Murder Makes an Entree (9 page)

‘It is here of course that Dickens himself stayed, in a house now part of this hotel, while finishing the writing of the immortal
Nicholas Nickleby
, and on other occasions and later in the hotel itself.’

‘Here we are to spend a merry night, are we not, Thomas?’ shouted Gwendolen in a high penetrating voice, to the intense interest
of those not quite so well acquainted with Dickens’s letters. Oblivious of the equivocal nature of her remarks, Gwendolen
was hoping that Angelina, with whom Sir Thomas had chosen to sit at a table for two only, would take due note of her omission
of the ‘sir’. It was a gauntlet flung down before her rival.

‘As did Dickens himself,’ announced Sir Thomas, turning round having recovered some of his composure. ‘Yes, on Tuesday I believe,
we shall
all
be gathered here for an evening together.’ He then resumed his rapt attention to Angelina, thus leaving Gwendolen with no
option but to try to think of something interesting to say to Oliver Michaels and Samuel Pipkin.

‘Have you thought further on that we spoke of the other evening, Angelina?’ Sir Thomas said in a low voice, throbbing in what
he hoped was emotion. ‘I should perhaps wait for some more romantic hour.’ In fact he had fully intended to wait for a suitably
moonlit warm night, but the trying events of the day had put him so out of sorts that he could stand the waiting no longer.
The affirmative he knew would follow would help him in the discussion this evening with the Prince of Wales. The vote had
been taken, but as Angelina would undoubtedly now regret her stance, she would make her views clear to His Royal Highness.
Besides, to appear eager for a decision would be flattering to Angelina. Would she, or wouldn’t she? he murmured, leaning
forward.

‘How is your stomach today, Thomas?’ shouted Gwendolen, determined to be heard.

Sir Thomas flinched, and turned his chair even more deliberately away from the neighbouring table. ‘Well, I thank you,’ he
managed to say offhandedly before once again addressing his rapt attention to Angelina, albeit somewhat shaken from his confident
suavity.

Angelina smiled sweetly and leaned forward herself. She spoke low and earnestly to Sir Thomas. She would
not
, was the gist of what she communicated first. The reasons why took rather longer to explain and, like her decision, was between
themselves, for strain though she might, Gwendolen could not hear. Shifting her chair position slightly, she saw Sir Thomas’s
face pale with emotion, she saw him pick up Angelina’s hand and kiss it with devotion. She saw Angelina remove it modestly,
with a maidenly flush on her cheeks, or thus Gwendolen’s jealous eye perceived it. Maiden indeed, she snorted to herself.
Mrs Langham must be nearly thirty. Mature, as she was herself.

Unable to bear what she saw as her rival’s triumph, Gwendolen turned to face the teacups again, wrapped in misery. Oliver,
observing the scene with the same keen interest as had she, munched his way through a Dickensian gingerbread cake, his emotions
harder to determine than those of his companion.

A few minutes later, Sir Thomas was walking slowly back to the Imperial Hotel in advance of the main party. He had made the
excuse that he needed to be there to greet the Prince of Wales, but making this pronouncement, which he had previously rehearsed
many times, failed to fill him with the satisfaction he had anticipated. For once, his mind was not on royalty and a possible
peerage, not on Dickens, not on
his incipient gastritis, not even on the blow that Angelina had dealt him. It ranged over many other matters, none of which
were pleasant and some of which until he came to Broadstairs he had almost put out of his mind.

‘
Attention
, ladies and gentlemen. It is time. The geese!’ He looked impatiently. Where was Herr Freimüller? He had been detailed to
assist Mr Pegg in placing the geese in the ovens.

Heinrich burst in at the doors, carrying two bottles, followed by Emily, somewhat flushed, holding a bunch of herbs.

‘Thyme for the kidneys,’ she announce nervously in excuse.

‘It is not time for the kidneys,’ shouted Auguste. ‘It is time for the geese,’ extracting his head from the oven.

‘That’s sage, Mr Didier,’ said Emily, puzzled.

Auguste stared at her, wondering whether he was lecturing to imbeciles, and his gaze fell on Heinrich. ‘This is your job,
Herr Freimüller,’ he announced grimly.

‘I get champagne,’ he said. ‘I am sorry, Mr Didier. For the kidneys.’

‘Forget the kidneys,’ said Auguste wearily. ‘The geese. They must cook.
Dépêchez-vous!
’

Heinrich did not understand French, but the meaning was clear.

Oven doors flew open. James and Heinrich placed the geese, covered in their layers of goose fat, into their ovens. The die
was cast. In three hours twelve roast geese would emerge succulent, rich and juicy. Would they be eaten? Auguste would take
it as a reflection on his honour if they were not, despite the unseasonable time of year. Only the Prince of Wales could refuse
his goose with impunity.

How glorious seemed the morrow, Auguste thought, when he could resume his holiday; tomorrow, after supervising
a light luncheon, he would escort the delectable Araminta to the band concert of the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light
Infantry. There he would introduce her to Egbert and Edith. Even perhaps they would bathe. The thrill of seeing Araminta in
bathing dress, even in the distance, segregated as the gentlemen were from the ladies, made his heart race. Truly there must
be something strange about the seaside, when the mere sight of seeing an ankle had made his heart beat the faster. How dear
Maisie, or Natalia, and certainly Emma, would laugh to see him enslaved by an ankle after their more generous gifts of person!
Yet enslaved he was. He and Araminta had paddled together earlier in the week, an occupation he found most strange. But she
had lifted her skirts a full six inches above the ground as she entered the water, and he was captivated. If he were a poet
he would write a poem to that glimpse of bare ankle. True, Araminta had no idea of what a poached egg was, but what delight
for a man to cook all his life for such an angel. This seaside air of Broadstairs was magical. Never again had he thought
the love of woman could touch his heart, not after the pain of knowing Tatiana was lost to him for ever. Perhaps he should
be practical and take a wife for comfort. He could marry Alice. How often had he said what a helpmeet she would be, if only
Alfred Wittisham were not there. He could marry Araminta. His French practicality reluctantly came to the fore. Alice would
be better.

She came in with a further two bottles of champagne and took them, blue eyes shining, to Alfred, assembling the ingredients
for the
Rognons à la Didier
.

‘Heinrich got the champagne for me already,’ Alfred pointed out tactlessly. Alice’s eyes clouded.

Poor Alice, thought Auguste, she tried so hard, but he feared his lordship did not notice her save as a friend, an attitude
of which James Pegg would fully approve. He looked round. Pegg had disappeared again. Auguste
promptly despatched Alfred to hunt for him. Surely,
surely
Pegg could not be in pursuit of Araminta? Jealousy flared, a red dagger in his heart.

Sir Thomas walked back to his room in the Imperial somewhat later than he had intended, though he was not destined to reach
it quite yet. Out of the small sitting area at the end of the corridor Gwendolen Figgis-Hewett darted like a vixen from cover.
Yet a third troublesome encounter, but perhaps the easiest to deal with.

‘How could you? Faithless, faithless,’ she moaned, clutching at his lapels. ‘Tell me it is not true, Thomas. That you did
not mean what you said to me that day.’

‘My dear Gwendolen,’ he cut in impatiently, disengaging her from his new blazer. ‘Of course I meant it. I am extremely sorry,
but I have just had a most trying time.’ He forced a laugh. ‘Among other matters. Mr Dickens’s Datchery has come back, you
might say. And as to you, we are –’ remembering his diplomacy – ‘we are good companions, but I haven’t the least wish to remarry.’

‘You’re going to marry
her
!’ she shrieked.

‘Who?’ His face darkened.

‘Mrs Langham.’

‘Nonsense,’ he said testily. ‘I cannot imagine where you got that idea.’

‘You lie, you lie,’ she sobbed.

‘Very well then, I lie.’ Finally he lost his temper. ‘I am indeed to marry Mrs Langham. I consider her a model of feminine
beauty and virtue, and of course I would prefer to marry her above you. Who would not?’ – forgetting all about the advantages
of a diplomatic approach.

The shriek that went up as she sank back on to a wicker sofa drumming her heels on the ground and yelling and shouting that
she wished he were dead, and that she’d been dishonoured, made him quite alarmed. Should he depart?
Should he stay? The Prince of Wales would shortly be here, and he was not yet changed. Really, this was proving a disastrous
day. He pulled the rope to summon help. It was Auguste and Alfred Wittisham who answered the call, though Samuel Pipkin, attracted
by the noise, was first on the scene. He realised instantly what was happening and why.

‘My dear Gwendolen,’ he solicitously and hypocritically began, ‘I fear this fellow has upset you.’

‘Nonsense,’ shouted Sir Thomas, ‘and who asked you anyway?’

‘My dear sir.’ Samuel was shocked. ‘You have upset a lady. Humiliated her.’

‘Yes, yes!’ shrieked Gwendolen. ‘He did, he did.’

‘I did not,’ said Sir Thomas, cornered. ‘I merely suggested, Mrs Figgis-Hewett, that you were overwrought.’

‘You are no gentleman, sir,’ announced Samuel loftily. ‘And unfit to be chairman of our Society. Mrs Figgis-Hewett will support
me on this.’

Too late Sir Thomas saw the error of his ways. ‘My dear Gwendolen.’ He laid a hand on her heaving shoulder.

‘Unhand me, sir,’ she cried, leaping up and throwing herself hysterically into Samuel’s arms. Over her shoulder he gleamed
triumphantly at Sir Thomas. Vengeance would be his – and Mr Thackeray’s – this evening.

It was then that Auguste and Alfred arrived.

This really was the last straw. ‘What the devil are you doing down here?’ Sir Thomas asked wearily. ‘You,’ he turned to Auguste,
‘see to
her
.’

Auguste obediently disengaged Gwendolen and subdued the hysterics with the aid of a swift slap, and his own comforting arm.

‘Is Beatrice here, sir?’ asked Alfred brightly out of nervousness, with unerring instinct heading straight for disaster.

‘Miss Throgmorton is in France, sir. She is not planning to marry a cook.’ He gave a scathing look at Alfred’s apron.

‘It’s a useful occupation, sir. Practical. She’ll never starve,’ Alfred pointed out, rallying his defences.

Sir Thomas turned puce. ‘You marry my daughter over my dead body, and that’s my last word.’ It was not an original word, but
it made his point as far as Alfred was concerned.

Sir Thomas stalked off, maddened beyond endurance, and with only five minutes to change before the Prince of Wales arrived.

The royal yacht
Osborne
had already docked at Ramsgate and the Prince of Wales was passing Dumpton Gapway, comfortably seated in Mr Multhrop’s new
Panhard motorcar. He was not a happy man. There was thunder in the air, in all senses. It had been far from the capital week
he had come to expect from Cowes, what with Willie winning everything in sight, having to make diplomatic speeches to his
own nephew about how jolly it was to lose to him, and then just as he got time to drown his sorrows at the Yacht Club he had
to come to Broadstairs. There it was now. Hadn’t changed since Mama used to stay here. She’d be expecting a full report on
Pierremont House and the dear little village, so quiet, so tasteful. Well, it hadn’t changed much, except that it was bigger
and a lot of schoolboys were apparently prancing round the sacred portals of Pierremont House. Apart from that, no change.
Respectable and sober. Nothing ever happened in Broadstairs. He climbed down from the motorcar onto a bright blue carpet.
Strange. Why blue? Had the driver got the right place?

Mr Multhrop bustled forward in great nervousness.

‘Your Royal Highness, good-bye – er – afternoon.’ He bowed so far forward he nearly butted royalty in the stomach, but the
Prince of Wales had met many Multhrops
and greeted him courteously, leaving him pink with pleasure. He greeted Sir Thomas courteously too; he greeted every damn
person lined up with similar courtesy though his private thoughts were on the likelihood of a stiff brandy and soda having
been placed ready in his suite. It must be his age. Once upon a time the position of the bedroom relative to those of female
guests would have been far more interesting.

The preparation of ingredients for the sauce for the kidneys was now in the capable hands of Algernon Peckham, once Auguste
had extracted a promise not to follow the Soyer recipe ‘by mistake’.

James had returned, but now Emily and Heinrich had vanished. Auguste sighed. People seemed to have been disappearing all the
afternoon, one after another. His schedule had worked, but only because he seemed to be carrying out most of it himself. Wearily
he checked the table china, the hotel staff being responsible for the less venerable Literary Lionisers. But he himself must
oversee the Prince of Wales’s table. He went into the huge dining room, where at last he found Alfred arranging bottles on
the serving tables. His practised eye ran round the room. Pekin dinner service, silver cutlery, crystal glasses, showy white
napkins, all in order. He cringed at the elaborate Dickensian menus adorning each place, but was grateful for the fact that
the catastrophe of the banquet, for such he was sure it would be, would be firmly laid at Mr Dickens’s door and not his own.
‘The chef,’ he recalled saying, ‘must at all times be prepared for disaster.’
Alors
, he had done his best. Surely nothing could go wrong now?

Egbert Rose was helping the sailor-suited youngster on his right to fortify his castle. Rose’s face was lobster red. He was
having a wonderful time and so was Edith. He liked
the harbour, Edith liked the promenades, they both liked the sands and the Pierrot shows. They had visited the theatre. They
had met Auguste and seen the Margate grotto with him. That was sixpennyworth of value all right. The only thing he couldn’t
persuade Edith to do was to visit Boulogne for the day. Easy enough, train to Margate, down to the Jetty, and off they could
go on
La Marguerite
at 9.45. But no. No France for her. She liked Ramsgate. Why come to Ramsgate if you want to go to Boulogne? was her unanswerable
response.