the boar’s head.Snapping his fingers at the vegetable peeler to accompany him, he went to the larder where it had rested overnight after glazing. He flung open the door – and there it was. Eyeless, tuskless, noseless, undecorated, but a boar’s head to surpass all boar’s heads. For three days, the empty head and the meat carefully sculpted from it in fillets had marinated in wine and spices. Such spices! Christmas spices. Mace, cloves, laurel. Then two days ago the head had been filled first with a forcemeat
à la Didier
, then with the boar’s meat, interlarded with fillets of partridge, chicken, rabbit, with slivers of rare Kentish truffles between them, and slowly cooked. Yesterday that all-important finish, the glaze, provided by the jelly made from boiling the uneatable pieces such as bones and gristle and ears, was prepared. Now there remained only the finishing touches, for he had entrusted the mustard to John to make. Rather doubtfully, it was true, but he was reasonably confident of his ability.
Auguste popped olives mounted on the whites of boiled eggs for eyes, added tusks of macaroni and almonds, put the traditional apple in its mouth, and carefully decorated it with glaze, lemons and parsley. Half an hour later the task was complete, and he regarded his work with pride. Christmas had truly begun, the season of peace and goodwill to all men.
The aforesaid season did not get off to a good start in the drawing room. Some guests were at church, some had gone for a walk round nearby streets and lanes, some were in the library or the smoking room. Gradually, however, they all began to drift towards the drawing room for twelve o’clock when a punch bowl was expected to make its appearance, and the ceremony of the Christmas tree would commence.
Colonel Carruthers was the first. No damned walks forhim. He had left the smoking room, explaining loudly that in his young day housemaids left a chap alone to smoke, and didn’t they have any proper servants in this damn hotel? At Raffles, all you had to do was snap your fingers at the wallahs and they jumped to it. Precious little jumping round here! Now he was ensconced in an armchair, bitterly noting the absence of
The Times
. Christmas was too much of a good thing. This whole damned idea had been a mistake. His view was confirmed when he saw Dalmaine come limping into the hotel. The presence of another army man was not pleasing. Carruthers was used to the authority of being the sole soldier around and a faint scar from an assegai wound could not compete with a gammy leg from the South African War.
Dalmaine was sulky, to say the least. He had offered his escort to the eldest Miss Pembrey for a brief walk round the Portman Square Gardens only to have it promptly refused with no reason given. He had made his way into the library, where he seemed to have a choice of companionship between Miss Gladys Guessings and Mademoiselle Gonnet. He had promptly chosen the latter, but conversation in the gardens had been distinctly limited. Certainly, no maidenly hearts appeared to be set on fire, and he was glad to be back.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he greeted Carruthers unenthusiastically. He had at once determined Carruthers to be ex-army, somewhat to his displeasure. Colonels were not his favourite army rank. Even retired ones. Mind you, the old fellow did seem to have a proper interest in Waterloo. ‘Mind if I join you by the fire?’ Dalmaine continued with a self-conscious laugh, after only a grunt in reply. ‘The old leg won’t hold me up too long.’ Carruthers again did not comment, to Dalmaine’s disappointment. He tried again. ‘Beastly show outthere. Glad we’re through it now. Good old Roberts, eh?’
Carruthers lowered the
Illustrated London News
, bearing in mind that this young jackanapes had extraordinary ideas about the Great Duke. ‘Over? Stuff and nonsense. Only just beginning, you’ll see,’ and raised it again.
‘Sir!’ Dalmaine was genuinely
à la Didier
, then with the boar’s meat, interlarded with fillets of partridge, chicken, rabbit, with slivers of rare Kentish truffles between them, and slowly cooked. Yesterday that all-important finish, the glaze, provided by the jelly made from boiling the uneatable pieces such as bones and gristle and ears, was prepared. Now there remained only the finishing touches, for he had entrusted the mustard to John to make. Rather doubtfully, it was true, but he was reasonably confident of his ability.
Auguste popped olives mounted on the whites of boiled eggs for eyes, added tusks of macaroni and almonds, put the traditional apple in its mouth, and carefully decorated it with glaze, lemons and parsley. Half an hour later the task was complete, and he regarded his work with pride. Christmas had truly begun, the season of peace and goodwill to all men.
The aforesaid season did not get off to a good start in the drawing room. Some guests were at church, some had gone for a walk round nearby streets and lanes, some were in the library or the smoking room. Gradually, however, they all began to drift towards the drawing room for twelve o’clock when a punch bowl was expected to make its appearance, and the ceremony of the Christmas tree would commence.
Colonel Carruthers was the first. No damned walks forhim. He had left the smoking room, explaining loudly that in his young day housemaids left a chap alone to smoke, and didn’t they have any proper servants in this damn hotel? At Raffles, all you had to do was snap your fingers at the wallahs and they jumped to it. Precious little jumping round here! Now he was ensconced in an armchair, bitterly noting the absence of
The Times
. Christmas was too much of a good thing. This whole damned idea had been a mistake. His view was confirmed when he saw Dalmaine come limping into the hotel. The presence of another army man was not pleasing. Carruthers was used to the authority of being the sole soldier around and a faint scar from an assegai wound could not compete with a gammy leg from the South African War.
Dalmaine was sulky, to say the least. He had offered his escort to the eldest Miss Pembrey for a brief walk round the Portman Square Gardens only to have it promptly refused with no reason given. He had made his way into the library, where he seemed to have a choice of companionship between Miss Gladys Guessings and Mademoiselle Gonnet. He had promptly chosen the latter, but conversation in the gardens had been distinctly limited. Certainly, no maidenly hearts appeared to be set on fire, and he was glad to be back.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he greeted Carruthers unenthusiastically. He had at once determined Carruthers to be ex-army, somewhat to his displeasure. Colonels were not his favourite army rank. Even retired ones. Mind you, the old fellow did seem to have a proper interest in Waterloo. ‘Mind if I join you by the fire?’ Dalmaine continued with a self-conscious laugh, after only a grunt in reply. ‘The old leg won’t hold me up too long.’ Carruthers again did not comment, to Dalmaine’s disappointment. He tried again. ‘Beastly show outthere. Glad we’re through it now. Good old Roberts, eh?’
Carruthers lowered the
Illustrated London News
, bearing in mind that this young jackanapes had extraordinary ideas about the Great Duke. ‘Over? Stuff and nonsense. Only just beginning, you’ll see,’ and raised it again.
‘Sir!’ Dalmaine was genuinely
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