Murder Makes an Entree by Amy Myers Read Free Book Online Page A

Gwendolen.
    Auguste had received a double blow. Not only had the dreaded name of Soyer been uttered, but Dickens had chosen the menu.
     Yet to the best of his recollection, he could remember no succulent descriptions of food in the novels, no overpowering sense
     of its central place in the affairs of men. An appreciation of food yes, but of cuisine? No.
    Now his worst suspicions were confirmed. This Dickens was an admirer of Soyer and his cooking, and he, Auguste Didier, was
     commanded by his future sovereign to cook a Dickensian banquet
à la Soyer
. He could not endure the humiliation. Some escape must be found.
    As if understanding his thoughts, the lady referred to as Angelina was looking at him with compassion. ‘I’m sure, Mr Didier,
     you will succeed very well. You have not earned your reputation for nothing. My friend Lady Jane Marshall was mentioning your
     name to me the other day,’ she emphasised innocently.
    He almost smiled; the young Lady Jane from Stockbery Towers, now married to Walter Marshall and the mother of three budding
     politicians aged six, three and one.
    ‘I am most grateful, madame,’ he replied genuinely. Had she not spoken, he might have committed
une bétise
.
    ‘Soup,’ declared Sir Thomas, anxious to get on with the matter of the moment. ‘Mutton broth or Scotch broth. Understand, Didier?’
    ‘But it is July,’ expostulated Auguste, all his good intentions of calm deserting him.
    ‘I know that,’ said Sir Thomas testily, angry that his idol had not produced lighter alternatives. ‘Any suggestions from your
     readings of Dickens?’ he asked sarcastically.
    ‘Fish soup,’ intervened Samuel Pipkin brightly. ‘A sort of soup, or broth, or brew,’ he quoted dreamily from the Great Master,
     in his case Thackeray. ‘The Ballad of Bouillabaisse,’ he added for those not fortunate enough to be so well acquainted with
     the immortal works as he washimself. Auguste’s interest quickened. This Thackeray sounded a more sensible writer than he had thought him.
    ‘Pah, Thackeray,’ snorted Sir Thomas. ‘A mere plagiarist.’
    Samuel leapt to his feet, spluttering with rage. ‘You will retract that, sir. You will apologise.’
    ‘My dear fellow,’ Sir Thomas smiled condescendingly, ‘you must agree that many of his scenes and characters are based on Mr
     Dickens’s—’
    ‘You lie.’
    ‘Mr Pipkin,’ said Angelina softly. ‘This is not the place.’
    Samuel glanced at Auguste, and subsided into his chair. But the look he turned on Sir Thomas was inimical. Another unforgivable
     sin had been added to the catalogue of his crimes.
    ‘Any other suggestions?’ enquired Sir Thomas complacently.
    There was none.
    Auguste racked his brains wildly, but they failed to produce any suitable Dickensian memories. He sighed. ‘Soup,’ he wrote
     down. ‘Mutton broth.’
    ‘Dimpled over with fat,’ added Oliver Michaels, ‘to make it a true Dickensian dish.’
    Sir Thomas looked up. ‘I feel we can dispense with the fat dimpling, Mr Michaels.’
    Here Auguste was in horrified accord.
    ‘A barrel of oysters,’ Lord Beddington woke up suddenly. ‘Read that somewhere in old Dickens. Sensible fellow. Don’t do things
     by halves, eh?’
    ‘And oysters,’ amended Sir Thomas, aware of the need to placate his one stable supporter.
    ‘They are out of season, sir,’ murmured Auguste weakly. ‘But I will try.’
    ‘Kippered salmon,’ suggested Samuel sulkily, thus revealing a knowledge of Dickens that he would neverotherwise confess to – save in an attempt to out-Dickens Sir Thomas.
    ‘No!’ thundered, Sir Thomas. ‘Lobster salad to follow. As in
The Pickwick Papers
.’
    Auguste relaxed. Here, at least, was something one could present to the palate of the Prince of Wales. But would lobsters
     be obtainable by then? He would ensure they were. He would talk to the fishermen.
    ‘Now. The entrée. I think we’re all agreed?’ Sir Thomas looked triumphantly round the table