Foul Deeds and Fine Dying

by Marco Malvaldi

Genres: Culinary Cozy Mysteries; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

Pellegrino Artusi, the great gastronome and amateur detective, is back.

It is 1900 and Pellegrino's famed cookbook is in its fifth edition. Flushed from his fortune and success, our hero joins a weekend party at the Tuscan castle of the wealthy agricultural entrepreneur, Secondo Gazzolo.

In this castle of winding corridors, secret passageways and clandestine meetings, Pellegrino finds a curious collection of guests, each with their own purpose for being there.

But when one of the party is found dead in his locked bedroom, seemingly the victim of suffocation, it is up to Pellegrino and his old friend, the detective Ispettore Artistico, to solve what really happened, for the science of food is every bit as complex, rigorous and tantalising as the sublime art of investigation.

A perfect "locked room mystery" that will have your brain and your tastebuds tickled.

Translated from the Italian by Howard Curtis

Release date: April 13, 2023

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 240

Sample

“The phenomenon that is the subject of today’s lecture is a phenomenon so complex that to analyse it wearies the mind and discourages scientific enquiry.”

The lecture hall is packed to the rafters, standing room only, and yet, apart from the sound made by the heels of the man walking up and down in front of the desk, not the slightest noise can be heard.

“Nevertheless, as we will show, even within such an intricate phenomenon, a phenomenon that cannot be grasped by the intellect, it is possible to find a number of immutable facts.”

The lack of noise may perhaps be explained by the disparate nature of the audience attending the lecture. It is a well-known fact that the degree of noise in any kind of gathering is often in direct relation to how well those attending know one another. A class of some twenty students makes much more commotion than the same number of people in an orthopaedist’s waiting room. And in this case the listeners are distinctly varied.

“And the first fact that we must accept, and which will guide us in today’s investigation, is that the trajectory traced by this phenomenon is not a straight line but rather a parabola.”

Listeners who have nothing in common apart from their admiration for the Honourable Paolo Mantegazza, Senator of the Kingdom, Professor of Physiology at the University of Florence and author of a great number of books on the most diverse subjects.

There are a considerable number of ladies of all ages, more than one with intense blushes on their faces. This is because Professore Mantegazza’s books on the physiology of pleasure, especially female pleasure, are well known, as are his public lectures on the subject. There are many who say that, in addition to his public lectures, the professor gladly gives private seminars on the very same theme to young and not-so-young representatives of the fairer sex, to whom he is happy to introduce the subject; but such things do not concern us right now.

Partly because the subject of today’s lecture is not pleasure.

“Let us start from here,” Professore Mantegazza says, and, with a sure hand, he draws an uninterrupted horseshoe-shaped line in chalk on the blackboard. “From this parabola, with which we will follow the evolution of our system throughout its course.”

If there were a female teacher of mathematics in the hall, she might perhaps object that what Mantegazza has drawn is not a parabola at all, and indeed, when examined closely, is not even a function; but there are no female teachers of mathematics here. There are instead, as we have said, many ladies of all ages: from the young lady in search of a husband, accompanied by her dignified mother, proud to show that her daughter is interested in the latest scientific discoveries; to the noblewoman, complete with puppy and crinoline, who hopes to find in the pleasure of intellectual pursuit what her delicate health, combined with a toad-like appearance, has prevented her from finding in the joys of married life.

And there are, in the majority, men. Men of every kind.

Elegant students in white shirts and waistcoats, smelling of cigars and cologne, and less elegant students, wearing overcoats that would not have been in fashion even when their elder brothers wore them ten years earlier, but never thinking of taking them off because what is underneath is even worse. Gentlemen of a certain age, perhaps merchants, perhaps actors. Perhaps even teachers – but not of mathematics. And, in the last row, a curious fellow.

Curious because, although he is at the back of the hall, he was among those who arrived first: three quarters of an hour ago, to be precise, a time which he has spent reading a small book with an English title. Curious because, given that we have been talking about fashion, this fellow is dressed in top hat and tails, an outfit that would have seemed quite old-fashioned several decades ago; but the garment is made from cloth of an excellent quality, English like the small book and the tailor who probably cut the cloth, and the top hat which he holds propped on his lap is shiny, not because it is worn but because it is new.

In the meantime, Professore Mantegazza has finished writing above the horseshoe a sequence of words, in a beautiful hand: Childhood – Adolescence – Youth – MATURITY – Old Age – Decrepitude.

The man in the top hat smiles beneath whiskers resembling those of a lieutenant in the Austro-Hungarian army and slowly moves his head up and down.

The subject of today’s lecture is “life”.

A subject about which he knows a fair amount.

Even more, perhaps, than Professore Paolo Mantegazza.

*

“Having reached this point,” said the professor, “there is one last thing to remember, something which should also be the first in our consciousness.”

And, turning to the auditorium, he looked at those present with a satisfied expression.

Nobody had left the hall.

Nobody had abandoned his or her place during the forty-five minutes of the lecture. They were all still there.

The students were there, although this was hardly surprising: leaving during a public lecture by one of your professors, having perhaps sat in the front row, would have been an egregious mistake.

The ladies of various ages were there; Mantegazza knew he could count on the ladies, especially the oldest among them, and the presence of adolescent girls and young wives always put him in a good mood. Their attention satisfied him perhaps even more than their admiration.

His colleagues were there: they often came to his lectures, sometimes to learn, sometimes to envy, sometimes both. He did the same for them, and for the same purposes.

And above all, one of his dearest friends was there, a man Mantegazza had spotted immediately at the beginning of the lecture, even though he was sitting at the back of the hall; one of those discreet presences that Paolo Mantegazza always looked for, and whose presence reassured him considerably when he had to speak in public. A face he knew, with a confident, reliable expression, a face to which he could look for approval, doubt, curiosity, so as to adjust his speech accordingly.

They were all there. Nobody was missing.

“Practising science means above all having foresight, and in the evolution of this ideal line rests the fallibility of our science,” Professore Mantegazza said, satisfied but solemn, turning to the parabola behind him and pointing to its right extremity. “That is because we are unable to foresee how much it will bend and curve in the course of our existence. We know that the life of each of us will come to an end, but we are not given to know either how or when.”

And finally, you are there, dear reader, of whatever sex, who, in comparison with Professore Paolo Mantegazza and all those attending the lecture, have an unfair advantage. That is, since what you are reading is a mystery story, you are perfectly well aware that within a few pages one of the people you are about to meet will kick the bucket. And, although still ignorant of the precise circumstances of that event, you know perfectly well that he or she will be murdered. Only, you don’t know who is about to leave us, or who is responsible.

If you’re prepared to be patient, we will get there.

“Well, well, my dear fellow, I see you’re in splendid form.”

Paolo Mantegazza took the hand held out to him and shook it, sealing the handshake with his left hand placed over the two joined right hands, a gesture halfway between the paternal and the papal.

“I’m content, Professore, I’m content,” Pellegrino Artusi replied, regaining possession of his right hand. Mantegazza was a great man, a great physiologist, but when he shook your hand it was as if he were trying to send you to the orthopaedist. Perhaps, obsessed as he was with physical efficiency, he was afraid that other people might have assumed he was on his last legs if he didn’t try to break a few of your metacarpals when he shook your hand.

“Nothing to do with contentment,” Mantegazza said as he was handed his coat and stick by his assistant. “Take it from a clinician, my dear Pellegrino. Bright eyes, straight back.”

And very full belly, Mantegazza thought to himself. Not like me, of course.

Although on the verge of seventy, Mantegazza was well preserved to an enviable degree. The straight, robust, but thin figure, the long flowing hair that had with time turned white but not pink, and finally the military goatee, of the same colour as the mane of hair: in his appearance, Mantegazza recalled General Custer at the age of seventy – if said general had actually reached that age instead of being riddled with bullets at Little Big Horn, of course.

“I thank you, but I do actually think that the secret lies in being content. Talking of being content, I know that it is a small thing compared with all your works, but it would please me to make you a gift of this.”

And having taken his left hand from behind his back, Artusi held out to the professor a volume considerably thicker than the one he had been reading before the beginning of the lecture. Science in the Kitchen and the Art of Eating Well – 1900.

“Oh, what a beauty. Is it a new edition?”

“Yes, it is. The fifth.”

“Oh, very good, my friend, now you only need another ninety-five and you will get what you deserve.”

Artusi smiled, a slight blush spreading across his cheeks.

Nine years had passed since Paolo Mantegazza, an unquestioned authority in the field of medicine and health, had devoted two of his lectures to Artusi’s cookery manual, thus contributing in no small measure to the wider diffusion of a book that had had no success at first. Meeting Artusi in person for the first time, he had even said to him solemnly:

“You have done a grand job with this book, and I wish you a hundred editions.”

It could certainly not be said that Professore Paolo Mantegazza brought bad luck. The first edition of nine years previously (1,000 copies) had soon been followed by a second (again 1,000 copies) and then a third (this time 2,000) followed by a fourth (3,000) and a fifth, the first copy of which Mantegazza was now holding in his hand.

“It seems somewhat more voluminous than the original, or am I mistaken?” the professor said, leafing through the book with his gloved hand.

Artusi nodded gravely. “I’ve added several new recipes and a small vade mecum on hygiene, which I should have particular pleasure in submitting to your attention.”

Mantegazza looked at the book he had in his hand and then at Artusi, visibly satisfied at having such trust placed in him; then, having put his coat over his forearm, he took his stick and pointed the silver pommel in the direction of the exit.

“In that case, I shall read it with great pleasure, Signor Artusi. In fact, I’ll go further: to make my walk even more pleasant, would you like to accompany me as far as Santa Maria del Fiore? If you have nothing else to do . . .”

Artusi’s whiskers tipped upwards, in an invisible but agreeable smile. “On the contrary. I’d be honoured.”

*

“So it seems your work is having considerable success,” Mantegazza said, carrying his coat. Even though it was the beginning of October, the heat had not yet made up its mind to leave Florence or the places with which Artusi was familiar. “Five editions, and always with new recipes. How many are there this time?”

“Thirty-five, if I’m not mistaken. Compared with the previous one. Compared with the first edition, there are more than a hundred.”

“More than a hundred,” said Mantegazza, nodding slowly. “Remarkable. I assume that now, when you go to restaurants or grand hotels, you only have to say your name and the cooks bow down before you.”

“Quite the contrary, my dear professor, quite the contrary,” Artusi replied. “I don’t enjoy a great deal of popularity in the world of professional cooks. I think there’s more than one who has wished I would die of cholera. Nobody is more reluctant to yield his secrets – those that make him a great chef de cuisine – to a commonplace yokel who wants to make them public, and moreover to make money from them instead of him. No, most people write to me.”

“Write to you?”

“Yes, they write to me. Sometimes to correct me, sometimes to tell me the recipe as I’ve published it isn’t the one from their region, sometimes to say, ‘If you liked this dolce di tedescheria, you should try this other one,’ and so on. In short, my book has grown the way a child grows: by listening and learning from other people’s experience.”

Which was exactly what had happened.

Science in the Kitchen, in its first edition, consisted of 475 recipes; the second, about a hundred more – 104, to be precise. But it was not easy to be pernickety, because letters constantly arrived at Artusi’s house on Piazza d’Azeglio: letters ordering the book, which could only be acquired directly from the author, but also, and above all, letters containing new recipes. Recipes that Artusi would read, try, and finally approve, publishing them in the next edition of the book: in short, though he produced in an analogue medium, he was the first blogger of the modern era.

“The way a child grows,” Mantegazza repeated: he had a habit of repeating the words spoken by whomever he was talking to, as if thinking that they became clearer when uttered by him, or perhaps it was simply because he was growing ever so slightly senile and wanted to make sure that he had understood correctly. “Unlike us, who are gradually getting older.”

“If you are old, Professore Mantegazza, then you should know that I am more than a decade older. If I were to believe that curve of yours, I ought to be decrepit.”

“So you disagree with my curve?” said Mantegazza, somewhat surprised perhaps, like all doctors, that common mortals might also have opinions about health and well-being.

“Not at all. It depends what we put on the curve. If we put a man’s abilities, there is no doubt that the trajectory is as you’ve drawn it. But if we put satisfaction, well, then I must say I disagree. The fact is, my dear professor, in me the joy of living increases with every year that passes.”

And this was the second truth of the evening.

The aim of human life is the nutrition and reproduction of the species, as Artusi, a true son of Emilia-Romagna, had written at the beginning of his book; and his youth had indeed been a steady oscillation between these two instincts.

But once past his fifties, which at that time was more a privilege than an age, the hormones of reproduction had given way to the enzymes of digestion, and Artusi had embarked on a more placid life, one that was definitely less unpredictable but equally definitely more satisfactory, thanks to the other privilege which Artusi enjoyed: that of being sure that he would have lunch at midday and dinner at seven, and always at a well-laden table.

Mantegazza nodded. “I understand. You’re satisfied with how you live, and I assure you I believe you. On the other hand, you do not seem to ever be satisfied with your book, given that you’re constantly changing it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say it was dissatisfaction, but rather a blessing. I never tire of adding new dishes, I must admit.”

“Then you won’t mind if I introduce you to someone. I have a good friend who owns a farm and a small food factory near Val d’Orcia, and who’s a great admirer of yours. Just recently he was telling me that it would give him great pleasure to meet you and have you taste some of his raw materials.”

So that was it. Another pain in the arse to deal with. Every month since he had publicised the Burchi bakery in Pisa in his book, praising its schiacciata, pro. . .