Murder Under The Kissing Bough: (Auguste Didier Mystery 6) Read Free Page A

told him there was no body, so no body existed. It had been his imagination. And as for what he
thought
he had heard, had he not just seen the legend Cranton’s Hotel above the doorway? Probably the words, if words there had indeed been, were Bantams at Christmas, phantoms at Christmas, Canton at Christmas – some reference to the Boxer trouble in China, perhaps. Certainly nothing to worry him. . .
    Auguste stood on the wide wooden staircase in the grand entrance hall of Cranton’s Hotel and sniffed appreciatively; for once not at food but at the smell of beeswax polish. All around him shone the ornate wood panelling, installed earlier that century, when the original Adam houses had been converted for use as a hotel. Their uniform high windows on three storeys surmounted by a smaller row in the attics, presented a majestic front – and rear – to the citizens of London. Old, comfortable furniture invited use, new Sommier Elastique Portatif spring mattresses from Heal’s awaited occupants, log fires burned already on the hearths; suddenly Cranton’s was alive again.
    Ah, what a Christmas they would have. They wouldsee the century out in style. He had planned menus – this much Maisie had permitted – such as would grace the Prince of Wales’s own table. His anxiety over the standard of the chef had been calmed by a surreptitious visit to his current establishment, devoted to Italian cuisine. He had been somewhat shamefaced when Maisie herself arrived with her husband, finding Auguste the only other diner, engrossed in determining the quality of a soufflé. He had not met the chef, he mentioned innocently. Who was it?
    The three days Auguste had spent at Cranton’s were a time of great anxiety as well as hard work. As manager he had naturally taken a personal interest in the re-equipment of the kitchens. No matter how good these new gas stoves, they would not replace the taste of spit-roasted meat. He cast an approving eye at the new cake mixer and chopping device, the Lovelock sausage machine and tinplate pudding moulds. How right Maître Escoffier was to devote time to inventions to take unnecessary work away. He had himself been doubtful earlier in his career, seeing routine chores as part of a chefs work. But
le maître
had proved to him that to use a fruit cutter or mechanical spit freed the chef for more important tasks. He recalled the day when
le maître
had shown him a small cube, which he had told him had all the strength of a complete stockpot, or a court-bouillon. A miracle indeed if it were true, he had marvelled. Why, one could produce a
soupe
in hours rather than days. It could revolutionise
la cuisine
.
    Auguste still had doubts about his chef at Cranton’s. He was after all Italian, and Italian food in his view consisted of spaghetti, macaroni,
les tomates
and no finesse. Could a goose be entrusted to such a person, let alone a plum pudding?
    He had been somewhat mollified when Signor Fancelli,who had a definite look of independence in his eye, told him he had been brought up in England, when his parents came to work in the kitchens of the Café Royal, and that accordingly he held a true cosmopolitan outlook on cuisine. However, these last three days had shown that he had a distinct leaning towards Parmesan cheese with everything. Indeed, he was as addicted to it as Mrs Marshall was towards her coralline pepper. Fancelli could only be in his late twenties, Auguste told himself tolerantly. There was time for him to learn – but not before Christmas. An eye would have to be kept on him, Auguste thought with pleasure.
    All had gone well at first. Fancelli had displayed a proper deference towards him. Fire flashed, however, over the matter of the forcemeat for the goose, after Fancelli had yielded over the wild boar.
    ‘I am the chef, Monsieur Didier,’ Fancelli said, his plump, short figure quivering with passion.
    ‘And I am the manager,’ pointed out Auguste.
    Signor Fancelli folded his arms.