Fenwick is correct, Mr Peckham. For curry you use perhaps Colonel Kenney-Herbert’s
Culinary Jottings for Madras
—’
‘My grandmama had a cholera recipe that used cardamoms,’ volunteered Emily.
‘I did not know your family came from India, Fraülein Dawson,’ said Heinrich. These were about the first words he had addressed
directly to her since the unfortunate affair of the Nesselrode pudding, at which she had taken great offence.
‘No, she lived in Dover. They had a cholera outbreak near there.’
‘That is near vere ve are going?’ enquired Heinrich anxiously.
‘
Non
,’ said Auguste resignedly. ‘Not vere ve are going.’ Really, for a so-called holiday, there was a remarkable harping on illness
and death in the conversation.
‘Nasty thing cholera. I was in the army you know, over there,’ announced Alfred.
‘In Dover?’ asked James with interest, earning himself a rare black look from his hero.
‘No. India. The Guards. Only for a year or two. Had to resign for ill health.’
‘Were you wounded?’ breathed Alice tremulously.
‘No,’ said Alfred cheerfully. ‘Caught chickenpox from the Colonel’s youngest. They thought it was cholera, and packed me off
home. Mama insisted I leave.’ His face grew suddenly long.
‘Poor Alfred. Chickenpox.’ Alice was distressed.
‘I haven’t got it now,’ Alfred announced encouragingly, and patted her hand.
James cleared his throat at this compromising movement, determined to steer the conversation away from Alfred’s frailties.
‘You like these Sherlock Holmes stories then,’ he said out of the blue, glancing at the
Strand Magazine
on Auguste’s knee.
‘Like you, isn’t he?’ Algernon commented.
‘
Non
. I am not in the least like Mr Holmes!’ Auguste replied, outraged. ‘Why, Mr Holmes has never to my recollection cooked anything,
or shown the least interest in true cuisine. He merely suffers the invaluable Mrs Hudson to struggle in with trays of nourishment
from time to time. What kind of life is that? No, he is no true detective if he does not appreciate food.’
With a chug and billows of greyish-white smoke, the train began to move out of Victoria railway station on its journey to
the sea. The die is cast, thought Auguste, as it gathered speed, the rhythm pounding inexorably in his ears. The sound had
a comforting reassurance after a while, so why then did he suddenly wish with all his heart that he were safe in his kitchen
in Curzon Street?
‘So do you agree you can tell a murderer by his face?’ Algernon continued remorselessly and maliciously, aware of Auguste’s
reluctance to talk on the subject.
‘Everyone can tell
afterwards
. It is less easy to do so beforehand,’ Auguste assured him. ‘How can one take a group of people, like yourselves for instance,
and say you are a murderer or might be a murderer? There is no proof, and can never be any. And without proof one cannot know.Just as without cooking and tasting you cannot know that the recipe works.’
Emily gave a little scream. ‘Like
us
, Mr Didier? You think we are murderers?’
‘
Non, non
,’ he said hastily. ‘A group
like
you. Or like the Literary Lionisers. Any group of ordinary people in their daily lives.’ Could one say of any group, he wondered,
that they were ordinary? What, after all, did he know of the desires and passions, the hopes and fears of these people after
they left Curzon Street at night? True, it was hard to imagine their having any at all, looking at them now. A dull enough
assembly. Yet put these same people in front of food and something happened to them. Each in their own way turned into an
artist. Not to be compared with himself of course, but talented, definitely talented. And if food could bring about such a
change, perhaps other factors could also. Perhaps the Literary Lionisers committee too would be revealed as individuals with
hopes and fears.
‘There are an awful lot of undiscovered
Culinary Jottings for Madras
—’
‘My grandmama had a cholera recipe that used cardamoms,’ volunteered Emily.
‘I did not know your family came from India, Fraülein Dawson,’ said Heinrich. These were about the first words he had addressed
directly to her since the unfortunate affair of the Nesselrode pudding, at which she had taken great offence.
‘No, she lived in Dover. They had a cholera outbreak near there.’
‘That is near vere ve are going?’ enquired Heinrich anxiously.
‘
Non
,’ said Auguste resignedly. ‘Not vere ve are going.’ Really, for a so-called holiday, there was a remarkable harping on illness
and death in the conversation.
‘Nasty thing cholera. I was in the army you know, over there,’ announced Alfred.
‘In Dover?’ asked James with interest, earning himself a rare black look from his hero.
‘No. India. The Guards. Only for a year or two. Had to resign for ill health.’
‘Were you wounded?’ breathed Alice tremulously.
‘No,’ said Alfred cheerfully. ‘Caught chickenpox from the Colonel’s youngest. They thought it was cholera, and packed me off
home. Mama insisted I leave.’ His face grew suddenly long.
‘Poor Alfred. Chickenpox.’ Alice was distressed.
‘I haven’t got it now,’ Alfred announced encouragingly, and patted her hand.
James cleared his throat at this compromising movement, determined to steer the conversation away from Alfred’s frailties.
‘You like these Sherlock Holmes stories then,’ he said out of the blue, glancing at the
Strand Magazine
on Auguste’s knee.
‘Like you, isn’t he?’ Algernon commented.
‘
Non
. I am not in the least like Mr Holmes!’ Auguste replied, outraged. ‘Why, Mr Holmes has never to my recollection cooked anything,
or shown the least interest in true cuisine. He merely suffers the invaluable Mrs Hudson to struggle in with trays of nourishment
from time to time. What kind of life is that? No, he is no true detective if he does not appreciate food.’
With a chug and billows of greyish-white smoke, the train began to move out of Victoria railway station on its journey to
the sea. The die is cast, thought Auguste, as it gathered speed, the rhythm pounding inexorably in his ears. The sound had
a comforting reassurance after a while, so why then did he suddenly wish with all his heart that he were safe in his kitchen
in Curzon Street?
‘So do you agree you can tell a murderer by his face?’ Algernon continued remorselessly and maliciously, aware of Auguste’s
reluctance to talk on the subject.
‘Everyone can tell
afterwards
. It is less easy to do so beforehand,’ Auguste assured him. ‘How can one take a group of people, like yourselves for instance,
and say you are a murderer or might be a murderer? There is no proof, and can never be any. And without proof one cannot know.Just as without cooking and tasting you cannot know that the recipe works.’
Emily gave a little scream. ‘Like
us
, Mr Didier? You think we are murderers?’
‘
Non, non
,’ he said hastily. ‘A group
like
you. Or like the Literary Lionisers. Any group of ordinary people in their daily lives.’ Could one say of any group, he wondered,
that they were ordinary? What, after all, did he know of the desires and passions, the hopes and fears of these people after
they left Curzon Street at night? True, it was hard to imagine their having any at all, looking at them now. A dull enough
assembly. Yet put these same people in front of food and something happened to them. Each in their own way turned into an
artist. Not to be compared with himself of course, but talented, definitely talented. And if food could bring about such a
change, perhaps other factors could also. Perhaps the Literary Lionisers committee too would be revealed as individuals with
hopes and fears.
‘There are an awful lot of undiscovered
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