would be committed at Broadstairs. By him. Or perhaps, unless this menu were radically adapted, by the Prince of
Wales with himself the victim.
Chapter Three
Auguste opened one eye, and closed it again as the full force of his dilemma returned to him. True, it was the first day of
the Fish Fortnight. He firmly refused to consider it a holiday, with such an inauspicious start, firstly as he had no strong
faith in the English seaside as a suitable venue for such an event, and secondly, because the last time he had set off for
a holiday, murder had awaited him. Not that he could seriously envisage that happening in this case, but nevertheless the
word holiday was rapidly regaining its unpleasant ring. Moreover, there was the matter of the Dickens banquet. Visions of
roast goose floated before his eyes, and he groaned. Then his natural optimism reasserted itself as the sun shone invitingly
through the window. Who, after all, would wish to remain in London in such tropical temperatures? The seaside might prove
quite acceptable, even if it did bring with it such major disadvantages as a Soyer banquet to cook.
He sprang out of bed with sudden resolution, prepared to greet Saturday, 29 July 1899. But the dilemma still remained: should
he don suitable travelling clothes for departing from Victoria railway station, considering the inevitable coating of smuts
from the engine smoke that these would acquire, thus arriving at his destination looking as out of place as a bouillabaisse
in a Smithfield eating house, or should he brave the worst and don his new holiday apparel. He eyed the boater wistfully,
but replaced it in itshatbox. However tempting, he could not depart from Curzon Street adorned in a brightly striped blazer and sporting a boater.
This afternoon, he vowed, they would make a proud appearance, however. Perhaps even his new blue bathing costume would join
them.
‘Kipper an’ corfee, Mr Didier,’ came Sid’s cheerful shout from below.
‘
Je vous remercie
, Sid,’ Auguste called, and in due course duly descended to face Sid’s usual offering of kipper (ritually rejected by Auguste
and eaten with relish by Sid) and muffins. At first Sid had tried hard to entice Auguste into the delights of kidneys and
kedgeree for breakfast, but had been forced to admit failure. Strong coffee and a brioche had been Auguste’s simple demand,
reduced to a compromise of muffins after prolonged negotiation. In the days of William of Normandy, the Conqueror as he was
known here, Auguste reflected, 9 a.m. was the hour of dinner not breakfast. He shuddered, glad that he lived under the rule
of the good Queen Victoria.
‘My granny allus said, “Wittles inside, walk with pride. Without no peck, watch your step”,’ contributed Sid.
Auguste’s opinion of Sid’s granny was not enhanced by this tribute to her poetic powers, but in the interests of Anglo-French
co-operation he submitted as usual to the muffins.
‘Tomorrow, Sid,’ he pontificated, adding a dollop of quince preserve, ‘we will rise early and greet the fishermen as they
return with their catch. We will purchase your beloved kippers as herrings.’ Sid greeted the prospect without joy.
Later in the day, Auguste planned happily, he would perhaps go to see dear Egbert and Edith at Ramsgate. A brisk walk over
the sands . . . His spirits rose again, and most of his former forebodings about Broadstairs fled with the speed of Sid’s
granny’s immortal dicta.
Victoria railway station bustled with an excitement only rivalled at Christmastime. Those who could afford hotels, lodgings
or boarding houses by the seaside mingled with mere day excursionists in a mass departure in search of less polluted air,
a need heightened this year by the exceptionally hot weather. Frustrated husbands, unable to leave their offices for two weeks,
or wishing to appear as if this were the case, waved their families off. Buckets and wooden spades
Wales with himself the victim.
Chapter Three
Auguste opened one eye, and closed it again as the full force of his dilemma returned to him. True, it was the first day of
the Fish Fortnight. He firmly refused to consider it a holiday, with such an inauspicious start, firstly as he had no strong
faith in the English seaside as a suitable venue for such an event, and secondly, because the last time he had set off for
a holiday, murder had awaited him. Not that he could seriously envisage that happening in this case, but nevertheless the
word holiday was rapidly regaining its unpleasant ring. Moreover, there was the matter of the Dickens banquet. Visions of
roast goose floated before his eyes, and he groaned. Then his natural optimism reasserted itself as the sun shone invitingly
through the window. Who, after all, would wish to remain in London in such tropical temperatures? The seaside might prove
quite acceptable, even if it did bring with it such major disadvantages as a Soyer banquet to cook.
He sprang out of bed with sudden resolution, prepared to greet Saturday, 29 July 1899. But the dilemma still remained: should
he don suitable travelling clothes for departing from Victoria railway station, considering the inevitable coating of smuts
from the engine smoke that these would acquire, thus arriving at his destination looking as out of place as a bouillabaisse
in a Smithfield eating house, or should he brave the worst and don his new holiday apparel. He eyed the boater wistfully,
but replaced it in itshatbox. However tempting, he could not depart from Curzon Street adorned in a brightly striped blazer and sporting a boater.
This afternoon, he vowed, they would make a proud appearance, however. Perhaps even his new blue bathing costume would join
them.
‘Kipper an’ corfee, Mr Didier,’ came Sid’s cheerful shout from below.
‘
Je vous remercie
, Sid,’ Auguste called, and in due course duly descended to face Sid’s usual offering of kipper (ritually rejected by Auguste
and eaten with relish by Sid) and muffins. At first Sid had tried hard to entice Auguste into the delights of kidneys and
kedgeree for breakfast, but had been forced to admit failure. Strong coffee and a brioche had been Auguste’s simple demand,
reduced to a compromise of muffins after prolonged negotiation. In the days of William of Normandy, the Conqueror as he was
known here, Auguste reflected, 9 a.m. was the hour of dinner not breakfast. He shuddered, glad that he lived under the rule
of the good Queen Victoria.
‘My granny allus said, “Wittles inside, walk with pride. Without no peck, watch your step”,’ contributed Sid.
Auguste’s opinion of Sid’s granny was not enhanced by this tribute to her poetic powers, but in the interests of Anglo-French
co-operation he submitted as usual to the muffins.
‘Tomorrow, Sid,’ he pontificated, adding a dollop of quince preserve, ‘we will rise early and greet the fishermen as they
return with their catch. We will purchase your beloved kippers as herrings.’ Sid greeted the prospect without joy.
Later in the day, Auguste planned happily, he would perhaps go to see dear Egbert and Edith at Ramsgate. A brisk walk over
the sands . . . His spirits rose again, and most of his former forebodings about Broadstairs fled with the speed of Sid’s
granny’s immortal dicta.
Victoria railway station bustled with an excitement only rivalled at Christmastime. Those who could afford hotels, lodgings
or boarding houses by the seaside mingled with mere day excursionists in a mass departure in search of less polluted air,
a need heightened this year by the exceptionally hot weather. Frustrated husbands, unable to leave their offices for two weeks,
or wishing to appear as if this were the case, waved their families off. Buckets and wooden spades
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