The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10

THE KING OF OUDH’S CURRY by Amy Myers

SO THIS WAS Oakham Manor. Auguste Didier was already having doubts about the wisdom of his journey. Not only had he come at great inconvenience to cook a banquet for a quiet but prestigious wedding, but the promised carriage to meet him at the Kentish railway station of Maidstone had not awaited him. Instead he had been forced to take an omnibus, alight some distance away and trudge the remaining mile with his baggage in what for England was extraordinary heat. Now at last he had arrived at the gates of the Manor with the delights of a refreshing tisane and then of preparing a sumptuous banquet before him.

“Are you the new chef?” an anxious voice enquired.

Intent on studying the façade of the Palladian mansion before him, Auguste had not seen the vagrant sitting propped up against the high brick wall to one side of the imposing iron gates. He looked to be a man of at least sixty, with tattered clothes which hung loosely on his shoulders, implying that his girth had once been considerably wider. Mild eyes in a wrinkled face, topped by a battered and old-fashioned white cook’s hat, gazed up at him hopefully. Cook’s hat? Could this sad-looking man be the former chef?

“Only for the next four days,” Auguste replied truthfully.

The vagrant (or chef) shook his head sadly. “Four days… I doubt if you’ll last that long, sir. Why, I saw a chef go in these very gates three days ago, and he’s gone already. Then there was William; he went after a month, and before him one called Tom spent only two days here.”

“Why did all these cooks leave so suddenly? Were they dissatisfied with the kitchens?” Auguste was aghast. This sounded ominous. He had been relying on finding the very latest equipment there.

The vagrant looked perplexed. “They’re all dead, sir, so I never asked them. If only they’d taken my recipe, it might have been different. But they wouldn’t. I did tell them it was Sir Oliver’s favourite… And now the latest has dropped dead. Let me see.” He paused, deep in thought, then pronounced in triumph: “Alfred Hogg! That was his name. A gloomy sort of person. Unlike his late Majesty the King of Oudh, who was a very jolly gentleman.”

Auguste began to feel distinctly uneasy. Nothing had been mentioned to him about this disastrous procession of chefs when Sir Oliver Marsh had so desperately begged him to cook the wedding banquet at the union of himself and his housekeeper. Such a ceremony was unusual enough in itself, without this vagrant’s revelations. Who was he? Another chef, as he had implied? And what did the late King of Oudh have to do with Oakham Manor? Oudh had once been part of the Moghul Empire but was now a region of India and thus a province of the British Empire. Its late king, so far as Auguste could recollect, had been Wajid Ali Shah who died some years ago in the 1880s, and who had indeed been jolly but was unlikely to have travelled to Kent.

He decided to adopt a jovial tone. “I shall take great care not to drop arsenic into the soup.”

There was no answering mirth, and perhaps, Auguste conceded, rightly so in the circumstances. Instead the vagrant looked most distressed. “Please do, sir. You will take my recipe yourself, won’t you?”

“I beg your pardon?” Auguste stared at the grubby piece of paper that was pushed towards him.

“My recipe, sir. I do assure you, it is superb. If only they would have taken it, as I asked, all those chefs might still be with us.”

“Recipe for what?” Auguste asked cautiously, taking the piece of paper.

“The King of Oudh’s curry, sir. He gave this recipe to my father with his own royal hands. That’s why he died.”

“Who? Your father?” Auguste looked at the recipe in trepidation.

“No, sir, Prince Albert, Her Majesty’s late husband. They must have mixed up the ingredients at Buckingham Palace and put arsenic instead of pounded mace in it. As one chef to another, sir, you’d agree that’s not wise.”

“I would,” Auguste said hastily. He would have agreed with anything, provided he could speedily remove himself from here, in case this madman still carried a supply of poison. Prince Albert had died over thirty years earlier, but the death of the last chef of Oakham Manor had apparently been far more recent. Then he reproached himself. This poor man was mad and needed gentle understanding. “I’ll certainly take your recipe, and try it, Mr…er-”

“Today I’ve decided that my name is Saxe-Coburg,” was the grand reply. “And that is why I try to give the true recipe to every cook I meet. After all, the last one died only two days ago and I wouldn’t like that to happen again. Suppose the King of Oudh were to attend the wedding ceremony? Not that that’s likely. I recall he died in the early thirties, and that would be sixty years ago now.”

“So he certainly won’t be here for Sir Oliver’s wedding,” Auguste said jovially. The early thirties? This must be an earlier king than Wajid Ali Shah then. He had a faint recollection of reading of an eccentric gentleman on the throne of Oudh, with an excessive fear of being poisoned and a large harem (which perhaps accounted for the jolliness which the vagrant’s father had attributed to him).

The vagrant sighed. “I believe not, sir, which is a great relief. Although of course it would be unfortunate if any of Sir Oliver’s guests died, especially the Prince of Wales.”

The Prince of Wales was to attend? Auguste was momentarily panic-stricken. The Prince of Wales had very definite ideas about his food – and about chefs. Surely he could not be among the guests? Sir Oliver would have warned him. Auguste tried to think logically, which was difficult as the glitter in the vagrant’s eyes was now distinctly alarming. He forgot about trying to display gentle understanding, put the recipe in his pocket and made a speedy escape.

The forecourt of the Manor was already crowded with carriages, which was strange as the wedding was not to take place for another three days. He hesitated over whether to present himself at the front entrance of the mansion or the tradesmen’s entrance – always a moot point for a master chef. Luckily the matter was settled for him as he saw a familiar figure walking towards him from the latter.

Auguste blinked. Egbert Rose? What was a detective inspector from Scotland Yard doing here? Surely this could be no social call – and yet the alternative was not pleasant to contemplate.

Egbert looked pleased to see him. “Well, well. Afternoon, Mr Didier.”

“You’re here to guard the guests, Inspector?”

“Not unless you’re planning to bump them off,” Egbert replied drily. “The cook’s been murdered.”

Murdered? This was growing worse, Auguste thought. Three men not only dead but murdered here? That surely suggested that more deaths might follow.

“Chap of the name of Alfred Hogg,” Egbert continued, obviously pleased by Auguste’s alarm. ‘Came from Surrey. Used to work at a big house there with his wife. Had an eye for a pretty housemaid or two, they told the Yard, so his wife walked out, and after a year or two he decided he’d move on when one of the housemaids got in the family way. Never had time to start on the girls here; he was murdered the day after he arrived. The butler raised the alarm when he found him, and insisted on an investigation. He was right. Enough arsenic to wipe out the entire household.”

Auguste’s head spun with shock at this clear indication that the vagrant was no madman. Not completely anyway. The reason for Auguste’s hasty summons to the Manor to cook for the wedding was apparent, but surely that would now be postponed? “How was the poison administered?” he asked faintly.

“In his food. A curry, the scientists tell us. The poor devil probably cooked his own death. There was a jar of rat poison in the kitchen.”

Auguste reeled. Curry? This household seemed addicted to it. “Were the other chefs murdered too?”

Egbert looked startled. “What other chefs?”

“I was told Hogg’s predecessors also died suspiciously soon after their arrival.”

“First I’ve heard of it. Sure you haven’t had a dose of the sun?”

“No. A dose of a former chef, whom I believe I had the pleasure of meeting at the gate.”

Egbert grinned. “I’ve heard about old Isaac. So you’re concocting a theory that he poisons off every new chef on their arrival, are you?”

Auguste paled. “No.” That unpleasant thought had not occurred to him. “Fortunately I am merely a temporary chef.”

“The others seem to have been temporary too. Make sure you’re not next on the list.”

“This menu of yours…” Sir Oliver Marsh, a most merry gentleman when Auguste had met him previously at Plum’s Club for Gentlemen, was looking worried. Surely there could be no problem with the menu Auguste had presented to him? It had been the result of many hours of anxious thought.

“Superb, Didier… superb! The turbot à la Carème is an inspired choice,” Sir Oliver continued.

Auguste relaxed. Even so, he had expected to be told the wedding was postponed in view of the police presence and the chef’s death. True, Mr Hogg had only worked here for a day, and he was not a family member, but nevertheless, Auguste thought, “Ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee”.

“So the wedding will still take place, Sir Oliver?” He glanced curiously at the prospective bride seated at Sir Oliver’s side. Mrs Peak was in her middle years, and clad as befitted her current status in black bombazine. She looked as if she too might be merry by nature (unusual in housekeepers), but today she had other things on her mind.

“It will, Mr Didier,” she assured him.

“It must,” boomed Sir Oliver.

Mrs Peak had obviously noticed Auguste’s surprise because she hastened to explain. “You are thinking of Mr Hogg’s death, of course. That poison was meant for me, Mr Didier. I cannot be sure who is responsible, but there is no doubt that I was the intended victim. The curry that the police tell us killed him had been prepared for me by poor Mr Hogg. It is a favourite of mine, and I’d told him so.”

“But why should someone wish to do such a terrible thing?” Auguste was even more appalled.

“I am afraid that there are those who do not approve of my marrying Sir Oliver.”

He put a comforting hand on his wife-to-be’s arm. “So the quicker the knot’s tied the better, Didier,” he said. “The wedding was always going to be a small one, but now we’re overrun by police we’ve decided it will be even smaller. Good news, eh, Didier? Same money, not so much work. Much simpler food.”

Auguste gazed at him in dismay. He could hardly believe that Sir Oliver expected him to be pleased by the news that he was being deprived of the opportunity to cook purée of partridges with quails’ eggs, bisque of lobsters, civet of hare, and countless other delicacies.

“We’ll have curry instead,” Sir Oliver continued decisively. “Just the ticket. I took a fancy to it when I was a subaltern out in India. We’ll have a few extras for the weaklings, of course. Roast beef, plain boiled trout, roly-poly pudding…you know the sort of thing.”

Auguste did. His also knew that his art would be wasted on such unchallenging trifles. In addition to that, he was uncomfortably aware that his life might be threatened.

“Let me take you to meet Mr Carstairs, our butler, Mr Didier.” Mrs Peak beamed at him. “I’m sure you are eager to begin your duties.”

Auguste was not. In fact he realized that he was far more interested in the parade of his dead predecessors than he was in the preparation of such a mundane menu. And as it was Mr Carstairs who had raised the possibility of the last chef’s meeting an unnatural death, Auguste would be interested to meet him. The demise of several chefs, however, would seem to conflict with Mrs Peak’s belief that she was the intended victim. Pondering this, he followed her rustling skirts down the grand sweeping staircase, at the bottom of which stood a sour-faced lady of perhaps fifty, clad badly but so expensively that she clearly did not belong to the servants’ quarters.

“I did not expect to see you on this staircase, Mrs Peak,” she trilled shrilly.

The implication was clear. Housekeepers and temporary chefs should be using the servants’ staircase. Mrs Peak was obviously well used to such attacks. “I have been discussing my wedding with Sir Oliver.” A pleasant smile accompanied this reminder that soon the balance of power would be reversed.

If Auguste read the sour lady’s expression correctly, that wedding would be no reason for her to celebrate.

“Poor lady,” Mrs Peak commented to him as she swept along the next corridor. “Miss Lavinia Cartwright is merely a dependent cousin of Sir Oliver’s late wife. I believe she had hopes, Mr Didier.”

“Of what?”

“Of marrying Sir Oliver herself. She was employed out of sheer kindness as governess to his only son, and somehow he never had the heart to turn her out.”

It occurred to Auguste that Mrs Peak could well find the heart to do so herself in due course. “His son lives here still?”

“Alas, tragically killed in the Zulu War. Sir Oliver’s heir lives in the dower house on the estate – heir, that is, until Sir Oliver’s and my wedding,’ she added complacently. “Mr Ernest Marsh, I fear, is a young gentleman who lives on his expectations.”

“So the estate is entailed.”

“No.” A beaming smile now. “It is for Sir Oliver to decide the future of his wealth and estates. I fear, Mr Didier, neither Miss Cartwright nor Mr Marsh cares for his happiness, only for their own future gain.”

Auguste was beginning to understand why Mrs Peak believed herself to be the intended victim, and with reason. This posed an interesting question.

“Was the curry that killed Mr Hogg prepared only for you?”

“Yes. No one else has the taste for it in the servants’ hall except me, but obviously the unfortunate Mr Hogg enjoyed it too. He was a newcomer, of course, and so whoever committed this terrible deed could not have known of his liking for curry.”

“But you would have partaken of it yourself at dinner that evening.”

“Indeed, but fortunately I was delayed by private business with Sir Oliver and could not eat with the other servants. I intended to dine later. By that time, the terrible news of Mr Hogg’s illness made me suspicious of the curry.”

“I gather other chefs here have died in similar circumstances,” Auguste said tentatively.

She stopped short, and drew herself up indignantly. “Mr Didier, what can you mean?”

“One called Tom who died after two days, and William after a month.”

Mrs Peak relaxed, and gave a merry laugh. “I do believe you’ve been listening to Mr Dickens.”

“I beg your pardon?” Auguste could not recall the great novelist, even if he were alive, having much interest in chefs.

“Isaac Dickens, who often sits at the Manor gates.”

Was that the vagrant’s real name, Auguste wondered, or his chosen one for the day? “So it’s not true about other chefs being murdered?”

“Of course not. William died of natural causes, and Tom simply disappeared, as cooks do from time to time. So distressing for Sir Oliver. A housemaid vanished at the same time, and we felt the two incidents might be connected. Very foolish. How could they get another place as good as Sir Oliver provides?”

Auguste still remained to be convinced of the pleasures of working at Oakham Manor. “Who is Isaac Dickens?”

“Isaac was chef here for many years, but he reached an age where the exigencies of cooking in such a prestigious household grew too much for him. He was pensioned off, but I fear he still likes to haunt the gates. He’s quite harmless.”

Auguste recalled the fanatical light in Isaac’s eyes and was far from sure about this. “I agree it seems probable that the poisoner was trying to kill you, not Mr Hogg, and that must be frightening for you.”

“It is.” The housekeeper relaxed her guard a little. “I do try not to worry Sir Oliver too much about it, so it is a relief to be able to confide in you, Mr Didier.”

Another problem still bothered him, but it was a difficult matter to raise. “Only a limited number of people would have access to that curry before it could be cooked and eaten,” he began cautiously.

He need not have worried. Mrs Peak saw his point immediately.

“You are implying, of course, that the family, in which I include Miss Cartwright and Mr Ernest Marsh, would not normally enter the kitchen areas, which are in the servants’ domain. You are correct.”

“Then-”

Mrs Peak swept on. “There had been complaints, Mr Didier. The aroma of curry does not please everyone, and as Sir Oliver is fond of it a special kitchen was set up in a small outbuilding once used for storing apples. It has no connection either with the servants’ wing or with the main house and so the smell of spices does not travel so quickly. Sir Oliver visits the kitchen himself, indulging in making his own blends of curry powder, and anyone – including Miss Cartwright and Mr Ernest – would be able to do the same. Even Mr Carstairs…” She hesitated. “I should explain, Mr Didier, that Mr Carstairs is not happy about my marriage. At one time, we had an understanding.”

“That is easy to believe,” Auguste replied gallantly. “He must have been most worried by your near escape from the poisoned curry.”

“He was,” Mrs Peak replied. “That is why he insisted on an inquest. ‘There is more to this,’ he said. ‘The coroner must be notified about Mr Hogg’s death.’”

Auguste was still struggling with a mental image of all those noble ladies and gentlemen beating a path to an outbuilding to indulge a passion for curry-powder blending. Curry, in his opinion, failed to woo the meat, fish or vegetables that it claimed to enhance; it merely tried to smother their taste out of existence.

Butlers were almighty beings in a household such as Oakham Manor, but then so were chefs, he reflected, as they arrived at the door of Pug’s Parlour, the butler’s sanctum. Nevertheless, as the door opened and a tall, thin, almost elegant gentleman peered out at him, Auguste decided to be wary. Butlers usually resented sharing power, and chefs, albeit temporary ones, might provide a threat to Mr Carstairs’s authority, especially if he was upset by Mrs Peak’s marriage to Sir Oliver. Luckily, Mr Carstairs had obviously overcome any inner turmoil and was gravely welcoming.

“An honour to have you with us, Mr Didier. So good of you to come at such short notice.”

Auguste endeavoured to look flattered. “I am delighted to be here.” Even to his ears his own voice lacked conviction.

“I have explained to Mr Didier,” Mrs Peak said earnestly, “that we are a happy household here, despite the most distressing occurrence of Mr Hogg’s death.”

“An accident,” Mr Carstairs assured Auguste. “As I explained to the inspector when he asked why I had called for an inquest. The idea of murder or suicide seemed far-fetched, and yet so did the idea of a natural death so soon after Mr Hogg’s arrival. When I inspected the kitchen I realized that rat poison must have been used for its proper purpose and then not put back in its rightful place. The new chef must have confused it with rice flour or arrowroot.”

Mrs Peak disagreed. “Or else someone placed it there purposely, having thrown handfuls of it into the curry. That, I feel, is far more likely. Mr Hogg was not the sort of person to confuse ingredients.”

Mr Carstairs looked taken aback by her disagreement, and hastily murmured that she was no doubt correct.

“Which recipe did Mr Hogg use?” Auguste asked, remembering the dire prospect before him. He too would be cooking curry and endeavouring to make of it a dish suitable for a wedding banquet.

Mrs Peak smiled at him. “Mr Hogg asked me which was Sir Oliver’s favourite curry, because, as he explained, he would need to practise. I therefore passed him the recipe.”

Once established in the attic room that was to be his home for the next few days – with a key in the lock in view of the possibility of assassination – Auguste took the grubby piece of paper that Isaac had given him out of his pocket. Flour was not one of the ingredients listed for Sir Oliver’s favourite, the King of Oudh’s curry.

He found old Isaac sitting peacefully at the gate contemplating a cow in the field opposite and munching a lump of bread. In his other hand he had a hunk of cheese, and a bottle of beer stood on the grass beside him.

“I’m sorry to disturb you at lunch, Mr Dickens.”

“You’re still alive,” Isaac commented with great disappointment.

“And intend to remain so,” Auguste informed him. “I have to cook the King of Oudh’s curry for the wedding ceremony.”

“My dear fellow, I am delighted.” Bread and cheese were laid aside as Isaac scrambled to his feet and pumped Auguste’s hand in appreciation of the honour. “At last someone has seen the beauty of the recipe. Only Sir Oliver had paid due deference to it hitherto.”

“I’m told that Alfred Hogg cooked this particular curry too, the one that carried the poison in it.”

Isaac looked puzzled. “I didn’t give the recipe to him. He didn’t want it, and I was glad of it. He did not look a worthy sort of person.”

“Mr Hogg requested the recipe for Sir Oliver’s favourite, and Mrs Peak passed it to him. It seems to be generally known in the household.”

“But rarely cooked,” Isaac said severely. “Sir Oliver is badly served, I fear.”

“Does your recipe carry flour of any kind in it?” If not, then an accident with the ingredients was most certainly ruled out.

“Certainly not.” Isaac was indignant. “The King of Oudh’s is not a commonplace curry, Mr Didier. King Nasir-ud-din was a most superior person, so my father informed me. He was most enthusiastic about European culture, and indeed his favoured companion was a European barber, a strange fellow called de Russett, who tasted all his food and wine, lest it was poisoned. The barber shopped in the markets to bring back only the finest and purest ingredients and then cooked them himself for His Majesty. He is hardly likely to have included flour amongst them. Now were it some inferior curry, such as that known as Mr Arnott’s curry, with cabbage and apples, flour would no doubt be permissible, but with the King of Oudh’s refined tastes, it would be totally out of place. I am speechless at the suggestion, sir, speechless.”

Alfred Hogg might have confused flour with rat poison but he would not have added it to the curry, Auguste reasoned. That must have been done by a third party. But if so, he wondered, why did the killer leave the rat poison in the outside kitchen? Why not remove it? It seemed extraordinarily careless.

“So you’re still alive.”

Auguste whirled round in the middle of the extremely boring task of making a shepherd’s pie for the wedding on the morrow. His spirits were very low and he was counting the hours until he could return to his beloved Plum’s Club for Gentlemen, where his art was appreciated.

“As you can see,” he said crossly. He liked Inspector Rose but was beginning heartily to dislike comments on his own continuing existence. He had tried to keep his mind on wedding menus, but this was hard when it kept moving back to the question of the dead chef. Partly, he admitted, because he had been obliged to cook such large quantities of the King of Oudh’s curry in the two days that had passed since his arrival.

“Nice-looking pie, Mr Didier.” Egbert Rose looked wistfully at it, and for a moment Auguste was pleased.

“Would you like one, Inspector? I can spare one for Mrs Rose.”

“No arsenic in it, is there?”

“That is not an ingredient I’m accustomed to using,” Auguste replied mildly. Jokes were all very well, but when they concerned his cooking they had to be put in their place.

The inspector had the grace to blush. “Thought you’d like to know we’ve put a guard on Mrs Peak. Those other dead chefs-”

“I understand their deaths or disappearances were not due to the King of Oudh’s curry,” Auguste broke in. “Or to any other curry or any third party.”

Egbert looked disappointed. “So you know that, do you? Yes, it looks certain that Mrs Peak was the intended target.”

“Have you talked yet to Miss Cartwright and Mr Ernest Marsh? They would seem to have plenty of cause to wish Mrs Peak harm.”

“I have. Spitting fury, both of them. They’d have liked to have doctored her curry, but I can’t prove either of them did.”

“And Mr Carstairs, her jilted lover?”

“Same thing. Rather too eager to point out it must have been an accident. But you know what I think, Mr Didier?”

Auguste regarded him carefully. “That the curry is being pulled over our eyes?”

“What?” The inspector looked totally bemused.

It was Auguste’s turn to blush. “I’m sorry, Inspector. I am somewhat dejected at present. I am not accustomed to cooking curry.”

“What is this about a curry?”

“Not a curry, the curry. The King of Oudh’s curry. Sir Oliver’s favourite and the one that Alfred Hogg cooked that day. It doesn’t have flour in it, which rules out the possibility of an accident with the jar of rat poison. That was deliberately left there to smother us.”

Egbert regarded him sourly at this second slip. “Speak for yourself. I’m not smothered.”

Auguste made another effort. “I apologize. It is the curry that smothers.”

“Smothers what?” The inspector was getting irritated, and Auguste could hardly blame him.

“The curry’s main ingredients are suffused with the strong flavours of the sauce.”

“I’m not here for a cooking lesson, Mr Didier. I’ll send along Mrs Rose for that.”

Auguste tried again. “You – we perhaps – are losing touch with the main ingredient of this case.”

“And what might that be?”

“The dead man, Alfred Hogg. There are several people who would no doubt like to kill Mrs Peak, but we forget who actually was killed.”

“Who would want to kill him? He’d only been here a day.”

“Exactly. So there could be only one person here who would wish to kill him.”

“And who might that be?”

“Mrs Peak.”

Egbert stared at him incredulously. “The blooming bride? Hell and Tommy, what for?”

“Only she could have a motive for leaving the rat poison in the curry kitchen after using it to flavour the curry to kill Alfred Hogg. She needed to show that others in the household, both family and servants, could not only have had reason to kill her, but also the means. If she’d moved the jar back to its proper place, it’s unlikely that the connection could have been made that she was the intended victim, not the cook. If it turned out that there was an investigation into the death, she needed all the attention to be on herself, not on Mr Hogg. Once Mr Carstairs had raised the alarm, she quickly drew attention to herself… a task made easier because it could have been true. Three people could, theoretically, have wished her out of the way. She needed to act in a hurry after the shock she had received the day before.”

Egbert Rose was still staring at him. “What shock? If you’d be so good as to enlighten me, Mr Didier?”

“Of seeing Alfred Hogg again, in view of their relationship. Sir Oliver would have appointed him, not her.”

“What’s all this about a relationship?”

“I think you will find that she is actually Mrs Hogg. She spoke of Mr Hogg in terms of knowing his habits. He was not the sort of person to confuse ingredients, according to her. And he had to be silenced quickly if her marriage was to go ahead.”

There was a long pause. “All theory. No proof.”

“I admit that.”

Another pause, then: “I’ll get my men on to it. Should be easy enough to prove.”

“I hope so.”

Egbert Rose paused on his way to the kitchen door. “By the way, Mr Didier. I was walking by that outside kitchen. The curry you’ve been cooking smells rather good. I’ll have the recipe, if I may.”

“It’s all very well, Mr Didier, but what shall I do?” Sir Oliver looked piteously grey after Egbert Rose had broken the news to him. Auguste had immediately been summoned and his heart had been moved when he saw his temporary employer’s anxious expression.

“I am sorry, sir,” he said. “I’m sure Mrs Peak was genuinely fond of you.”

“Eh?” Sir Oliver’s face looked a little more like its usual merry self. “Nonsense, man. She was after my money. Lavinia said so all the time. Good girl, Lavinia. Might have a wedding after all. So what shall I do?”

“About what?”

“A cook. You said you’re leaving.”

“I am, sir.” He couldn’t stay in this spice-laden household any longer.

“Who’s to cook my curry then?”

Auguste seized his chance. “There is an old gentleman at your gate…”