The Devil's Feast Page 29

  “She has not been charged, and I am certain she is innocent.”

  “In that case, we both agree that the banquet should not proceed.”

  I looked back at Duncombe. “I consider it most significant that you are together. You knew about Addiscomb and Rickards because he told you. And you, Mr. Molesworth, have not answered my question.”

  He glowered. “Why should I not be here? Duncombe is a good friend of mine.”

  “It has nothing to do with your discontent with the Reform Club, then?”

  “You are very impertinent.”

  “Deny that you were furious with Lord Palmerston earlier—I saw it. And that you would happily see the club fall into chaos!”

  “I admit it, I was furious. I was deliberately slighted in the most direct manner. I founded the Reform—not that joke Ellice—and now I find myself endlessly forced to the side. I am supposed to be part of a union of progressive politicians, but Palmerston ignores and insults my friends and me. Why would I not be angry? But if you are suggesting I would go out of my way to bring down the club—and I presume you mean by murdering other members—you must be mad!”

  “I would bring to your attention, sir, the fact that all the dead men were Whigs. And the fact that your friend Mr. Duncombe here was the only person who was present on all three evenings when the men died.”

  “The only person apart from the staff,” said Molesworth.

  “And Rowlands was my dear friend!” protested Duncombe.

  “If you think Tommy could murder anyone—why, the very thought is absurd. He is the kindest man alive; he could not harm anyone.”

  “Except the tradesmen he puts out of business through not paying his debts,” muttered Blake.

  “What did your man say?”

  “You would swear that you have no thought of cutting off from the Whigs and liberals and throwing your cards in with the Chartists?”

  “What business is it of yours? You are a Tory. In any case, the Chartists are Tommy’s particular interest, not mine.”

  “But you do not deny it.”

  “The radicals are being sidelined; we are outnumbered. What do we do? Accept it and endeavor to work within the party, hoping that, at some point, some of us might gain high office? At some stage, this Whig alliance will wrest power from the Tories. Or do we cut free, follow our true beliefs and possibly deny ourselves access to influence ever again? It is a question that has to be asked. Obviously, when I dreamed up the Reform, I assumed the former was the best choice. But I would be dishonest, if not foolish, if I was not now to accept that the latter position has its points.”

  “So you will leave?”

  “You do not know me, Captain Avery. I am a radical and an establishment man, just like Tommy. I feel the Reform Club is mine, in part at least, even if it is not quite the child I hoped it would be. I am proud that it is so much more progressive than the other clubs and that it admits Catholics and nonconformists and Jews, and that its table is the best in the land. I do not want to see it go down. On the other hand, I do not see why we should not cause a little mischief now and again to shake up those who consider it theirs.”

  “In the midst of a series of poisonings?”

  “In the midst of the ostrichlike reactions and denials of men like Ellice.”

  “And what exactly do you mean by ‘mischief’?”

  Duncombe handed me a copy of a magazine entitled The Satirist.

  “I assumed you must have seen it,” Duncombe said. “It is hardly The Times, but something of the Reform’s troubles have been leaked, and Molesworth and I were the sources. The other night at the Reform when you saw us, we told our fellow radicals about Rowlands. I know I promised you discretion, and I am sorry for it. That was the reason for my ‘confession.’”

  “I see. I apologize if I was unmannerly. I can only say it was based on a misunderstanding on my part.”

  He smiled hollowly. “Perhaps one day I shall laugh about it.”

  • • •

  “GIVE IT HERE,” SAID BLAKE, once we were outside, and took the magazine from me. “It’s one of those London scandal sheets full of rumor and innuendo. They send a damaging story to the party concerned to see if they’ll pay to suppress it. Sometimes they print it anyway.” He scanned the page that Duncombe had marked. “I’d say this is a teaser.” He held it out for me.

  A certain gentleman’s club not a million miles from St. James’s has suddenly closed its doors mere days before it was to hold a famous banquet to celebrate a certain eastern potentate. Could it be that the infamous shadow of scandal can have penetrated its blameless doors and is stalking its marble halls? Or that the self-styled “greatest chef in London” no longer casts quite the spell he did? Whispers have come to our ears that certain members are dying to take their leave.

  Blake said, “At least they have been careful.”

  “Careful?”

  “It might have been worse.”

  “Worse? How could it have been worse?”

  “It could have said, ‘Soyer kills three with arsenic and strychnine.’”

  • • •

  OUR LABORS, it seemed to me, had produced nothing substantial. I had mishandled our encounter with Molesworth and Duncombe, and there were barely twenty-four hours until the banquet. I did not complain aloud, for I was increasingly sensible of Blake’s sacrifice in remaining with me. But I was discouraged, and so we walked in silence.

  “You weren’t as bad as you imagined,” he said at last.

  “I lost my temper, I utterly misunderstood Duncombe and I humiliated myself. What if Molesworth goes to Lord Marcus and denounces me?”

  “You know that he informed the press. I shouldn’t imagine he wants Lord Marcus to hear about that. It is not how I would have done it, but you were sincere, which inclined them to answer you honestly. Your anger was honest anger, not feigned to provoke. Duncombe admitted the radicals are angry, and you caused Molesworth to explain himself. I’d bet he never talks so freely at the Reform.”

  “You are becoming alarmingly charitable in your old age, Blake,” I said. “And we are no nearer finding our quarry.”

  I returned to my wife, he to the kitchen to “observe.” We agreed that we would make a late visit to the Provence Hotel after dinner, and that we would go to Smithfield in the morning before first light, when the livestock market was at its height and Hastings Bland the butcher would be at his labors.

  • • •

  WHEN I ENTERED HER ROOMS, Helen was scrutinizing herself in a long glass. I thought I recognized the dress but was not sure.

  “Very pretty,” I said uncertainly.

  She shook her head. “It is years old. I was measured for a new gown this afternoon, but it will not be ready for several days, so Sarah will add lace to the collar of this one, and sleeves and some beads to the bodice, and that will be something.”

  She was at least delighted with the lodgings provided by Lord Marcus. The rooms were furnished in silks and velvets, and the address—King Street, St. James’s—was the most fashionable she could have wished for.

  “Lord Marcus has most generously supplied us with a cook. He may be a liberal, but he is really a very charming man. So attentive. But I suppose you are not going to be present for meals.”

  “I am—”

  “—very busy, I know.”

  “May I explain what we are doing?” I tried to tell her, but when the matter of poison came up I could tell she was reluctant to hear.

  “Another of your wild-goose-chase adventures with Mr. Blake, I suppose?” she said.

  At the appointed hour, I escorted her to Lady Falkland’s. Lord Falkland had been a senior figure in the Indian government and had lately returned to England. Helen had been a favorite of his wife’s in Simla during the war with Afghanistan. She looked charming and was made a great f
uss of. I answered questions about the quality of the shooting in Devon and my role in solving the Holywell Street murders. I fended off inquiries about “the enigmatic Mr. Blake”—former Company men were always curious about him—and more regarding my possible candidacy as a future Tory member of Parliament. We were declared “the picture of a charming young couple,” by Lady Falkland, and Helen came away with a clutch of invitations. I think she was happy. And I? The day’s events clung to me: the looming threat of the banquet, the picture in my head of Matty in her cell, the smell of the Marshalsea.

  We returned home by carriage: Lord Marcus had lent us his clarence for the evening. Outside, a figure slipped from the muddy gloaming and materialized under a gaslight. Helen stiffened and clutched my arm.

  “Mrs. Avery,” said Blake, “you know me.” He removed his spectacles and his hat.

  She peered at him. “Is that you, Mr. Blake? Or whatever William is calling you now. It has been four years, I think.”

  “Yes, madam. I am going for the moment under the name Maguire.”

  “I suppose you want my husband?”

  “If you are both agreeable.”

  “You must promise you will not take him into danger.”

  “No danger, madam. Not tonight.”

  “Then I will bid you good night.”

  The footman ushered her into the house.

  We set off at a brisk pace, the gaslights providing pools of light in the darkness.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Went into a couple of taverns round Crown Passage. There’s a deal of gossip about a man dying horribly in the dining room of one of the clubs. More bloody with each retelling. Innards on the Turkey carpets, all that. What about your wife?”

  “She does not know you are a wanted man.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  We were neither of us much in the mood for carousing, but the guests at the Provence very much were. Frenchmen crowded the tables, drinking and gossiping. Francobaldi himself was in the thick of the drinking, red-faced and laughing; I pointed him out discreetly to Blake. At a table on his own, Morel watched his fellow cooks, his expression morose.

  “No cards tonight, Monsieur Morel?” I said.

  “I have made my wagers for today. And I am not in the mood for crowds.” As if to confirm this, one of the carousers looked over and met his eye, nodded respectfully and turned back to his friends. “By all means, sit down. Have you news of Mathilde?”

  I sat down. “Maguire,” I said, “bring us a bottle of claret and buy something for yourself.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Blake. Morel looked at Blake just a little longer than necessary then turned his attention to the party. We watched silently for a while.

  “Might I pour Monsewer Morel a fresh glass, sir?” Blake said, when he returned with a bottle.

  Morel flinched but nodded. My glass filled, I raised it. “Your health, sir.” Morel nodded. “It has been a hard day,” I said.

  He nodded again, heavily. “One must try to make the best of things, I suppose.” He smiled ironically.

  “Monsieur Morel, you know that Monsieur Soyer has asked me to help him. May I ask for your advice?”

  “Of course,” he said reluctantly.

  “It seems to me there is some rivalry among your community of chefs.”

  He looked at me warily.

  “I wondered, seeing you there alone, whether you might be asking yourself which of your fellow chefs you would entirely trust.”

  “I must tell you that I was not. There is rivalry, of course. But if you are considering that one of these men might be responsible for the deaths at the Reform, I should say that was impossible.”

  “And why is that?”

  “They may strive to exceed each other, but they do not truly wish each other ill. There may be rivalry, but there is also admiration. Monsieur, there are so few of us who understand what we strive for, we are precious to each other. And to poison our dishes? It would be like a doctor breaking his oath. It is impossible. Also, how does a chef from another kitchen effect such a thing? You ask my advice? I will tell you.” He looked me full in the face, his expression pained. “I wish it were not true, I know that Alexis cannot bear for it to be true, but if someone poisons our diners deliberately, how can it be anyone other than someone within the Reform itself?”

  “In the kitchen?”

  “Where else?”

  “You have an idea of whom?”

  “If I did, I would tell you. Believe me, until a few days ago I thought our kitchen was a perfect engine, all the parts working toward the same end.” Now he seemed bitter. “But I think it would be impossible to carry out such things from outside, unless one had aid from someone within.”

  “Then let me ask a different question,” I said. “Is there anyone else here I should speak to who might be able to throw any light on this matter?”

  Morel seemed irritated. “I can think of no one.”

  “Could one of Soyer’s rivals”—I groped for an example and thought of the boy whom Benoît had almost stabbed with a knife—“tempt someone dissatisfied with their progress, or short of money, or beaten too many times, with the promise of money and promotion? Something is added to a sauce and Soyer’s reputation is destroyed?”

  Morel sat up, almost agitated. “I would say it is not possible.”

  “Monsieur Morel, it was you who told me that Francobaldi had no self-control and would do anything to best Soyer. And you who said that the man I saw him strike here, Monsieur Comte, was little better.”

  “I have no love for Francobaldi, believe me.” The words emerged jerkily. “His desire to triumph in all things is tedious. His resort to violence is childish. On occasion, I have thought he must be mad. But if he wished to harm Soyer he would take a knife and stab him; he would not do it in this way. Besides, I cannot believe him a murderer.”

  I was startled by the effect my question had had upon him. “Someone else, then. Monsieur Comte, with whom he had the—ah, argument when I was here last?”

  “He is very ambitious, but it is unthinkable.”

  “More unthinkable than one of your own cooks poisoning your dishes?”

  He looked down and pursed his lips. Blake nudged me and shook his head.

  “I am sorry to have disturbed you, Monsieur Morel. I have no wish to make your evening worse.”

  “Why did you pull me back?” I asked Blake.

  “He wasn’t going to tell you any more.”

  “You are sure of that, are you?” I said.

  He nodded. “Besides, I’ve been watching him.”

  I looked at him hopefully. “I’ve nothing to say,” he said. “Just notions.”

  “I wish you would share some of those notions with me.”

  On the other side of the room, Francobaldi stood up and sauntered toward the door, and I followed after him.

  “Captain Avery! Captain Avery!” His breath was thick with brandy fumes, but the drink had loosened him rather than inebriated him. He tipped his hat. “So, you have put yourself at Alexis’s service, eh? Tell you what, the bugger’s going to need it. This your man?” He gave Blake a cursory glance. “I like you, Captain Avery. You are a soldier, a real man, who is not content to sit back and let the world have its way with you. You have fought for your life, and I salute that. Come and talk to me about Soyer. I’ll tell you what you need to know. Come and see me. Tomorrow morning.” He clapped me, too hard, on the back. “I know things. I’ll be in the kitchen at the Union. You may learn something useful.”

  He stepped in front of me and pushed his way out into the dark.

  “Where did you say he was from?” said Blake.

  • • •

  RETURNING TO LORD MARCUS’S ROOMS, we found a message from Mr. Percy apologizing for the late hour but requesting my presence at the
club as close to midnight or thereafter as could be managed. Gimbell would let me in, he said. I longed for my bed, but the possibility of news could not be ignored.

  There were still a few at work when Blake and I arrived at the kitchen: a couple of Perrin’s sauce-makers, with their accompanying soldiers, waiting for vast cauldrons of bones to boil, and two pastry cooks almost asleep over their whisks.

  In the butler’s room, Mr. Percy was still in his daytime suiting. “I am so sorry to call you from your slumbers,” he said.

  “You have discovered something about the poisoning?”

  He looked guilty. “Oh lord, sir, I’m sorry if I gave that impression. It is something else I hoped you could help us with, for which your presence would be most welcome.”

  “You are very cryptic, Mr. Percy,” I said.

  “All will soon be revealed,” he said, and smiled. He lit a candle and passed it to me.

  “Lead on,” I said, bemused.

  We followed him up the servants’ stairs to the ground floor, across the saloon, up again to the mezzanine floor and along a corridor into which I had not hitherto strayed. The fearsome housekeeper, Mrs. Quill, whom I remembered from the night Rowlands had died, was waiting for us, wrapped in a great quilted bedcoat, her nightcap tied under her chin, holding her own candle.

  “Well,” she said briskly, “do what you must, Mr. Percy.”

  Before us was a row of identical brown paneled doors. Percy rapped on the first. There was no reply. The incarnation of calm dignity, he gave two further knocks. The housekeeper pursed her lips and stared at the door as if it had itself committed a crime. A sense of unease began to rise within me. I had not even troubled to ask why my presence was so necessary. Beside me, Blake was very still.

  Percy now inflicted upon the door a round of rapid knocks and called out, “Mr. Scott, are you there? We must speak. It is very important.”

  There came no answer. Percy smiled reassuringly and turned to the housekeeper.

  “Will you do the honors, Mrs. Quill?”

  She brought forth a ring heavy with keys and, passing me her candle for a moment, extracted one with thumb and forefinger and passed it to Mr. Percy. He took it, fitted it to the keyhole, turned it smoothly within the lock and opened the door.