Eat, Drink and Be Buried (22 page)

He gave a Gallic shrug but the compliment registered.

“Madeleine was telling me you've been looking at the serving of eels,” I said.

“That's right. I think we can make good use of them. The idea of cooking them in the fireplace where the guests can see them being prepared is a good one.”

“That was Madeleine's suggestion,” I told him. “Maybe it could be extended to other dishes. Guests would enjoy seeing haunches of meat and gamebirds roasting before the fire.” It would cut down on the work in the kitchen too, I thought, but I left it to him to make that inference.

He nodded. “In the old stables buildings, we have a lot of stuff in storage. Iron pots, large and small, ladles, skimmers, tongs, forks, hooks, and andirons. They are wrought iron and very decorative; they only need cleaning up a little.”

“Perfect,” I said. “I had a further notion for your consideration. I know you must be familiar with a Salomongundy. I believe it was originally French.”

“I know of it,” he admitted cautiously. He broke off to correct the trainee, “No, no, Edna, when it cuts like that, the knife needs sharpening. Always use sharp knives.”

He apologized for the interruption. “They have to be watched every minute. Yes, the Salomongundy, a sort of hors d'oeuvre with contrasting sharp and bland ingredients. I believe they used all kinds of meat, fish, and chicken, with cheese and vegetables, as the bland items, and anchovies, onions, and pickles as the sharp.”

“Absolutely right. It's an excellent way to use remains from other dishes. Decorated with fresh herbs on a large platter, I'm told it can look spectacular. I don't think I have ever seen it. In fact, I'm surprised that no one has revived it,” I said, “though I suppose some modern hors d'oeuvres trays owe something to it.”

“We are going to make that Quaking Pudding you mentioned,” he told me. “Madeleine has some ideas on it. She'll be here any minute, she can tell you what she has in mind.”

“Good. There's another pudding, even older, back to Anglo-Saxon times, that you might consider. Steamed Carrot and Barley Pudding.”

“I don't think I know that one.”

“Barley was the main cereal crop in those days, so it appeared in a lot of dishes. It's quite simple. You just simmer barley, carrots, honey, and apple till the barley has absorbed most of the water. You purée it, adding mint and beat in an egg for each person. You put this in a pudding basin, steam till it rises and is firm. When it was served, quince jelly or redcurrant jelly would be spread on top.”

The door banged as Madeleine came in, arms full of produce.

She dropped it all on a convenient countertop. “I love to use quince,” she said. “What was that recipe again?”

I told her.

“That should be popular,” she said. “The English taste still runs to puddings and people don't make them at home any more so they enjoy them when they go out. Tourists from other countries think of puddings as typically English, so they would want them too.”

“I don't know if he mentioned it to you,” I said, “but Victor and I were discussing berries earlier. We could make jellies and jams from them. And they would be good for putting on top of the puddings.”

They both agreed. “Miss Felicity had us making jams for sale in the gift shop,” said Madeleine, “using berries from the Plantation. But then the demand got too great and we couldn't grow enough. But making jellies from them to put on puddings would be perfect.”

“By the way,” I added, “the venison from the culling—presumably it's hanging?”

“But of course,” Victor said.

“So it will be ready in a couple of days, won't it? We can make good use of that.”

We made plans for cooking the venison, which Gontier said was always popular and considered a real medieval treat. It would be even more so if the guests could see it turning on a spit.

Victor turned to cast a critical eye on Edna's chopping technique. Her rate of chops per minute had increased noticeably. He gave her an approving nod.

“I have to go to the storeroom,” he said, “some problem with the inventory. Madeleine, tell him about your ideas on the Quaking Pudding.”

He left.

“Well,” Madeleine said, “that pudding…I thought that we might increase the amount of both breadcrumbs and almonds. That would make it less wobbly. Then in keeping with the trend for healthier foods, we could cut down on the cream and replace part of it with yogurt.”

“Excellent ideas,” I agreed.

“Then there's the preparation. They used to steam puddings always in the old days. This one would be ideal for microwaving. Of course, we wouldn't let the guests know about that.”

“Of course not. Let them think it's been steamed for four hours.”

We talked on about other dishes, then I made a half turn to leave. It was a Columbo-style prelude to departure.

“You do a great job here in the kitchen,” I told her. “Aside from cooking for all the guests. Those stuntmen seem to have tremendous appetites.”

“They eat more than the horses, I tell them,” Madeleine said with a smile.

“It's good to see how you all get along together so well,” I went on. “You must get to know their likes and dislikes.”

“Oh, we do. Of course, some of the serving girls—the wenches, as they call them—know them better than we do.”

“I suppose the stuntmen all like hearty dishes of meat and potatoes best,” I ventured.

“Most of them.”

“Then there's Richard Harlington—he has his preferred dishes too, I suppose.”

“He likes to eat a salad before he goes to a joust or do some kind of battle,” she said, still in a chatty mood.

I tried to keep the conversation the same way. “Not the same one surely? I would have thought he's the type to like variety.”

“I think it's always the same one. Louise would know more about that than I do. She's the head server.” She gave a meaningful smile. “She has a crush on him.”

I wondered how long Richard had been seeing Jean Arkwright. Would Louise have felt jilted or at least slighted? Not nearly enough motive for murder surely…but how much was there I did not know?

I nodded. It indicated that I couldn't care less about the romantic intrigue at the castle. “What do you recommend for lunch?” I asked her, making it clear that this was a much more important question.

Her recommendations were good.
Gemelli
, the twirled pasta shapes, had been cooked in a large volume of salted water. Salt enhances the flavor of the pasta and helps the water return to a rolling boil more quickly. It is easy to tell when this has been done as the pasta has no tendency to stick.

While still hot, it had then been tossed with minced garlic, parsley, basil, hot red pepper flakes, olive oil, wine vinegar, and
bocconcini
, bite-sized lumps of mozzarella cheese.

“It's almost as easy and much more satisfying,” Madeleine had said, “to cook pasta the proper way.” I was now learning that she certainly knew the proper way.

Tempting as many of the other dishes were, I managed to resist, and concluded the meal with a dessert of bananas and nuts.

I took a stroll through the grounds and met Neville Woodward, the cousin to whom Angela had introduced me. He had that same languid air that I had previously attributed to his noble background, though now I suddenly wondered about that. Was his apparent nobility only a pose?

“How's the foreign trading?” I asked affably. “Is the guilder going great or is the florin floundering?”

The sneer that I had suspected before was still lurking. Perhaps it had been a seesaw morning on the exchanges.

“Good days and other days,” he said as if he did not want to talk about it.

“Tomorrow should be one of those good days,” I said brightly. “The Battle of Moreston Marsh followed by a banquet. Can't ask for more than that.”

He looked as if he were going to ask for a great deal more than that. Deciding I could not help him get it, he curled his lip. “They love play-acting here.”

“Brings in the crowds,” I reminded him.

“Bloody proletariat.”

“They pay the bills. The castle couldn't stay open without the—er—the people.” I was being mildly argumentative in the hope that I could learn more about him and his views.

“I'd run it without all these milling hordes,” he said. Maybe he was nobility, after all. He had the attitude of a lord of the manor…from five hundred years ago.

“It would be a tough proposition,” I said cheerfully. “It costs twenty-five thousand pounds a year just to control the woodworm.”

He grunted something, but I couldn't tell whether he was sneering at a paltry twenty-five thousand or expressing distaste for woodworm.

“I don't think I'd want the job of running the castle,” I told him. “Too many headaches. Still, we're all different. You'd probably enjoy it.” I didn't think that for a minute, but it did pry a response out of him.

“I probably would,” he said, lifting his chin. It gave him a Mussolini-like appearance that would have alarmed the serfs.

“Are you taking part in the battle?” I asked.

“I do from time to time,” he said, and I waited for a yawn to accompany the comment. Instead, he said, “But I have better things to do tomorrow.”

“Got to keep chasing those euros, I suppose?”

“Bank of Peru, actually.”

He tossed the name out as he walked off. I tossed a “Good luck!” after him.

T
HE MORNING OF THE
battle dawned hazy and only just dry. As it was just a reenactment, weather conditions were important only from an entertainment and profit point of view, not a matter of life or death.

I felt I needed extra sustenance to face the looming conflict, so I had two eggs, bacon, sausage, and a slice of black pudding. Norman gave me a perfunctory wave from another table. Angela was not far away, but she had her back to me. Felicity came in, spotted me as I was about to leave, and came over to sit with me.

“Have any plans for watching the battle this afternoon?” she asked.

“My number one plan is to stay out of the way of stray arrows. I heartily recommend that you do the same.”

“I'll make you a deal. We'll sit together. You extend to me the protection of your plan for avoiding arrows and I'll fill you in on the history of the battle and give you a running commentary on who's who—as well as who was who.”

I accepted. We agreed on when and where to meet. Felicity left and the room emptied soon after. An hour later, I was still there.

Screens were stacked for the use of groups who wanted some privacy. I had moved one and set it by a corner table where I could see and not be seen. After a while, serving girls came out and set the tables for lunch. Time passed.

Large trolleys suddenly came rattling in and the buffet trays were quickly filled. More time passed. The place was quiet. Then a serving girl came in, blond hair tied on top of her head. She carried a Styrofoam box. She looked around carefully, then went to one of the buffet tables. She opened a door to one of the refrigerated shelves below, placed the box inside, and left.

I waited a full fifteen minutes, went over, and took out the box. It contained a salad. I sniffed it very carefully, then put it back.

I had eaten at a more leisurely pace than usual. That ensured that meals had been served and eaten and the staff was now clearing away. Looking over them was a pleasant task; all were young and lively and eager. But I wasn't auditioning for the chorus, I was looking for Louise.

The blond hair tied up on the top of her head made her easy to find. She had a fresh look and bright eyes. She gave me a questioning glance as I approached her. “I'd like to talk to you for just a couple of minutes,” I told her.

“All right.” She wiped her hands on a paper towel and led the way to a table that had been cleared. “Did you want something special from the kitchen?”

“No. I'm here to advise on modifying the menus, make them more medieval, increase business,” I explained as I introduced myself.

“I know,” she said. She smiled shyly. “We gossip a lot here—all girls together. Any new faces that are here more than a couple of days…”

“Good, then you know who I am. I wanted to ask you about salads.”

A momentary flicker passed across her face but I could not interpret it. Its very presence told me a lot, though.

“Some of the regulars have their favorite foods, I know. Does anyone have a favorite salad?”

She hesitated. “Well, Mr. McCartney likes blue cheese on his so we put out a bowl of that. The foreman of the maintenance team likes lots of croutons so we put out extra of those.”

“I didn't mean on the buffet,” I said gently. “I meant individual servings.”

“The kitchen does all that. I'm just serving staff,” she said, perhaps a little quickly.

“Don't worry,” I told her. “Anything you tell me will go no further.”

“Is this something to do with Kenny?” Her face changed and her tone sharpened.

“It may be,” I agreed, “but it need not involve you. Just tell me—”

“I didn't do anything wrong!” Alarm showed plainly in her eyes.

“I'm quite sure you didn't and you won't get into any kind of trouble.” I kept my voice placatory. “But your answers may save Richard Harlington's life.”

The alarm grew. “Is he…?”

“He's fine but he may be in danger. What can you tell me that will help him?”

Madeleine's comments and the words of the stuntmen had set me on this track and I wasn't sure how to get the information out of this young woman. Telling her that his life was threatened had seemed like a good idea. Was it enough?

I decided to throw caution to the winds and make a wild stab. “Some of the girls prepare an occasional special dish for one of their boyfriends, don't they? You do, too—you prepare a salad for Richard before he jousts. What do you season it with? Coriander, dill, mustard, cloves?”