Murder Makes an Entree

by Myers, Amy

  The Literary Lionisers, or those who had survived the damp morning walk to Ramsgate along the sands (in the steps of the great Dickens on his walk with Hans Christian Andersen), were equally divided as to those who wished no more to do with the Imperial, Broadstairs or indeed the Lionisers, those to whom the sudden disappearance of their leader was an added bonus, and those who were determined not to miss what they had already paid for. The latter two groups, just over thirty in all, were walking purposefully towards Fort House, the object of the afternoon programme. Faced with the sight of the excursionists arriving in the morning, they had not hesitated. They, too, regardless of the loss of their leader, were intent on being suitably dressed for Bank Holiday. Boaters, with judicious hat retainers in view of the fickle wind, parasols, and Y and N Diagonal seam corsets for easier walking (as well as for bicycling) were speedily pulled into service.

  Samuel Pipkin was in a most difficult position. In order to assume his new role as leader of the party, his dislike of Dickens had to be muted, to put it mildly. How far should his conversion go? Could a few allusions be made to Thackeray? he wondered wistfully; on the whole, he thought not. Gwendolen, still clad in dark blue, was indefatigably marching with the party next to a most sympathetic lady. She told her that it had been suggested to her that she should remain behind to rest, but she did not consider her darling Thomas would have approved of this.

  Edith Rose fully agreed.

  Angelina walked along the cobbled path to the house, revelling in the damp air blowing in her face. Oliver marched grimly along behind her. A strong breeze caught the upstanding feathered plumes of her hat and blew it off. Pointing out the value of hat pins, Oliver fielded it and returned it to her with a bow. She took it. She thanked him stiffly. He caught her eye. She laughed.

  Lord Beddington stomped along in silence. Why did this fellow Dickens want to live on the top of a hill? These writers were strange folk. Next year he’d try a travellers’ group instead. After all, committees were much the same anywhere. Didn’t matter about the subject.

  Behind them twenty-eight rank and file Lionisers exclaimed and marvelled at the quaint harbour beneath them, their thoughts torn between Dickens and murder. Some of them indeed were under the impression that Sir Thomas’s disappearance from the scene was some kind of re-enactment of The Mystery of Edwin Drood. Would he reappear perhaps like Edwin Drood himself might have done if Mr Dickens had been spared long enough to conclude it?

  As the party arrived at the small front door of the house, some puffing from the climb, Samuel held up his hand impressively. ‘On top of a breezy hill on the road to Kingsgate,’ he began to quote in low deferential tone, ‘a cornfield between it and the sea.’ He coughed importantly. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Fort House, known to Bradstonians, as those who live in Broadstairs are called, as Bleak House. Although Bleak House in the great novel is in Hertfordshire, many authorities believe the work was planned here.’

  ‘It was not,’ shouted Gwendolen. ‘Thomas told me—’

  Samuel smiled, at last able to mention the revered name. ‘May I refer you to an unimpeachable authority: Mr John Camden Hotten, author of a biography of Dickens, and also, he paused impressively, a life of Thackeray, refers to it in 1870 as Bleak House. Obviously Dickens himself so considered it. Look at the splendid sight,’ he waved his hand, just as Mr Blackwell the owner appeared, but who almost disappeared again when he saw the vast crowd about to troop up and down his narrow staircase and crowded rooms.

  ‘This is where the great man sat to write,’ intoned Samuel, as they pushed half a dozen at a time into the small study, with its huge jutting window overlooking the sea. ‘As he sat here watching the storms, the crashing waves, the evils of the elements, what better place to plan a tale of dark mystery and murder? Surely here it was that the idea for the famous murder by Lady Dedlock of the villainous Tulkinghorn was born?’

  ‘Thomas met his enemy face to face that afternoon too,’ shrilled Gwendolen, determined that her beloved’s name should at least be represented. No one paid any attention. No one, that is, save Edith Rose who had not, at that time, the least idea who Thomas might be. But Edith understood her fellow women whether they bought their hats at Bobby’s or in Bond Street.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she said, leading Gwendolen firmly downstairs and into the garden where in defiance of the threatened rain Mr Blackwell had prepared for the serving of tea.

  ‘Before dinner on that fatal night,’ said Gwendolen between sniffs, ‘we talked of many things. Unpleasant things.’ She was determined to forget some of them. ‘He told me he had been very upset that day. There were people staying in the hotel who shouldn’t be there. He wanted to marry me, you know, but his health was not good.’ She took a sidelong look at Edith to see whether this was going down well. Apparently it was, for Edith was certainly listening. ‘Someone had told him that if he had his way, he’d like to kill him.’

  ‘Really?’ said Edith politely.

  ‘And a few hours later, he did,’ she wailed.

  ‘Really?’ repeated Edith, suddenly all attention, the bobble on her Bobby’s hat bobbing vigorously in sympathy.

  ‘I am empowered by His Royal Highness to answer any questions on his behalf,’ announced the Prince of Wales’s detective who had arrived by railway train. ‘His Royal Highness leaves for Sandringham tomorrow, and shortly after for Marienbad.’

  The implication was clear, Rose observed. His Royal Highness was not available for comment, except in dire necessity. Restraining the wish to thank His Royal Highness for his co-operation, Rose asked the detective whether there had been any incidents at the dining table involving exchange of plates.

  ‘His Royal Highness gave me no information on this. If it had happened no doubt he would have done.’

  ‘The dog that did nothing in the night-time, eh?’

  ‘His Royal Highness gave me no information on dogs.’

  Rose sighed. ‘Did His Royal Highness have any conversations with Sir Thomas that might have a bearing on the case?’

  ‘His Royal Highness gave me no information on this.’

  ‘Does he have any reason to believe the poison was intended for him?’ Rose asked bluntly.

  The detective stiffened. ‘His Royal Highness gave me . . .’ he began, and then became a human being. He had noticed Auguste. ‘There,’ he said angrily, ‘is your assassin. When I was in performance of my duties, he distinctly told me that the Prince would be poisoned. Did you not?’

  ‘No,’ said Auguste, glaring at him. ‘And I want to ask him if he did anything to my goose.’

  ‘Atropine. That’s what the analyst thinks. As we thought. It will take him another day or two to confirm it, but he’s pretty sure. The symptoms confirm it. The dilated pupils, the thirst – all that water and coffee – throat spasms, and a scarlet rash that’s quite unmistakable, later delirium and hallucinations. They’ve got enough from the stomach alone to kill him twice over and they’ve still to separate it from the liver and muscles. It goes in the blood, you see.’ Rose glanced at Auguste who was pale. Stomachs were for tartes aux pomme and cailles aux raisins, not to be examined in laboratories.

  ‘Very popular poison out East,’ Rose said hastily. ‘The Indian datura plant is often confused with capsicum apparently. Didn’t use any capsicums in your meal, did you, Auguste?’

  ‘If Dickens did not mention them, I did not,’ said Auguste sourly. ‘But atropine is the belladonna plant, is it not? One can get alcoholic extract of belladonna quite easily. Or do you think I dropped deadly nightshade into the stuffings?’

  ‘Now, now, Auguste. I have to ask this, you know.’

  Auguste stood reproved. He was ashamed of himself. ‘You are right, mon ami. I apologise. I do not think it possible that datura, Indian or British, or deadly nightshade invaded our menu.’

  ‘The analyst would agree with you so far – too big a dose. He thinks it came in the pure stuff, transparent crystals.’

  ‘But Sir Thoma
s would notice if there were crunchy crystals in his food,’ Auguste objected.

  ‘Ah, but these crystals melt in hot water. And,’ Rose paused, ‘it dissolves easy as anything in alcohol. Suggest anything to you?’

  Auguste gulped. ‘Lord Wittisham,’ feeling a traitor.

  ‘Yes, our Lord Wittisham, whom you thought had met Sir Thomas before.’

  ‘You think him guilty?’

  ‘I’ll certainly be questioning him. But there’s a problem. We’ve got preliminary reports on the dishes of the uneaten food too. Your goose was cleared, Auguste. But the remains of the entrée had enough atropine in it to kill a couple of horses.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Gone,’ said Mr Multhrop disgustedly. ‘Gone, all gone,’ beginning to sound like Lady Audley. He was gloomily looking at his registration book on Tuesday morning. ‘And with this weather, how can I get replacement bookings? I shall make them pay,’ he announced with satisfaction.

  ‘Who’s gone, Mr Multhrop?’ asked Rose, suddenly aware that the hotel seemed remarkably empty.

  ‘Lionisers. Forty of them have booked out. And now all the others have disappeared. I shouldn’t be surprised if we don’t see them again. Just send for my things, they’ll say. It’s happened before.’

  ‘They’d better be back,’ muttered Rose balefully. ‘Walking round the town, are they?’

  ‘They said,’ intoned Multhrop, the emphasis indicating that this was quite probably a placebo for his benefit, ‘that they were going to Rochester. They said they’d be back for a merry night, whatever that might mean.’ The look on his face suggested it was unlikely they would receive it at his hands.

  Auguste strolled past the clap-boarded boathouse, on to the pier, determined to escape at least briefly from murder. William and Joe were busily employed, hands in pockets, watching the Francis Forbes Barton being winched up the slipway by the old capstan, after a practice launch.

  ‘Fish,’ Auguste yelled at them. The damp air was full of the smell of fish. Twenty or so fishing boats were moored to the pierside, fresh from a night’s work.

  Joe sucked in his breath. ‘Nothing much today, Mr Didier.’

  ‘Joe, I see boats, I see baskets, I even see fish,’ said Auguste patiently.

  ‘Only a few whiting.’

  ‘Only a few whiting! My friend, you say only a merlan, I say give me your whiting and I will create a masterpiece – a soufflé de merlan à la Didier.’

  ‘’E’s off again, Joe,’ chortled William. ‘Only teasing, Mr Auguste. Dey’ll come up lovely, fried in a bit o’ butter, with deir tails in deir mouths.’

  ‘Fried in butter? Ah non. Where is the excitement, the flavour? You taste only skin and fat. My pupils learn true cuisine where the soul of the fish is appreciated.’

  ‘No sole, Mr Didier, not none.’

  ‘Naturally not if you cook it with Mrs Marshall’s Coralline pepper, drowned in pints of anchovy sauce. It must be cooked à la Didier with the most delicate of white wine sauces or in a soufflé with a touch of parmesan cheese. Then,’ warming to the task, ‘add anchovy sauce, in moderation, as an accompaniment. Ah, the time has come, my friends,’ he informed William and Joe, ‘that the world shall know what an artiste it has in Auguste Didier and I shall begin with your whiting, messieurs.’

  ‘Fancy dat, Joe,’ said William straightfaced.

  It was departing from this grandiose encounter that Rose at last found Auguste, his head still full of exalted plans for the humble whiting. He was almost running along the pier past the Tartar Frigate Inn, such was his enthusiasm to begin the cooking lesson, with a large lobster tucked absent-mindedly under his arm. The sight of Egbert brought his thoughts down to ground.

  ‘Your whiting got anything to teach us in the detective line this morning, Auguste?’

  ‘The whiting cooked with its tail in its mouth teaches us to think all round a problem,’ answered Auguste, lovingly poking back one tail that was sprawling over the edge of his basket. ‘It is an important fish. But no,’ he said regretfully, ‘I can see no direct comparison at the moment between the merlan and the death of Sir Thomas Throgmorton.’

  ‘This entrée of yours, Auguste,’ began Rose carefully, avoiding an out of control hoop hotly pursued by its sailor-suited owner. ‘Have you thought any more about it?’

  ‘Indeed I have, mon ami,’ said Auguste crossly, still mortified that his entrée should be selected, ‘and I tell you this: it does not make sense. If Mrs Langham is right, then she, the Prince of Wales and Lord Beddington all ate from the same dish. And so how could it be poisoned?’

  ‘She might be lying.’

  ‘Why would she lie about something so easy to disprove? Why did Lord Beddington not contradict her if he ate no kidneys?’

  ‘She did mention that Sir Thomas did not like your kidneys,’ said Rose thoughtfully. ‘Atropine has a very bitter taste.’

  ‘True.’ Auguste looked pleased. ‘So perhaps it is not my sauce, but the atropine he does not like?’ His reputation might yet be restored. Then he reflected. ‘No, why did the others not notice the taste if it was bitter?’

  ‘Sir Thomas himself did the serving, there’s no getting away from it. Even if your Mr Pegg added the atropine before he put the dish down, he could scarcely have avoided poisoning the Prince of Wales as well.’

  ‘Unless it were just one kidney poisoned,’ offered Auguste doubtfully.

  ‘Then it was an accident, or someone who didn’t care whom they killed. Or Sir Thomas—’

  ‘No,’ said Auguste. ‘Do you not think, Egbert, that here we have the hareng rouge?’

  ‘Not a basket of whiting, but a red herring, eh?’

  ‘Instead of the entrée,’ continued Auguste, brightening with sudden enthusiasm, ‘the poison that killed Sir Thomas was actually in some other dish.’

  ‘Or the wine,’ added Rose.

  ‘But why bother to mislead us?’

  ‘That’s what we have to find out.’

  ‘Mudfog, Our Town, Cloisterham – in other words, dear, dear Rochester,’ announced Gwendolen, alighting enthusiastically from the London, Chatham and Dover Railway and waving her pink umbrella vigorously. She had decided darling Thomas would wish her to appear at her best and had therefore forsaken dark colours today in favour of her new blue straw hat with the ruched brim, decorated with tasteful purple roses and osprey feathers. She would feel particularly close to Thomas here in Rochester, she decided. It was Mr Dickens’s favourite town and described in so many of his books. It was where he spent his last years, here at Gads’ Hill Place, in the house which he had coveted as a poverty-stricken child.

  ‘Pickwick,’ she announced. Samuel Pipkin glared at her, then realised that she was not addressing him. ‘The first and the last of Mr Dickens’s works were aptly set here in Rochester,’ she informed the party, all of whom then turned to her under the impression she was leading the party, earning another glare from Samuel. It also ignored the fact that most Lionisers had already heard of Rochester and were aware of the importance of Rochester in the canon of the Great Lion. ‘Pickwick and Edwin Drood. And here we are!’ Her voice ended on a semi-screech of joy as they entered the portals of the Bull Inn to partake of sustenance in the coffee room, like Mr Pickwick, Mr Snodgrass, Mr Winkle and Mr Tupman before them.

  Tiring of the ceaseless flow of enthusiasm from Lionisers, Angelina wandered over to the proudly displayed visitors’ book.

  ‘Did Pickwick sign himself in?’ asked Oliver, wandering as if by chance after her.

  She laughed. ‘No. The visitors seem to be made of sterner stuff. Listen to this poem about Edwin Drood: . . . In Jasper’s Gatehouse and with Tope as guide/Explores the old Cathedral, Durdles’ pride/Descends into the Crypt and even would—’

  ‘Solve the murder if he could,’ added Oliver, improvising. ‘Who do you think did it?’

  There was a sudden hush in the room into which his words fell. Angelina closed the book and returned to her seat, but he pressed he
r: ‘Landless, Jasper, suicide?’

  ‘Oh Drood. I thought you meant—’ Angelina broke off, and the sudden tension in the room subsided. ‘I think it’s Datchery.’

  ‘Datchery,’ cried Gwendolen delightedly. ‘That’s what poor Thomas told me that afternoon. He said he’d just met Mr Datchery. He had come back.’ She looked round for approbation at this feat of memory but there was none.

  Samuel snorted. ‘Datchery indeed. I heard no such thing,’ he said to her.

  ‘You were eavesdropping. You are no gentleman, sir.’ Gwendolen was bright red, having forgotten his unfortunate presence.

  ‘You were in a public place and having hysterics,’ said Samuel, stung. ‘What do you expect me to do? Stroll by and pass the time of day, when you were ranting and raving and threatening—’

  ‘I was not, you – you Jasper, sir,’ she hissed. ‘You wanted to kill poor Thomas in order to further your own beastly ends. You hated my poor darling.’

  ‘I may have felt like throttling him,’ snarled Samuel, ‘but it wasn’t me threatening to kill him. It was you.’

  ‘I was not.’

  ‘You wanted to see him dead, you said,’ he reminded her bluntly.

  ‘My own death, my own,’ she said quickly, eyes glittering now in the face of danger. ‘A mere turn of phrase.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s a turn the police would like to know about.’

  Rose followed Sid into the small kitchen at Blue Horizons and was immediately enveloped in a paradise of smells, reminiscent of childhood, the spices of exotic cooking and the warm scents of Provence all rolled into one. It was a smell he had come to associate with Auguste Didier’s kitchens, and after an hour in Naseby’s company, it was all the more welcome. Rose felt at home with this smell. Or, rather, not quite at home since Mrs Rose’s kitchen did not smell of herbs and spices and Provence. Too often it smelled of boiled cabbage and steamed fish. The pupils were standing round the range, from which the delicious smell of a baking soufflé emanated; they were absorbed in studying whitings, some fried, some boiled. None steamed. On the table, salads were waiting, prepared for luncheon, and two bottles of wine.