Murder Makes an Entree (21 page)

‘I know you wanted to try it, Mr Didier,’ he said.

‘Where did you get it, Alfred?’ enquired Alice anxiously. ‘You didn’t go clambering over the cliffs, did you?’

‘No,’ said Alfred shortly. He had no wish to confess that he had visited Madame Mantela, a lady palmist in Margate, in order
to discover what his future might hold, the results of which had been far from reassuring.

But not even the prospect of experimenting with cooking samphire raised a sense of oppression that evening; such conversations
as were half-heartedly begun petered out.

‘Tomorrow afternoon,
mes amis
. I see Inspector Rose again, and then perhaps he will have news for us so that we can resume our holiday,’ Auguste said optimistically.
He did not believe it. But seven pairs of eyes fastened on him at this news, each with their separate thoughts.

Charles Dickens seemed to have stayed in a remarkable number of houses in Broadstairs, the Lionisers were beginning to feel,
looking at their itinerary on Thursday morning. They seemed destined to study every single house exhaustively. It was perhaps
only in the last ten years that Broadstairs had fully come to realise what treasure trove lay buried in its midst, and plaques
began enthusiastically to sprout everywhere. Aged residents were suddenly objects
of pilgrimage from such far-off places as America, and soon there were few people over sixty who did not have some hastily
dusted-down anecdote, remembered, borrowed or adjusted, ready for eager visitors. The Lionisers somewhat mystified them, since
they were perversely not content with the usual stories, but demanded to know dates, times and exact locations and had an
annoying habit of checking these against vast volumes of Letters and Lives. Why books should know better than them was puzzling
to Bradstonians, but they were anxious to please their visitors so did their best to comply.

The first call this Thursday morning was the very first house that Mr Dickens had rented on his very first never-to-be-forgotten
visit to the village in 1837, No. 12 High Street. From this tiny house had flowed some at least of the immortal words that
the world had come to know as
The Pickwick Papers
. Now thirty-five intrepid Lionisers were gazing at the outside of the small single-fronted cottage with its tiny parlour
overlooking the street. The owner’s wife looked nervously out at the throng from behind her lace curtains. ‘Here,’ began Samuel
Pipkin loudly, ‘Mr Dickens spent August and September 1837. Here he found inspiration—’

‘And pears,’ interjected Gwendolen, who had been reading her guide books. ‘There’s an old pear tree in the garden.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Figgis-Hewett,’ said Samuel crossly; he proceeded with his speech, only to be interrupted again by the owner’s
wife who hesitantly opened the door, a less than enthusiastic expression on her face. It was agreed that only ten people should
tramp round the tiny cottage at a time; the remainder were forced to mingle with the morning shoppers and then to walk on
to the old St Mary’s Chapel, which once had held the shrine of Our Lady of Bradstow and to which passing ships would lower
their sails in honour. But it had nothing to do with Mr Dickens, the Lionisers thought, impatient to be on their way.

Lord Beddington was gazing hopefully into Randalls, the bookmakers. True, Goodwood was over, but betting went on, thank goodness.
The Charing Races were on this afternoon. He was debating between a horse called the Prince of Wales and an outsider called
Pretty Polly. He decided on the latter, for once on impulse, not form. The Prince of Wales could hardly be said to be a good
luck symbol at the moment.

‘Who do you think killed Sir Thomas, Lord Beddington?’ Angelina’s voice made him jump and he forgot all about Pretty Polly,
and all about his chances of sneaking away from the Canterbury trip tomorrow to see the second day of the Kent versus Australia
match. Dickens was all very well, but cricket was better. Faced with such a direct question, and from Mrs Langham, he felt
obliged to reply. He could not take refuge in a timely snooze.

‘Plenty of people would like to have done,’ he said, more forthcoming than she expected. ‘Nothing against him myself,’ he
added hastily, ‘but lots of rumours. Heard of the Barings Crisis?’

‘Yes,’ said Angelina doubtfully. It was a long time ago and her head had been full of balls and parties, not City uproars,
when she was twenty-one.

‘Nine years ago, nearly. Barings nearly went down for over twenty million. That would have punched a few holes in the City’s
sang-froid, I can tell you.’ He contemplated this thought for a moment. ‘The Government refused to intervene. Governor of
the Bank of England stepped in. Organised a seven-million guarantee. Cracked the whip in the City. No banks to call in loans.
Crisis averted, City settles down. Baring’s now stronger than ever.’

‘Thomas involved?’ asked Angelina, inadvertently falling into his Mr Jingle-like speech.

‘One bank refused to comply with the Bank of England
and threatened to call in its brokers’ loans. Bank of England not pleased. Told him so. Changed his mind rapidly. Rumour has
it Throgmorton’s bank did same thing – didn’t get found out. Did very nicely out of it, too.’ He didn’t add that he had too,
and Throgmorton knew it.

‘Do you think anyone here knew of that?’

‘I did,’ rumbled Beddington virtuously. ‘My firm had one of the loans called in. It made me wary of Throgmorton – but it doesn’t
make me a murderer nine years later.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean to imply—’

‘Yes, you did.’ A rare smile crossed his face. ‘You should try Pipkin. Try saying diamonds to him. Australian diamonds.’ He
positively chuckled.

‘You don’t think, by any chance,’ said Angelina, taking advantage of his obvious and inexplicable good humour, and noting
the untraditional and definitely garish silk handkerchief in his pocket, ‘that the poison was intended for you? Sir Thomas
did not drink from your glass for any reason?’

Lord Beddington looked dumbfounded. ‘Me? No one would want to murder
me
, madam.’

‘There’s no one who bears you a grudge?’

‘Good heavens, no.’ He was almost hurt. ‘Except that young rascal of course. Can’t remember his name. One of the waiters.
Ah, called after a tree. Poplar. That’s it. Came up before me on the bench once. Gave him a stiff sentence in a House of Correction
to teach him better ways. I could tell he was a wrong ’un. Had a quick hand with the safe and an even quicker eye to the jewels.
I had a notion we’d be hearing more of him. And, see, I was right!’ he concluded triumphantly.

‘But his being here is coincidence, surely? He had no reason to kill Sir Thomas, did he?’

‘You tell me, my dear.’ Glancing over his shoulder, he
disappeared quickly into the bookmakers’. Pipkin was advancing to summon the next party.

Indefatigably the Lionisers prowled their way along Albion Street and surged up the narrow Fort Road, but this time they stopped
before they got to Fort House. Their prey this morning was Lawn House, lying just below it on the hillside. Here Dickens stayed
for his holiday one year, baulked of being able to rent Fort House as he desired. ‘A small villa between the hill and the
cornfield,’ quoted Samuel rapturously. He had almost forgotten his previous dislike of Dickens, carried away by the opportunities
for rhetoric that the Great Man was so unexpectedly granting him.

The owner opened the door and almost closed it again. He was used to groups of two or three respectful Americans, not prides
of culture-hungry Lionisers.

Gwendolen was clad in dark grey and was wearing the hat she had just purchased from the Iduns Brothers Bazaar. This was not
her usual choice of milliner, but it possessed the only dark-coloured hat in Broadstairs apparently. She had decided not to
attend the funeral, believing now that dignified restraint was her best role. She had become rather confused as to what had
actually happened between Thomas and herself. She was, however, quite astute enough to realise the purport of all Oliver Michaels’
carefully thought-out questions.

‘You mean, could I have administered poison to Sir Thomas? The idea is absurd,’ she announced loftily. ‘And, moreover, highly
objectionable. I loved him. Besides, when could I have done it?’ she asked, more practically.

Oliver had his own ideas on this, which he could hardly put to Mrs Figgis-Hewett; they involved her dramatic appearance before
the dinner began when he had worked out she could have added something to Sir Thomas’s drink in the confusion.

‘No, my dear young man,’ she smiled, assuming she had won her point, ‘if you seek a villain, look no further!’ Her finger
shot out; it pointed to Samuel Pipkin.

Samuel was moving determinedly into position before the last house of the morning, the private dwelling on the seafront where
Mary Strong had chased away donkeys from the grassland in front of her cottage, thus inspiring Dickens to create Miss Betsy
Trotwood in
David Copperfield
, though he tactfully set her residence in Dover.

‘Donkeys, Janet,’ Gwendolen trilled again, but the will to fight had left her, and she easily ceded place of honour to Samuel.
He marched victorious into the parlour where David Copperfield himself had sat. And Charles Dickens too no doubt. It was notable
that Samuel had made no mention of Thackeray for over forty-eight hours.

Angelina had worried how best to approach Mr Pipkin tactfully, but Oliver had no such social qualms.

‘Diamonds,’ he announced thoughtfully as Samuel emerged from the parlour into Nuckell’s Place. Samuel jumped, distracted from
his next address on the beauty of the old Assembly Rooms. But he was no easy target. He was not to be swayed from duty. An
eye on Gwendolen, he ostentatiously produced his copy of
Our Watering Place
and began to read.

‘“This is a bleak chamber in our watering place which is yet called the Assembly Rooms and understood to be available on hire
for balls or concerts, and, some few seasons since, an ancient gentleman came down who said that he had danced there in bygone
ages with the Honourable Miss Peepy, well known to have been the Beauty of her day and the cruel occasion of innumerable duels.”
Ah,’ Samuel commented, eyes now anywhere but on Gwendolen ‘how cruel is age, how poignantly Mr Dickens portrays it and how
recognisable even today is Miss Peepy.’ Polite cough.

‘I am not a Miss Peepy,’ shouted Gwendolen, more infuriated than wounded. Angelina hurried to her in concern, but she shook
her arm off. ‘I have been silent’ (this was news to the Lionisers) ‘but my lips shall be sealed no longer. Ask him about his
diamond ventures in Australia and poor Thomas.’

Samuel turned red, then white. ‘I have nothing to say,’ he said and stomped off.

Gwendolen, thoroughly upset by the morning’s events but mindful of her appointment for dinner that evening, decided to slip
into Mr Horrell’s, in order to purchase some of his advertised Special Skin Soap, In the doorway she met the subject of her
dinner appointment himself. Lord Beddington, mindful of the same appointment, was rather optimistically emerging from the
shop with a bottle of Lockyers Sulphur Hair-restorer, and six tablets of Amiral soap (‘Removes Burden of Corpulency’).

Auguste was singing an old song of Provence as he worked, then changed countries and song to ‘My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose’.
Araminta was in his mind. He was content. He had spent much time on the pier with William and Joe and had returned to find
his pupils assembled, eager to learn for once. They had all been hard at work ever since. He was cooking; murder was, for
the moment at any rate, not in his thoughts, the sun was at last shining in the way it should do on a seaside holiday, and
there were still three more days of holiday to go. Three days of Araminta. Moreover, to complete his joy, William and Joe,
as if taking pity on him, had produced some delicious Dover sole and some more delicious John Dory with the promise of other
delights to come. Perhaps for tomorrow he would prepare a true
aioli de morue
. No, he would not. Why should they eat salt fish, when William and Joe commanded the seas? Yesterday he had taught the class
about the wonders of John
Dory. Today they would enjoy a
Saint Pierre au gratin
for luncheon with a true
salade niçoise
. Tonight the sole. What should—

He never came to a conclusion for Angelina and Oliver came at just the wrong moment, just as the fish required the hand of
the maître. Once again, he left the pupils to superintend the luncheon and departed into the small parlour to hear their story.
Really, detective work was all very well, but not when it interfered with
cuisine
.

‘So you see, Mr Pipkin did have a real motive,’ said Angelina excitedly. ‘Lord Beddington explained that five or six years
ago the Australian banking organisation broke down altogether and nobody stepped in to save it. Many people were ruined. Mr
Pipkin had been advised to put his money into diamond mining and it was handled through this Australian bank. He lost nearly
all his money. His adviser had been Thomas Throgmorton. Beddington thinks Pipkin thinks,’ concluded Angelina confusedly, ‘that
Sir Thomas did it on purpose because he disliked Pipkin.’

‘But when could Mr Pipkin have given the poison to Sir Thomas?’ asked Auguste reasonably. ‘He was at the far end of the table;
he had no opportunity.’

‘He could have done it beforehand when we met for drinks and everyone’s attention was on Mrs Figgis-Hewett,’ said Angelina,
albeit with a feeling of disloyalty to a fellow female.

‘This is possible,’ admitted Auguste, ‘but doubtful. And does it not make the time problem even worse? Sir Thomas drank a
lot of coffee, and as this is often given as an enema in atropine poisoning cases, it might have led to his being sick, perhaps
even delayed the onset of symptoms. Yet I feel it is unlikely to have delayed it so long.’

‘So you don’t give us full marks, Mr Didier.’ Oliver was disappointed.

‘You carry out excellent research,’ said Auguste
diplomatically. ‘But now it is for me, the analyst, to take over. We must sort out these ingredients and consider their relevance
to the final dish.’