Eat, Drink and Be Buried (12 page)

She looked nervous. She was petite, with a sweet face and light blond hair that was in a net, presumably to keep it out of machinery. She put up a good defense but I was determined and dogged. She caved in reluctantly. “I can't spare long,” she said, and I jumped in with, “Neither can I, but I appreciate your cooperation.”

My desire to learn about the workings of The Muffin Man had been inspired, strangely enough, by the mystery of the
Mary Celeste.
One of the most famous ships ever to put to sea, the
Mary Celeste
was found drifting in the Atlantic in the 1870s with not a soul on board. The vessel was in good condition, with ample supplies of food and fresh water. Speculation as to the fate of the crew has continued for more than a hundred years with scores of guesses as to the nature of the danger on board that caused the crew to abandon ship and not one of them ever to be heard of again.

It has become the most renowned of all naval mysteries and new theories continue to emerge. One recent theory has gained considerable support, and in my line of work, it had a particular fascination. I was determined to establish if it could be considered as a possible explanation for the poisonings at Harlington Castle.

Ergot, a fungus, infects cereal grains and especially rye. Rye thrived in the cool, damp climates of Northern Europe—the same climates that killed wheat, so rye was widely used for breadmaking. Unfortunately, those same climatic conditions make rye susceptible to ergot. It is believed that many deaths among crew members of sailing ships were due to ergotic poisoning: the fungus spreads rapidly through the rye flour carried on such ships. On transatlantic voyages, cold and damp were prevalent, and long periods at sea enabled the fungus to do its deadly work quite unsuspected. This was the reasoning that pointed a finger at rye in the
Mary Celeste
case.

Historians have long known that many communities too suffered horrifying disasters as a result of this insidious poison. After centuries of peaceful living, the Scandinavians suddenly and destructively erupted into the violence of the Viking period, burning churches and monasteries, razing crops and carrying off women. In the Rhine Valley in the ninth century, over ten thousand people died, poisoned by ergotic rye bread. In the seventeenth century, extraordinary outbursts from “witches” among the young girls of Salem in Massachusetts resulted in twenty of them being put to death. They claimed to have sensations of flying, to have experienced visions and heard voices. Children in local villages died in unprecedented numbers and cattle deaths were at a previously unknown level.

In all of these cases, rye bread was the staple diet. It is impossible to prevent ergot from contaminating the rye flour and ergot contains two dozen poisons. One of these is the hallucinogen LSD, which certainly could account for the exceptional behavior of the girls in Salem. Some unaccountable bloodstains on the deck of the
Mary Celeste
could have been due to a few crew members running amok with axes or knives. Perhaps the survivors jumped overboard in their madness.

I thought back to the symptoms of Kenny Bryce as he lay on the cot after the joust: severe abdominal pains, temporary blindness, delirium, and convulsions—the same symptoms that are associated with ergot poisoning. But other poisons can cause these symptoms, so maybe I was going down a cul-de-sac. But I felt I had to follow this possibility.

We toured the plant. Mills ground down the flour, which went into stainless-steel vats to ripen, aging until it was just right for breadmaking. The air was thick with the rich, strong smell. It went into the mixers, where water, yeast, vitamins, and minerals were added, forming a sponge. After further mixing, this went into the fermentation room. Here, the sponge rose and was returned to the mixer, where salt, sugar, milk powder, water, and other ingredients depending on the type of bread were added. Further fermentation followed, then the dough was shaped; the carbon dioxide from fermenting was forced out; and finally came the baking operation.

It was fascinating, especially watching the brown, slightly steaming loaves come marching triumphantly out of the ovens in trim, soldierlike lines. But I was itching to get to the storage rooms. If ergot was being allowed to grow, this was where it would be.

There was no suggestion of it. Storage was under humidity-controlled conditions and no possibility of ergotine poisoning existed. Determined to be really thorough, I browsed around until I located the rye flour. It was the right color—no trace of the pinkish tinge that would warn of incipient ergotism.

I could see nothing at all to cause quality problems—and that thought led to my asking, “How long is it since you were visited by someone from the castle?” But May looked vague and said she was not sure.

We concluded the tour in the shipping and packaging area. May did not plan on showing me these, saying they were not very interesting, but I insisted. She was right, they were not interesting, but both areas were impeccable. May gave me a look which said she hoped I was leaving. “Just one more thing,” I said, and repeated my intention to furnish visitors to the castle with rye bread and barley bread.

She blinked at me. “We do make pumpernickel—it's made from coarse rye, you know—but it's not a real big seller in the local shops.”

“Pumpernickel does have a limited market,” I agreed, “but made as a medieval bread, maybe not quite as heavy and served as part of a medieval meal, it might go down well. We could take quite a lot of it.”

“All right. Now, barley is difficult to hull. That makes the bread more expensive. Still,” she said, looking like a pensive schoolgirl pondering an awkward part of the eleven times table, “rye and barley both mix well with wheat, and that restores the fiber level as well as keeping the calorie count down.”

It was my turn to blink. May knew about bread for sure. “Could you bake a few dozen loaves of each of those?” I asked. “We'll give them a try. See how the customers react.”

She stood there with a dubious look on her face.

“What's wrong?” I asked. “You have to check with the Muffin Man?”

“Er, yes,” she murmured finally. Perhaps she was merely pursuing the baking angle in her mind because, after a pause, she said, “We could use rye flour, mix in some yellow cornmeal”—she stopped to think some more, then went on—“add some dark unsulfured molasses and some buttermilk.”

“Sounds great. Let's try that.”

We went on past the baking ovens and the smell was almost irresistible. She didn't exactly show me out. She took me to the door, gave me a demure nod, and disappeared back inside.

The song from childhood came to my mind, drifting up from schooldays. “Do you know the Muffin Man?” I didn't know him any better now than I had before. The song went on to say that “he dwells in Drury Lane,” but this one didn't. He didn't even dwell in Stony Stratton. He was proving more elusive than the Pimpernel.

The Children's Festival was over when the taxi dropped me at the gates of Harlington Castle. The cleanup crew had swept through like a tornado and hardly a trace remained from the invasion of the little darlings. A single, forlorn ice cream wrapper had escaped and lay desecrating the lawn. I picked it up and dropped it into the nearest barrel.

In the main hall, a constable was putting on his helmet as he hurried out. Don McCartney, the entertainments director, came through a side door and, seeing me, came over. “That inspector is a demon, isn't she?”

“Very formidable,” I said cautiously. “Has she been grilling you?”

“She's been asking a lot of questions,” he protested.

“She seems to be good at that.”

“Anyway, how are you getting along? Making progress?”

I gave him the briefest of summaries of my visits to the Smithfield Market, the fish supplier, and The Muffin Man. I gave him the facts only, no comments.

“Speaking of meat,” he said, “I suppose you'll be at the culling of the deer herds tomorrow?”

“Haven't heard about it. Victor Gontier did mention that they were culled occasionally and that was when venison went on the menu. I didn't know it was tomorrow, though.”

“Yes, it is. All our crack shots will be there.”

“Not with bows and arrows, I hope?”

“Bows and—? Oh, I see. Yes, I heard about that incident. Some careless idiot.”

“Probably,” I agreed.

“No, bows and arrows aren't allowed for this kind of thing. The Forestry Commission has strict laws about how herds are culled. Only high-powered rifles.”

“Crack shots, you said. Who are your crack shots?” I asked casually.

“Lord Harlington has declined this year.”

“Does he usually participate?”

“This will be the first year he hasn't, but Richard and Norman will be there, of course, and their cousin, Neville. I will be there, and three of our riders who are expert shots. Miss Angela insists on taking part, too,” he added in a sort of neutral voice.

“She's a bit of a tomboy, isn't she?”

“She certainly is.” His voice hid some of his disapproval. Some came through, though I wasn't sure whether it was for Angela or for women in general who participated in such masculine activities.

“Can she qualify as a crack shot?”

“She certainly can. With rifle and pistol both.”

“How about with a bow and arrow?” I put the question half-jokingly.

McCartney took it the same way. With a slight smile, he said, “I think Nature's against her there. I don't think she could pull a forty-pound bow.”

We chatted a little longer, then we parted. He had to receive a delegation of travel agents from Canada, so I went to the kitchens.

A dark blue van idled outside the back door as I approached. It started up and drove off. I went in to find Madeleine Bristow, the red-cheeked young Lancashire woman who was assistant to Victor Gontier, the head chef. She looked a little flustered and was stroking her hair back into place. A clandestine visit from an admirer (as they called them in Victorian days), I thought, so I put on my most professional air to make it clear that her lovelife was none of my business.

“The Muffin Man is sending some rye loaves and some barley loaves,” I told her. “Perhaps you can keep track of how they go compared to the wheat and white loaves you usually serve.”

She nodded.

“I had dinner with the guests,” I told her. “They all enjoyed it. The sole was popular and the veal roast was very good.”

She nodded again, this time with a little enthusiasm. I guessed she was anxious to talk about food rather than her morning visitor.

“We might think again about frumenty as an accompaniment to the main meat course,” I suggested. “Or blancmange, the non-sweetened version. Something different from rice or potatoes.”

“We could make frumenty the way you mentioned,” she said. “Leave out the almonds maybe. And what about polenta?”

The cornmeal porridge is a staple of Northern Italian cooking. “Not exactly English medieval,” I said, “but it's a good idea. Dishes going with main meat courses need to show more variety. Cool the polenta after cooking, then fry it in slices is maybe the best way. It doesn't have a great deal of flavor.”

“As much as potato,” Madeleine argued, “and there are ways of increasing the flavor. Garlic, flecks of sun-dried tomato.”

“That's true.” I was glad to be getting some input. “The Corsican style is to use chestnut flour. That's much tastier.”

“How about mixing that with the cornmeal? We could get some interesting combinations.”

“Good. Will you try that?”

She assented eagerly. “Victor is over in the main dining room. I'll talk to him as soon as he comes back. He's anxious to try some eels, by the way.”

“Good. And I hear venison is going to be on the menu,” I said. We discussed the times and ways of hanging it. Then I said, “Talking about food always makes me hungry. What's on the menu for lunch today?” She listed the courses for me and I decided to have something light with the staff. “And I've looked up one or two of my old cookbooks,” she told me. “Rissoles should be popular. I'm going to try some tomorrow.”

“Try them out on the staff,” I suggested. “I'll have some, too.” I turned to go, then remembered, “By the way, we have to do something about the desserts. They have become a bit routine.”

“I was thinking about those, too. I'll have some suggestions for you by tomorrow.”

She was getting almost bubbly by now. I was making some progress.

F
RANK MORGAN, THE OTHER
stuntman who played Sir Harry Mountmarchant, was in the staff cafeteria and gave me a nod. I saw a thick mop of curly hair and recognized Daniel, he of the Dancing Bears. Lisa, the West Indian woman from the library, was just leaving and gave me a smile. The diminutive Eddie was there too, with three or four cronies—that word seemed to suit his table companions perfectly. They were engaged in a story-swapping contest, it appeared, and gales of high-pitched laughter kept breaking out, so I left them to it.

A radicchio and endive salad seemed like a good idea for starting the meal. Unfortunately, the walnut vinaigrette was applied a bit too lavishly and too early, making the whole thing a little soggy. Fish and chips, one of the choices to follow, had a number of takers, but it was a bit too heavy for me, so I had a bowl of mussels in white wine with a slice of Italian bread. Instead of wine, I had a glass of Malvern water and left feeling quite virtuous.

I inquired after Felicity in the main dining room and was told she had already eaten a light meal and left. After making inquiries of two staff members and one policeman, I learned that she had gone to the library, so I made my way there. It had that musty and quite unmistakable smell of old paper, leather, and wood polish. The vaulted ceiling soared high, allowing shelves to climb the paneled walls to heights that could be reached only by sliding ladders. Footsteps echoed on the polished floorboards and lamps under green shades cast pools of orange light.