The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Mr Hogg requested the recipe for Sir Oliver’s favourite, and Mrs Peak passed it to him. It seems to be generally known in the household.”

  “But rarely cooked,” Isaac said severely. “Sir Oliver is badly served, I fear.”

  “Does your recipe carry flour of any kind in it?” If not, then an accident with the ingredients was most certainly ruled out.

  “Certainly not.” Isaac was indignant. “The King of Oudh’s is not a commonplace curry, Mr Didier. King Nasir-ud-din was a most superior person, so my father informed me. He was most enthusiastic about European culture, and indeed his favoured companion was a European barber, a strange fellow called de Russett, who tasted all his food and wine, lest it was poisoned. The barber shopped in the markets to bring back only the finest and purest ingredients and then cooked them himself for His Majesty. He is hardly likely to have included flour amongst them. Now were it some inferior curry, such as that known as Mr Arnott’s curry, with cabbage and apples, flour would no doubt be permissible, but with the King of Oudh’s refined tastes, it would be totally out of place. I am speechless at the suggestion, sir, speechless.”

  Alfred Hogg might have confused flour with rat poison but he would not have added it to the curry, Auguste reasoned. That must have been done by a third party. But if so, he wondered, why did the killer leave the rat poison in the outside kitchen? Why not remove it? It seemed extraordinarily careless.

  ~ * ~

  “So you’re still alive.”

  Auguste whirled round in the middle of the extremely boring task of making a shepherd’s pie for the wedding on the morrow. His spirits were very low and he was counting the hours until he could return to his beloved Plum’s Club for Gentlemen, where his art was appreciated.

  “As you can see,” he said crossly. He liked Inspector Rose but was beginning heartily to dislike comments on his own continuing existence. He had tried to keep his mind on wedding menus, but this was hard when it kept moving back to the question of the dead chef. Partly, he admitted, because he had been obliged to cook such large quantities of the King of Oudh’s curry in the two days that had passed since his arrival.

  “Nice-looking pie, Mr Didier.” Egbert Rose looked wistfully at it, and for a moment Auguste was pleased.

  “Would you like one, Inspector? I can spare one for Mrs Rose.”

  “No arsenic in it, is there?”

  “That is not an ingredient I’m accustomed to using,” Auguste replied mildly. Jokes were all very well, but when they concerned his cooking they had to be put in their place.

  The inspector had the grace to blush. “Thought you’d like to know we’ve put a guard on Mrs Peak. Those other dead chefs—”

  “I understand their deaths or disappearances were not due to the King of Oudh’s curry,” Auguste broke in. “Or to any other curry or any third party.”

  Egbert looked disappointed. “So you know that, do you? Yes, it looks certain that Mrs Peak was the intended target.”

  “Have you talked yet to Miss Cartwright and Mr Ernest Marsh? They would seem to have plenty of cause to wish Mrs Peak harm.”

  “I have. Spitting fury, both of them. They’d have liked to have doctored her curry, but I can’t prove either of them did.”

  “And Mr Carstairs, her jilted lover?”

  “Same thing. Rather too eager to point out it must have been an accident. But you know what I think, Mr Didier?”

  Auguste regarded him carefully. “That the curry is being pulled over our eyes?”

  “What?” The inspector looked totally bemused.

  It was Auguste’s turn to blush. “I’m sorry, Inspector. I am somewhat dejected at present. I am not accustomed to cooking curry.”

  “What is this about a curry?”

  “Not a curry, the curry. The King of Oudh’s curry. Sir Oliver’s favourite and the one that Alfred Hogg cooked that day. It doesn’t have flour in it, which rules out the possibility of an accident with the jar of rat poison. That was deliberately left there to smother us.”

  Egbert regarded him sourly at this second slip. “Speak for yourself. I’m not smothered.”

  Auguste made another effort. “I apologize. It is the curry that smothers.”

  “Smothers what?” The inspector was getting irritated, and Auguste could hardly blame him.

  “The curry’s main ingredients are suffused with the strong flavours of the sauce.”

  “I’m not here for a cooking lesson, Mr Didier. I’ll send along Mrs Rose for that.”

  Auguste tried again. “You - we perhaps - are losing touch with the main ingredient of this case.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “The dead man, Alfred Hogg. There are several people who would no doubt like to kill Mrs Peak, but we forget who actually was killed.”

  “Who would want to kill him? He’d only been here a day.”

  “Exactly. So there could be only one person here who would wish to kill him.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “Mrs Peak.”

  Egbert stared at him incredulously. “The blooming bride? Hell and Tommy, what for?”

  “Only she could have a motive for leaving the rat poison in the curry kitchen after using it to flavour the curry to kill Alfred Hogg. She needed to show that others in the household, both family and servants, could not only have had reason to kill her, but also the means. If she’d moved the jar back to its proper place, it’s unlikely that the connection could have been made that she was the intended victim, not the cook. If it turned out that there was an investigation into the death, she needed all the attention to be on herself, not on Mr Hogg. Once Mr Carstairs had raised the alarm, she quickly drew attention to herself... a task made easier because it could have been true. Three people could, theoretically, have wished her out of the way. She needed to act in a hurry after the shock she had received the day before.”

  Egbert Rose was still staring at him. “What shock? If you’d be so good as to enlighten me, Mr Didier?”

  “Of seeing Alfred Hogg again, in view of their relationship. Sir Oliver would have appointed him, not her.”

  “What’s all this about a relationship?”

  “I think you will find that she is actually Mrs Hogg. She spoke of Mr Hogg in terms of knowing his habits. He was not the sort of person to confuse ingredients, according to her. And he had to be silenced quickly if her marriage was to go ahead.”

  There was a long pause. “All theory. No proof.”

  “I admit that.”

  Another pause, then: “I’ll get my men on to it. Should be easy enough to prove.”

  “I hope so.”

  Egbert Rose paused on his way to the kitchen door. “By the way, Mr Didier. I was walking by that outside kitchen. The curry you’ve been cooking smells rather good. I’ll have the recipe, if I may.”

  ~ * ~

  “It’s all very well, Mr Didier, but what shall I do?” Sir Oliver looked piteously grey after Egbert Rose had broken the news to him. Auguste had immediately been summoned and his heart had been moved when he saw his temporary employer’s anxious expression.

  “I am sorry, sir,” he said. “I’m sure Mrs Peak was genuinely fond of you.”

  “Eh?” Sir Oliver’s face looked a little more like its usual merry self. “Nonsense, man. She was after my money. Lavinia said so all the time. Good girl, Lavinia. Might have a wedding after all. So what shall I do?”

  “About what?”

  “A cook. You said you’re leaving.”

  “I am, sir.” He couldn’t stay in this spice-laden household any longer.

  “Who’s to cook my curry then?”

  Auguste seized his chance. “There is an old gentleman at your gate ...”

  <>

  ~ * ~

  LONDON CALLING

  Ian Ayris and Nick Quantrill

  King’s Cross, London - 18.50

  H

 
ad another ear-bashin off the missus. “Hull?” she says. “Hull? What you got to go to Hull for?” “Business,” I says. And it is. My business. She don’t know nothing about what I do. She thinks I’m one of them blokes what pick up cars and drop em off places, you know, them geezers you see carryin number-plates round with em. She don’t know I’m on the firm. Harry’s firm. Harry Sullivan.

  I been doin jobs for Harry ten years now. I’m what you might call, a specialist. Harry’s got a problem, he phones me up, I clear it with the missus, and I sort the problem out. The problem’s always got a name, and a place I can find em. In this case it’s Tony Weathers. And he’s in Hull. Apparently, so Harry says, this Weathers geezer owes him a large wedge and needs teachin a lesson. Only one lesson I teach. The hardest one there is. Harry’s brother is based up there, but he don’t trust him to sort it, even though he’s Harry’s number two. Can’t say I blame him. Still, he’s got us a lead on where Weathers is hiding out, so I have to play along.

  So I’m on this train to Hull. Bound to be a dump. Up north, ain’t it? It’s all like that up there. Manchester, Liverpool, Leeds, Newcastle. Like goin back two hundred years. I been all over, doin jobs for Harry. But I’m gettin sick of it now. This is the last one. I’ve made me mind up on that. Tracey, that’s me missus, she reckons I let Harry walk all over me. “Whenever that phone rings,” she says, “and it’s Harry, you’re all, ‘Yes, Harry, no, Harry, three bags full, Harry.’”

  That’s what she reckons. Not any more. Not after today. I’ll show her. I’m gonna be the big man. Got a couple of fellas onside, high up in the firm, you know. Harry won’t know what hit him.

  ~ * ~

  Holderness Road, Hull - 19.50

  Fuck’s sake. You just can’t get the staff in this business. I look around the staff-room. Lazy to a man. Playing cards, laughing and joking, like there’s nothing better to do. I shake my head and close the door on them. Don’t they realize we’re in the grip of the biggest recession in living memory? I’ve given them jobs and roofs over their heads. Looked after their families. It’s all right for them. They’re not entrepreneurs like me. They’re happy just to pick up their wages. Knobheads, the lot of them.

  My office is upstairs. It’s small, but it does me. My wife, Denise, helps out sometimes. She passes me some paperwork. I’m not really in the mood. I ask her to make me a coffee. She disappears. Reluctantly. I need to look over the accounts, make sure I’m making the right decision here. The best advice I ever got was from my brother. If you’re standing still, you’re going backwards, he told me. He was always the clever one. And the handsome one. And the more successful one. The only thing I got that he wanted was Denise.

  I’m looking at the income and expenditure on the spreadsheet. It’s giving me a headache. The figures don’t add up, that’s for sure, and I have to sort it. Times are tough and I’ve got a decision to make. This Weathers situation is an opportunity, and it’s important to recognize opportunities when they present themselves. Denise breaks my concentration by putting a cup of coffee in front of me. I look up at her. He’ll be here soon, she says.

  ~ * ~

  Hull Interchange - 20.15

  Hull station’s just like any other in this god-forsaken country. Soulless. Fuckin soulless. Pretentious wankers even call it an “interchange” rather than a station. The place is fuckin empty. End of the line. Nobody just passes through here. There’s even a statue of Philip Larkin. What kind of place celebrates an old racist? That said, I don’t mind a bit of his poetry. I like a bit of culture.

  Eddie said he’d meet me out front. Eddie Painter. One of my boys. Or he will be, give it a couple of weeks. Went to school together, me and Eddie. I trust him with me life.

  Here he is.

  “Hello, Pete. You all right? Bloody place this, ain’t it?”

  I nod. Grim. Gotta be distant when you’re the boss. Enigmatic, you know.

  “Motor’s over here, Pete.”

  We get shiftin. He’s parked down a side road. Good thinkin. CCTV’s a bastard.

  Turns out Eddie’s got hold of a Merc. C250. Classy. That’s what I like about Eddie. Comes across as a fuckin idiot at times, but the boy’s got class.

  So off we go. Through the streets of Hull. Fuck me, I thought the East End was a shithole, but this up here, it’s a different fuckin game. But it ain’t the time for no sight-seein, I gotta set me stall straight and then I’m home free. Me and Eddie’ll drive back, then it’s straight over to Harry’s gaff to make him an offer he can’t refuse. That’s out The Godfather, that is. The first one.

  Eddie pulls the motor into a sideroad and squeaks the kerb as he parks.

  “You all right?” I says.

  He nods his head. Says nothing.

  “Is this it, then?” I says.

  A Portakabin on an industrial estate. It might be time for Harry to learn the facts of life, but I’ve got to admit I still have some respect for the bloke. He’s done a lot better than his brother, that’s for sure. I shake me head. A fuckin Portakabin.

  ~ * ~

  Holderness Road, Hull - 20.25

  I hear a car pull up so I look out of the window. It’s them. I tell Denise to disappear. She doesn’t need to be about for this bit.

  Eddie Painter leads them in. I nod to him. Decent bloke is Eddie. He’s put the years in. Behind him comes Pete. I shake his hand, tell him it’s good to see him. We all sit down. I’m behind the desk, they’re both sat in front of me.

  “It’s a bit of a shithole up here, ain’t it?” Pete says. “A fucking Portakabin on a building site?”

  I shrug. It does me. Low-key. Keeps me under the radar. I tell him I know where Tony Weathers is.

  Pete sits down and smiles at me. Horrible teeth. “I’m not interested in Weathers,” he says.

  I see him go to his pocket.

  Eddie speaks. “I wouldn’t do that if I was you, Pete.” I watch as he turns towards his mate.

  By the time he turns back to me, I’ve got my gun out. It’s my turn to smile. “You thought you could come here and try to turn me against Harry? My own brother? Eddie told me all about your little plan.”

  My brother might be the blue-eyed boy, and I might be the one stuck up here, but there’s a line you don’t cross. He lets me get on with my thing, run my own sidelines up here. I know which side my bread’s buttered on. Harry’s not ready for the scrapyard just yet.

  Eddie has a gun trained on him, too. “Sorry about this, Pete,” he says.

  “Do you think me and Harry don’t speak?” I say to Pete. It’s slowly dawning on him that he’s been stitched up.

  My mobile rings. I hold it up to him. The display says Harry. “London calling,” I say. I listen as Harry talks and then tell him we’re just about done here. Times are tough, but I’ve made my decision. “Blood’s thicker than water,” I say to Pete after terminating the call. “Much thicker.”

  And sometimes it’s handy operating from a Portakabin on a building site. Plenty of foundations that need filling in.

  <>

  ~ * ~

  THE CURIOUS AFFAIR OF THE DEODAND

  Lisa Tuttle

  O

  nce it had become painfully clear that I could no longer continue to work in association with Miss G— F—, I departed Scotland and returned to London, where I hoped I would quickly find employment. I had no bank account, no property, nothing of any value to pawn or sell, and, after I had paid my train fare, little more than twelve shillings to my name. Although I had friends in London who would open their homes to me, I had imposed before, and was determined not to be a burden. It was therefore a matter of the utmost urgency that I should obtain a position: I emphasize this point to account for what might appear a precipitate decision.

  Arriving so early in the morning at King’s Cross, it seemed logical enough to set off at once, on foot, for the ladies’ employment bureau in Oxford Street.

  The bag that had seem
ed light enough when I took it down from the train grew heavier with every step, so that I was often obliged to stop and set it down for a few moments. One such rest took place outside a newsagent’s shop, and while I caught my breath and rubbed my aching arm I glanced at the notices on display in the window. One, among the descriptions of lost pets and offers of rooms to let, caught my attention.

  Consulting Detective

  Requires Assistant

  Must be literate, brave, congenial, with a good memory, & willing to work all hours.