Delicious Death, page 8
Charlotte shrugged. “As long as His Majesty keeps quiet, I’m fine with that. Naturally, I’ll stay here until his own doctor can look after him.”
“I’ve sent a coded telegraph to him through a servant. He’s coming on an express and should be here within a few hours.”
“Good. Now, he needs to drink as much water as we can force down him. We've got to get the plumbing moving to flush out the poison.”
“Thank you for all your efforts, doctor.”
“To tell you the truth, heart disease in the living isn’t my specialty, though I’ve seen enough of it on the dissection table.” She gave the sleeping king a speculative look. “It would be interesting to see, strictly from a technical point of view—”
I interrupted her before she could put in a request for the king’s corpse. “Here are your clothes, Charlotte.” To the duke, I added, “Are you going to question Chef Perdersen or not?”
With the immediate crisis past, Archambeau was more at ease, though his shoulders still held tension. “Eager to see your favorite? Then we shall go roust him out of bed. But first I need a change of clothes myself. Come along, Chalamet.”
Archambeau’s room was just a few doors down the hall from the king. When we entered, the astonished eyes of the duke’s valet greeted us.
“Don’t mind Madame Chalamet, Luca. She’s working with me.”
The man’s face became blank as he murmured, “Yes, Your Grace.”
The duke’s room was a suite, and the two men left me in the parlor area that connected to the bedroom. I wandered about, examining the room with its chairs, sofa, and tables. Even though it had the same genteel shabbiness as our own, the furniture was in better shape, and the wallpaper didn’t smell of mildew. The window looked down into the side gardens; this side of the wing must be west facing, thus making the king’s bedroom the corner suite.
They left the adjoining door open; I saw Archambeau’s evening suit tossed on the bed, though the two men were out of view. But as I moved restlessly around the room, I discovered a dressing mirror in the corner which reflected through the doorway at such an angle that I could see the duke standing in his trousers, pulling on a fresh shirt.
Well.
It took a moment for me to turn around and break my appreciative stare.
His voice reached me easily. “Tell me what you know of Perdersen.”
“Perdersen’s been at the Crown Hotel for over twenty years, where he started as a pastry cook but was quickly promoted because of his talent. He’s well-respected, though some staff think he can be a hard taskmaster. Always on time. A hard worker. Dedicated. Not someone who is going to take it into their head to poi— do what you think.”
“A shave, Your Grace?” asked Luca, smoothly ignoring my misstep.
“It will have to wait.” To me, he said, “What are his politics?”
“None that I know of. He isn’t an anarchist, if that’s what you are implying.”
He emerged from the bedroom dressed in a dark navy-blue suit with a thin, pale gray stripe and a dove-gray satin necktie held fast with a sapphire pin. His cuff links were golden and his shoes had a mirror finish. While his thick, wavy hair was in place, the shadow on his cheeks hinted at some disruption. It made him a bit more human.
Pulling his cuffs down to sort his sleeves under his coat, he said, “You know nothing of the man himself. His hates; his loves. What does the man do during his free time? Who are his friends? Where does he drink? Does he gamble?”
“I may not know the particulars about his favorite color, or if he puts his left sock on before the right, but I do know his measure. He is not a revolutionary.”
Archambeau’s look was condescending, which irritated me.
“What do you think a traitor to the king looks like? Do you think he has a long, dark mustache that he twirls as he skulks around in a cape, hiding in the shadows? Life isn’t a melodrama. No. Dissidents are everyday people, leading ordinary lives, until they betray you.”
He started searching through the drawers of the room’s desk. Locating a leather pouch, he slipped it into his interior coat pocket.
“We shall begin our investigation with Perdersen’s apartments.”
As we exited, the duke turned on his heel and walked confidently off towards the main stairwell. Across the hall, a door opened, and I met the dismayed eyes of his sister, Lady Valentina Fontaine.
“Coming, Chalamet?”
I trotted after him, feeling her stare pierce my back.
It turned out that Archambeau had knowledge of where everyone was housed. It was thus simple for him to go down the back servant stairs and take a service corridor into another building, which was the barn converted to be used for the Winter Revels. Here the serving staff and the competition kitchens were located. In less than ten minutes, we were standing in front of a closed door to the sleeping quarters of Chef Perdersen.
When a knock didn’t gain a response and a twist on the doorknob showed the room to be locked, Archambeau pulled out the flat pouch he had pocketed earlier. Unrolling the leather displayed a nice set of lock-pick tools. Within a moment, he had the old lock released, and we found the room empty. I gave a sigh of relief.
Archambeau slipped the tools back into their case. “Fled?”
“Today is his day to compete. He’s probably already in the kitchen prepping for the day.”
“This early in the morning?”
“You clearly don’t understand how complicated it is to prepare the dishes you ate last night.”
Archambeau showed he was no stranger to searching a room, and did it meticulously and efficiently. He left nothing to chance, and nothing was out of place when he finished.
While he sorted through the wooden wardrobe situated in a corner, I went over to look at the papers tacked to the wall. It was a menu list with ingredients and notes; probably what Perdersen planned on serving tonight. I reached up and took a piece of paper down to inspect it.
“Are you going to stand there or help?”
“I’m reading through the chef’s notes for tonight’s dinner. Funny, I don’t see arsenic on the ingredient list.”
“Ha-ha, Chalamet.”
“You seem testy. Disappointed not to find any poison, Your Grace?”
He shut the drawer of the dresser rather firmly. “Time to see if your favorite is in the kitchen, as you believe, or if has run for the Zulskayan hills.”
As the duke moved behind me to the door, I folded the paper quickly and put it into my pocket. There was no need for Archambeau to see the rude political cartoon I had found of a worker kicking the king’s arse as he bent over to grab a crown on the ground. It would only prejudice him against the chef.
As I’d guessed, we found Chef Perdersen in one of three kitchens being used for the competition. He was overseeing the staff, who were prepping vegetables and kneading dough. To my relief, he was no monster, but only the same man I had always known: middle-aged, with a rather fleshy, dough-loaf body and jowls that quivered as he smelled the stock simmering on the stove.
Prowling his domain, he stopped in front of one young woman chopping an onion. “No. No. All should be the same size. Watch.” He took the knife from her and chopped the onion rapidly. “See.”
Noticing our entrance, he returned the knife to his assistant, handle first, and, wiping his hands, came over to greet us. “Madame Chalamet. I apologize for not speaking with you on the first night.”
“No need to apologize. You were being swarmed with admirers! I can’t wait to taste what you have for us tonight.”
At my words, his smile grew to a grin and his dark raisin eyes danced with excitement. “It will be perfection! Tonight, you will have a masterpiece that will amaze and delight your tongue as nothing has before.”
I introduced the men. “Duke de Archambeau, Chef Gerhard Perdersen of the Crown Hotel. I know you are very busy, but we need to speak with you privately if you can spare some time?”
He looked around the kitchen, surveying the work by his two assistants before beckoning us to follow him to a quiet corner. “Yes? How can I help you?”
Archambeau didn’t hesitate. “When did you gain access to a kitchen here at Lindengaard?”
The chef suddenly grew more interested in us. “So you are here about my complaint?”
“What complaint?” the duke countered.
“Chef Beinhouwer—”
“That’s one of the private chefs who competed last night,” I told Archambeau, who gave me a curt nod before urging Perdersen to continue his story.
“Beinhouwer squatted in this kitchen all night! He even refused the unloading of my groceries, so those had to be in the cellar until about an hour ago. So petty. But what can you expect from a man who salts before tasting? Who thinks tricks will win him this competition? He has held a grudge against me ever since the Crown promoted me instead of him as head chef.”
“But you had access to prepare food here the first day, did you not?” asked the duke.
“Yes, but so did the others. Beinhouwer and Faucher almost came to blows that evening over the use of the stove in kitchen two.”
“Faucher is the Royal Hotel chef that competes tonight against Chef Perdersen,” I explained to the duke.
“Beinhouwer makes enemies easily, for he believes himself god-like,” said Gerhard.
“It’s come to my attention that there was food sent to the king these last two nights from the chefs.”
Perdersen nodded sagely. “Ah, so you are here about the bribes! I told the others they were foolish to be sending things to King Guénard. Perhaps it was a trap? To see who would bend the rules? But if not, His Majesty is not the only one who judges us, so what good does it do to bribe one? It is the people, people like Madame Chalamet, who cast their votes. It was a waste of time and sugar.”
“Are you saying you sent nothing to the king?”
“Certainly not! I do not have to cheat, to worm my way into his affections. Tonight my dinner shall be like fireworks, glorious, shining. A greatness that you cannot ignore. What need do I have for such pathetic games? I leave that to the likes of the others who doubt their talent.”
Perhaps it was my expression that made Gerhard realize things were far more serious. He paused. “Why do you ask these questions about food? Did someone break out in a rash or puke in a bucket? You cannot lay the blame on me, no matter what Beinhouwer says! I sent nothing.”
I was ready to believe him, but the duke was not so trusting.
“Where were you last night from about 11 p.m. to 4 a.m.?”
It would have been best for the chef’s innocence if the red flush that spread over his dome head hadn’t been so obvious. He was clearly flustered and uneasy by the duke’s question.
“When I saw Beinhouwer would not give me use of my kitchen, I left.”
“Where did you go?”
“It is none of your business what I do outside the kitchen, mysir de duke. I may be a common man, but who are you to ask these questions? A guardia? Are we policing the preparation of food now?”
Perdersen was growing angry, which meant he would say something he’d later regret. I tried to soothe him. “Chef, His Grace is the king’s man. He is here in his official capacity. I know it might embarrass you to answer these questions, but believe me, it is incredibly important. He is not accusing anyone of anything, but just trying to discover where you were.”
Gerhard’s eyes swiveled around the room, looking for an escape, but there was none. Archambeau’s tall form was imposing, and he would not let his fish wriggle off the hook. Sighing, Gerhard drew closer and said in a much lower voice, “Fine. Fine. I was with mysir Faucher the entire evening. Ask him.”
“In his room? Only I noticed that your bed hadn’t been slept in, and your cheeks were not shaved this morning.”
“Yes. Yes. All night. In his room. I don’t know why you need to know about my love life—”
“I knew it! Liar! Philanderer!” A scream made everyone freeze as the ghostly shade of Claude Frossard formed behind Gerhard.
The Noise Ghost swept through the kitchen like a storm. Knives danced out of their sorting blocks; pans shimmied on tables. Shocked and terrified, the staff dived for the back door, running as if their lives depended on their escape.
“Oh, no!” I cried. “I thought we left Claude at the Crown! How did he get here?”
“I followed him!” screeched Gerhard’s dead lover. “I knew I couldn’t trust him. That he was lying. You can’t fool me!”
“Not another one!” Archambeau grabbed my arm and dragged me towards the door.
“No, I have to help Gerhard,” I protested, trying to get my wrist free from his iron grip.
“I’m not getting possessed again. Once was more than enough!”
“You never really loved me!” shouted Claude.
Gerhard finally woke up from his stupor. He yelled back. “You cling like a barnacle! Leave me alone to live my life!”
“Your life? You want your life back? So do I!”
A flat-bottomed saucepan, along with its contents, came flying across the room, spraying tomato sauce on the walls before hitting Gerhard smack in the middle of his forehead. The chef collapsed to the floor, and the kitchen became quiet.
When he didn’t rise, Claude came to hover over him, wringing his hands. “Gerhard, I didn’t mean it. Speak to me!”
I was about to rush to Perdersen’s aid when he groaned.
“See, your favorite isn’t dead.” And with that, Archambeau dragged me away.
Chapter Eleven
In the corridor, we both started to argue.
“See, I told you he had nothing to do with this!”
“That remains to be seen. Someone knew about these bedtime treats and used them to their advantage. Chef Perdersen could have made the dessert before he came here and brought it with him.”
“Anyone could have done that! We know Simon spoke to a maid. Who else knew the chefs were dropping off food at the king’s door? It sounds like it was an open secret among the chefs.”
Bringing me into a stairwell, Archambeau looked all directions before replying. “I agree. And don’t think I have let Simon off the hook. He is being replaced with a man I can trust and being sent back to Alenbonné on the first train. Now, Chalamet, I need you—”
“Yes!” I interrupted eagerly.
“—to keep quiet.”
Crossing my arms, I said, “Is that all you think I can do? After what I did at the Nightingale?”
“This has nothing to do with ghosts or stolen tiaras, but is a cold-blooded attempted murder upon our rightful sovereign. This is my field, not yours. Now, first, I need to talk with Count Westergaard.”
“You need a cover story, a plausible lie about why King Guénard won’t be attending.”
“Exactly. It will be a migraine. He uses that excuse whenever he doesn’t want to attend a function. Everyone will accept it easily enough.”
“But no visitors except his doctor, to keep the would-be poisoner in the dark about whether his—”
“Or her—”
“—plan worked and how well.”
“He will need a food taster.”
“I shall send a runner out anonymously for food. A runner who will taste it before he hands it over.”
“But you can’t send too much food, or the poisoner might think the king is well and try again.”
He tapped my nose with his forefinger. “The way you go on, someone might think you are an expert liar.”
“Duplicity is not unknown to Ghost Talkers. Sometimes our patrons even want it.”
“You need to leave it to me for now.” When I didn’t answer, he said warningly, “Chalamet…”
“Since you don’t need me, I have things to do today. Such as an assignation in the garden with a man.”
Before he could ask who, I left.
A Lindengaard footman stopped me. He had the parcel from the bank that I had requested yesterday. Back upstairs, I found our room empty. It was still too early to meet Marson, so lying down on my bed, I laced my fingers over my stomach and stared at the ceiling to think. A few hours later, Charlotte entered.
“I’m as beaten as a rug,” she said through a yawn as she collapsed onto her own bed. “His physician is here now, and I’ve handed the royal pain in the arse over to him. Good riddance! If you can believe it, he was already whining about not being able to eat when I was leaving!”
“Oh, Charlotte, is he going to recover?”
“Too soon to tell. Could be liver damage; however, that’s now the royal physician’s problem. He showed me the door quickly enough. But there’s another complication.”
“What?”
“I tested the Dr. Lilly’s powder, and it’s almost pure potassium chloride.”
“Not good, I suspect?”
“No. In that form, it’s another poison. I passed that information along to His Grace. He didn’t look pleased to know.” She punched her pillow and, finding her sleeping mask on the table beside her bed, pulled it over her forehead. “I’m going back to sleep. If anyone wants me, tell them I’ve gone back to Alenbonné.”
“Oh, Charlotte,” I murmured again with a smile, but she didn’t answer. Her breathing had already deepened with sleep. In a moment, while thinking over all the things I needed to do, I did the same.
It wasn’t until light shafted in through the window at a certain angle that I woke up. Rolling over, I picked up my father’s watch, resting on the bedside table. I had had it repaired, smoothing out the dents and replacing the gems. Seeing that it was well past lunch, I leapt out of bed. If I wanted to meet the Marson family in the formal gardens, I needed to hurry.
My outfit was sadly rumpled, but I didn’t have time to change. Cold water at the washstand served as a restorative. In the mirror, I hastily redid my hair, setting a fresh bun. There is nothing like jewelry to make a woman feel herself, so I quickly selected pear-shaped pearl drop earrings and a ruby pin for my neck scarf.
