Murder Makes an Entree

by Amy Myers

Genres: General Fiction; Historical Fiction; Mystery

Synopsis

The fifth Auguste Didier mystery.

Only a dinner of first-class excellence can tempt the Prince of Wales to endure the ordeal of being the president of the Society of Literary Lionisers. And he ensures this by insisting that the year's highlight, the banquet at Broadstairs, will be cooked by master chef Auguste Didier.

Broadstairs is famed not only as a seaside resort but also as the holiday haunt of Charles Dickens - the author the Society has chosen to lionise for the year of the Prince's presidency. The banquet, attended by six Peggottys, two Betsy Trotwoods, a couple of Little Dorrits, a Scrooge and a Mr Pickwick, not to mention a highly emotional Miss Havisham, passes off well - but the readings that follow do not. In the middle of the murder scene from Oliver Twist, the reader Sir Thomas Throgmorton collapses and dies.

It is soon realised that he has been poisoned, and Inspector Naseby of the local constabulary believes Didier's banquet is to blame - after all, what can you expect when a foreigner cooks the food? Luckily Inspector Egbert Rose of Scotland Yard is on hand to help Didier's investigations to prove his innocence of this most heinous of accusations.

Release date: January 1, 1992

Publisher: Headline Book Publishing, Limited

Print pages: 279

Sample

‘Who,’ screamed Auguste Didier in anguish, ‘is responsible for this?’ His six apprentice pupils cowered, as he regarded in despair the ornate silver platter and the creation it bore.


‘In five minutes, mes amis,’ he continued grimly, as the culprit showed no signs of admitting his or her guilt, perhaps because none of the six could
see anything amiss, ‘the Prince of Wales will be dining on this – this – abomination.’ He pointed a finger of scorn at the
chicken stuffed with foie gras and truffles from Perigord. ‘Le Maître Escoffier created Poularde Derby as a tribute to His Royal Highness, and you choose to make a mockery of his dish. That pupils of the Auguste Didier School
of Cuisine could descend to such abomination!’


‘What’s wrong with it, Mr Didier?’ asked James Pegg stolidly; he was braver than the rest, a slow-thinking Englishman of thirty
who saw no harm in calling a Poularde Derby a Chicken with Liver.


Auguste glared at them. ‘The jelly,’ he said shortly, amazed that it was not immediately obvious.

‘Oh, that was me, Mr Didier,’ said Alice Fenwick gaily.

‘You, Mademoiselle Fenwick?’ Auguste was bereft of adequate words. Of all of them, he looked to Alice for attention to detail.
She had a gift of competence rivalled by few, perhaps instilled into her by her upbringing as an army officer’s daughter,
Auguste had decided. But then even Homer nods and even he, Auguste Didier, had occasionally been guilty of even quite major sins, such as insufficient attention to the importance of the pudding in English cooking.
‘This horror is from your hand? I do not call it an aspic. It bears no resemblance to one.’ He regarded the bonny-faced Alice
sternly. Surely she must be aware of the enormity of her error? True, her heart was unhappy. His attitude softened in fellow
feeling.


‘It’s only a garnish, Maître,’ announced Algernon Peckham superciliously.

‘Only’ was not a word to use to maître chefs, particularly not to Auguste Didier. ‘Only a garnish,’ he repeated through gritted
teeth. ‘Only the most important part of the dish, only the garland to proclaim the arrival of the boar’s head, only the candles
that heralded a feast by Monsieur de La Reynière himself, only the chief advertisement of delights to come. By its garnish
shall ye know the dish,’ he thundered. ‘Meat jelly, Mademoiselle Fenwick, should merely coat the back of the spoon in consistency.
The end result should not bounce as does Monsieur Pegg’s blanc-manger; it should be as tender and yielding as a woman’s arms,’ he proclaimed, carefully and speedily removing the offending blobs
of jelly and replacing them with more croutons bearing slices of foie gras. ‘Never forget that, mes amis.’ He added a last Madeira-soaked truffle. ‘Voilà. Let it depart. Maître Escoffier shall have no reason to be ashamed of his creation.’ Auguste gave the signal to the two
footmen clad in the bright blue livery of Gwynne’s Hotel. Nothing subdued for Emma Pryde, its flamboyant owner.


Dear Emma. He had been unable to disregard her plea to take over her kitchens for the evening in order to cook this very special
dinner given for the Prince of Wales, for she herself had been laid low by the unbecoming illness of chickenpox.


Gwynne’s Hotel in Jermyn Street alternated between a raffish reputation and one of sobriety with a hint of daring. The attendance of the Prince of Wales was a boost to the latter, especially as on this occasion His Royal Highness would be
dining, not discreetly in a very private room with a lady of his choice as in days of old, but making a more public entrance
with the ultra-respectable members of the Society of Literary Lionisers. Only a dinner of first-class excellence could tempt
the Prince of Wales to endure this ordeal for all he was the Society’s president for this year of 1899, and this Emma, at
the request (and generous payment) of the Lionisers, had guaranteed. Unfortunately not even Emma could ignore her spots to
superintend the kitchens with her usual authoritarian rule and so Auguste had agreed to come to her aid on one condition.
He could not work with unknown staff; he would bring in the six pupils from his cooking school. In his innocence, he now thought
grimly, he had assumed this would be both a credit to him and good experience for them.


Now he despaired. Had he done right? For the Society of Literary Lionisers, he was not concerned. For the Prince of Wales
he was. His spirits rose slightly as he cast his eyes over the empty dishes coming back from the preceding course, the soup,
the sole à la Batelière, the grouse pudding remove, the other entrées. Perhaps there was hope yet. With the pragmatism of the true artiste, Auguste
promptly dismissed the departed chicken from his mind, and turned his attention to the now urgent approval of entremets, both sweet and savoury.


But his heart was not fully in it. It seemed to him that his life must surely be a failure. Yesterday, 24 July 1899, had been
his fortieth birthday, and how had he spent it? Alone and a failure. True, he had kept his slim figure; true, his dark eyes
could be used to great effect as when they cast their spell over the kitchens of Stockbery Towers, and true, his career was
considered by many outstanding. Yet now he must face the fact that in six months he, the master chef, could not teach pupils how to make a correct clear aspic. And for it to be Alice at fault, of all people! Commercial gelatine.
Never would he have believed her capable of it. It must be his fault. Yet how could a heart that was sad produce the heights
of a chefs art? Tatiana – no, he would not think of his black-haired dark-eyed Russian princess, so nearly for one tantalising
moment within his grasp, only to flutter beyond it for ever. Even Natalia – he winced. No, he must devote himself to his art,
alone. Never again should woman darken his heart – or commercial gelatine his store cupboard.


His thunderous face alarmed his pupils.

‘Everything is correct, ja?’ enquired Heinrich Freimüller anxiously. The oldest of the class, in his early fifties, he often protectively appointed
himself sheepdog to his five colleagues.


Auguste cast his eye over the entremets: a small crayfish salad, a timbale de macaroni à la Mazarin – and what difficulties that had caused. In vain he had argued with Emma that His Royal Highness disliked such starch-filled foods. Emma had merely smiled
in her maddening way and pointed out that she was an expert in what the Prince of Wales liked in everything. To which he had no reply.


There was a Charlotte Romanov – no mere Charlotte Russe for tonight but his own receipt (with vodka) in honour of his patron
the Grand Duke Igor of Russia, who had made it possible for Auguste to leave his employment at Plum’s Club for Gentlemen,
albeit with much regret, and to launch the Auguste Didier School of Cuisine in a house in Curzon Street. It had been a rare
fit of generosity initiated, had Auguste but known it, not by Igor himself in gratitude for Auguste’s help in the unfortunate
happenings that had dogged the Grand Duke’s last season in Cannes, but prompted by Natalia Kallinkova who had danced her way
out of Auguste’s life with some guilt.


And, lastly, there was a pièce montée of the royal coat of arms in meringue and spun sugar, a triumph of the confectioner’s art.


‘Thank you, Miss Dawson,’ Auguste commented appreciatively. How strange that such exotic delights should prove to be the skill
of Miss Emily Dawson, a former governess in her late twenties. Where in her previous dismal existence looking after the children
of others could she have acquired the art of creating such exotic desserts? Not in nursery fare that was for sure. True, the
wistfulness in her eye suggested dreams far beyond a governess’s role, and perhaps for this reason she had joined the school.


‘Monsieur Soyer was of the opinion,’ observed Algernon Peckham, ‘that one should never attempt to astonish guests with any
extensive wonders of nature or art in the matter of eatables.’


Auguste flashed him a look of pure dislike. ‘Thank you, Monsieur Peckham,’ he snapped. ‘Monsieur Soyer however was not called
upon to entertain the Prince of Wales, who was, fortunately for him, still in the nursery then.’


Peckham’s addiction to the sayings of Alexis Soyer was a perpetual thorn in Auguste’s side, even more annoying than his conspiratorial
attitude with Auguste when discussing the cuisine of France, to which he considered a two-week visit made shortly before the
commencement of the course entitled him. How, Auguste often reflected, could he have had the misfortune to alight on a disciple
of Alexis Soyer for his class: nay, not only a disciple but a fanatical devotee, against whose dicta, though he had been dead
over forty years, all Auguste’s pronouncements had to be measured. Alexis Soyer, master chef to the Reform Club, feeder of
the poor, inventor of soup kitchens for the famine-stricken Irish, caterer to rich and poor alike, saviour of the Crimea,
inventor of the Magic Stove, creator of the splendours of the Gastronomic Symposium of All Nations at Gore House, had dogged Auguste’s footsteps. With his own maître to whom he had been apprenticed in Cannes, Auguste Escoffier, he enjoyed
a happy friendship, but Soyer, taking advantage of the fact that he was dead and thereby immortalised, meanly still sneaked
up on him to cloud his days. To see him reincarnated in a jaunty, pretentious young man such as Algernon Peckham was the last
straw. He tried hard to be charitable, to tell himself that Peckham was only twenty-three, but charity came hard when an aspiring
Soyer silently criticised his every dish.


The school had been operating for six months now, and he counted himself fortunate in his first six pupils. All of a high
standard, and a mixture from all walks of life, all co-operating together dedicated to the high calling of food. Four men,
Heinrich Freimüller, from the German embassy, James Pegg, the tall and burly son of a veterinary surgeon, the pretentious
Algernon Peckham, so anxious to conceal the fact he was a butcher’s son, a fact made obvious from the first time he cut a
joint of meat, and Lord Alfred Wittisham, Emma Pryde’s amiable and somewhat vacuous protégé, who had come to Auguste at her
urging. He announced disarmingly that as there seemed nothing else he could do, Emma thought he might be good at cooking.
To his own surprise as well as everyone else’s, he turned out to be extremely good at it.


Two women, Alice Fenwick (who had resolved to become a new Emma Pryde and Lady Wittisham into the bargain) and Emily Dawson,
completed the group. The latter two were much of an age, but to the onlooker this was not apparent. Twenty-nine year old Alice,
bright-eyed, pretty and good-humoured, made a strange contrast to the quiet Emily whose only relapses into animation tended
to be sparked off by references to her grandmother’s vast repertoire of home remedies.


An odd mixture and, he was bound to admit, an unexciting one. But then so seemed many recipes at first, Auguste thought. It took the art of a master chef to create an exciting
unity out of uninteresting ingredients. Yet here he had not achieved it. He sighed. Yes, he needed a holiday, lest here too
he saw only failure.


‘Nein,’ roared Heinrich Freimüller. ‘What are you doing, Fraülein?’ His usual joviality deserted him as he turned to see Emily
Dawson in the act of applying a tacky mess of cream to his dessert. ‘My Nesselrode pudding do not need cream!’ he shouted.


‘There’s nothing like a nice bit of Chantilly,’ said Emily unusually firmly. ‘And I’m responsible for garnishing the desserts.
I know about desserts.’


‘This is not garnish. This is desecration. It is ruined. Carême did not demand cream in his receipt, nor Francatelli, nor
even your Miss Acton. No, only Miss Emily Dawson demands cream.’ His voice rose in a wail of frustration, as he pounded the
table in anger.


Emily burst into tears and dropped her cream bag on top of the Canapés de Prince de Galles, where it spat out globules of cream on top of the anchovies and gherkins.


‘My canapés,’ screamed Algernon Peckham, clutching his head. ‘This is what happens when you let governesses into the kitchen,’
he stormed at Emily.


‘You can’t talk to a lady like that,’ said Lord Wittisham, shocked, offering an impeccable handkerchief to Emily.

Alice Fenwick glared.

‘Only a butcher’s son could say such a thing,’ sobbed Emily, goaded out of her usual timidity.

Algernon turned red at this double attack on his pedigree, and opened his mouth to retaliate, but was frustrated by Auguste’s
frenzied: ‘Les anges,’ called forth not in supplication for external and higher assistance, but from the smell of burning. Alfred Wittisham promptly
detached himself from Emily and rushed for the stove, colliding with his two admirers, Alice Fenwick and James Pegg. The latter acted as a sort of bulldog protector to his lordship, who had won
his devotion quite accidentally by inviting him to dine at Plum’s under the impression that Clubland was James Pegg’s usual
evening haunt. At the moment James’s chief object was to protect his lordship from the attentions of Alice Fenwick, whether
through jealousy at his own rejected suit at the hands of Alice, or an altruistic desire to preserve his lordship from matrimony
was not clear. In any case, it was immaterial, since his lordship, oblivious to these efforts on his behalf, had matrimonial
plans of his own, unknown to any of his fellow pupils.


In silence the six apprentices of the Auguste Didier School of Cuisine regarded the three ruined entremets, while their maître stood by unable to speak through shame. But, rising to emergency, Auguste dexterously dressed the Nesselrode
with marrons glacés to hide the white smears of removed cream, arranged the cream on the canapés to resemble a recent brainwave on the part of
a master cook and despatched a fresh set of angels on horseback to the frying pans.


‘A chef,’ he told his pupils severely, ‘must be at all times prepared for disaster.’

The immediate damage was repaired, but Auguste’s worries were not so quickly dispelled. For six months they had worked together
in apparent amicability, and now suddenly it seemed to be breaking down. Perhaps they all needed a holiday. And thank goodness they were just about to have one.


It had been an inspiration on his part to go away with his class on a Fish Fortnight. It was July, and so they would combine
the pleasures of work with those of a holiday. They would go where all the English went in the summer: to the seaside. What
fun it would be. He had never been to The Seaside in the sense in which the English used it, and he was eager to try its delights. To the French, it was a strange idea to wear odd clothes, to watch marionettes when this could
be done equally well in the Tuileries jardins, even odder to climb into clumsy damp bathing machines, where one changed into unbecoming, vulgar garments, and was pulled
by a large horse into the water. Why not take the waters in more elegance at an inland watering place, argued the French,
where respectable food might be obtained and enjoyed with the comforting thought that any unhealthy humours resulting from
it might be disposed of the following day at the spa?


Nevertheless, Auguste Didier was willing to try all experiences, and he wished to see what this Seaside was like. Moreover
the Bank Holiday Monday would occur while they were there. He had passed many bank holidays in his years in England, but these,
he had been told by dear Egbert, were a mere nothing compared with one spent at The Seaside. Very well, he would go. And moreover
they would have the advantage of being able to cook with fish freshly caught from the sea, bought from the local fisherman
or from local markets. What pleasures were in store there. No tired, flabby, dull-eyed offerings, as so often found in London.
No more smoked fish, so prevalent in the cities. But fresh John Dory, fresh crabs—


‘Mr Auguste,’ a voice broke in on his musings, ‘what’s the Prince of Wales like when you meet him?’

‘A flounder,’ replied Auguste dreamily.

The sight of Alice’s surprised face brought him back to reality. Auguste blushed. He had been guilty of absent-mindedness
in the kitchen. How often had he reproved his pupils for this heinous crime. He brought his full attention back to the important
matter in hand: food. Broadstairs must wait.


Interesting touch, this cream. Several floors above them the Prince of Wales was giving due attention to the canapés named after him. He did not appear to be doing so, for he had long
cultivated the art of apparent courteous attention to his companions, while musing to himself on far more enjoyable subjects.
For once, however, he did allow his thoughts momentarily to be deflected to the matter on hand. Why on earth had he allowed
himself to be elected honorary president for the year? Literary Lionisers indeed. It didn’t seem too much of a chore when
you dictated a letter about how pleased you’d be, and so on, but just see where it could end up. It wasn’t all Poularde Derby. Far from it. What it meant in the end was that you couldn’t arrive at Goodwood in decent time for the start tomorrow, and
then you had to be dragged away hard on the heels of Cowes, deprived of celebrations at the Royal Yacht Club for what must
undoubtedly be a victorious week for Britannia. All to go to some bally literary dinner. Dickens indeed. And at Broadstairs of all places, which he always associated with
Mama, since she was always going on about what fun it had been in her youth. Fun! Not a good game of baccarat anywhere. Thank
heavens, he’d be leaving for Marienbad shortly. Mind you, they didn’t have angels on horseback at Marienbad. Not like these
anyway. He concentrated on food again. That Poularde Derby took him right back to his own younger days and Monte Carlo. He
sighed. He was getting on he supposed. Nearly sixty. His Monte Carlo days were over. Thank heavens Poularde Derbys went on
for ever. My word, but this chef was good.


He shuddered at what Broadstairs might produce. Glancing round the table at the six committee members of the Literary Lionisers,
he had little faith in their ability to ensure a tolerable Brown Windsor, let alone a Poularde Derby; it must have been Emma
behind tonight’s fare. A good chap she’d hired. What a group these were. The young woman had possibilities perhaps, and that
young fellow, for all he had the cheek to wear a short dinner jacket. Where the devil did he think he was? America? In all these societies it
was the old ’uns ruled the roost, though. Right and proper too, except when it came to matters affecting Albert Edward’s stomach.


‘You will truly enjoy the evening, Your Royal Highness,’ trilled one frightful-looking woman. He’d a notion he’d met her husband
once, poor devil. Something in the city. ‘Especially the readings after the banquet. Such a pity you cannot arrive for the
afternoon walk around Broadstairs. Where he trod and laid his head, you know.’ She lowered her voice in appreciation of this year’s hero. ‘Our English Watering Place,
he called it. Oh, how he loved it. As you would too, sir. Would indeed you could attend for the whole week?’ Her voice rose in enthusiasm, while
the Prince of Wales hastily made a note to make sure that Mama invited him to lunch at Osborne on Sunday and that his yacht
Osborne (tactfully allotted the same name) arrived well after the appointed time for the afternoon torture.


‘Indeed a pity, madam,’ he sighed. ‘A most worthy writer, Mr Dickens.’

‘My own tastes are for Thackeray,’ put in a rounded gentleman who, for all his preferences, resembled Mr Pickwick in girth.

For once Albert Edward, his mind still running on the glories of the food of Auguste Didier, picked up the wrong word, and
was about to enquire whose chef Mr Thackeray might be, but was saved from this unfortunate gaffe by the intervention of the
Society’s chairman, Sir Thomas Throgmorton.


‘I myself,’ said Sir Thomas pompously, ‘consider Mr Dickens a giant who stands alone. Imagine a series of readings from Thackeray.’
The Prince of Wales could not. ‘Compare this to the gamut of Mr Dickens from the immortal Pickwick to the majesty of Bleak House. From the humour of Scrooge to the savage glories of Oliver Twist. I myself,’ he coughed deprecatingly, ‘shall be reading from this dramatic work after the banquet.’ A repressed snort from
‘Mr Pickwick’, as the Prince had mentally named Thackeray’s advocate.


‘You are always so brave,’ said That Woman in hushed tones, though with a slight note of sarcasm, so it seemed to the Prince.
He brightened up. A little bit of discord in the hen coop sometimes cheered these events up. ‘It was,’ she informed the Prince
sweetly, ‘the reading from Oliver Twist that is supposed to have led to his death.’


‘Whose death?’ asked the Prince bewildered.

‘The Great Man’s,’ explained That Woman. ‘His doctors advised him that the strain of these readings was too much for him,
but he persisted. His public came first.’ She wiped a tear from her eye with a lace handkerchief. A hurmph of a snore greeted
her remark. The Prince of Wales turned a frosty eye on the offender, as he awoke from his peaceful refuge. Albert Edward took
a dim view of social lapses in his presence, even from elderly gentlemen.


‘I myself,’ intoned That Woman remorselessly, ‘in the character of Agnes Wickfield, shall be reading from David Copperfield.’


The Prince of Wales in a rare fit of flight of fancy thought the literary lady from The Pickwick Papers might suit her better, but his air of polite approval did not betray this for one second.


‘And you, madam?’ He bent his eye with relief on the decent-looking female, who answered complacently:

‘I shall take The Death of Little Nell, sir.’

‘The harrowing scene from The Old Curiosity Shop. You will recall, sire, the American public crowded at the quayside as the ship arrived from England with the latest instalment
demanding to know whether this brave child still lived,’ added the young man.


Albert Edward looked at him sharply. Did he detect a note of parody in his voice? Perhaps so, for there was a distinct edge
to Sir Thomas’s voice, as he quickly replied: ‘A natural death, of course. Unlike my death of Nancy at the ruthless hands
of Bill Sikes.’


This literary conversation was getting too much. A spark of annoyance crossed the Prince of Wales’ face, just as Sir Thomas
added: ‘At Broadstairs, sir, you will hear of murder. A most foul and harrowing murder.’


Auguste sank back in relief. It was over. He and his pupils sat down around Gwynne’s largest kitchen table to partake of their
own supper before vacating the premises to allow Emma’s staff to embark on the somewhat less rewarding task of washing up.
Normally Auguste would insist on this being done by his pupils, even himself, but this evening was different. They were guest
artistes. Each of his pupils was now engaged on silent appraisal of how successful the others’ dishes had been. An ill-assorted
group they might be, Auguste thought, but, he put it to himself in all modesty, they were at one in appreciation of the standard
of cuisine which only Auguste Didier could impart to them. Cooking had made strange kitchen-fellows, however. Who would have
thought that that somewhat vacuous but patrician Lord Wittisham would befriend the stolid and definitely non-patrician James
Pegg? Although the slowness of Pegg’s movements concealed the intelligence of h. . .