“Which recipe did Mr Hogg use?” Auguste asked, remembering the dire prospect before him. He too would be cooking curry and endeavouring to make of it a dish suitable for a wedding banquet.
Mrs Peak smiled at him. “Mr Hogg asked me which was Sir Oliver’s favourite curry, because, as he explained, he would need to practise. I therefore passed him the recipe.”
Once established in the attic room that was to be his home for the next few days – with a key in the lock in view of the possibility of assassination – Auguste took the grubby piece of paper that Isaac had given him out of his pocket. Flour was not one of the ingredients listed for Sir Oliver’s favourite, the King of Oudh’s curry.
He found old Isaac sitting peacefully at the gate contemplating a cow in the field opposite and munching a lump of bread. In his other hand he had a hunk of cheese, and a bottle of beer stood on the grass beside him.
“I’m sorry to disturb you at lunch, Mr Dickens.”
“You’re still alive,” Isaac commented with great disappointment.
“And intend to remain so,” Auguste informed him. “I have to cook the King of Oudh’s curry for the wedding ceremony.”
“My dear fellow, I am delighted.” Bread and cheese were laid aside as Isaac scrambled to his feet and pumped Auguste’s hand in appreciation of the honour. “At last someone has seen the beauty of the recipe. Only Sir Oliver had paid due deference to it hitherto.”
“I’m told that Alfred Hogg cooked this particular curry too, the one that carried the poison in it.”
Isaac looked puzzled. “I didn’t give the recipe to him. He didn’t want it, and I was glad of it. He did not look a worthy sort of person.”
“Mr Hogg requested the recipe for Sir Oliver’s favourite, and Mrs Peak passed it to him. It seems to be generally known in the household.”
“But rarely cooked,” Isaac said severely. “Sir Oliver is badly served, I fear.”
“Does your recipe carry flour of any kind in it?” If not, then an accident with the ingredients was most certainly ruled out.
“Certainly not.” Isaac was indignant. “The King of Oudh’s is not a commonplace curry, Mr Didier. King Nasir-ud-din was a most superior person, so my father informed me. He was most enthusiastic about European culture, and indeed his favoured companion was a European barber, a strange fellow called de Russett, who tasted all his food and wine, lest it was poisoned. The barber shopped in the markets to bring back only the finest and purest ingredients and then cooked them himself for His Majesty. He is hardly likely to have included flour amongst them. Now were it some inferior curry, such as that known as Mr Arnott’s curry, with cabbage and apples, flour would no doubt be permissible, but with the King of Oudh’s refined tastes, it would be totally out of place. I am speechless at the suggestion, sir, speechless.”
Alfred Hogg might have confused flour with rat poison but he would not have added it to the curry, Auguste reasoned. That must have been done by a third party. But if so, he wondered, why did the killer leave the rat poison in the outside kitchen? Why not remove it? It seemed extraordinarily careless.
“So you’re still alive.”
Auguste whirled round in the middle of the extremely boring task of making a shepherd’s pie for the wedding on the morrow. His spirits were very low and he was counting the hours until he could return to his beloved Plum’s Club for Gentlemen, where his art was appreciated.
“As you can see,” he said crossly. He liked Inspector Rose but was beginning heartily to dislike comments on his own continuing existence. He had tried to keep his mind on wedding menus, but this was hard when it kept moving back to the question of the dead chef. Partly, he admitted, because he had been obliged to cook such large quantities of the King of Oudh’s curry in the two days that had passed since his arrival.
“Nice-looking pie, Mr Didier.” Egbert Rose looked wistfully at it, and for a moment Auguste was pleased.
“Would you like one, Inspector? I can spare one for Mrs Rose.”
“No arsenic in it, is there?”
“That is not an ingredient I’m accustomed to using,” Auguste replied mildly. Jokes were all very well, but when they concerned his cooking they had to be put in their place.
The inspector had the grace to blush. “Thought you’d like to know we’ve put a guard on Mrs Peak. Those other dead chefs-”
“I understand their deaths or disappearances were not due to the King of Oudh’s curry,” Auguste broke in. “Or to any other curry or any third party.”
Egbert looked disappointed. “So you know that, do you? Yes, it looks certain that Mrs Peak was the intended target.”
“Have you talked yet to Miss Cartwright and Mr Ernest Marsh? They would seem to have plenty of cause to wish Mrs Peak harm.”
“I have. Spitting fury, both of them. They’d have liked to have doctored her curry, but I can’t prove either of them did.”
“And Mr Carstairs, her jilted lover?”
“Same thing. Rather too eager to point out it must have been an accident. But you know what I think, Mr Didier?”
Auguste regarded him carefully. “That the curry is being pulled over our eyes?”
“What?” The inspector looked totally bemused.
It was Auguste’s turn to blush. “I’m sorry, Inspector. I am somewhat dejected at present. I am not accustomed to cooking curry.”
“What is this about a curry?”
“Not a curry, the curry. The King of Oudh’s curry. Sir Oliver’s favourite and the one that Alfred Hogg cooked that day. It doesn’t have flour in it, which rules out the possibility of an accident with the jar of rat poison. That was deliberately left there to smother us.”
Egbert regarded him sourly at this second slip. “Speak for yourself. I’m not smothered.”
Auguste made another effort. “I apologize. It is the curry that smothers.”
“Smothers what?” The inspector was getting irritated, and Auguste could hardly blame him.
“The curry’s main ingredients are suffused with the strong flavours of the sauce.”
“I’m not here for a cooking lesson, Mr Didier. I’ll send along Mrs Rose for that.”
Auguste tried again. “You – we perhaps – are losing touch with the main ingredient of this case.”
“And what might that be?”
“The dead man, Alfred Hogg. There are several people who would no doubt like to kill Mrs Peak, but we forget who actually was killed.”
“Who would want to kill him? He’d only been here a day.”
“Exactly. So there could be only one person here who would wish to kill him.”
“And who might that be?”
“Mrs Peak.”
Egbert stared at him incredulously. “The blooming bride? Hell and Tommy, what for?”
“Only she could have a motive for leaving the rat poison in the curry kitchen after using it to flavour the curry to kill Alfred Hogg. She needed to show that others in the household, both family and servants, could not only have had reason to kill her, but also the means. If she’d moved the jar back to its proper place, it’s unlikely that the connection could have been made that she was the intended victim, not the cook. If it turned out that there was an investigation into the death, she needed all the attention to be on herself, not on Mr Hogg. Once Mr Carstairs had raised the alarm, she quickly drew attention to herself… a task made easier because it could have been true. Three people could, theoretically, have wished her out of the way. She needed to act in a hurry after the shock she had received the day before.”
Egbert Rose was still staring at him. “What shock? If you’d be so good as to enlighten me, Mr Didier?”
“Of seeing Alfred Hogg again, in view of their relationship. Sir Oliver would have appointed him, not her.”
“What’s all this about a relationship?”
“I think you will find that she is actually Mrs Hogg. She spoke of Mr Hogg in terms of knowing his habits. He was not the sort of person to confuse ingredients, according to her. And he had to be silenced quickly if her marriage was to go ahead.”