Murder Makes an Entree

by Myers, Amy

  ‘Nothing if not ambitious.’

  ‘Very. His father was a butcher, I discovered.’

  ‘Another affinity to meat, eh?’

  ‘Non. Or at least Mr Peckham pretends to have none. Give him game, fish, vegetables, entremets, patisserie, and he is superb. Give him meat and the results are a vin ordinaire.’

  Rose nodded. ‘And Sid?’

  ‘I do not see what Sid could have to do with this affair,’ said Auguste, illogically shocked. ‘He was helping in the kitchen all the time fetching and carrying. He is – well he is Sid.’ He shrugged helplessly.

  ‘I see,’ said Rose, who did. Eleven years on the Ratcliff Highway beat had taught him about Sids. And on the whole they didn’t go around poisoning roast geese. ‘But he was in the kitchen.’

  ‘Not in the dining room, though. Sid came to me,’ admitted Auguste, as though honour-bound to disclose all relevant information, ‘on the recommendation of Mr Higgins.’

  ‘Did he now,’ said Rose, highly amused at this resurgence into their affairs of the biggest fence in London. ‘Well, if Mr Multhrop’s teaspoons or Mrs Figgis-Hewett’s jewellery vanishes, we’ll know where to look.’

  ‘Sid is not like that,’ said Auguste indignantly.

  ‘Interested in cuisine, is he?’

  ‘No but—’

  ‘Why does he work for you then?’

  ‘He – I suppose he likes me,’ said Auguste inadequately.

  Rose looked at him kindly. ‘We’ll never make a policeman out of you, Auguste.’

  ‘Sir Thomas was not a popular man, Inspector,’ declared Oliver, not looking at Angelina. The five committee members of the Literary Lionisers were subdued; they had talked about the horrors of Saturday night incessantly the day before. Now, in the face of formal interrogation, they were restrained and cautious. All but one.

  ‘He was, he was. I loved him,’ moaned Gwendolen defiantly. Then Auguste’s presence in the small lounge caught her attention. ‘What’s this fellow doing here?’ she shouted, puffing out her hastily improvised dark veil which rose and fell with each indignant gasp. ‘He’s a waiter.’

  ‘Mr Didier is here at my request, madam. He was overseeing the banquet and had Sir Thomas under his surveillance nearly all the time. It is possible he may have observed something you were not in a position to see,’ Rose explained diplomatically.

  ‘It’s also possible he poisoned poor old Thomas,’ rumbled Lord Beddington. ‘Don’t forget that.’

  Auguste went pink. ‘Sir, I did not know him.’

  ‘Dammit, I remember you at Gwynne’s,’ said Samuel Pipkin indignantly. ‘Of course you did.’

  ‘That is true, sir. It is also true that I disagreed with his choice of menu, but that is hardly cause for murder.’ This man was not to know that it very nearly was, by Auguste’s reckoning.

  ‘You might have been paid to assassinate him,’ went on Samuel objectively. ‘He was an international banker. Lots of people might have wanted to kill him.’ He skirted over the small matter that he was one of them.

  ‘I think you can take it from me,’ said Rose firmly, ‘that Mr Didier did not murder Sir Thomas,’ earning himself a look of gratitude from Auguste. ‘Now, Mrs Figgis-Hewett, I gather that you had a disagreement with Sir Thomas. You were threatening to bring a breach of promise action, or so you announced on Saturday evening.’

  ‘A misunderstanding on my part,’ she cried wildly, glaring at Auguste. ‘Sir Thomas would have apologised. We had been affianced for some weeks.’

  ‘He proposed to me that afternoon,’ put in Angelina apologetically. ‘Forgive me, Gwendolen, but if this is a murder case—’

  ‘Murder,’ shrieked the lady, overlooking the relevance of Angelina’s provoking statement. ‘No, no. Sudden illness. Accident.’

  ‘Spontaneous combustion you’ll suggest next,’ snorted Samuel. ‘Like Mr Krook, eh!’

  Gwendolen started to scream at this hard-heartedness, but suddenly stopped again as Auguste rose to come to her aid. She remembered Saturday’s ministrations all too clearly.

  ‘I make no secret,’ said Samuel suddenly, who had obviously been considering doing just that, ‘that I disliked the fellow. But if we all murdered for little things like that . . .’ He forced a laugh.

  ‘What were these little things, sir?’ Rose enquired politely.

  ‘A slight disagreement over club rules,’ said Samuel airily. ‘Sir Thomas was rather, ah, dogmatic. He was claiming that next year his chairmanship would last a day longer than set down in the rules. Quite ridiculous of course. Everyone agreed with me.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ pointed out Lord Beddington. ‘Seemed to me old Throgmorton had a point. Rules are rules. As a magistrate I see it as my duty to enforce them.’

  ‘A day doesn’t seem to matter much,’ observed Rose.

  ‘It would have meant, Inspector,’ explained Angelina, ‘that Sir Thomas would still be chairman when the next Year of the Lion began. Next year our Lion is William Shakespeare and as the 23rd April, the day in question, is his birthday, important celebrations will be held, as 1900 is such a special year. Sir Thomas, who set great store on his cultural activities,’ trying to keep the sarcasm from her voice, ‘considered he would be the best chairman for such an important event.’

  ‘You agreed with him, madam.’

  ‘Not over his interpretation of the rules, no,’ said Angelina.

  Samuel, picking up an unintentional slight that she considered Throgmorton a better chairman, bristled.

  ‘There was a vote,’ explained Oliver. Samuel stopped bristling and shifted uneasily. ‘We were divided. The Prince of Wales was to give his casting vote later on that evening.’

  ‘And Sir Thomas expected to gain it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Angelina. ‘It seemed probable,’ not looking at Samuel.

  ‘And who would be the next year’s chairman otherwise?’ asked Rose, guessing the answer.

  ‘Me,’ announced Samuel, less happily than he might otherwise have done.

  Rose reflected, and changed the subject. ‘Now if you’d tell me what happened at the dinner.’

  ‘Slight discussion took place, Inspector,’ Oliver said, taking the bull by its humiliating horns, ‘on the matter of the Prince of Wales’s casting vote.’

  ‘But you still expected Sir Thomas to win? He would have no reason for suicide?’

  ‘None at all, not on that issue anyway. He had won his point over there not being a re-vote.’ Samuel glared at him.

  ‘Re-vote?’

  ‘We considered whether to vote again on the issue. It was thought that some people might have changed their views. It was then proposed we should have a vote about a vote.’

  Rose was now convinced that all clubs and societies were mad. Processions at Plum’s in St James’s Square, now votes about votes. He could take a fair guess how much the Prince of Wales had enjoyed the evening.

  ‘We were happy,’ put in Gwendolen feebly, following her own thoughts.

  ‘You did say you wished to change your vote to agree with me, Gwendolen,’ said Samuel meanly.

  ‘You misunderstood,’ she snapped testily. ‘Never would I have voted against dear Thomas. Never.’

  ‘Anything else happen at this dinner? Did Sir Thomas seem normal to you?’

  ‘He was not himself!’ shouted Gwendolen. ‘He was worried about me.’

  They ignored her.

  ‘He was rather quiet,’ said Angelina doubtfully.

  ‘She wasn’t his fiancée, I was.’ Gwendolen was outraged, having mulled over Angelina’s earlier words.

  ‘I was not engaged to Sir Thomas, Inspector,’ said Angelina patiently.

  ‘You was,’ retorted Gwendolen, grammar deserting her as well as her fiction about her own relationship with the dead man.

  ‘No,’ replied Angelina, gently. ‘You only thought I was. He did ask me to marry him, but I rejected his proposal.’

  ‘How could you turn Thomas down?’ asked Gwendolen, ama
zement coming before affront.

  ‘Would he have taken this rejection hard enough to commit suicide, Mrs Langham?’ asked Rose quietly.

  Angelina looked suddenly shaken. ‘I hardly think so, Inspector,’ she said stiffly. She remained very pale, puzzling Oliver greatly.

  ‘What I need to know now is, what Sir Thomas ate and drank.’

  ‘What we all ate of course,’ said Lord Beddington. ‘All this Dickens stuff.’ Really these Scotland Yard chaps were dense. No wonder he had his work cut out on the bench.

  ‘But did he reject any courses? Soup for instance. Or lobster salad.’

  ‘He took both,’ said Angelina.

  ‘The kidneys?’

  ‘Sir Thomas served me,’ said Angelina, trying to recollect. ‘Then the Prince of Wales, Lord Beddington and himself. I remember, because he said afterwards he hadn’t liked them.’

  Auguste stiffened. Not like them? A sauce à la Didier?

  ‘Quail and cutlets?’

  ‘I think – yes, he omitted them. He felt,’ said Angelina, with a quizzical look at Auguste, ‘that they had not been specified on the menu.’

  ‘But he ate the goose?’

  ‘Indeed he ate the goose. And all the forcemeats,’ said Angelina. ‘I can’t remember after that, except that he drank several cups of coffee, and some wine and some water after he returned to the table. I remember all the glasses lined up.’

  ‘I saw him with a strawberry in his mouth,’ said Gwendolen. With the memory of this fetching scene, she subsided.

  ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I take it you’ll all be staying on.’ There was no question mark in Rose’s voice.

  ‘We will never desert Mr Micawber,’ said Oliver gravely.

  Rose shot a look at him. ‘Thank you, Mr Michaels.’ He paused on his way out of the room. ‘By the way, I understand there was a glass of water on the lectern, and Sir Thomas drank from it.’

  ‘I drank from it too. It wasn’t poisoned,’ said Samuel instantly. ‘Look at me.’

  No one did. It was patently clear to all that Samuel Pipkin could have poisoned the water after he had drunk from it, if indeed he had drunk from it at all. No one could recall his doing so.

  The Imperial’s chef, at last let loose in his own kitchen, was making up for lost honour. Luncheon was produced in double-quick time, a light snack of herrings à la Broadstairs, pies and salads. Strangely, very few people attended the luncheon.

  Three who did were Edith and Egbert Rose and Auguste, almost forcibly pushed in by a desperate Mr Multhrop. ‘Someone’s got to be seen eating here,’ he hissed. ‘Oh me oh my!’

  ‘One thing, Egbert, troubles me,’ said Auguste, frowning at the herring. This chef could do with a Fish Fortnight at the Auguste Didier School of Cuisine. ‘I do not think my pupils were strictly accurate about not meeting Sir Thomas before. One at least had. Lord Wittisham and Miss Fenwick had been to collect some food – the quails I believe – and were passing in a donkey cart as Sir Thomas arrived. Sir Thomas shouted to him, ‘What are you doing here?’ and Lord Wittisham replied that he worked here. I am sure they did not like each other.’

  Edith looked from one to the other. ‘You men,’ she said fondly, taking another mouthful of Broadstairs trifle, ‘you see mysteries everywhere.’ Edith had spent the morning touring Broadstairs. There was not a lot to tour in the inclement weather, though the Bohemia concert party was marked down for a visit, and the bandstand too held promise, though with all these people about, she doubted she would hear the music. Egbert had said Broadstairs was a quiet, elegant place compared with Ramsgate. So far she had little reason to believe him. However, she had met a very nice lady from Pinner who said why didn’t she come along with the Lionisers’ visit to Fort House that afternoon. Dickens used to stay there apparently, and Edith liked Dickens. At least, she liked The Pickwick Papers, which her father used to read to her after Sunday School as a treat. She had some nice prints on her wall at home too.

  Mr Multhrop’s luncheon room suddenly acquired another visitor, albeit a non-eating one, as Inspector Naseby rushed in. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked vehemently. ‘I went to Blue Horizons. Cook’s skipped it, and the others said they’d already talked to you.’ He saw Auguste and turned purple. ‘You not locked up yet? I got a message,’ he said meaningfully, ‘it was this afternoon.’

  ‘Did you? Must have been some sort of misunderstanding,’ said Rose. ‘My case, Naseby.’

  ‘You can’t do it alone,’ announced Naseby.

  ‘You’re right there, Naseby.’ Naseby looked smug. ‘I must send for Twitch,’ added Rose thoughtfully.

  Edith pinned her best hat from Bobby’s carefully onto her hair. It was after all Bank Holiday Monday. She felt confident it would not dare to rain; it was her holiday after all. Descending to the foyer in search of the Lionisers, she saw a sturdy well-dressed girl in black turning away from the reception desk. Mr Multhrop was hurrying up to her.

  ‘Miss Throgmorton?’ Mr Multhrop bustled forward, but someone forestalled him with a glad cry.

  Alfred, returning home after a kitchen luncheon with his colleagues, had seen the love of his life. He hurtled forward. ‘I say, Beatrice. How wonderful to see you.’ He seized her hands in his, and mindful of her enthusiastic response to his advances a few weeks ago, took her in her arms and planted a kiss on her cheek. In his enthusiasm, and being no lover of Sir Thomas, he quite forgot to offer her his condolences.

  ‘I don’t think this is right, Alfred,’ said Beatrice firmly, removing cheek and hands.

  A sentiment with which Alice Fenwick, watching this tender reunion, was in full agreement.

  Only the thought of Araminta could cheer Auguste this afternoon. Not even the invention of a new timbale had succeeded. A murder, and he wasn’t even allowed to play detective. He was a suspect, at least until the analyst’s reports had cleared him. Truly, Broadstairs seemed a bleak place. It grew much brighter when Araminta floated down the stairs, a vision in pale blue foulard with feathery hat to match, her curls peeping out beneath. He looked doubtfully at the rain-filled skies. The day was overcast; the sun was struggling to emerge, but so far not succeeding. There was even a mist over the sands. No doubt Mr Turner would have found it attractive to paint, but he, Auguste Didier, did not. Not when he had looked forward to a brief glimpse of Araminta jumping up and down in the sea in a bathing dress.

  ‘You will risk going out like this?’ he enquired.

  Her large eyes opened in surprise. ‘Papa says it’s all right so long as there are other people around.’

  ‘I did not mean risk with me,’ he answered, annoyed, ‘but it is trying to rain and your dress is not covered.’

  She smiled beatifically. ‘It won’t rain,’ she said in assurance. It wouldn’t dare. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I have to buy some cod,’ he announced. Indeed he was looking forward to this discussion with William and Joe.

  Araminta wrinkled up her nose. ‘I think I’d like to see Punch and Judy,’ she announced.

  William and Joe and their entire consignment of cod vanished in the desire to please Araminta.

  The Punch and Judy booth was far from crowded, due to the overwhelming preference of the day excursionists for Pierrots, Uncle Mack and the Bohemia concert party. Indeed in the twenty chairs hopefully placed before it, only six were occupied; two by Auguste and Araminta, two by a disgruntled nursemaid and a purposeful-looking six-year-old female charge, and two small boys who sat innocently near the stand, dangling their legs from their chairs.

  The curtains were drawn back to the sound of a hurdy-gurdy. A despairing showman, whom Araminta announced to Auguste’s mystification was called The Professor, cursed the weather and his audience of six. This was not the way to do it.

  ‘Mr Punch,’ he began forlornly. ‘Where are you?’

  A long-nosed Punchinello puppet popped his head up on the stand, clad in a red costume and nightcap with a bell on the end. ‘I’m here!’ he shrieked in
a falsetto voice.

  Araminta laughed and clapped her hands.

  ‘I’ve got a big stick,’ mentioned Punch confidingly to his audience, as Judy appeared with her baby.

  ‘This is a romance?’ Auguste enquired, puzzled, remembering what he had seen before when the lady puppet was attacked and hoping there would be no repetition. ‘Like the Sleeping Beauty?’

  Araminta giggled, whether at him or at Punch hitting the baby over the head he wasn’t sure; the baby collapsed in a heap over the side of the stand.

  ‘That’s the way to do it,’ Punch informed his audience.

  Auguste glanced anxiously at the children. This was surely strong meat for them? The little girl, however, appeared to be roaring her approval as Punch proceeded to batter his wife and lay her by the baby’s side. Next a policeman puppet arrived carrying a gallows. A shiver ran up Auguste’s spine. One of the small boys was busy throwing nuts at Punch in an effort to help justice.

  ‘Shall I kill him too?’ enquired Punch.

  ‘Yes,’ shouted the younger members of the audience.

  Auguste watched horrified as Punch manoeuvred the policeman into hanging himself. ‘The morals of this story are not good.’ He shook his head.

  Araminta looked puzzled.

  ‘He is an evil man, this Punch,’ explained Auguste.

  ‘It’s only a play,’ said Araminta, holding his hand to comfort him. ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s not real.’

  ‘As Sir Thomas’s death was real,’ said Auguste gravely. ‘Araminta, you were around that day. Did you see anyone talking to Sir Thomas at all, who might have upset him?’

  She did not seem to hear him. Mr Punch was about to murder a crocodile with his big stick, since the reptile for some unknown reason had stolen his sausages. Mr Punch should be grateful, thought Auguste, if they were English sausages.

  ‘Kill him!’ shouted out Araminta loudly.

  ‘What did you say?’ enquired Punch.

  ‘Kill him!’ advised four voices. Auguste and the governess abstained.

  The crocodile corpse joined the others. ‘That’s the way to do it,’ said Araminta pleased, as all the puppets came to life again for a curtain call. She squeezed Auguste’s hand and he quite forgot to repeat his question.