Murder Makes an Entree by Amy Myers Page A

standards. His frantic re-reading of Dickens had revealed numerous mentions of grog.
     Very well, he reasoned, then grog jelly was not too far removed from the mandate he had been given, and no one could object
     to the addition of a delicious fruit sorbet. Dickens must have mentioned fruit somewhere. They would at least remove the richness
     of the goose from frightened stomachs. In one corner of the kitchens the lobsters were awaiting their fate. At least there
     he had been successful. But as to oysters, no. Not till September, his new friends William and Joseph maintained. In vain
     Auguste pleaded that the Prince of Wales would not wait until September. William pointed out that they had their reputation
     to consider; French passion met British indomitability, and Auguste yielded. No oysters.
    William and Joseph had glanced at each other.
    ‘Crabs now,’ Joseph said. ‘You could get a nice crab or two.’
    Auguste had not observed the slow smile creeping over William’s face as Joseph placed in his hand a rod with a hook on the
     end. He looked at it blankly.
    ‘Dat dere’s a pungar ’ook; now you get all the crabs you want, mister; us’ll keep all dem furriners away.’
    It had been fortunate, Auguste reflected bitterly, that nonecessity had rested on his catching pungar crabs this morning. One morning’s efforts at pungar catching had proved quite
     enough. First there was the indignity of rolling up his trousers and removing his socks and shoes, then the endless probing
     of horizontal holes in the rocks to see if pungars lurked within.
    ‘Just you tap away, Mr Auguste, and if you ’it the little feller on ’is back you’ll ’ear ’is ’ollow sound like.’
    It sounded simple; it was not. The hollow sound was the beginning of the game, not the end. For the ‘little feller’, once
     assaulted, retreated to the back of his hole and dug in. Battle then commenced. At the end of an hour, only one ‘little feller’
     too young to know better had been in Auguste’s possession, and William and Joseph were scarcely able to restrain their mirth.
     French aplomb was to the fore as Auguste handed the crab to them along with the hook, raised his new Panama hat and bade them
     a courteous farewell.
    Now Mr Multhrop was making periodic incursions into his kitchens, moaning gently, wringing his hands, as he beheld the mountains
     of food everywhere. The Imperial was used to large banquets, but the added responsibility of the Prince of Wales made molehills
     into mountains.
    ‘I shall be ruined, beheaded, disbarred from the Buffaloes,’ he wailed.
    In his self-torture he was unable to answer the simplest query, and Auguste was forced to turn to Araminta.
    ‘Miss Multhrop, where are the
bains-marie?
’
    ‘Oh, Mr Didier, I don’t eat buns.’ Araminta looked distressed. She wanted to help if she could.
    Auguste closed his eyes and counted to three. Perhaps Alice would make the better wife.
    Sixty-seven Literary Lionisers were descending on Broadstairs from several directions. Some were travelling direct from Cowes,
     most were arriving from London byrailway express, and the remainder by carriage from their country houses. The committee, as if for protection against the
     masses, elected to follow Auguste’s example and had reserved a first-class railway compartment on the 10.45 express from Victoria.
     Here too the atmosphere was strained. Only Sir Thomas, confident of victory and in his ability to overcome all opposition
     by his personal charm, was at ease. The edginess of the others only added to his opinion of his own rectitude. His starched
     collar, sober dark grey tweed suit, and the black bowler hat in the rack above him made no concessions to the seaside.
    Oliver was annoyed that Angelina had deliberately chosen to sit next to Sir Thomas; Angelina was determined to bring Sir Thomas
     to book as soon as she could; Gwendolen was similarly annoyed at the sight of her rival on Sir Thomas’s other side