Gourmet Detective (21 page)

“M'm,” she said complacently. “That would explain it.”

I took out my diary and made a pretence of making a note.

“Your name is—?”

“Dr Margaret Evans.” So much for hot ideas. She wasn't the Dr F on the blackboard. “Did Ivor Jenkinson have a doctor of his own?”

“I suppose he must have had. Probably didn't consult him much though. He was a very healthy individual.”

“Can you tell me his name?”

She rose and went to a cabinet. After a moment, she came back with a card in her hand. “Dr William Stanley, Weymouth Street.”

Another blank. “How detailed is that file on IJ?” I asked. “For instance, did he have any allergies?”

She examined the card. “None shown here.”

“Food allergies?”

“Nothing here.” She put the card down. “Terrible business,” she said. I nodded. “Never speak ill of the dead, of course—but he wasn't a man who was liked. What have you found out? What was the cause of death?”

“That is confidential at the moment,” I said pompously.

“Professional interest, that's all,” she assured me.

I thanked her and exited. I made my way out into the yard and across the parking area. At the guard gate, a window opened.

I turned and waved past a couple of cars. “Thanks, Millie.”

“Oh, saw you back here, did she?” the commissionaire asked, trying in vain to spot the invisible Millie. “We have strict rules about people being escorted at all times.”

“You're very efficient about it too,” I told him.

I hastened off to study the immortal notes of IJ, hoping they would give me some clue about something. At the moment they were as incomprehensible as a menu at a Korean restaurant.

I phoned Winnie from the office. Perhaps I was feeling slightly guilty about having gone sleuthing at St Leger's apartment and at the NTV studios. Inspector Hemingway had been firm—well, more than firm really—in his insistence that I must not get involved in the investigation into the death of IJ. But hadn't he said himself that he believed it was mixed up with my assignment for Le Trouquet d'Or? How could I know which investigation was which unless I investigated?

That sounded convincing to me anyway. So I needn't feel guilty and besides I wanted to know what was new with the Food Squad—and well, yes, I did want to talk to Winnie.

She answered promptly.

“Any progress?” she asked.

“A few things,” I said vaguely. “I'm not sure what they add up to—perhaps you can help me figure them out.”

“What are they?” She was brisk and businesslike today.

“I don't think we can discuss them properly over the phone,” I said. “Is there anything at your end?”

“We've pretty well exhausted the list of relatives. None of them are close and none have had any contact which indicates any animosity. As for his friends—well, there's not much there either except that he really didn't have any.”

“That's what I've heard,” I agreed.

“As for his colleagues at NTV—well, you know the situation there as well as I do.”

Her tone was light but I didn't have a response ready.

“Impersonating a police officer is an offence punishable under Code 2244—” she was continuing. She didn't sound too harsh and I took a chance and threw myself on the mercy of the Law. She hadn't mentioned St Leger. Did she know about my visit there too? Probably not but I'd better not push my luck too far.

“I haven't actually impersonated a—”

“I know. You allowed them to jump to wrong conclusions.” She even chuckled slightly. “Don't worry—I haven't told the inspector.” What a wonderful girl! “Did you learn anything?”

“Nobody liked IJ,” I said quickly, thankful for the diversion. “That doesn't seem to be news though. But I can't believe that anyone there had any reason to kill him. If indeed, he was killed …”I left the sentence dangling, hoping Winnie would take it up. She did.

“It looks that way. Forensic agrees that the heavy dose of bacillus that killed him is out of proportion to the minor doses that the others received. They're also saying that such a dosage seems excessive—even for the most virulent lamprey.”

I took a deep breath. “Then it's murder?”

She didn't answer right away. Then she said:

“I'm not going to mention to the inspector that your detecting might have strayed into our investigation—and in return, I want you to keep what I'm going to tell you in the strictest confidence.”

“All right!” I assured her at once. Not even Sexton Blake or Lord Peter Wimsey were taken into the confidence of the Yard!

“The inspector doesn't want to issue a definite statement that it was murder because then we—as the Food Squad—would have to turn the investigation over to Homicide.”

“How long can you hold out?”

“A few days only. The inspector is determined to solve it in that time.”

“Do you think he can?” I asked.

“When the inspector determines to do something, he usually does it.”

“But at the moment, you don't really have a suspect?”

“No,” said Winnie. “Do you?”

“I think I'm getting close.”

“Oh?” She sounded surprised.

“Give me a day or two. I should have something for you by then.”

She wanted to ask more but she said, “Very well. Keep in touch—oh, and be careful.”

She hung up before I could ask her what she meant by that.

F
OR BREAKFAST, I MADE
some muesli. I always make my own—it's not that much more difficult than opening a packet.

Muesli started out as a mixture of oats, milk, apple and nuts. It was an instant hit because of its natural freshness and its high nutritional value. Health food stores make it easy to obtain all the ingredients and I like to be able to ring the changes and use whatever happens to be in the kitchen.

This morning, I had some rolled oats, some wheat flakes, rye flakes, some plain yoghurt, a little honey, a few raisins, some walnuts and some left-over apple sauce. Bananas, dried apricots or pineapple are good too if I have them. In fact, it's always good and never the same twice. Would Dr Bircher-Benner from Zurich recognise it? I wondered.

On the way to the office, I detoured so as to look at Hammersmith Pier. Being so close to it, I'd seen it countless times but I wanted to have another look at the place where thousands of lamprey had been washed up dead. One lamprey is a frightening sight—almost prehistoric in appearance. Thousands must have been terrifying—the crowds would have been enormous.

From the “Unfinished Business” file, I plucked the letter from Dunsingham Castle and jotted down a few ideas as a start towards a proper reply.

One recommendation I wanted to make was that “Egur-douce” should be on the menu. This is kid—young goat—and a very ancient dish. The roast kid of the Holy Land perfumes the pages of the Bible with its appetising aroma. It is the roast of patriarchs and kings and retained its popularity into the Middle Ages. The meat is browned then cooked with ginger, raisins, onions and red wine.

Swan deserved some consideration if Dunsingham Castle really wanted to present authentic mediaeval food but it would take an expert chef to reduce the oiliness of the flesh which gives the swan its resistance to the water in which it spends its life. The texture can be leathery too though marinating could take care of that. The castle might have to prepare itself for a siege as the conservationists would probably storm the walls. Still, that could be a bonus—a real-life spectacle.

A wild boar's head would be very impressive but dressing it is a long and expensive business. Other dishes, more orthodox, could be included and would be safer in appealing to the general taste. Steak and kidney pudding, leg of lamb with dumplings and thin sirloin steak covered with oysters would be good choices. Desserts should be no problem as many of the mediaeval desserts are similar to those of today—Madeira cake, rum gateau and many fruit dishes. A nice touch would be trays of jellies and blancmanges, carved or moulded into the shapes of animals, birds, crowns and miniature castles.

I re-assembled my notes on the wines suitable for a barbecue at Graceworthy Manor and prepared them for typing. Then I turned to the mail. It contained one letter which promptly intrigued me.

It was from a woman who said she was compiling a book of famous meals. She had heard of a dinner given by the Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo to celebrate his unique feat. Could I provide details? She offered a small fee. I'm a sucker for bizarre questions like that and I would enjoy this one. I recollected reading about the dinner to which the lady referred and believed it was in one of the books by that celebrated caviar taster (yes, as a profession), André Launay. I had a copy in the flat and would look it up.

There was an invitation to a testimonial dinner. I don't usually attend those and was about to throw it in the waste basket when I noticed that the dinner was for Per Larsson. I set it aside to read later.

Another letter introduced its writer as with a group seeking a ban on synthetic food colourings. It urged my support for this worthwhile cause on the grounds that these are “unnatural”.

I would certainly send them some comments that might be helpful and perhaps correct some misapprehensions. For instance, when peas are canned, their natural green colour is destroyed and has to be replaced with an artificial colouring. Who would eat colourless peas? A great variety of natural food colouring substances is available but most of them are not used because they are unstable. Artificial colours are so much more stable. Stability is, of course, not the most important consideration but natural substances can be just as harmful as artificial ones. Spinach wouldn't be allowed on the market if it were a synthetic product. It contains as much as 1 per cent oxalic acid and one fifth of an ounce of oxalic acid can be fatal to humans. Altogether a very tricky subject, food colouring. It would be my public service for the day to give this group some pointers on where to go for further information.

There was the usual number of requests and invitations that I didn't want to accept and several offers that I couldn't refuse. I refused them. Mrs Shearer answered at once when I called and she said she would come down and collect my typing. Usually, she sent one of the girls but she was burning with curiosity about my new status.

She bustled in and I handed her the folder.

“Is everything going all right?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“It's a very perplexing affair,” I said solemnly. “But have no fear—we'll get to the bottom of it.”

“Not dangerous, is it?” she breathed.

“There are always risks involved in this kind of work.”

As we went to the door, she asked in a hushed voice:

“Have you ever been shot?”

I regarded her briefly. “Do flesh wounds count?” I asked.

We went out and I locked the door and headed for the stairs, leaving her standing there with the folder in her hand and an awed expression.

I took the bus to Streatham and walked to Bookery Cooks. It was mid-morning and too early for the pretty and enthusiastic young cooks to be offering any food but they were at work, chopping and preparing. Michael took me into the office and called to Marita for a pot of coffee.

“How's the Great Detective today?”

I outlined what had happened so far. He pushed his glasses back up into place every time they slid down.

“Sounds like murder to me,” he commented when I finished. “And probably tied up with all those other events,” he said.

“I'm beginning to think so too. The Yard are at the point of conceding that such a high level of poison—and in IJ only—is not very likely.”

Michael nodded agreement.

“An unpopular man—our TV star,” he said. “Nobody liked him but who disliked him enough to kill him? And why?”

“You're not the first with that observation. If he was killed though—then the comments he made while affected by the botulin may have a direct bearing on something he had found out.”

“Something which someone at that dinner wanted kept silent,” added Michael. “But those other people absorbed some poison too. How does that fit in with IJ getting a deadly dose?”

I took out my diary. “There may—just may—be a clue or two here.”

Michael glowed. “I say, Holmes, this is exciting!”

“Keep your smock on, doctor. Let's see what any of this might mean—we'll go through the Musgrave Ritual.”

I copied from my diary on to a sheet of paper the inscriptions I had taken from the board at NTV studios. On further viewing, they didn't look that promising but Michael's ingenuity knows no limits and I watched as he studied the sheet.

“Where did you find these?” he asked.

I told him where and how. “So IJ did write them—we can be sure of that.”

He read out the items, one by one.

“Dr F—BF CC. VDZH St Armand—12, 9.30.”

He read them out again, more slowly.

“One of the fellows at the studio—knew IJ a little—said the last one was probably a payment to one of IJ's informers.”

“Whose initials are A.S.?”

“Possibly.”

Michael moved his finger to the first item.

“Dr F? Who's he?”

“A mystery man so far. The doctor at the studios doesn't have those initials nor does IJ's private doctor.”

“H'm, not much to follow up there.” Michael moved to the second item. “Maybe this is more promising.”

“Go ahead, Mr Enigma, decipher.”

“Nine thirty—sounds like a time. If it is, 12 may refer to a date.” He pulled a desk calendar closer. “Four days before IJ died!”

“Good, Michael. And the rest? Is there a hospital called St Armand's? Maybe that's where our Dr F is!”