Midnight approached, the magic hour at the Coventry when guests who’d put in a duty appearance at Godmama’s ball or musicale came to treat themselves to some wagering and flirtation in less genteel surrounds. The champagne became free at midnight, and the laughter became freer.
Because Ann Pearson was not on the premises, Sycamore Dorning’s anxiety also rose as the evening hours advanced, and the club’s gambling floor became more crowded.
“The buffet needs attention,” he said to a passing footman. “The roast won’t last another quarter hour, and the sculpted potatoes are nearly gone.”
The footman, one Henry Broadman, was young and fit, and yet, he looked exhausted. “Apologies, Mr. Dorning, but the kitchen isn’t at its best tonight. Nan is trying to get the potatoes to look like those little ducks Miss Pearson makes, and it’s not going well. Pierre didn’t put the second roast on until about an hour ago, so we might well run out of beef. Hannah has a ham in the bake oven that should be ready to go soon.”
This was not good. A scullery maid sculpting potatoes, an apprentice tending the ham, the sous-chef forgetting to spit a roast…
“Come along,” Sycamore said, heading for the kitchen.
“Mr. Dorning, I don’t mean to get above myself, sir, but you’d best not… That is…”
Sycamore pushed through the swinging doors, and where the happy bustle of a busy kitchen should have been, all was pandemonium. Somebody had spilled flour near the pantry, and white tracks formed random patterns on the floor tiles.
The girl trying her hand at potato sculpture also looked as if she’d been crying, and the new fellow—Pierre—was washing wineglasses at the wet sink.
Hannah, Miss Pearson’s apprentice, was at the cook stove, stirring something that at least smelled enticingly like ham gravy.
“What is he doing here?” Sycamore asked. One of Orion Goddard’s half-grown reconnaissance officers sat on a stool by the window, paring apples with a knife that did not look to be standard kitchen issue.
“I’m helping,” the boy replied. “Colonel said to keep an eye on things, and I took that t’ mean I was to keep an eye on Miss Ann’s kitchen. Hannah put me to work.” He bit into a pale apple quarter. “I like this kinda work.”
“Theodoric,” Sycamore said, the boy’s name popping to mind. “Did you at least wash your hands before you took up that knife?”
The boy pushed off his stool and came close enough to hold out two exceedingly clean hands. “Hannah said everything in the kitchen starts with washing. I wasn’t keen on that notion until she made us some crepes.”
The sous-chef, who should have been bringing some order to the chaos, remained bent over the tub of glasses as if praying for their souls.
“Where the hell is Jules?”
Hannah, Theodoric, and Henry all glanced in the direction of the cellar door.
Unease climbed closer to panic. “How long has he been down there?”
A waiter came dashing through the doors. “Bloody guests are hungry tonight, and we’re already out of soup.”
“You,” Sycamore said, “please trot across the street and ask Mrs. Dorning to join us here in the kitchen. She’s to come as she is as soon as she decently can. You three,” he went on, gesturing to Henry, Hannah, and Theodoric, “come with me.”
Hannah set her pot to the side of the burner and followed him, Henry came next, and Theodoric helped himself to another quarter of apple before falling in line.
“What the hell is going on in my kitchen?” Sycamore asked when they had gained the marginally cooler surrounds of the corridor.
“Miss Ann isn’t here,” Henry said. “We manage better when Miss Ann’s here.”
“Miss Ann asked to have the night off a week ago,” Sycamore retorted. “Why hasn’t Jules stepped in?”
“’Cause he’s a drunk,” Theodoric said. “And a mean drunk. He goes to the wine cellar, and the rest of the kitchen would just as soon lock him down there. He helps himself to your wine, by the way, and anything else he pleases to have around here. If Henry so much as took some day-old bread home without permission, he’d be sacked, but old Jules isn’t even earning his wage and—”
Hannah elbowed her friend in the ribs. “It’s worse than Otter says.”
“What could be worse than a buffet that offers only mashed potatoes shaped to resemble horse droppings?”
“We can serve the mashed potatoes en casserole garnished with parsley, ham gravy on the side,” Hannah said. “Miss Ann told me that before she left, but Jules ordered the tatie pigeons, and we haven’t anybody to make the tatie pigeons.”
“Henry,” Sycamore said, “tell Nan to do what Hannah said. Make a casserole of the damned potatoes, sprinkle parsley on top, and set the ham gravy on a warming light beside them. What else did Miss Ann say?”
“Tell him what Jules said,” Otter prompted, finishing his apple quarter. “Or I will.”
Hannah wiped her hands on her apron. “I understand French. Otter does too. We heard Jules talking to Pierre, bragging about having a lot of excellent champagne in his personal inventory, and telling Pierre it’s for sale at very attractive prices.”
“Champagne magnifique,” Otter muttered. “I know where he got it, too, because I recognize the cases.”
“He’s keeping stolen property here?” Sycamore asked.
“Nah.” Otter stepped back to allow a footman to rush past with an empty platter. “I followed him. He keeps it at his place, in the cellar, which is bloody stupid. His cellar is damp and stinks of coal.”
Resolving that situation would require Orion Goddard’s participation. The immediate challenge was the buffet.
“Hannah, what else did Miss Pearson say about tonight’s menu?”
Hannah withdrew a wrinkled paper from her pocket. “She left a list, but Jules tore it from the pantry door and crumpled it up. I picked it up when he wasn’t looking. I was about to start on the apple cobbler. It’s simple and quick.”
“Start on the cobbler, get Nan to help you when she’s done with the potatoes. What can we do about the roast?”
“You can make those curled-up things,” Otter said. “You slice off strips of meat from the part of the roast that’s done and roll them up on little skewers. Looks fancy, fills a plate without using up much meat, and you don’t have to wait for the whole roast to cook.”
“How long have you been lurking in my kitchen?” Sycamore asked.
“We did that last week,” Hannah said, “when Pierre got here late. We used a cooked ham that only needed heating. I could use the ham in the oven, and Miss Ann says thyme, rosemary, and tarragon can wake up a plain ham.”
“Go wake up the damned ham, then,” Sycamore said, “and tell the waiters to make double the rounds with the champagne, starting immediately.”
“It’s not midnight yet,” Otter replied as Hannah marched off. “The champagne ain’t free until midnight.”
“Isn’t,” Sycamore retorted, “and I’m the owner of the place, so if I say it’s free, then it’s free starting now. Jeanette, my dearest, thank you for coming.”