The Devil's Feast Read online

  Soyer appeared, unsmiling and breathing heavily. He took the offending little pot and examined it. Then, before a wondering audience, he carefully put a tiny amount on his tongue, then spat it swiftly into a handkerchief—at this Blake grunted—and declared it to be arsenic.

  There was a collective gasp, then the kitchen exploded with voices. Perrin started to say that he could not remember how he had come to be holding the cruet, but he swore he had been certain it was arrowroot. Soyer had turned the color of plaster. The soldiers took hold of Perrin’s arms.

  “Pourquoi je fais ça?” Perrin kept saying. “Why would I do this? Chef, c’est une erreur. C’est fou!” Soyer looked as if he might cry and, for once short of words, muttered briefly to the soldiers, then turned away. The soldiers pulled Perrin, who was still denying his guilt, out of the kitchen and up the stairs. The young cook who had swallowed the spoonful was given an emetic and taken to lie down.

  The hubbub had risen to almost deafening proportions. Like some mindless automaton, Soyer stood upon a chair and began to shout.

  “There is no excuse for leaving your stations. This is a great blow, but it will be weathered. We must continue as we began. We have a dinner to prepare, and we have no time to lose. I demand that we carry on. Chefs, take your places. Soldiers, return to your positions.”

  “But, Chef, if Perrin—”

  “Back to your stations! You will continue with your work as if nothing has happened. And let us remember that another of our own, Mathilde, has already been released by the police.”

  The kitchen went quiet at once. The throng disbanded; the staff returned to their work.

  Soyer descended from his chair. Morel was next to him. Soyer picked up Perrin’s sauce, threw it into a basin and turned on the faucet. Blake strode across to the basin and would have pushed him out of the way, then remembered himself. Before he could scoop any up, it was halfway down the drain.

  Soyer did not notice; he had gathered the sauciers. “What dishes did Monsieur Perrin attend to? What sauces?”

  Perrin’s second-in-command consulted with the other cooks. “We believe there must be a mistake, we do not believe he can be the culprit. It must be a mistake.”

  “Answer my question,” said Soyer shortly.

  “He oversaw everything, as usual.”

  “The question is: must everything be thrown away? Is anything safe? I must determine what I have to remake, and if I have time to do so.”

  “We saw him season the bowl you discarded with the arsenic, but none of us can recall him using it for anything else.”

  “Have you tasted everything?”

  “Everything that has been so far completed.”

  “Then we will throw all these on the counter away, and we will start again.”

  “You cannot throw them away,” said Blake, “They must be tested.”

  The other cooks looked at Blake.

  Soyer nodded dully. “Take a small amount of each and put it into a jar. We will have them delivered to Mr. Wakley. Though the results—”

  “Will not return until after the banquet. But at least you will know if they were poisoned.”

  “But some of these sauces—” said one of the sauciers.

  “No questions. We must start again. Bring me my apron. Bring me the list. I must have three gallons of veal stock, butter, onions, carrots, flour, milk, cream. Will we need to make more consommé?”

  The other cooks set off to gather the ingredients for the new sauces, leaving Soyer and Morel. I studied the latter, I could not tell if he was glad at his rival’s fall; he simply seemed shocked.

  “What do you make of this?” said Soyer.

  “It’s not him,” said Blake, quietly but firmly.

  “Ah, I cannot hear this! We saw him with the arsenic in his hand.”

  “If he had been administering it so lavishly in the past, do you not think someone would have noticed it before? And do you really believe him capable of it?”

  Two cooks brought a great cauldron filled with clear brown liquid and set it on one of the great gas ranges. Soyer glared at Blake to indicate he should be silent. Then he took a long phosphorus match out of a drawer and turned a knob on the range, whereupon the gas flue under the cauldron began to emit a small whistle. He struck his match on a rough block and placed it by the gas flue. A crown of flame shot out.

  “It is not a matter of what we believe, it is what we saw,” Soyer said, as quietly as he could.

  “I disagree,” said Blake.

  Morel said, “Captain Avery, your manservant is impertinent.”

  “And yet I would advise you to listen to Mr. Maguire,” I said, as much to remind Blake of his disguise as to answer Morel.

  “Not now,” said Soyer. “I have too much to do. Thank the Lord that Mathilde is free. The committee asked—insisted—she not return to the kitchen for the moment, so I shall send her to help with the soup kitchen, if she is willing. A feminine touch. It is a perfect solution, non?”

  “It’s a fine solution,” said Blake. “Now, please, let me explain.”

  Reluctantly, Soyer and Morel moved closer and we all clustered by the range so we might not be heard.

  Blake pushed his glasses up his nose. “Perrin has no interest in politics or position, he simply wants to cook. And I think it would have been very easy for him to pick up something left near him, thinking it to be arrowroot.”

  “What do you mean?” said Morel.

  “Mr. Perrin is shortsighted. If I may say so, sirs, I know something about bad sight.” He tapped his spectacles (which, of course, were clear glass). “He does much to hide it, but he is so shortsighted he can barely make out anything unless it is very close to him. No doubt this is why the kitchen maids think his eyes are so ‘soft,’ and why he in turn can barely recognize them unless he stands very close.

  “When he works, he bends very close over his bowl, and reaches out for things without looking for them. I’d say he had memorized where he expects to find his salt and seasonings and picked the arsenic pot up by mistake.”

  Morel said, “Does arsenic feel like arrowroot?”

  “It can. It depends upon the size and texture of the grains,” said Soyer.

  Morel stared at him.

  “Someone deliberately placed the arsenic pot so that he would pick it up. Someone wanted him caught,” I said.

  “Yes, or to distract attention, or to throw the kitchen into more confusion.”

  “Who?” said Soyer.

  I looked at Morel. He did not look at me.

  Blake said nothing.

  “I am certain it is not Perrin. We will speak to the boy who tasted the sauce, and the cook who accused him, the soldier who took him,” I said.

  “But how should I proceed?” said Soyer.

  “Just as you said: go on as before, sir,” said Blake. “Do not lift your guard. Proceed as if the poisoner is still at large: soldiers watching cooks, cooks tasting everything.”

  Soyer was now leaning over his vast stew pan. “I shall barely have time to remake the sauces. I—we, have a great deal to do.”

  Blake nudged me.

  “With your permission, Monsieur Soyer, we have one small matter to discuss with Monsieur Morel.”

  “Gentlemen, please.”

  “It will not take long. And it is very important.”

  Soyer turned away from us. He did not want to hear any more.

  “André,” he said to Morel, “they will not stop until they have had their way. Take my office.”

  Morel said he must wash his hands. Blake stiffened: he thought he might run.

  “Are you sure of this?” I said quietly. “We may end up depriving Soyer of his right hand just after having lost Perrin. And if you are wrong—”

  “No alternative,” said Blake, as Morel returned to
us and we went to Soyer’s office.

  There was an awkward silence. I examined one of Soyer’s relish jars with great attention.

  Morel said, “You think it was I—”

  “You who what?” said Blake.

  “It was well known I did not like him, but—”

  “I wanted to ask about the boy who runs errands, the one who likes his food,” said Blake.

  Morel looked enormously relieved, but confused. “I know him. He’s a good boy. Quick at his tasks; we give him leftovers. How he loves them!”

  Blake watched him almost sadly.

  “He has made himself an errand boy for a number of the fine shops about Piccadilly,” I said.

  “Yes, he brings us spices and herbs and special ingredients. Chef and I have discussed offering him a position one day.”

  Blake nodded. “A fine opportunity for such a boy. He’s made himself a daily route. I see he does errands for Francobaldi as well.”

  “Does he? Well, as you know, Mr. Francobaldi cannot resist following where we lead.”

  I had no idea how to continue. I looked at Blake pleadingly.

  He said, “Mr. Morel, we know you are passing recipes to Francobaldi. We know that this boy takes them for you and goes to the Union Club, where he gives the envelopes to Mr. Francobaldi.”

  “That is absurd.”

  “Please, Mr. Morel,” I said. “I do not know why you have done it; I can only imagine that you must have felt forced to it somehow. Perhaps you feel—mistakenly, I am sure—that in some way your position here is at risk? I am certain it is not.”

  “I assure you, Captain Avery,” Morel said coldly, “I feel no such thing, and I must assume that this is some foolish attempt at a joke on your part. If not, I am deeply insulted that you should say such a thing.”

  I said, “Monsieur Morel, I am deeply sorry, but I know it to be the truth.”

  “I ask you not to persist with this nonsense, or I must have nothing more to say to you.” He gave me a look of anger and disappointment mixed, and walked away.

  “Mr. Morel.” It was Blake. “You must understand why Captain Avery raises this.”

  Morel continued to the door. Then he turned. “That you could think . . .” he said furiously.

  “Mr. Morel, we know.” Blake brought out of his pocket a sheaf of papers written upon in a neat, measured hand. “Croustades and filet de bœuf à la Jeanne d’Arc. Crayfish in champagne, Soyer’s lobsters with plover’s eggs.”

  “Let me see those!” Morel snatched a few pages from Blake’s hand.

  “Ha!” he said triumphantly. “What is this? These make no sense. Just a line of letters in no language I have ever seen.”

  “We know they are in code, Mr. Morel. Captain Avery and I were in Signals in India.” (This, in fact, was patently untrue on my account, but I knew Blake was well versed in such matters.) “You have just substituted one letter for another—it is not a hard code to crack—and the recipes are in French. And it will not be hard to prove that the writing is yours.”

  “Your manservant is quite a prodigy,” said Morel bitterly. “What else does he do, aside from deciphering codes and speaking French?”

  “He has Italian and a number of Hindoostanee dialects, Mr. Morel. I should add, we have these from Francobaldi’s office. We showed them to the boy. He knew they were the pages you gave to him because, once before, he had looked at them, out of curiosity. He is learning to read and hadn’t been able to make anything of them. He was most concerned that you would be cross with him for having let them into the hands of anyone else. Mr. Maguire persuaded him that we were acting under your instructions.”

  “How very considerate of you, Mr. Maguire.” He held himself straight, with the dignity of the condemned man.

  “I do not claim to know or understand your relations with Mr. Francobaldi,” I said, “but since you have chosen to act in such a manner, which, you must agree, is contrary to Monsieur Soyer’s interests, we have a duty to look into it and to see if anything connects it to the poisonings. Is there anything you can tell us about them?”

  He shook his head. “I should say, how could you think such a thing of me? But I see in your eyes I am quite traduced. I cannot believe that any chef would deliberately poison the food he cooks. That, I swear. If I had any idea where this could be issuing from . . .” He turned away, overcome, and we both averted our gaze. “Even so, this dinner is a stupid, stupid risk; I do not understand why Alexis is taking it. I think it may destroy him. As for the recipes, I felt I had no other course.”

  “Perhaps Francobaldi brought some impossible pressure to bear?” I said hopefully.

  He shook his head. “I did it willingly. Perrin will supersede me in a few months’ time. It is plain to see. And I have debts. I have worked hard for years, but I have little talent with money.”

  My own recent occupation of the Marshalsea came suddenly and horribly vivid before my eyes. It seemed absurd that such a place should be the fate of anyone who worked as industriously as Morel.

  “If you were in trouble, could you not have asked Soyer rather than betraying him? Surely he would have helped you?”

  “I told you, he sees Perrin as the future. I knew I must do something for myself. Francobaldi offered me a good deal of money. He believes the recipes will open up some avenue of opportunity from which he has hitherto been barred. He does not understand that he will never be of the first class. He is a copyist, and that is what he will always be.”

  He inspected his fingernails. “Shall we proceed to Alexis?”

  I would have nodded, but Blake said, “No.”

  We both gaped at him.

  “You will finish the preparations and remain his sous-chef, Morel, at least until after the banquet. He cannot afford to lose you now.”

  “And yet you accuse and shame me now?”

  “If you are willing to sell his secrets, what more would you be willing to do to harm him? We had to consider you a likely suspect for the poisonings.”

  “But now you do not?”

  “No.”

  Morel rubbed his face again. “I am glad to hear that. May I ask why?”

  Blake stared at him, boring into his eyes in that way he had. “It’s many things. But I am certain you are not the poisoner. And, given that, I think you should stay and see Soyer through this.”

  “If there are casualties from the dinner, I am doubly damned—for betraying him, and for preparing the dishes. I would never work again.”

  “Call it atonement for your sins. You owe it to him, and I believe you will feel worse if you leave now.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “You won’t get far. Soyer will be informed, and the police will come for you. There may not be a particular charge, but the fact that you have been betraying your chief will not dispose them well toward you. I would rather you saw this matter as a choice rather than an obligation.”

  “And if I stay?”

  “You get to make your peace with Soyer yourself.”

  Morel stared at Blake. “You are no manservant. Who are you?”

  Blake merely shrugged.

  • • •

  MRS. QUILL PERMITTED US to visit Matty—with a housemaid in attendance—in her housekeeper’s room on the first floor. The maid knitted quietly in a corner while Matty sat in a chair, curled up tight into a kind of ball and wrapped in a blanket. Her ordeal had left her strangely distracted but, as she talked, a powerful anger awoke in her as she spoke of Scott’s departure.

  “I’m glad he’s gone. I’ll thank Percy when I see him. Shake his hand. I always hated Scott,” she said. “Not two months gone he got a housemaid I knew, Esther, in the family way”—she paused and glanced at me—“with child, I mean. He promised her he’d see her all right. But the moment it showed, she was dismissed by Mrs. Quill, and not a
word from Scott. Bundled her out at daybreak, before I was even up. Nobody’s seen her since. He’d try it with any girl who’d oblige. He promised them treats and dinner, or a new scarf or bonnet, or to put in a word with Mr. Soyer, and if he thought he’d get away with it, he’d tell them they’d see no promotions if they didn’t. I bet that’s what he said to Netty.”

  “Did he try this with you, Matty?” I said, much troubled.

  “Me? Wouldn’t dare,” she said fiercely. “He knew I’d cut off his tallywags if he came near me.”

  “Matty!”

  The housemaid bent closer over her knitting.

  “He did try it once, when I first arrived and he thought I was green and easy, but I told him where to go. Then I was Soyer’s girl.”

  “Soyer’s girl?”

  “Oh, don’t you start. I mean, he showed me favor. I was sharp and hard-working and I could write and I was on the up. Well, that was then.”

  She looked at her hands. There was a small bruise along the side of her narrow wrist and the mark of a healing burn on the side of her right forefinger.

  “And will be again,” I said.

  “We’ll see. They’ve let me out, but they won’t let me back in the kitchen.”

  “And Soyer has placed you in charge of the Spitalfields kitchen. Over all those cooks. He shows his confidence in you.”

  “Not in charge. They wouldn’t listen to me. Not now.”

  She was silent for a moment, then she said, “Someone said Scott used to be a major domo in a claphouse for posh toffer.”

  “Matty!” I said. “We cannot talk about such things! You cannot know such things!”

  “Damn, Captain, I spent five years on Holywell Street! What do you think I didn’t see? You know what gets me? Everyone knew what he was up to; no one spoke of it. What I minded was that, at least on the street, you knew what to expect; it was honest in its way. Here, the kitchen maids and the housemaids are told to preserve their virtue and not have their heads turned, but nothing was said when he preyed on them.” She turned from me. “Tell me, Blake, am I wrong? Is there something I don’t understand? Men lie and misbehave and get away with it. I knew what it was like in Holywell Street, but I always thought that somewhere like this would be different. And now I wonder if there’s anything but hypocrisy anywhere.”