“I did not expect to see you on this staircase, Mrs Peak,” she trilled shrilly.
The implication was clear. Housekeepers and temporary chefs should be using the servants’ staircase. Mrs Peak was obviously well used to such attacks. “I have been discussing my wedding with Sir Oliver.” A pleasant smile accompanied this reminder that soon the balance of power would be reversed.
If Auguste read the sour lady’s expression correctly, that wedding would be no reason for her to celebrate.
“Poor lady,” Mrs Peak commented to him as she swept along the next corridor. “Miss Lavinia Cartwright is merely a dependent cousin of Sir Oliver’s late wife. I believe she had hopes, Mr Didier.”
“Of what?”
“Of marrying Sir Oliver herself. She was employed out of sheer kindness as governess to his only son, and somehow he never had the heart to turn her out.”
It occurred to Auguste that Mrs Peak could well find the heart to do so herself in due course. “His son lives here still?”
“Alas, tragically killed in the Zulu War. Sir Oliver’s heir lives in the dower house on the estate – heir, that is, until Sir Oliver’s and my wedding,’ she added complacently. “Mr Ernest Marsh, I fear, is a young gentleman who lives on his expectations.”
“So the estate is entailed.”
“No.” A beaming smile now. “It is for Sir Oliver to decide the future of his wealth and estates. I fear, Mr Didier, neither Miss Cartwright nor Mr Marsh cares for his happiness, only for their own future gain.”
Auguste was beginning to understand why Mrs Peak believed herself to be the intended victim, and with reason. This posed an interesting question.
“Was the curry that killed Mr Hogg prepared only for you?”
“Yes. No one else has the taste for it in the servants’ hall except me, but obviously the unfortunate Mr Hogg enjoyed it too. He was a newcomer, of course, and so whoever committed this terrible deed could not have known of his liking for curry.”
“But you would have partaken of it yourself at dinner that evening.”
“Indeed, but fortunately I was delayed by private business with Sir Oliver and could not eat with the other servants. I intended to dine later. By that time, the terrible news of Mr Hogg’s illness made me suspicious of the curry.”
“I gather other chefs here have died in similar circumstances,” Auguste said tentatively.
She stopped short, and drew herself up indignantly. “Mr Didier, what can you mean?”
“One called Tom who died after two days, and William after a month.”
Mrs Peak relaxed, and gave a merry laugh. “I do believe you’ve been listening to Mr Dickens.”
“I beg your pardon?” Auguste could not recall the great novelist, even if he were alive, having much interest in chefs.
“Isaac Dickens, who often sits at the Manor gates.”
Was that the vagrant’s real name, Auguste wondered, or his chosen one for the day? “So it’s not true about other chefs being murdered?”
“Of course not. William died of natural causes, and Tom simply disappeared, as cooks do from time to time. So distressing for Sir Oliver. A housemaid vanished at the same time, and we felt the two incidents might be connected. Very foolish. How could they get another place as good as Sir Oliver provides?”
Auguste still remained to be convinced of the pleasures of working at Oakham Manor. “Who is Isaac Dickens?”
“Isaac was chef here for many years, but he reached an age where the exigencies of cooking in such a prestigious household grew too much for him. He was pensioned off, but I fear he still likes to haunt the gates. He’s quite harmless.”
Auguste recalled the fanatical light in Isaac’s eyes and was far from sure about this. “I agree it seems probable that the poisoner was trying to kill you, not Mr Hogg, and that must be frightening for you.”
“It is.” The housekeeper relaxed her guard a little. “I do try not to worry Sir Oliver too much about it, so it is a relief to be able to confide in you, Mr Didier.”
Another problem still bothered him, but it was a difficult matter to raise. “Only a limited number of people would have access to that curry before it could be cooked and eaten,” he began cautiously.
He need not have worried. Mrs Peak saw his point immediately.
“You are implying, of course, that the family, in which I include Miss Cartwright and Mr Ernest Marsh, would not normally enter the kitchen areas, which are in the servants’ domain. You are correct.”
“Then-”
Mrs Peak swept on. “There had been complaints, Mr Didier. The aroma of curry does not please everyone, and as Sir Oliver is fond of it a special kitchen was set up in a small outbuilding once used for storing apples. It has no connection either with the servants’ wing or with the main house and so the smell of spices does not travel so quickly. Sir Oliver visits the kitchen himself, indulging in making his own blends of curry powder, and anyone – including Miss Cartwright and Mr Ernest – would be able to do the same. Even Mr Carstairs…” She hesitated. “I should explain, Mr Didier, that Mr Carstairs is not happy about my marriage. At one time, we had an understanding.”
“That is easy to believe,” Auguste replied gallantly. “He must have been most worried by your near escape from the poisoned curry.”
“He was,” Mrs Peak replied. “That is why he insisted on an inquest. ‘There is more to this,’ he said. ‘The coroner must be notified about Mr Hogg’s death.’”
Auguste was still struggling with a mental image of all those noble ladies and gentlemen beating a path to an outbuilding to indulge a passion for curry-powder blending. Curry, in his opinion, failed to woo the meat, fish or vegetables that it claimed to enhance; it merely tried to smother their taste out of existence.
Butlers were almighty beings in a household such as Oakham Manor, but then so were chefs, he reflected, as they arrived at the door of Pug’s Parlour, the butler’s sanctum. Nevertheless, as the door opened and a tall, thin, almost elegant gentleman peered out at him, Auguste decided to be wary. Butlers usually resented sharing power, and chefs, albeit temporary ones, might provide a threat to Mr Carstairs’s authority, especially if he was upset by Mrs Peak’s marriage to Sir Oliver. Luckily, Mr Carstairs had obviously overcome any inner turmoil and was gravely welcoming.
“An honour to have you with us, Mr Didier. So good of you to come at such short notice.”
Auguste endeavoured to look flattered. “I am delighted to be here.” Even to his ears his own voice lacked conviction.
“I have explained to Mr Didier,” Mrs Peak said earnestly, “that we are a happy household here, despite the most distressing occurrence of Mr Hogg’s death.”
“An accident,” Mr Carstairs assured Auguste. “As I explained to the inspector when he asked why I had called for an inquest. The idea of murder or suicide seemed far-fetched, and yet so did the idea of a natural death so soon after Mr Hogg’s arrival. When I inspected the kitchen I realized that rat poison must have been used for its proper purpose and then not put back in its rightful place. The new chef must have confused it with rice flour or arrowroot.”
Mrs Peak disagreed. “Or else someone placed it there purposely, having thrown handfuls of it into the curry. That, I feel, is far more likely. Mr Hogg was not the sort of person to confuse ingredients.”
Mr Carstairs looked taken aback by her disagreement, and hastily murmured that she was no doubt correct.