The Devil's Feast Read online

  “This is not what I returned for,” said Blake. That hard, blank expression had come back. “For obfuscations and misrepresentations.”

  “But it was to save your friend’s reputation,” I said. “Can we not wait a day? There is plenty to do.”

  “When the police come, it may look bad for you if no effort has been made to find out if anyone else is ill,” said Blake. “But we could wait. We must discover what our men ate and thus narrow down where the poison might have come from. And we must take samples of the leftovers. Take spoonfuls, put them in clean jars and stopper them. Wakley has tests for arsenic and strychnine. It may yield nothing, but it’s worth a try.”

  “Percy will find out what they ate,” said Soyer. “He can lay his hands on their bills of fare and accounts.” He went over to the door and had Percy summoned.

  “And we will speak in turn to everyone in the kitchen who might have touched or prepared the food and drink,” said Blake.

  “But that could be everyone!” said Soyer. “And the footmen and the clerks!”

  “Then we will speak to everyone.”

  Soyer’s mouth jutted into a pout.

  “Will not the police do that?” I said.

  “The kitchen is closing. We will speak to them while they are all here.”

  There was a light tap at the door. Blake quickly replaced his spectacles and smoothed down his hair.

  Mr. Percy entered, as correct as ever, though there were gray shadows under his eyes. “The cleaning is going apace, Chef. But the staff are talking. What would you have us do when the cleaning’s done?”

  Soyer sighed and turned away.

  Percy peered, as courteously as was possible, at Blake. My heart began to thud. Percy was an observant man.

  “May I present my manservant, Maguire, Mr. Percy? He has come up from Devon and will be helping me with my inquiries. Mr. Scott, I hope, is arranging a room for him.”

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Blake, in his full London Irish. “It is a marvelous place this, so. Even today it quite takes my breath away.” And he offered his gloved hand and grinned in a manner utterly unBlake-ean.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Maguire—you’re not from Devon?” said Percy politely, but now he was gazing at Soyer rather as an anxious aunt watches over an errant nephew.

  “No, sir. Met the captain in India. Followed him to Devon. Captain, if you don’t mind my saying, wasn’t Mr. Soyer going to ask Mr. Percy to discover what your men ate last night?”

  “Yes, yes,” said Soyer. “Can you discover what Mr. Addiscomb and his friend ate and drank?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Did you know either of them, Mr. Percy?” I asked.

  “I knew their faces, but I must confess this is not really my area. Although I manage the waiting staff and am up in the Coffee Room now we have no butler, my chief role is to make sure everything runs smoothly downstairs and that the food and wine is ordered and paid for.”

  “Captain, you were going to ask if Mr. Percy could furnish us with a list of the members of the kitchen so we may speak to them before they leave,” said Blake.

  Percy glanced up. I wondered if Blake had gone too far, but the steward’s gaze returned at once to Soyer.

  “Could you perhaps draw up a list?” I said.

  “Certainly, sir, but if I may say so, you will have your work cut out: that is over sixty people,” said Percy.

  “I realize this, but we must act. Maguire will help. I trust him, and he is very well organized, and speaks good French and some Italian.”

  “And the captain has furnished me with the right questions.”

  If Percy was surprised, he gave no sign of it.

  “May I ask Mr. Percy where he is from and how he came to work for Mr. Soyer?”

  If Percy was affronted, he did not show it. “I am from Shropshire, sir. Worked my way up in service, then came to London and worked for a number of titled gentlemen as butler, then steward. I came to the Reform three years ago, when Chef started cooking but before the building was completed. He was kind enough to try me out for my ability to run a household and my knowledge of wines and spirits. I hope I have not let him down.”

  “Is your family in service?”

  Percy shook his head. “My father had a drapery business in Oswestry. He prospered, then he was injured in an accident some years ago. Lost all his fingers, got into debt, lost the business. So I went into service. It was not what I had planned, but I was a hard worker and rose quickly.”

  “Mr. Percy has been a rock since we started at the Reform,” said Soyer. “I could not have done without him.”

  “I will see to that list,” Percy said diffidently—I wondered if he was a little embarrassed—and withdrew.

  “Tell me about him,” said Blake.

  “He and Morel, my sous-chef, are my chief and invaluable aides—especially since we lost the butler and since I seem unable to retain a secretary and Mr. Scott is quite inutile. Percy came to me when I was setting up the kitchen and asked if I would consider him. He had excellent references from his former employers and I saw his worth at once. He is very effectif, très bien organisé, admirably calm, utterly correct and reliable. Other establishments have tried to lure him away, but he has refused them all. He is loyal to me, and he values his position. He is not married, but has, I think, family in Shropshire.”

  As he spoke, Soyer began to recover some of his former vitality.

  “And Morel?”

  “André Morel I first met when he had just arrived from France and could barely speak English, some six or seven years ago. I saw and understood his great skills, encouraged them, and brought them on, and when I at last came to the Reform, made him my deputy. He puts everything into the kitchen—he is an orphan, no family to speak of—and owes everything to me.”

  “He must be the same age as you?” said Blake.

  “A little older, if you must know. But he is an excellent lieutenant. I am a prodigy, you see, I was born to lead, to innovate. I must have a Morel, someone utterly reliable who ensures that all runs perfectly every day. This he relieves me of. I, on the other hand, shoulder the reversals and the demands; he cannot always leap over the obstacles, as I do. He worries over them. I relieve him of that. Everyone who knows him respects him, knows his worth.”

  He went to the sideboard and began to rearrange the things upon it. “I cannot think what I should do next.”

  “You should talk to your troops,” said Blake. “Put fire back into them and fear into your enemies.”

  “You are right,” said Soyer. He forced onto his features his usual ready smile and started to rebutton his waistcoat and retie his limp cravat.

  “And tell them we’re going to talk to them. Now, while memories are fresh, and before anyone should take it into their minds to disappear. Go out and stand in that panopticon of yours, and address your kitchen. Show that you are not to be easily dislodged. After all, you are Alexis Soyer, the Napoleon of chefs!”

  “I am!” He placed a few rings on his fingers, picked up the lavender velvet frock coat from the back of his chair and adjusted his hat.

  “Aux armes! To the barricades!” He hesitated. “What shall I tell them?”

  “Whatever you like. Customers are dead. Kitchen’s closed. Avery and I need to speak to all of them.”

  Soyer looked horrified. “I cannot say that!”

  “I’d say they know it already. Tell them the boiler’s broken, if you must. Or that the club must be cleared for the banquet. Whatever you like. Personally, I think some honesty is best.”

  Soyer nodded doubtfully, and walked out into the kitchen.

  “What is a panopticon?” I said to Blake.

  “It’s a circular prison—or, rather, a plan for one—in which an observer can see all the inmates from one central position but th
ey cannot know when precisely they are being watched and so must act as if they are watched all the time. None was ever built, but I always reckoned there’s a point in Soyer’s kitchen from which he can see almost everything, though I’ve never quite found it.”

  “So a panopticon would be a good thing?” I said cautiously.

  “It is a monstrous engine of eternal scrutiny. It would be a nightmare. But it might catch a poisoner.”

  • • •

  SOYER STOOD on a chair.

  “My friends, my colleagues. Each and every one of you,” he said. His voice, deeper than usual, penetrated to the far corners of the kitchen, even above the noise of the steam. “Come and heed me. I must speak to you.”

  Everyone shuffled slowly toward their chief.

  “My friends and colleagues, a kitchen is a marvelous place. A place where, aspiring to the example of the great creator, we invent and prepare things of surpassing ingenuity, beauty and delectability. And the kitchen is a marvelous place in another way: a place of raging heat and light, certainly, of hard work and sharp words, sometimes, I grant you. But also a place where such work, and devotion and talent, is rewarded. You may be from the lowliest background, but if you work and show talent here, you will rise, and no one will stop you. I was born into a family of modest means in France thirty-two years ago, and see how I have risen. There, Morel, my great lieutenant, a man of talent whose abilities have raised him to the top of his profession; and, in among you, I espy young Monsieur Perrin, and Monsieur Benoît, too, and so many others with greatness in them.

  “In this place, we have been engaged in a great venture, perhaps the greatest: to make the best kitchen in England, and one not merely for one fortunate lord or prince but which any of those who visit this great club may enjoy, serving dishes both simple and satisfying but also those that are refined, ingenious and delicious. And how triumphantly we have succeeded! The day after tomorrow our genius will be demonstrated beyond question at the banquet we shall prepare for the Prince of Egypt, Ibrahim Pasha; all the newspapers shall trumpet our genius. Let me be clear. None of what has been achieved could have been done without the efforts of every single one of you. You are all, from lowly potboy to brilliant chef, a vital, moving part of our glorious engine.

  “None of what we do is easily won, we know that. And so, I have to tell you that, as we face our greatest triumph, we also face our greatest challenge, but it is one which, I swear to you, will not defeat us.”

  At this, the gathered began to fidget, for they knew that he was coming to the matter.

  “Mes amis, my friends, we are under attack from something pernicious and evil-intentioned. Something tainted, something that wishes us no good, has entered our kitchen. Something that wants to take from us all we have won with such hard work and such devotion. Something that could see our livelihoods put at risk, our reputations brought into question. I know that we, none of us, want that, nor will we allow it. I will do everything to defeat this, and I know you will, too. We shall cook nothing today. We shall continue to clean and, one by one, we shall all speak to our friend Captain Avery and his—and his aide, Mr.—Maguire, who are helping us to counter this evil. The kitchen clerks will take your name, and you will be called. Tell anything you can think of that may help us. Any small detail may be of use.

  “Some may say we cannot return from this. Some may say this is impossible. But”—he paused dramatically—“remember what I have told you before: ‘Impossible is a word only to be found in a dictionary of fools!’”

  Blake murmured in my ear, “Napoleon.”

  “Impossible,” said Soyer, “is the refuge of poltroons.”

  There were some isolated cheers and clapping.

  “Most of you shall be finished by noon, and I shall pay you all for a full day! And those who remain later will be paid time and a half! But I expect to see you all back here early tomorrow!”

  The room clapped more enthusiastically. There were more cheers.

  “One final request. I ask for your discretion. There are those who envy us and would be only too pleased to spread evil rumors and to see our reputation and our kitchen destroyed. We fight for our survival, for our positions and our livelihoods. We fight for the Reform Club, the greatest dining room in London—non, in the world!”

  He blew his audience two kisses and dismounted from his chair amid more clapping. In twos and threes, the staff returned to their huddles, and some began to wander toward the kitchen maids’ dining room.

  “Perhaps,” said Percy, “I may furnish Mr. Maguire with refreshment? I am sure we can endeavor to find you something entirely safe to eat.”

  “Oh, I am perfectly well just now. We should get on with our inquiries. But if I may say so, I am quite amazed by the kitchens here.” Blake beamed uncharacteristically. I confess I found it rather annoying.

  “May I say that you seem admirably unperturbed,” Percy said. “Not a pleasant surprise to arrive this morning and find yourself in such circumstances.”

  My shoulders began to tighten.

  Blake said, “Ah, Mr. Percy, I am used to it, for I was a military man and the captain has a nose for trouble. I should like to compliment you, too, on your sangfroid.”

  “That’s most kind. I recognized you as a soldier the moment I saw you—it’s in the carriage.”

  “Fifteen-odd years in John Company,” said Blake, with another easy smile.

  “Must have been quite a change, India to the English countryside?”

  “A bit quieter, a lot cooler. But we get along all right.”

  • • •

  WE SET OURSELVES UP in the butler’s room while Mr. Percy rooted out the list of the dishes that Addiscomb and Rickards had eaten, since Scott had failed to do so.

  They had begun with potage à la Victoria, a cream of artichoke soup. Then Addiscomb had had roast rib of beef, turnips and greens, and Rickards lamb cutlets à la Reform. These had followed with a salad of winter herbs with ham, and celeri à la moelle de bœuf, celery with beef marrow. Dessert was jelly with mixed fruits and pineapple cream. They had drunk two bottles of claret, some sherry, coffee and some port to end with.

  I had had the lamb cutlets, too.

  “We sold a great many of all these dishes last night: at least twenty roast beefs, maybe thirty cutlets, perhaps eighteen potages à la Victoria. The jellies are always popular.”

  “And no one else the worse for wear, so far as we know, Mr. Percy?” I said.

  Percy looked a little pained. “So far as we know.”

  “It’s unlikely, then, that someone sprinkled arsenic into a great saucepan of soup, or rubbed it all over a fine beef joint?” Blake said with a small smile. He was never usually so cheery, nor used so many extraneous words.

  Percy could not find it in himself to be amused. Then Morel walked past.

  “Monsieur Morel!” I called. “Might I have a moment of your time?”

  Answer came there none. I bounded out, only to collide with the man himself, sending him sprawling and causing the portfolio he was carrying to fly open and sheets to spill out across the floor. He knelt down and began to scoop them up, stuffing them back in as swiftly as he could.

  “Let me help you,” I said.

  “Non, leave me,” he said brusquely, then, “it is better I do it myself. They have a particular order.”

  “What are they?” I said, proffering the sheet that had slid the furthest from him.

  He seized it from me. “Nothing.”

  I stepped back. “I did not wish to upset you.”

  He recollected himself. “They are a few notes, incomplete, for new dishes. They must be kept safe.”

  “I see.”

  “My apologies.” He rubbed his forehead. “I am not myself. I find with this new”—he could not bring himself to say “death”—“and Francobaldi always here, I am susp
icious of everyone.”

  “I understand. Could you spare us a few minutes to give us the benefit of your knowledge of the kitchen and its habits?”

  Reluctantly, Morel followed me into the butler’s room.

  “Mr. Maguire, my manservant and aide, will ask a few questions. I shall observe.” I leaned against the unlit hearth and tried to look commanding.

  “Monsewer Morel,” said Blake—and Morel winced at his pronunciation—“is it possible to discover precisely which parts of the kitchen prepared the food the gentlemen ate last night?”

  Morel looked at the list of what the poisoned men had eaten and shrugged. “Almost every part of the kitchen will have worked on one aspect of these dishes or another, from chopping vegetables to making the stocks. Monsieur Perrin’s sauciers make the sauces and finish the main dishes, and the potager who reports to him makes soups. The roasting section under Monsieur Benoît would have cooked the beef and lamb; the entremetiers prepare the vegetables dishes, the dessert kitchen made the desserts, but, within that, one commis will set the jelly, another will have cut the fruit, a third will whisk the cream, a fourth will flavor and set it.”

  “It seems most likely to me that the poison would have been added between the particular dishes being arranged on their plates and being served to the diners,” said Blake.

  “It could also have been added at some point at the table, into the wine, perhaps,” I said.

  Now he was my servant, he could not be seen to ignore me. “Yes, of course, sir,” he said. “But, begging your pardon, Monsewer Morel,”—Morel winced again—“is there a method for putting the dishes together and bringing them out?”

  “As I said, every dish is made up of many parts: the meat or fish, the sauce, the stock and vegetables that made the sauce, and so on. These will be tasted repeatedly before they are placed on the plate, then the chefs de partie of each section, or their deputy, will either finish or check every dish. In the principal kitchen, Chef or Monsieur Perrin or I, or, on occasion, Percy or the kitchen clerk on duty, will pass each dish before it is taken to the lift to the Coffee Room. It is then collected by the footmen and taken to the table.”