Murder At The Masque Read Online Free PDF Page B

bomb-minded Fenians had nothing, but nothing against the Russian aristocracy. Whoever they blew up it would not be the Romanovs – not on purpose anyway. But the Grand Duke Igor remained deeply suspicious. The English translation of Mr Kropotkin’s book on anarchy had done nothing to reassure him, and Scotland Yard was left in no doubt about the pleasures of having the Grand Duke Igor as a resident of London. His open-hearted warmth and zest for other aspects of life they were not in a position to appreciate. His impulsive generosity of purse as well as person, when it came to ladies, made him a popular figure in society, and if he sometimes repented of the former, he made no apologies for the latter. Life in London during the summer and in the Villa Russe during the winter was lived with few expenses spared. Unfortunately those that were, though minor, were unpredictable and he was thus a figure of awe to his staff, who treated him gingerly since the beneficent Grand Duke could turn at a moment’s notice into a pettifogging tyrant. True, he swiftly metamorphosed back into his more usual self, but the interims were apt to be uncomfortable. Particularly in the regions where the work of the house was carried on.
    Auguste looked approvingly round the kitchen. It was not what he himself would have chosen. The huge range was not to be compared with his own Sugg’s gas kitcheners, though it was true for some dishes the range was to be preferred. The Jones smoke-jack installed on the chimney breast wasadmirable, as were the rows of small refrigerators. Certainly this light, airy place was a paradise compared with the small, antiquated basement kitchens of Plum’s Club for Gentlemen. Tradition was all very well, but modern comfort was occasionally desirable. How he envied Alexis Soyer’s chance to design the kitchens at the Reform Club himself. How would Soyer have fared at Plum’s? Very well, he was forced to admit. A master chef could cook anywhere, and no one could have proved this more resoundingly than Soyer, cooking in the Crimean War, on top of the Pyramids, in the soup kitchens of Ireland. Auguste gritted his teeth. A showman, that’s what Soyer was. Just a showman.
    A massive figure lurched into the kitchen, dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-bearded, white-aproned. Madame Didier grew pink-cheeked with barely suppressed pride.
    ‘This is my son, Monsieur Boris. He’s a cook in London.’
    Auguste closed his eyes. How without honour was a prophet in the eyes of his mother. A cook in London indeed. Would Escoffier’s
maman
describe her son so?
    ‘So, London.’ A bleary eye fastened on him. ‘Vere in London?’
    Auguste patiently told him, and was rewarded. ‘You are
zat
Monsieur Didier.
Eh bien. The
Monsieur Didier.’ He was enveloped in two brawny arms, kissed enthusiastically on both cheeks twice and released, feeling as if he had just been embraced by a bear.
    ‘I understand you require advice for a buffet luncheon for the Prince of Wales at a cricket match on Friday. I have some experience,’ Auguste began modestly – and cautiously. Instinct was telling him not to get in too deep here.
    ‘
Katushki
!’ cried Boris enthusiastically. ‘
Katushki
on black bread. Wonderful.
Katushki
for everyone. Meatballs.’
    Horror of the first degree overcame Auguste. If this was the standard of cuisine at the Villa Russe, what was he, a
maître
chef, doing here? He had been misinformed. He understood Monsieur Boris had spent some years in Paris with the Grand Duke. Surely there he had been forced to progress in his culinary ambitions? Court circles in Russia were highly refined. The great Gouffet had been chef to Tsar Alexander.
Katushki
indeed. Peasant food. He had some knowledge of the gastronomic preferences of the Prince of Wales, and they did not include meatballs.
    ‘Mr Boris, you are drunk again,’ said Madame Didier robustly. ‘He can never think of anything else but meatballs when he’s drunk,’ she explained