“I would,” Auguste said hastily. He would have agreed with anything, provided he could speedily remove himself from here, in case this madman still carried a supply of poison. Prince Albert had died over thirty years earlier, but the death of the last chef of Oakham Manor had apparently been far more recent. Then he reproached himself. This poor man was mad and needed gentle understanding. “I’ll certainly take your recipe, and try it, Mr…er-”
“Today I’ve decided that my name is Saxe-Coburg,” was the grand reply. “And that is why I try to give the true recipe to every cook I meet. After all, the last one died only two days ago and I wouldn’t like that to happen again. Suppose the King of Oudh were to attend the wedding ceremony? Not that that’s likely. I recall he died in the early thirties, and that would be sixty years ago now.”
“So he certainly won’t be here for Sir Oliver’s wedding,” Auguste said jovially. The early thirties? This must be an earlier king than Wajid Ali Shah then. He had a faint recollection of reading of an eccentric gentleman on the throne of Oudh, with an excessive fear of being poisoned and a large harem (which perhaps accounted for the jolliness which the vagrant’s father had attributed to him).
The vagrant sighed. “I believe not, sir, which is a great relief. Although of course it would be unfortunate if any of Sir Oliver’s guests died, especially the Prince of Wales.”
The Prince of Wales was to attend? Auguste was momentarily panic-stricken. The Prince of Wales had very definite ideas about his food – and about chefs. Surely he could not be among the guests? Sir Oliver would have warned him. Auguste tried to think logically, which was difficult as the glitter in the vagrant’s eyes was now distinctly alarming. He forgot about trying to display gentle understanding, put the recipe in his pocket and made a speedy escape.
The forecourt of the Manor was already crowded with carriages, which was strange as the wedding was not to take place for another three days. He hesitated over whether to present himself at the front entrance of the mansion or the tradesmen’s entrance – always a moot point for a master chef. Luckily the matter was settled for him as he saw a familiar figure walking towards him from the latter.
Auguste blinked. Egbert Rose? What was a detective inspector from Scotland Yard doing here? Surely this could be no social call – and yet the alternative was not pleasant to contemplate.
Egbert looked pleased to see him. “Well, well. Afternoon, Mr Didier.”
“You’re here to guard the guests, Inspector?”
“Not unless you’re planning to bump them off,” Egbert replied drily. “The cook’s been murdered.”
Murdered? This was growing worse, Auguste thought. Three men not only dead but murdered here? That surely suggested that more deaths might follow.
“Chap of the name of Alfred Hogg,” Egbert continued, obviously pleased by Auguste’s alarm. ‘Came from Surrey. Used to work at a big house there with his wife. Had an eye for a pretty housemaid or two, they told the Yard, so his wife walked out, and after a year or two he decided he’d move on when one of the housemaids got in the family way. Never had time to start on the girls here; he was murdered the day after he arrived. The butler raised the alarm when he found him, and insisted on an investigation. He was right. Enough arsenic to wipe out the entire household.”
Auguste’s head spun with shock at this clear indication that the vagrant was no madman. Not completely anyway. The reason for Auguste’s hasty summons to the Manor to cook for the wedding was apparent, but surely that would now be postponed? “How was the poison administered?” he asked faintly.
“In his food. A curry, the scientists tell us. The poor devil probably cooked his own death. There was a jar of rat poison in the kitchen.”
Auguste reeled. Curry? This household seemed addicted to it. “Were the other chefs murdered too?”
Egbert looked startled. “What other chefs?”
“I was told Hogg’s predecessors also died suspiciously soon after their arrival.”
“First I’ve heard of it. Sure you haven’t had a dose of the sun?”
“No. A dose of a former chef, whom I believe I had the pleasure of meeting at the gate.”
Egbert grinned. “I’ve heard about old Isaac. So you’re concocting a theory that he poisons off every new chef on their arrival, are you?”
Auguste paled. “No.” That unpleasant thought had not occurred to him. “Fortunately I am merely a temporary chef.”
“The others seem to have been temporary too. Make sure you’re not next on the list.”
“This menu of yours…” Sir Oliver Marsh, a most merry gentleman when Auguste had met him previously at Plum’s Club for Gentlemen, was looking worried. Surely there could be no problem with the menu Auguste had presented to him? It had been the result of many hours of anxious thought.
“Superb, Didier… superb! The turbot à la Carème is an inspired choice,” Sir Oliver continued.
Auguste relaxed. Even so, he had expected to be told the wedding was postponed in view of the police presence and the chef’s death. True, Mr Hogg had only worked here for a day, and he was not a family member, but nevertheless, Auguste thought, “Ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee”.
“So the wedding will still take place, Sir Oliver?” He glanced curiously at the prospective bride seated at Sir Oliver’s side. Mrs Peak was in her middle years, and clad as befitted her current status in black bombazine. She looked as if she too might be merry by nature (unusual in housekeepers), but today she had other things on her mind.
“It will, Mr Didier,” she assured him.
“It must,” boomed Sir Oliver.
Mrs Peak had obviously noticed Auguste’s surprise because she hastened to explain. “You are thinking of Mr Hogg’s death, of course. That poison was meant for me, Mr Didier. I cannot be sure who is responsible, but there is no doubt that I was the intended victim. The curry that the police tell us killed him had been prepared for me by poor Mr Hogg. It is a favourite of mine, and I’d told him so.”
“But why should someone wish to do such a terrible thing?” Auguste was even more appalled.
“I am afraid that there are those who do not approve of my marrying Sir Oliver.”
He put a comforting hand on his wife-to-be’s arm. “So the quicker the knot’s tied the better, Didier,” he said. “The wedding was always going to be a small one, but now we’re overrun by police we’ve decided it will be even smaller. Good news, eh, Didier? Same money, not so much work. Much simpler food.”
Auguste gazed at him in dismay. He could hardly believe that Sir Oliver expected him to be pleased by the news that he was being deprived of the opportunity to cook purée of partridges with quails’ eggs, bisque of lobsters, civet of hare, and countless other delicacies.
“We’ll have curry instead,” Sir Oliver continued decisively. “Just the ticket. I took a fancy to it when I was a subaltern out in India. We’ll have a few extras for the weaklings, of course. Roast beef, plain boiled trout, roly-poly pudding…you know the sort of thing.”
Auguste did. His also knew that his art would be wasted on such unchallenging trifles. In addition to that, he was uncomfortably aware that his life might be threatened.
“Let me take you to meet Mr Carstairs, our butler, Mr Didier.” Mrs Peak beamed at him. “I’m sure you are eager to begin your duties.”
Auguste was not. In fact he realized that he was far more interested in the parade of his dead predecessors than he was in the preparation of such a mundane menu. And as it was Mr Carstairs who had raised the possibility of the last chef’s meeting an unnatural death, Auguste would be interested to meet him. The demise of several chefs, however, would seem to conflict with Mrs Peak’s belief that she was the intended victim. Pondering this, he followed her rustling skirts down the grand sweeping staircase, at the bottom of which stood a sour-faced lady of perhaps fifty, clad badly but so expensively that she clearly did not belong to the servants’ quarters.