The proof of the pudding, p.12
The Proof of the Pudding, page 12
“And yet here I am, near to death’s door, having eaten a meal cooked by you.”
“Have you seen a doctor yet?” I asked.
“He is supposedly on his way,” Sir Mordred said. “I gather trees have been brought down in this storm. But what good can a doctor do? A load of quacks, all of them. He’ll prod me and then tell me I ate something that didn’t agree with me. He’ll tell me to stick to crackers and tonic water. Then he’ll charge me a guinea for the trouble.”
“Sir Mordred,” I said. “The strange thing is that we all ate the same food. Our party is all fine.” As I said this I remembered that the explorer had had an unpleasant experience in the night but now had recovered. And then there was Queenie. “I ate the food and I am in a rather delicate condition at the moment. So how do you explain your current state?”
“Something he served was off, obviously.”
“But let’s go through the menu,” I said. “The crab was very fresh, as I saw the crabs running around my kitchen only a few hours before dinner. The caviar?” I turned to Pierre.
“Came from the finest supplier in London and was kept on ice.” He tossed out the words in French as a challenge. I had to translate. “The fish were sent up from a fisherman on the coast who caught them yesterday morning. Also the shrimp. The duck were supplied by you and cooked in your kitchen, but I examined them carefully and they were fine birds. Apart from that the vegetables and fruit came from your garden and the cream from our local farmer. There was nothing that could have spoiled before being served. As you know, your kitchen is quite cool.” He paused, considering. “Maybe one of those canapés that were not prepared by me? Prepared by your chef, eh? They were out in hot sun. It is just possible…”
I duly translated.
“I have spoken with Mr. Henman,” Sir Mordred said. “He assures me that the canapés were only brought up from the kitchen the moment before they were needed and were made of the freshest ingredients.”
“There you are, then.” Pierre spread his hands in a dramatic shrug. “There is no explanation except that perhaps you do not tolerate one of the foods served? There are people who cannot eat shellfish, who cannot eat cream…”
“I have a wonderfully strong constitution,” Sir Mordred said. “I have no such problems.”
“I wish we could be of more help,” Darcy said, “but it does appear that the chef is blameless in this.” He paused, looked at me for confirmation. “So if there’s nothing more we can do, we should perhaps take Pierre back to our house so that he can prepare our lunch.”
There was the sound of a telephone ringing at the other end of the house. We broke off talking, and a moment of tense silence followed as the rain lashed the windows and a fierce draft came down the chimney, sending sparks whirling up from the fire. Footsteps could be heard coming toward us. Edwin entered, looking somber.
“That was Miss Ormorod, Father,” he said. “She was also taken ill during the night.”
Sir Mordred looked furious. “There you are! What did I tell you? Something that bloody Frenchman served us was just not right. Isn’t part of the crab supposed to be poisonous? I know there are parts you have to discard when you dress it. Never done it myself.”
Pierre had not understood this and I translated. He waved his arms dramatically. “Do you not think I know how to dress a crab?” he replied in French. “Me, I have dressed hundreds of crabs. I know the good meat. And the good brown crab butter. I know these. I am a trained chef.”
I duly translated. Sir Mordred did not look convinced. “If it wasn’t the crab, then what was it? Something has made me and my guests unpleasantly sick.” He attempted to sit up again and waved a finger at Edwin. “Go and telephone the rest of the guests. Let’s see if anyone else has been stricken.”
We waited, still standing, as we had not been invited to sit. I glanced nervously at Darcy, then at Pierre, who was still looking defiant. An uneasy thought was going through my head. Pierre had boasted to me about being a communist. He had taken this job because he wanted to further his standing as a chef, but what if he secretly despised our kind of people and was out to get us? He had had complete access to the gardens, after all. Could he have sneaked into the poison garden when he was supposed to be picking fresh fruits and vegetables and added something lethal to one of the dishes?
I stole a glance in his direction. He still looked defiant and a little scared. Would there not have been an air of triumph if he had scored a point for the communists against the idle rich?
At last we heard feet coming back toward us. Edwin came in.
“Not good news, I’m afraid,” he said. “Mr. Mallowan was also ill during the night but is feeling considerably better this morning. Mrs. Bancroft, that obnoxious lady, was sick in the night and is still horribly weak. At death’s door, as she described it. She said she knew no good would come from employing a foreign chef.” He paused, trying not to grin. “I couldn’t get hold of your film actors. Mr. Grossman said he’d be in touch with them, but he himself was fine. Lord and Lady Mountjoy were in good health and thanked me for the lovely dinner. I’ve no idea where to locate Mr. and Mrs. Crump. And nobody answered when I called Mr. and Mrs. Halliday, so they must be out and about. He’s a farmer, isn’t he? I expect he’s milking something.”
“So there you are, then,” Sir Mordred said, pointing a finger at Pierre. “Two more people stricken during the night. Luckily they have both recovered. But I’m going to look into this, trust me. I presume there was some food left over from last night’s banquet? I shall take it to my laboratory and see if any of it was tainted.” He paused, considering this. “Or maybe doctored? Didn’t this man confess to being a communist? Well then, now we have our answer, don’t we? He bears a grudge. He has a mission to do away with us. Why else did he take the job? He wants to eradicate the aristocrats of the world.”
Pierre had not understood this rapid tirade and I thought it wiser not to translate for him at this moment.
“Oh, I say,” Darcy said. “Let’s not leap to conclusions and judge a chap because he’s foreign.”
“Well, we shall see, shan’t we?” Sir Mordred sat up fully and threw off the eiderdown. “He did not reckon with my having a laboratory in my house. I have never tried testing food before, but I’ll give it a good shot. Edwin. Help me to stand up. We’ll go down to the kitchen and take a closer look.” He gave a dramatic groan as Edwin helped him to his feet. “He forgets that I have created one of the cleverest detectives in literature. A small crime like this would seem nothing to him.”
And he set off across the morning room.
Chapter 17
July 26
At Blackheart Manor
Things are not looking good for Pierre. The one thing I can’t understand is how some people became ill and others did not. I do hope we can clear this up quickly. I really like Pierre. And I adore his food! I’d hate to lose him and go back to Queenie.
Sir Mordred looked even whiter and paler than ever by the time we descended to the kitchen.
“Fetch me a chair, Edwin,” he said. Darcy pulled one out before Edwin could reach it. Sir Mordred plumped onto it and wiped the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief.
“Right, young man,” he said. “Bring me whatever was left from last night.”
“If you wish,” Pierre said. “You will find no wrong.”
He spotted the terrified kitchen maid trying to hide in a corner.
“You, girl. Cherchez crabs,” he said, his arms miming words he didn’t know. “Bring all foods from the menu. Your master wishes to taste them again.”
He stomped off to retrieve some dishes for himself.
Edwin was standing behind his father and gave me a worried look.
“Should you really be doing this?” I asked Sir Mordred. “You’re awfully weak. It’s not good for you to exert yourself too much.”
“We have to strike while the iron is hot, young lady,” he said. “By tomorrow the food would all be disposed of.”
I considered this. “If Pierre had done something to contaminate the food deliberately, do you really think he’d leave the evidence lying around to be examined? He’d have had plenty of chance to dispose of it last night and we’d have been left with no proof.”
I saw a shadow of doubt cross his face. “Well, maybe I did go too far. I’m feeling so god-awful right now that my temper is not the best.”
“It’s not the best at the best of times, Father,” Edwin said dryly. “You get upset when anything doesn’t go your way. It’s your nature.”
“True, I suppose,” Sir Mordred said, “but we have to get to the bottom of this. I have a reputation to live up to. I cannot let the word get out that people become sick at my parties.”
“It might be rather good for your reputation, Father,” Edwin commented. He had perched himself on one edge of the kitchen table and looked almost as if he was enjoying this. “If you can work out what poisoned everybody, you can tell the tale when you give your next speeches.”
“This is not amusing, boy,” Sir Mordred said. “I don’t think you realize how sick I was during the night. Spilling my guts. If I had had a weaker constitution it might have been the end of me. And that old woman, Miss Ormorod. She might well have succumbed. She still might. And then what, eh? A murder case on our hands. Police investigating?”
Pierre returned carrying a couple of tureens with their lids on. The kitchen maid followed, carrying more bowls. Pierre set his down on the table in front of Sir Mordred a little too forcefully. “Voilà,” he said. “My dishes. Crab mousse. Duck. Soup. Fish. And the dessert.”
Sir Mordred took the bowl containing the crab mousse. He sniffed it, tasted it, then passed it to us. We had to agree we could see nothing wrong with it. He then asked for small ramekins and placed some of the mousse in one. “I shall attempt to test for unknown substances,” he said. “I have equipment in my laboratory upstairs that should do the job.”
“But that makes no sense,” I blurted out before realizing this was a little impolite. “We all ate some of this mousse and yet most of us were not affected.”
“Nevertheless, I shall do my best,” Sir Mordred said. He then proceeded to take small samples of the soup, the quenelles of fish, and the shrimp sauce and then asked to see the duck.
“Since most of the portions of duck did not sicken anybody, you’re unlikely to find one that did,” Edwin commented, still perched on the table.
“That only leaves the pudding,” Sir Mordred said. “Do we still have one of those tarts?”
“Naturally,” Pierre said. “I always make more in case there is damage to the crust during serving. They have to look perfect.”
He pushed a couple of fruit tarts onto the table. They still looked jolly appetizing to me, and I realized that I would have eaten one last night if it hadn’t been for the rich hat of cream.
“And the cream,” Sir Mordred said.
A bowl of cream was put in front of him. We all took a tentative taste. Delicious. But he scooped some into the ramekin to be tested.
“I admit I am perplexed,” he said. “All seems to be as it should. And yet…four people were taken violently ill. We all ate the same food. It makes no sense.” As he spoke he was staring at the tarts. Suddenly he leaned forward, dug his fingers into the tart, and held up something. “What is this?” he demanded.
It looked like a small black berry. Sir Mordred examined it, held it up to his nose, and sniffed. “You know what it is?” he said. “It’s an elderberry. He served us tarts with elderberries in them. No wonder we were so ill.”
“But surely elderberries are edible?” Darcy asked. “We always had elderberry wine at home.”
“They are perfectly edible,” Sir Mordred said, looking triumphant now, “if you cook them first. If you serve them raw they contain a toxin that will give you a nasty upset stomach.”
“Golly,” I said.
“I see now this was all a horrible accident,” Sir Mordred said. “I told the chef to help himself from our kitchen garden. There is a large elderberry bush against the wall. Mr. Henman makes a really good elderflower cordial. So this man is French. Perhaps he is not familiar with elderberries. He adds them to the mix and…”
If Queenie had been here she would have said “Bob’s yer uncle.”
“What does this man say now?” Pierre had not followed along.
I explained. Pierre gave an explosive “No! This is not true. I do not use these strange black berries in my tarte. I use the strawberries, the raspberries, the dark ones…”
“Loganberries,” I said for him.
“And the cassis?” He turned to me to translate.
“Currants.”
“Yes. These things I use. But not small ugly black berries. No, no.” He glared at us. “Somebody has done this to me, to make me look bad. And I know who it must be. It is the old man, the chef of this house. He does not want me here. He wishes to destroy my reputation.”
“Very well,” Sir Mordred said. “Where is Mr. Henman? Let’s see what he has to say for himself.” He looked around the kitchen.
“Please, sir, I think he went out to talk to the gardener,” the kitchen maid said, her eyes still wide with terror in case she was in any way to be blamed for this.
“Then, go and fetch him immediately,” Sir Mordred said. “Tell him the master wishes to speak with him.”
She ran off in the direction of the scullery and presumably the back door. We waited. Sir Mordred examined the three tarts that were left and found two more elderberries in one of them. He waved them in triumph. At that point Mr. Henman came in, red-faced as if he had been hurrying.
“Sorry, sir. I was out talking to the gardener. I was asking when the marrows might be ripe. I know you love a stuffed marrow, don’t you?” He paused, eyed the three of us suspiciously, and then demanded, “What was it you wanted?”
“Mr. Henman,” Sir Mordred said, holding up one of the berries, “what would you say this was?”
Mr. Henman took it, sniffed, and prodded. “An elderberry, sir.”
“An elderberry. Quite right. And where was it found? In one of the tarts that this French chef prepared for last night’s dinner. Elderberries that have so far caused four people to be ill.”
Mr. Henman glared at Pierre. “There you are, then. What did I say? I told you you were making a mistake hiring a foreigner to cook your fancy meal. He repays you by trying to poison you all.”
“Pierre swears he did not pick any elderberries,” Sir Mordred said. “But somebody did. Somebody inserted these berries into the mixture with the intent to cause harm. It had to have been done when nobody would notice. Which makes me wonder, Henman”—dramatic pause—“whether you decided to get a little revenge, show this Frenchman, make him look like a fool?”
Mr. Henman’s face turned an interesting shade of puce. “You think I would stoop so low? I am mortified. I would never do something like that. Besides, that girl he brought with him, the large and uncouth one, she was the person who finished the tarts and sent them up in the dumbwaiter. I suggest you ask her.”
Sir Mordred turned to stare at me. “Yes, where is this girl? Why was she not brought here today?”
“The answer to that is that she is lying in bed groaning with the same complaint as you. She was horribly sick in the night. She admitted to eating leftovers, including one of the tarts.”
“Oh.” Sir Mordred considered this. “I thought you said none of your party was ill when I spoke to you. But your cook would hardly have been likely to have poisoned herself, would she?”
“My thoughts exactly,” Darcy said. “She is not the brightest person. I don’t think it would ever enter her head to use a particular sort of berry to make anyone ill.”
“Then we are back to square one, it seems,” Sir Mordred said as he stood to leave the kitchen. “Unless one of them is lying.”
The elderly butler appeared at the door, wheezing after the exertion of coming downstairs. “If you please, Sir Mordred, the doctor has arrived to examine you.”
Sir Mordred turned back to us. “We shall continue this inquiry until I get to the bottom of it,” he said. “Edwin. Assist me up the stairs and to my bedchamber. I don’t think we should keep you any longer, Mr. O’Mara, Lady Georgiana. I am sorry for disturbing your morning, but at least we have found the culprit in terms of what sickened us. Now all we need to find is who sickened us, and why.”
With those words he leaned on Edwin and slowly ascended the stairs back to the foyer.
The doctor was standing just inside the front door. I recognized him immediately as our own physician, Dr. Farnsworth. I would have greeted him but I didn’t have the chance. He was looking rather put out and went straight up to Sir Mordred.
“Oh, there you are, Mortimer,” he said. “From what you said on the telephone I expected to find you at death’s door, but here you are walking around.”
“I assure you I have been at death’s door,” Sir Mordred said. “I spent a most unpleasant night enduring cramps and diarrhea.”
“A touch of food poisoning, was it?” the doctor asked. “Or simply overdoing it? I know you like to indulge.”
“Overdoing it?” I thought for a moment that Sir Mordred was going to hit him. “My dear man, I’ll have you know that we have been poisoned. Not just me but several of my guests. What is more, I have discovered the substance that poisoned us. The pudding course last night was a tart topped with various berries. Among the more normal ones like strawberries and raspberries were some elderberries.”
“Elderberries? You mean raw?” The doctor frowned. “That was a damned silly thing to do. They are toxic unless cooked. What was your cook thinking?”
