Murder Makes an Entree by Amy Myers

for the
     banquet in the Imperial kitchens. The hotel staff had been firmly relegated to a very small part of their own domain for the
     preparation of luncheon and would thereafter be merely onlookers, apart from serving the food to the hoi polloi of the guests
     this evening, while Auguste and his pupils served the Prince of Wales’s table.
    ‘Oh, do use the blue, Papa; it’s so pretty.’
    Auguste’s eyes misted at the sound and sight of the lovely Araminta, Multhrop’s eighteen-year-old daughter, rustling down
     the staircase in a delightful
froufrou
of petticoats, her large blue eyes fixed on her father, but well aware of every male in sight. Her curls bounced enchantingly
     as she clung to her father’s arm, dimpling at Auguste. ‘Do say the blue.’
    ‘Then the blue it is, my love,’ said her father fondly, as much putty in her hands as was Auguste.
    This had truly been a bewitching week, Auguste reflected. On Wednesday he had escorted Alice to the Grand Theatre at Margate
     where they had watched
Charley’s Aunt
. For himself, he did not find the piece as graceful as could be wished, but Alice seemed to find it most enjoyable and had
     giggled over its charms ever since. They had returned on the late theatre train, and it had been most pleasant walking down
     from the railway station and along the seafront so late at night; ah, to have a pretty girl by one’sside, and the touch of her lips on yours. Which girl, however?
    He might have wooed Alice away from Alfred Wittisham had Araminta not stolen his heart. Never would he forget sitting beside
     her in the night air watching an open-air performance of
The Parvenue
and listening to the band at Fort House on Thursday evening. Never would he forget the walk home along the promenade afterwards
     when her delicate little hand, albeit gloved, stole into his. The warm night air had quite gone to his head, and had Araminta
     not been quite so very unattainable, doubtless other parts also would have shared his intoxication. Fortunately a decidedly
     unromantic evening breeze had sprung up, subduing ardour in favour of a brisk walk home. Bracing was the word for the English
     seaside, Auguste had decided.
    ‘Aaah!’ cried out Mr Multhrop in anguish. Leaving his cry wafting after him, he disappeared in pursuit of a housemaid who
     was busily removing all the clean antimacassars that had only just been placed lovingly in position for the oil-bedaubed heads
     that would shortly be resting on them. Perhaps even royalty’s oil.
    An army of minions was tidying, dusting and polishing areas that the Prince of Wales could never see, unless he were to perform
     acrobatics; to Auguste’s eye the scene resembled the gardeners at work before the arrival of the Red Queen in Mr Carroll’s
     amusing tale. Mrs Multhrop sped around after them, confusing matters more, Mr Multhrop sped after her and Araminta remained
     still, the cynosure of all eyes, smiling delightfully and of no practical help whatsoever. It was not expected of her. Auguste
     repressed the traitorous thought that so far as household management went, she would prove like Mr David Copperfield’s ‘child-wife’
     Dora. Some discernment she had, however, for had she not made most complimentary remarks about his
filets de sole Murat?
    Similar panic was reigning in the kitchens. The Imperial’s staff, torn between a natural
amour propre
that a rival team had been imported to cook for the Prince of Wales and relief that they would not be responsible for royalty’s
     displeasure (yet with the ignoble hope that they might get all the credit), watched anxiously to ensure that the incoming
     team was competent. The procession of raised rook and chicken pies, with their intricate decorations, that made its appearance
     in the kitchen raised their expectations as high as the pie coffins, as did the jellies vanishing into the larders, and sorbets
     into the refrigerators.
    Auguste had adjusted the menu to his own