Gourmet Detective (11 page)

“Sergeant Nevins, sir,” he introduced himself. He was a little over thirty, red-faced and beefy. He looked like a tough man to face in a rugger scrum. “I believe you're responsible for security in this establishment.”

“Not exactly, sergeant—” I began.

“Mr Duquesne says he hired you to keep an eye on things here.”

“Well, yes, that's true but—”

“In the Force, we would consider that as responsible for security, sir.”

“It may look that way to you, sergeant, but in fact I have only just been hired.”

“Hired to be responsible for security, sir?”

“There's more to it than that!” I was getting rattled. Did what I had been hired to do include security? Perhaps so but I had not anticipated anything like this. What niggled at me too was the feeling that whatever I had been hired to do, I hadn't done it very well. Still, no one could blame me for not preventing IJ's death but Sergeant Nevins' questions were getting under my skin.

“You had any inkling of what might happen here, sir?”

“Of course not, none at all.”

“You weren't told to watch out for food poisoning or such?”

“Certainly not.”

“Perhaps you can tell me why you were hired, sir?”

I'm not sure what I would have told him. It would have been blistering, that's for sure. But it was at that moment that a door opened and a constable entered, ushering in a man in plain clothes.

This was the man who was to be in charge of the investigation. It was obvious from his manner and his bearing. He looked competent and efficient. If there was a crime to be solved, here was the man to solve it.

He was close to six feet, slim and spare and carried himself with military erectness. He was about fifty, had a small neat moustache and a keen, alert face. Any casting office would have signed him to play the commandant of the Foreign Legion garrison. His light grey suit was Gieves and Hawkes and his tie was Pierre Cardin. He was clearly used to authority—that was clear from the way his gaze swept around the room. Even as it alighted on Sergeant Nevins, that policeman was already hurrying across, his interrogation of me forgotten.

They talked in low tones for a few minutes. The newcomer went over to the side of the room where the body of IJ lay. He examined the corpse without disturbing it then spoke to the sergeant who looked round the room. He walked towards François, brought him back. They talked briefly. François nodded and left. The sergeant spoke to a nearby guest who pointed out Ted Wells, presumably as the nearest thing to a responsible official as the Circle of Careme possessed. The sergeant brought him and there was a longer conversation. The newcomer raised his voice and addressed the room. Everyone else fell silent.

“I'm Inspector Hemingway from Scotland Yard.” His voice was strong and firm. He didn't have to speak loudly to be heard. “I must ask your co-operation so that we can get to the bottom of this tragic incident as quickly as possible. The constables will be taking their places at tables where you will give them your name, address, phone number and affiliation. If you have any information which you think might be helpful, give them that too.”

Ellsburg Warrington stepped forward, bristling with indignation. “This is preposterous! We are all well-known people—you cannot treat us like this!”

Hemingway regarded him calmly. “I know who you are, Mr Warrington and I recognise several of your fellow guests but a death has occurred and it is my responsibility to establish how and why. The quicker we conduct these formalities, the sooner you can go.”

“We may leave then?” asked Mike Spitalny.

The inspector nodded. “Yes, you may.”

“Can we stay if we wish?” called out Nelda Darvey. Good old Nelda, always the news-hound. It would be a great coup for her column.

“No, Miss Darvey,” answered Hemingway smoothly.

I was astonished. What kind of a detective was this who recognised Ellsburg Warrington and Nelda Darvey?

The constables were getting set up already and guests were jostling for position. Inspector Hemingway and Sergeant Nevins were coming towards me. I had no intention of letting the initiative get back into the hands of the sergeant. I promptly introduced myself to the inspector. The piercing grey eyes assessed me swiftly.

“Ah, yes, you're the fellow who helped Winston's Restaurant in Holland Park to locate a European source of mahi-mahi.”

“I'm amazed,” I stammered. “How on earth did you come to know that? Not that it was a confidential assignment—but surely Scotland Yard has more important things to do than keep track of fish shipments!”

“I'm in charge of the Food Squad,” said Hemingway.

I goggled. “The Food Squad?”

“Yes. The Yard has a Fraud Squad, an Art Squad, a Computer Squad and we even have some chaps who specialise in matters pertaining to religion. They call them the God Squad.”

“Good Heavens!”

“Quite so. Why then, shouldn't we have a Food Squad? We may be behind the others in total crime turn-over but we're catching up.”

I was flabbergasted. “As it happens, I spent nine years in homicide,” Hemingway was continuing, “so I assigned myself to this case when I was told an unexplained death had occurred—especially as it involves a famous name.”

His tone took on just a fraction more ice and I knew he was going by what he had been told by the red-faced sergeant. “Now, perhaps you'll tell me exactly what you're doing here tonight? I believe you're here in a security role.”

The private eye of fiction is always ready for this question. “I can't tell you that,” he always says. “My client's identity is confidential and I can tell you nothing about my assignment without his permission.” He would light a cigarette and puff smoke arrogantly at the inspector.

The merest of fleeting thoughts sped through my brain—I would say something like that and Hemingway would bluster and threaten then finally back down, muttering threats about having my licence taken away.

The thought was gone as fast as a turkey leg at a Salvation Army Christmas dinner. Hemingway said, almost conversationally—“I urge your complete frankness. A man has died here tonight. Because of his role in the media, a lot of questions are going to be asked about how it could happen. I intend to get all the answers I need and I'm starting with you. Now, what are you doing here?”

His tone might have been conversational but his eyes were glacial. It took only milliseconds for me to decide to abandon private eye convention for the moment and tell all I knew.

He listened attentively. When I had told him everything, it didn't sound like much, even to me.

“So you had no reason to anticipate that anything more sinister might happen than these incidents you mention?”

“Absolutely no reason.” I put all my conviction into it.

“Did you know Jenkinson?”

“I recognised him from seeing him on TV but I've never met him.”

“Did you meet him tonight?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea what he was doing here? I wouldn't have expected him to be a member of the Circle.”

“No, I don't know why he was here. And no, I wouldn't either.”

Hemingway nodded. “I'll check on that. Anything else?”

“Tarquin Warrington was here. He is surely a member. He left though—just as the main course was being served. I asked him why but he simply told me it was none of my business.”

“Very well. I'll look into that too. Any opinions on the cause of death? You saw him die.”

“Poison, I suppose … I mean, what else could it be?”

“The police surgeon will be here any minute—then we may know a little more.” He looked into my face. “How do you feel?”

“Feel? Terrible,” I assured him. “I'm hired to—”

Hemingway cut me off with an impatient gesture. “That's not what I mean. The sergeant is instructing the constables to ask each person the same question. Doesn't it strike you as unlikely that only one person is poisoned? Everyone ate the same food.”

“I see what you mean.”

“I didn't announce it. A person's imagination can become active. If anyone admits to a constable that they don't feel well, they will be taken immediately to St Cyril's Hospital.”

Inspector Hemingway knew his job. I was glad he didn't look upon me as an interfering private eye. I was on shaky ground already.

“My assistant, Sergeant Fletcher is in the kitchens, taking samples of all the foods eaten tonight—”

“And the wines and coffee,” I added, trying to sound efficient.

“Of course. I'm going to have the sergeant liaise with you afterwards.”

I groaned inwardly. Surely not another Sergeant Nevins! My career as a private eye looked like being a short one.

“Don't leave until the last guest has left,” ordered Hemingway. “Then check with me before you go.”

I nodded agreement. “Very well.” He was gone. I saw him talking to Goodwin Harper. It was only then that I remembered the envelope that I had seen Roger St Leger hand to IJ before the dinner had been served. Should I go and tell the inspector? He was deep in earnest conversation and Per Larsson had joined them now. They didn't look as if they would relish being disturbed. In any case, what could I tell them? My only suspicion was based on the looks on their faces. How could I convey those?

I was supposed to be a detective. Right, I'd detect. If there was nothing of significance in IJ's pocket, I didn't need to say a word to the inspector. I made my way casually across the room.

None of the doors had been opened yet and no one had left. A few guests had gone into the lines but many still stood in groups, discussing in low voices. I edged my way through.

As I approached the body, I saw Roger St Leger standing a few paces away. He was looking at IJ with a strange expression on his face. Was it sadness, compassion, sympathy? Maybe none of those. Satisfaction? Surely not and yet … he turned and saw me. He gave a start and walked quickly away.

I looked around surreptitiously. All clear. I moved close to the body. I could see the corpse-white face and the bloodless lips. I took another step—

“Looks quite peaceful, doesn't he?” said a voice and I almost jumped out of my skin. It was Charlie Flowers, formerly of Wheelers who now had his own small chain. I nodded. To my relief, Charlie's attention was on IJ and not focused on my guilty start.

My hands had flown up with the shock. I was able to conceal my reaction by raising them in a gesture of pious supplication. For good measure, I rolled my eyes up at the chandeliers.

“In the midst of life …” I murmured in tones of incantation that many an archbishop would have envied. Charlie nodded and moved on. This time, when I glanced around, I made certain that no one was near and, as far as I could tell, watching.

Keeping my gaze fixed on IJ's face, I stole a hand to his suit-coat pocket. I twitched it open and slid my fingers inside. I could feel nothing … I reached further …

My attention was still on his face when an ice-cold hand clamped on my wrist. The breath froze in my throat but there was worse to come. The eyelids flickered open and Ivor Jenkinson slowly rose to a sitting position. The head turned, jerkily and his accusing glare burned into me.

I
J SAT IN THE
centre of the room in a large armchair that one of the staff had brought in.

He still looked like a corpse. His face was deathly-white and devoid of any texture suggesting life. His eyes were dull yet staring—a chilling combination. He had mumbled only a few words and none of them had made sense. Baffled murmurs could still be heard for the spectacle of a dead man coming back to life had overwhelmed the gathering. Those who had been standing in line to give their particulars to the constables so they could leave had now come rushing back.

Goodwin Harper came up to Hemingway.

“He was dead,” Goodwin Harper was saying in bewilderment. “I swear he was dead. I'm no doctor but I was a medical orderly in the war and I've had first-aid training since. I know how to find life symptoms and there were none. None!” His voice rose. “He was dead, I'd swear it!”

The inspector laid a steadying hand on his arm. “The police surgeon will be here any minute. We'll hear what he has to say.”

While they were talking, another discussion had broken out.

“Brandy,” said Frankie Orlando, looking solicitously at IJ's inanimate features. “Get him some brandy.”

“Should be Armagnac,” suggested an unidentified voice.

“Nonsense,” scoffed Benjamin Breakspear, the authority on everything. “Cognac, preferably the VSPO.”

“Courvoisier,” corrected Bill Keating who had the dealership.

“Stravecchio,” Vito Volcanini said. “Horses have won the Palio on Stravecchio.”

“As a restorative, Calvados is the best drink,” contributed another.

“Here,” said a voice just as Hemingway broke off his discussion with Goodwin Harper and saw what was happening.

“No—don't give him anything!” he cried but it was too late. IJ had obediently accepted the brandy glass that was put into his hand and drained it, oblivious to its origin or year.

In a few lightning steps, Hemingway was at his side but was only in time to catch the glass that fell from IJ's seemingly nerveless fingers. All eyes were on IJ. For several heartbeats, the scene was motionless. Then IJ said in a surprisingly clear voice:

“It will be my best programme. It will prove the guilt and…”

His voice trailed away. His stare seemed to be focused but on some distant object. He was still chalky-white and his posture was stiff and unnatural. He sat like a robot. The assembly was silent and when IJ spoke again, all crowded to listen.

“Now they can get the money, it will be the biggest …”

His voice faded again. We were momentarily distracted by the opening of the door and a conversation with one of the constables which didn't carry.