like Mr Dickens himself?’

  ‘This Mr Dickens isn’t wanted on no murder enquiry. The inspector ain’t asked for him.’

  ‘Mr Dee,’ Multhrop cried, tugging at the lapels for attention, ‘you don’t understand. The Prince of Wales has been kidnapped. He’s not in his room.’

  ‘Mr Multhrop,’ Auguste said patiently, ‘His Royal Highness left yesterday evening together with his staff. He – er – received an urgent message to return to his yacht. If you investigate, you will discover that his detective and valet have also vanished.’

  ‘Had accomplices, did you?’ said the constable, gratified, advancing towards Auguste and slipping an arm far from lovingly through his. ‘I think you’d better see the Inspector right now.’

  Auguste was promptly frogmarched into Mr Multhrop’s office, Mr Multhrop trotting along behind torn between a certain loyalty to Mr Dee and relief that officialdom had taken over. Araminta, on the point of descending the stairs in a cream piqué dress, turned round and went back to her room.

  ‘Well, well, well, Mr Didier. We’ve met before, haven’t we?’

  Auguste groaned. The nightmare seemed to be intensifying. Inspector Naseby of all people, who had clearly been looking forward to this moment. Eight years had done nothing to mellow him.

  ‘Now where was it?’ murmured the Inspector lovingly, his weaselly features cracking into the semblance of a grin. ‘Ah yes, Stockbery Towers. You got off very easy that time, Didier. Never thought that justice had been done, whatever your pal at Scotland Yard maintained.’ It certainly hadn’t so far as he, Naseby, was concerned. Promotion at Maidstone was never to be his; instead they’d sent him back to Ramsgate, scene of his early success in capturing the notorious smuggler Rum-Bubber Bill. Unfortunately he hadn’t repeated that success and Inspector he had remained, and would do so until he left the force. Ramsgate had tired of the honour of his presence and he had been sent to Sandwich, under whose jurisdiction the Broadstairs police force came. Naseby was not pleased at the way his career had gone. And here was Monsewer Auguste Didier again, within his power. ‘So now you’ve gorn and kidnapped the Prince of Wales, after murdering a poor innocent banking gentleman,’ he purred, eyes glittering.

  ‘Inspector Naseby!’ Auguste tried to keep the tremor out of his voice. ‘I am delighted to see you again, even if it be under such tragic circumstances. However, the Prince of Wales has not been kidnapped. I was present when he left the hotel last evening after an urgent message recalling him to Osborne House. Family illness . . .’ He let his voice trail off in the hope that Naseby would not enquire further into such a delicate matter.

  ‘Would it surprise you to know, Mr Didier, that the Prince of Wales is not at Osborne House?’ said Naseby complacently. ‘That no message was sent to His Royal Highness, and that Her Majesty the Queen, the Princess of Wales, the Duke of York, the Duchess of York, Her Majesty’s entire household, the gardener’s boy and the royal dachshund are all in perfect health?’ Naseby’s chest puffed up with each phrase. Promotion loomed at last. ‘What have you done with him, Didier?’ he hissed.

  ‘I have done nothing,’ replied Auguste, goaded. Sleepless, his fears of the night swept back reinforced. Suppose the Prince of Wales even now lay lifeless on his yacht? ‘It is not surprising that he has not arrived at Osborne House yet. It is only ten thirty, and there were thunderstorms all night, which would delay him. I do not know about illness in his family. I know only he told me he had to go. I am not his private confidant, I am only a cook, remember.’

  ‘Oh, I remember you’re the cook all right. You’re the Prince of Wales’s own cook, aren’t you? Plans to poison him go wrong, then?’

  ‘I am not the Prince of Wales’s cook,’ said Auguste tiredly.

  ‘Oh?’ Naseby’s eyes gleamed. ‘Mr Multhrop thinks you are. Been a spot of lying then?’

  ‘I do not know why Mr Multhrop thinks this. I think the Prince of Wales may have told Sir Thomas so, after he asked for my services at the banquet. It was more diplomatic to put it that way for Mr Multhrop’s chef.’

  ‘Oh ho!’ Naseby’s delight could not be contained. ‘A likely story. Sir Thomas is dead. You pretend to Mr Multhrop to be the Prince of Wales’s chef in order to gain access to the kitchens in order to poison the Prince. That right?’

  ‘Yes – no!’ shouted Auguste.

  Naseby stood up slowly. ‘Auguste Didier, I arrest you—’

  He broke off, transfixed, as the door had opened, and Egbert Rose stood on the threshold. Even had Rose been wearing his blazer and flannels and not changed into more sober attire, Naseby would still have recognised that face. It had haunted his dreams for eight years.

  Not by so much as a blink did Rose betray his own surprise at seeing Naseby, whose face had turned a delicate shade of puce.

  ‘What are you doing here? This is my case,’ he almost wailed.

  Rose shook his head. ‘Grave international implications, Naseby. There’s the Prince of Wales to consider. The Yard’s handling it now.’

  Naseby glared. ‘I’ve already got the villain. There.’ He jerked a finger at Auguste. ‘He’s confessed.’

  ‘Has he now? Let’s hear the evidence, shall we?’ Rose said pensively, walking round and sitting in Naseby’s seat before he could reach it. Naseby was forced to retreat to the only other chair, in a corner.

  ‘He’s admitted having been the last person to see His Royal Highness,’ he said sulkily. ‘He’s admitted passing himself off as the Prince’s chef, and when his dastardly plan to assassinate His Royal Highness by poison didn’t work, he kidnapped him. Probably murdered him.’

  ‘Where is he then?’ Rose enquired. He was enjoying himself; it was like dangling bait in front of those mackerel on Captain Hawkins’s Mary Rose fishing boat last week. Naseby wasn’t much of a catch though. He’d throw him back later.

  ‘He’s probably—’

  ‘Quo corpus, Naseby?’ Rose provoked him with dim memories of schoolboy Latin. ‘Where’s your body?’

  ‘That’s what he’s got to tell us,’ Naseby retorted, coming back like Jem Mace.

  In the event it was not going to be Auguste who gave this information but Naseby’s own sergeant, who burst in with the news that the Cowes harbour master had telephoned to announce the arrival of the yacht Osborne with the Prince of Wales aboard.

  Naseby’s face fell, as Auguste’s spirits rose.

  ‘There might have been coercion,’ Naseby muttered hopefully. ‘Removing a witness from the scene of a murder is an important crime. Ten to one, the Prince of Wales saw him do it,’ pointing at Auguste. ‘Vital witness. I’ll be speaking to His Royal Highness about this.’

  ‘I do not think that you will find the Prince overjoyed to be reminded of his presence here,’ said Auguste.

  ‘I don’t need advice from you, Didier. You aren’t out of the wood yet. Far from it. You were the cook of this banquet. And we’ve got a corpse on our hands as a result. An important corpse. He must have been given the stuff in his food.’

  ‘Or when he left the table on two occasions,’ Auguste said firmly, remembering Sir Thomas’s absence after the meal, which had been longer surely than it took merely to change his clothes for those of Bill Sikes. Had he felt symptoms then? Or earlier, when he first left the table? Was what they had taken to be a problem of the stomach something more deadly? Were the paleness and emotion on his face as he arrived not fury at Pipkin’s performance but symptoms of poison? Or – a thought struck him – was it in the water from which he drank at the reading lectern?

  ‘The doctor tells u
s that if it’s the stuff he thinks it is, it can take a little while to work, especially if Sir Thomas drank coffee. Might have brought some of the stuff up while he was away from the table. Took coffee, did he?’

  Auguste nodded. ‘Several cups.’

  Naseby smiled. A trump had been deftly played.

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Rose mildly. ‘Let’s take things from the beginning. How do you know it’s murder not suicide, Naseby?’

  ‘No letter,’ replied Naseby scathingly. ‘Important man like that wouldn’t go without a note.’

  He had a point there, agreed Auguste reluctantly, remembering Sir Thomas’s character. ‘The reading, Eg—, Inspector Rose, this was a high moment of Sir Thomas’s evening. Why should he miss it? Why not take poison later instead of during the meal or the reading itself?’

  ‘Could have had a sudden shock,’ snorted Naseby, forgetting which side he was on, and unwilling to concede anything to Auguste.

  ‘How would he obtain the poison so quickly?’ Auguste asked.

  Naseby leapt up from his corner seat in a temper. ‘Look here, you. You’re here to answer questions, not ask them. You’re a suspect, not a detective, and don’t you forget it. You don’t go committing murders on my territory, no matter what the Yard says.’

  Rose remained diplomatically silent. Uncomfortably Auguste was made aware in the gentlest way that he was indeed a suspect at this early stage. He had been the cook.

  ‘Tell us about the banquet,’ barked Naseby, aware he had scored a minor victory.

  ‘It began with mutton broth,’ said Auguste unhappily.

  Egbert Rose’s eyebrows rose gently.

  ‘It is not usual in August, this I know,’ fiercely, ‘but I do not compose this menu. I am told what to do. It is composed of dishes that Charles Dickens liked.’

  Naseby nodded knowledgeably. ‘And you cooked everything yourself?’ he asked comfortably.

  ‘Ah no. There are six pupils at my school. They assist me.’

  ‘You’re still a learner, eh?’ smirked Naseby.

  Auguste shot him an indignant glance. ‘I am the owner of a cooking school – through the generosity of the Grand Duke Igor,’ he added as a throwaway, pleased at the look of fury on Naseby’s face. ‘My pupils accompanied me here for a fortnight’s holiday during which they would acquire the art of fish cookery.’ It occurred to him with a sudden pang that this was now in jeopardy.

  ‘And how did you get into the Imperial, you and your six cooks? Ulterior motive, it seems to me.’

  ‘We had no motive other than to enjoy our holiday,’ said Auguste a little pathetically. ‘The Prince of Wales discovered that I was to be at Broadstairs at this time; my cooking pleased him,’ he added simply, ‘and voilà, he asked for me to cook this banquet too. How could I say no?’ he asked rhetorically, vowing next time he would do just that.

  ‘Seems very fishy to me,’ said Naseby.

  ‘No need to make silly jokes, Naseby,’ said Rose haughtily. ‘This is a serious business. There’s been a murder, remember.’

  Naseby, who had not been aware of making a joke, glared at Auguste. This was all his fault. ‘Where are these people now, Didier?’

  ‘At the house where we are staying, I expect. Blue Horizons on Victoria Parade. I do not know. I have not been there since yesterday morning.’ Weariness swept over him.

  ‘Six potential murderers, and you don’t know where they are? Is that because you know they aren’t murderers, Didier? Because you did it yourself?’

  ‘It is not,’ yelped Auguste, wishing Egbert would help.

  At last he did. ‘It seems to me,’ he announced, ‘we’d better see all these pupils together. After we’ve learnt the post-mortem results. You’ve sealed the kitchen, of course, Naseby? Your men stopped any clearing up, naturally.’

  Naseby’s face glazed over.

  ‘I did this myself yesterday evening,’ said Auguste.

  Naseby glowered. ‘You went in the kitchen yourself though, I’m sure,’ he said viciously.

  The kitchens smelled and looked terrible. Even at the best of times, a kitchen after a banquet for over seventy was hardly appetising. This time, without even the zest of being able to assess the success of his recipes from the quantities consumed or left on plates, it seemed to Auguste a sorry place indeed. The scullery was full of dirty pans and half-washed china; the larders littered with cold geese, cutlets and vegetables everywhere; the tables groaning with unappetising-looking dishes of kidneys, tureens of soup and half-eaten tarts.

  Rose and Naseby gulped, for once their thoughts in accord. There were a lot of dirty dishes to sort through, one by one. Rose sighed. ‘Just give us an idea where to start, Mr Didier, and we’ll get a team in,’ Naseby nodded fervently. ‘I suppose,’ continued Rose, looking around hopelessly, ‘we can’t say that the top table had a different menu. It wouldn’t be as easy as that.’

  ‘Non, Inspector, everyone had the same – oh, save for the Prince of Wales for whom I made a special soup.’

  Naseby positively glowed. ‘And who’s to say Sir Thomas didn’t eat it instead?’ impressing even himself by his quickwitted thinking.

  Auguste shrugged, ‘Perhaps someone saw. I cannot say. You could ask the Prince of Wales – if you think he is a reliable witness,’ he added ironically.

  Naseby’s eyes narrowed as he indicated that this would be an early priority.

  ‘But I do not see why Sir Thomas should eat it. The Prince does not like mutton broth. He does like almond soup. Sir Thomas himself ordered the mutton broth on the menu.’

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘And anyone else will say,’ snapped Auguste, losing patience, and earning himself a warning look from Egbert.

  ‘Very well. Show us this broth.’ They duly investigated the remains of the huge tureens of soup.

  ‘Next was the lobster,’ said Auguste, waves of tiredness sweeping over him. ‘Everyone had his own salad prepared in the kitchen.’

  ‘Where are the plates with the remains?’

  Auguste took them into the scullery. ‘The plates at least for the first four courses are washed as they come out of the dining room.’ Rose groaned. ‘But I do not see how the lobster could be poisoned. It was all prepared together, the mayonnaise mixed up with it and then the mixtures put in shells and the shells put on plates.’

  ‘So only the person who served the lobster or put it on the plates could have poisoned it?’

  Auguste agreed bleakly, but it seemed so unlikely.

  ‘Here are the dishes for the entremet courses, some of those for the roast course, those for the cheese, the savouries and the desserts, the glasses and the coffee cups. Only the glasses for the roast and dessert wine, of course. The others would be washed first as a priority. And the brandy glasses are here.’ Wearily he pointed out each stack. ‘And there,’ he said to Naseby, ‘in that bin you will find the lobster shells in which each portion of salad was arranged.’

  A smile was almost brought to Auguste’s face at the thought of Multhrop’s reaction as half the Imperial’s china vanished into medical detectives’ laboratories.

  ‘Next the entrées.’ Auguste indicated the large dishes of dark brown stickiness. He had been so proud of that sauce now so stale and unappetising. Truly the creations of one day are the rubbish of the next. ‘And the remove, the quails and cutlets.’

  ‘Could anyone tell which quail and cutlet would be served to Sir Thomas?’

  ‘Or the Prince of Wales?’ put in Naseby indefatigably.

  ‘Or the Prince of Wales,’ repeated Rose. It was after all possible – if they had a madman among them.

  ‘The cutlets yes, certainly, since the Prince rejected them first time round, and asked for them later,’ dredging up memories from the depths of his mind. ‘But Sir Thomas – I suppose only the person who served them could be sure.’

  ‘And who was that?’

  ‘I really can’t recall,’ said Auguste. ‘Somewhere there is a list.’

/>   ‘Wouldn’t be you, by any chance?’ enquired Naseby sourly.

  Auguste did not bother to reply. ‘The geese,’ he said shortly. ‘The vegetables,’ leading the way into the huge meat larder. ‘Voilà, Inspector Naseby, here you will find the cabbage steamed with cocaine, the potatoes mashed with morphine, the parsnips baked with pilocarpine.’

  ‘Know a lot about poisons, do you, Mr Didier?’ put in Naseby suavely.

  Auguste flushed red.

  ‘Go home and get some sleep, Mr Didier, that’s my advice,’ said Rose kindly. It was clearly an order, and Auguste obeyed it.

  He walked slowly into Blue Horizons, longing for sleep, knowing that he had first to face six anxious faces. In fact it was only five. Algernon Peckham in a display of bravado had chosen to walk to Kingsgate. His companions sat round the kitchen table, the remains of an inadequate breakfast in front of them. This was the room where only last week they had eagerly discussed the merits of anchovy (protagonist Auguste) versus red wine sauce for fillets of John Dory; whether sole on prawn mousse covered with aspic (Alice’s invention) brought out the true flavours of the fish, or smothered them; whether mussels were preferable simply cooked in white wine or whether, as Emily contended, with cream and sorrel sauce added. Her grandmama, it appeared, had a recipe.

  ‘Vot is happening?’ demanded Heinrich heavily. They had all returned after the closing of the kitchen.

  ‘I’m afraid that Sir Thomas is dead,’ said Auguste sombrely.

  ‘Have a cup of coffee, Mr Didier,’ said Alice practically, handing him a cup. He took it gratefully.

  ‘Will that mean they have to talk to us, Mr Didier?’ whispered Emily after a pause. Heinrich moved closer to her.

  ‘A formality,’ said Auguste reassuringly. ‘Naturally the police will wish to make enquiries. We cooked and served the meal that Sir Thomas had recently eaten; it is true he could have taken the poison afterwards, however, or when he was away from the table during the entremets. He suffered from a weak stomach. Perhaps he took too much medicine.’