Murder With Relish

Book 385: Murder Room

by Guy Cullingford

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Mrs Bonnet was renowned for the delicacies she concocted in her semi-basement kitchen, but never did she imagine she would serve up murder to her beloved mistress! But when Mrs Bonnet, who has the lightest touch with pastry, tries her hand at the science of detection, she does so with astonishing results.

Release date: November 14, 2015

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 215

Sample

MOST good cooks are temperamental, and Mrs. Bonnet was no exception to the rule. Her moods were as varied as her menus and entitled to as much respect.
She had her expansive moments when Madam was in to a solitary meal and fancied a little Bovril and some thin toast, a delicacy which could very well be prepared by Dot, the kitchen-maid. Her
grimmest face she reserved for occasions such as this, when the whole family was invited to a festive dinner.

“Put upon, that’s what I call it,” commented the parlour-maid, a lean and rather dismal woman, whose name was Eva. She was counting plates and putting them up on the rack to
warm, and the remark was made rather with the idea of propitiating Cook than on her own behalf, for she was not averse to a little company even if it did make extra work. But, like most tactful
speeches, it entirely failed in its effect.

“Now then,” reprimanded Mrs. Bonnet, “it’s not for the likes of us to grumble. Ordinary times there are the three of us women—if you call that girl Dot a
woman—to look after two upstairs. Folks must have birthdays, I suppose, and they get the notion that they’ve got to celebrate them, which means six to dinner. Though why they want a
grill on a day like this, only the Almighty knows.”

“It’s on account of Mr. Dennis, I guess. I’ve heard him say that he can’t bear to look a fowl in the face since he came back from South Africa.”

“You hear a lot too much, if you ask me, Eva.”

“Well, I can’t go about with cotton wool in me ears, can I? Everyone knows that Mr. Dennis is the old girl’s favourite, for all that little bit of trouble which took him abroad
for a year or two.”

“Will you be quiet, Eva Wilson! If you can’t block your ears you can at least hold your tongue. That Dot in the scullery and all. Dot!”

‘That Dot’, a girl with a square plain face, not conspicuously intelligent, poked her head round the scullery door in a scared kind of way. Whatever annoyed Cook had a way of making
life more complicated for Dot.

“Dot, how long are you going to be over them vegetables?”

“I’ve just this minute finished ’em, Mrs. Bonnet.”

“Then bring them in ’ere at once. The potatoes ought to be on and doing. I’ve too much to do to see about your jobs as well as my own.”

Eva watched Dot with a malign pleasure as she came staggering in with a large saucepan full of potatoes. Eva had started service as a kitchen-maid herself, under an even larger and more
ill-tempered cook. It was peculiarly gratifying, therefore, to observe, from her now exalted position, someone undergoing the treatment she had once suffered.

“And now the hot water in the saucepan for the peas. No, they don’t go in yet, stupid! Just the hot water, and bring it up to the boil. And you don’t mean to tell me
you’ve forgot the salt again.”

The hapless Dot fetched the salt under the basilisk glare of her elders and betters.

“Now get back to the scullery and get it cleared for your washing-up. We don’t want no muddles when the plates begin to come back. And shut the door this time.”

“Yes, Mrs. Bonnet.”

Thankfully Dot beat a retreat. The scullery was a cheerless-looking place, with none of the new-fashioned devices which lighten the lot of the modern housewife. The old stone sink, with its
wooden draining-board resting one end on a brick copper, was exactly the same as it had been when the house was built sixty or seventy years earlier. The only addition was a heavily constructed
wooden rack for drying plates, which Eva did not allow Dot to use because she maintained that it made the plates smeary.

Over the brass taps, glittering golden under the application of metal polish and elbow grease, Dot had a view of an uninspiring stretch of kitchen garden, but this only began at her eye-level
when she stood washing-up. To get into the garden, one had to ascend a fairly steep flight of stone steps and sometimes Dot had a curious vision of muddy-booted feet divorced from their owner if
Judd, the gardener, was working anywhere near her window. The walls of the scullery were white-washed and the floor uncovered slabs of stone. But if this was conducive to chilblains in the winter
months, it felt pleasantly cool to tired feet in the summer, and, in any case, when Cook was on the warpath, Dot preferred her own company, however humble the environment.

“Well,” said Eva, heaving a sigh, “I guess I’d better be getting upstairs, just to see if everything is all right. Mr. George is seeing to the drinks, so I don’t
have to bother about that.”

Cook gave her a quick look.

“What’s the matter with you? I guess Mr. George knows more about drinks than the rest of the family.”

“That’s just it.”

“Now who’s wagging their tongue?” asked Eva acidly.

“There’s a difference between heedless gossip and sensible talking. You don’t want to see Mr. George not himself before the party begins.”

“Madam wished it.”

“Oh well, if she said so . . .”

“Listen to ’em laughing up there!”

A wave of laughter, disembodied and eerie, had floated down to the basement regions.

“That’ll be the cocktails. Mrs. Randolph always gets like that after one or two, for all she’s supposed to be very much the society lady.”

“Funny thing them bringing their own, weren’t it, Mrs. Bonnet?”

“They don’t credit Madam with knowing anything about cocktails. There’s always been plenty of good sherry in this house. That’d be enough for most people.”

“Bringing their own poison. That’s what Mr. Randolph called it.”

“And a very good description of the nasty stuff, I should say.”

“Nonsense, Cooky. You know you like a drop of something with a bit of life in it. I’ll have a look round when I bring down the trays. It wouldn’t come amiss if we were to do a
little bit of celebrating down here. Gracious, look at the time! I must be off! Is everything O.K. in the fridgydaire?”

“Of course it’s all right. Did you ever know it different? When they’ve finished with the grape-fruit, you send down the glasses and I’ll have the lobsters ready for
serving. When you sound the gong I’ll get the grill going. Dot!”

Eva, after a prink at her face in the kitchen mirror, which had to be wiped clear of steam, disappeared through the baize door, just as Dot appeared, wiping her hands on a tea-cloth. Mrs. Bonnet
fished a large handkerchief out of her apron pocket and mopped her brow. All the cooking, winter or summer, was done on a huge kitchen range. Madam preferred it. She was fussy about her food, and
insisted that gas and electricity dried everything and ruined its flavour. Mrs. Bonnet, too, was an old-fashioned cook, and had never, to her credit, cooked on another kind of stove. The frigidaire
was the only piece of modern equipment in the kitchen. It had been installed by Mr. Randolph, who had also brought the cocktails. Even that Mrs. Bonnet regarded with suspicion and would often sneak
off to place jellies, and other fancy dishes which needed to set, on the cool stone floor of the vast larder. But lobster and salad, articles of diet for which she had no regard, might very well be
frozen stiff in the interior of that chilly-looking cupboard. The ice for Mr. Randolph’s cocktails had come from there as well. Perhaps he had borne that in mind when he made his mother a
present of the refrigerator.

After the damp cool of her scullery, Dot would have liked to step in and sit down side by side with the lobsters. But Mrs. Bonnet kept her on the move, fetching and carrying and peering into
saucepans. There were no secrets about grilled fillets of steak with mushroom sauce. It was only when Cook was busy with what she called ‘one of my own recipes’ that Dot was bundled out
of the way, lest some particular culinary secret might find its way into her thick head and enable her later to set up in opposition.

Dot had one talent, and even Cook recognized it. She might not be a clean washer-up or eat with her mouth shut, but she could mash potatoes. Her young wrists were like iron. The fork flew round
and round—for she despised the potato-masher—butter and milk were added in the appropriate quantities, and under that beating there appeared an appetizing mass of white creamy
purée of potato to charm the eye and delight the palate.

And, after all, in a world of specialists, to do one thing really exquisitely is no mean attainment. For that reason they were to have old potatoes mashed tonight rather than new ones boiled
with a sprig of mint. Cook got the credit, but that also was only to be expected.

Presently the gong sounded.

“Now then, young Dot,” said Cook, glancing at the kitchen clock, “we wait just five minutes and then you go and stand by the lift and wait till you get the signal to
lower.”

Dot’s eyes fastened to the clock anxiously. This organization of a well-served dinner was a miracle to her. She felt all wrought up, just as she used to feel waiting for the gun to be
fired at races at her Sunday School treat. The minute hand crept round and Cook, with a steady hissing noise between her teeth, which meant that she was intent on her job, had started business with
the grill.

“I’m going now,” said Dot.

“You know what to do?” hissed Mrs. Bonnet.

Dot nodded dumbly and went out to the lift in the passage, where she stood like the soldier in the eruption of Vesuvius, waiting for the agitation of the rope. Would it never come? Just as she
stuck her head into the lift-shaft and craned her neck upwards, the signal came and she hastily withdrew out of the danger zone. Down travelled the empty shells of the grape-fruit; Dot loaded them
on to a tray kept handy for the purpose. Her hands trembled, but she managed to get safely back with them into the kitchen. Straight into the scullery, where there was another tray. In the
meantime, Cook had opened the frigidaire and produced the dish with its elaborate arrangement of lobsters, beautifully dressed and garnished. Out to the lift again marched Dot all alone—Cook
dare not leave her grill. Waggle the cord! Eva was ready—up she goes!

Through the lift shaft she could hear the buzz of conversation. Ah, that was good. The worst part was over. Now she could go back to the mashing of potatoes with an easy heart. There was a job
for which she was fitted by nature and about which she had no misgivings.

Cook looked as if she were about ripe for an apoplectic fit.

“Drain them!” she hissed.

Dot knew what she meant. She hoisted off the mighty saucepan, carried it through to the old-fashioned sink, and held the lid a little to one side in order to pour off the boiling water. Yes,
they were just right for mashing—exactly right. She returned to the stove and, keeping well up in one corner, prepared to mash to the best of her ability.

“That Eva,” hissed Cook, deftly turning a piece of steak. “Don’t you go and take no notice of her spiteful talk. . . .”

She meant just the opposite, but Dot understood her perfectly.

“It’s half lies, that’s what it is. . . .” Here the spluttering of the grill drowned the rest of the sentence.

“I’ve been ’ere forty years now,” continued Mrs. Bonnet. “Come when I was a young girl same as you are, though maybe a bit brighter . . . and whatever folks say,
there’s not one to hold a candle to Madam. And for ’er sake . . .” and Mrs. Bonnet disappeared temporarily into the oven, “. . . I won’t ’ear nothing against the
children, though they may be a rum lot. Take after their father, I daresay. . . . And now I’m ready to make the sauce. You can pipe the potatoes . . . and for Gawd’s sake keep ’em
hot. And don’t let me hear you making any uncalled-for remarks about upstairs or I’ll write to your mother. When you’re ready you’d better go and stand by the lift again.
Don’t want no waits in the service. Eva wouldn’t stand for that. She’s good in the parlour, whatever she may be like in the kitchen.”

Under this impact of facts, warning and instruction, Dot’s brain began to reel. Her mouth fell open and she would have collapsed entirely if Mrs. Bonnet hadn’t sensed the situation
and saved it. Putting aside her own personal dignity, she buckled to and helped Dot through with the sending-up of the meat course. Then she disappeared suddenly into the larder and presently
re-entered the kitchen bearing in her arms the precious mould containing her speciality which she called ‘Charlotte Roosh’. It was a tremendous specimen, and although Mrs. Bonnet
appeared calm, even the best of cooks have their tremors, and there may have been a flickering doubt in the back of that admirable woman’s mind as to whether the pièce de
résistance would turn out whole.

“Oooooh!” breathed Dot in awe.

“Fetch me the largest cut-glass dish and don’t stand there gawping.”

Dot started off. Her palms were wet with perspiration as she carried back the magnificent bowl. Her fingers shook as she wiped it with a clean dry cloth. Cook stood steady, with the gigantic
mould in her hands.

“Made them for twenty years and never a failure,” she murmured to steady her nerves. She put her hand under it and turned it delicately but firmly. The Charlotte Roosh came clean.
There it stood poised on its base, its sponge fingers standing up like soldiers at parade, supporting it, protecting it. On the top was a glossy sheet of pure red jelly, which Cook proceeded to
decorate with cunning twists of thick, rich cream. Inside . . . ah . . . inside . . . the kitchen could not see. That was to be investigated upstairs.

“Will there be any come down?” asked Dot. She was not exactly a greedy girl, but she could not help a feeling of intense interest in that pudding. Her mouth was beginning to water
like a spaniel’s.

“Never in twenty years,” said Mrs. Bonnet grimly, “have I known a morsel come down. That’s how I know it’s all right.”

It seemed a bitter business for Mrs. Bonnet, but Dot supposed that she got used to it. Dot was not to be entrusted with this masterpiece. Cook carried it with reverence to the lift herself, at
the appointed time. She heard a manly voice greet it with acclamation in the dining-room.

“That’s Mr. Arthur,” she said, beaming. “He’s got a sweet tooth if ever there was one. Used to come into my kitchen as a child, and eat up anything there was going.
Ah well, now there’s only the coffee, and Eva will see to that. No savoury tonight, and that’s a good job. Don’t hold with them little bits of things on toast. Well, there’s
the end of that!”

She was becoming quite sweet-tempered now that the work was over. Dot, who was not in such a fortunate position, stifled a sigh as she thought of the scullery and the piles of washing-up.

“You leave the silver and glass for Eva,” advised Mrs. Bonnet, who was kind enough when it didn’t really inconvenience her. “And you can use the rack for the plates
tonight. Tell Eva I said so.”

“Oh, thank you ever so, Mrs. Bonnet.”

With Dot shut away in her scullery, Mrs. Bonnet permitted herself to relax. She sat down in her own particular chair and closed her eyes. She supposed that she was beginning to feel her age. And
Madam? Madam was sixty-eight today, although she would have it that it was only sixty-four. Mrs. Bonnet knew. She had come to Madam fifty years ago, not forty, as she had told Dot, and Madam then
was only eighteen and had no need to conceal her age. What a child to be married! And what a child she must have appeared, although to Mrs. Bonnet, then just turned fifteen herself, she had seemed
a very grand lady. Ah well, she must have grown up very quickly in that house, married to that waster Dennis Everard, who had luckily drunk himself to death before he had had time to gamble his way
through his fortune. But there had been time for her to present him with six children. No wonder they were a queer batch when one came to consider their father, and perhaps the mixed feelings of
the mother, who had passed from a state of infatuation to a state of contempt, tinged with fear, through the years of their begetting.

“It was sad,” thought Mrs. Bonnet drowsily. “Very sad.”

But life was like that. She could cook admirably but she could never fancy anything she cooked. Madam had six children, but not one for whom she cared a brass farthing barring that
good-for-nothing Dennis, echo and namesake of the late, but not lamented, Everard.

She must have slipped off into a little doze in the heat of the kitchen, for she was startled into wakefulness by the entrance of Eva. Eva had had a hard evening’s work, but she looked
strangely elated for one usually so dismal. She was carrying something behind her back.

“Guess what I’ve got?” she invited Mrs. Bonnet.

“Something in a bottle,” answered Cook drily.

“It’s champagne. Mr. George gave it to me for us to drink Madam’s health.”

“Did Madam say so?”

“It was her idea, you old misery. Dot! Dot! Here, bring some glasses—champagne glasses!”

“Oh, let’s have it in tumblers. The kid’s tired.”

“Tumblers, then, Dot, but mind they’re clean. Don’t want thumb-marks all over ’em. Oh Gawd! my pore old feet! Cooky, I’m going to take off my shoes. Get ready to
hold your breath.”

Dot fetched the tumblers. She brought three.

“Here, look at that!” cried Eva.

“Go on, let her have some,” said Cook. “She’s worked well, and we’ve none of us had nothing to eat. She wants a bit of brightening up.”

“All right,” agreed Eva, amiable for once, as she dealt with the bottle. “Gee! This is great, isn’t it, Cooky? Better than them cocktails. I had a go at them on the
quiet. Bitter stuff, I call it. Now this is nice and sweet. Mr. George says so.”

“Here’s how!” she exclaimed a moment or two later, lifting her tumbler to the light to watch the golden bubbles.

“Cheerio!” returned Mrs. Bonnet. She had forgotten her fit of melancholy.

“Say something,” said Eva to poor Dot, who stood clutching her glass awkwardly.

“I don’t know what to say. . . .” muttered Dot.

“Then drink it up!” advised Cook.

Dot began to sip, at first with some diffidence, then more eagerly.

So this was what the nobs drank, was it? A bit like raspberryade but not such a nice colour. What would they say at home now to see her drinking champagne! Ought she to have told Mrs. Bonnet
that she had signed the pledge at Sunday School? But Eva would only have laughed; Eva was spiteful, she was. However crochety Cook might be, Dot preferred her to Eva any day. She tilted the tumbler
defiantly.

“Well, I’m jiggered,” cried Eva. “The kid’s got rid of hers already. She won’t be fit for washing-up tonight.”

But Dot was beginning to feel as gay as a mudlark. She could have washed up stacks of plates without batting an eyelid . . . she could have mashed potatoes from now till Christmas.

IN the middle of the night Cook was awakened by piercing screams which seemed to her fuddled senses to be coming from someone hidden beneath her bed.
She sat up, clutching her throat. Her eyes, still cumbered with sleep, stared into the surrounding darkness. Her mouth felt as if she had been on a diet of dry biscuits. She heaved herself up out
of bed and staggered to the light switch which was inconveniently situated by the side of the door. Every night Mrs. Bonnet grumbled about that switch as she first turned off the light, then in a
pitchy blackness fumbled across the room, frequently stubbing her foot as she went, to let up the blind. But Madam would allow no candles in the rooms since a previous housemaid had fallen asleep
reading and narrowly esc. . .