Murder Makes an Entree by Amy Myers Page B

and bitterly
     aware that she herself was viewing considerably more of Sir Thomas’s back than of his face. Broadstairs would, however, solve
     everything, she told herself. Samuel Pipkin was tensing himself for the coming life and death struggle this evening, when
     the vital decision would be made by the Prince of Wales, and Mr Thackeray would be avenged. Even Lord Beddington was on edge,
     hands clasped round the duck’s-head handle of his walking stick. He didn’t sleep a wink during the journey. He had a notion
     something damned odd was going to happen at Broadstairs.
    ‘Welcome to Broadstairs,’ announced Sir Thomas expansively as he stepped down from the railway carriage, flicking a practised
     hand towards a porter. A flood of Literary Lionisers was already pouring out of the railway station, fighting in well-bred
     fashion over victorias and landaus. The committee, having done their duty by their flock, were left without transport.
    ‘Came here once,’ commented Lord Beddington morosely, looking round while they were waiting for cabsto return. It was one o’clock, and he needed his lunch. ‘Recognise that’ – he jerked a thumb at the nearby flint-faced water
     tower poking its head above the railway line, the pride of its engineer, Thomas Crampton.
    ‘Oh, a
castle
,’ trilled Gwendolen. ‘How romantic,’ she enthused. ‘No wonder Dickens loved Broadstairs so. Did he, I wonder, base Dotheboys
     Hall upon it?’
    ‘The water reservoir was not built when Dickens stayed here, Gwendolen,’ said Sir Thomas smoothly, smiling at Angelina.
    Gwendolen flushed in shame, her arms trembling in their lace leg-o’-mutton sleeves, then steadied herself. No doubt Thomas
     was deliberately making her look foolish in public in order to hide his real feelings. Men were strange creatures at times.
     She swallowed hard and thought about this afternoon’s promenade. If he did not apologise then . . .
    Oliver, set-faced, assisted Angelina into the first victoria that returned. She thanked him composedly and made room for Sir
     Thomas by her side. Samuel glared at everyone, wishing he were in Tunbridge Wells, the decent civilised sort of place that
     Mr Thackeray used to visit. Lord Beddington meditated lovingly on a good luncheon, followed by an even better snooze at the
     Reform. It was, he noticed, distinctly less warm than it had been, with an east wind blowing as they turned into the Parade.
    And in this mood of low spirits, the Week of the Lion began.
    In the kitchens the Imperial’s chefs were now preparing to serve a simple luncheon for the new arrivals, while preparations
     for the banquet continued apace. Because of the lack of space, Auguste had devised a shuttle system; as luncheon moved out
     in stages, so more materials for the banquet could be moved in. Heinrich, James and Alfred were poised to drag in the vegetables
     delivered to thetradesmen’s entrance, as the soup tureens for luncheon moved out. Alice and Emily were already engaged on chopping ingredients
     for sage and onion stuffing.
    ‘My grandmama says,’ remarked Emily, ‘that it’s unlucky to use sage when it’s blooming. You should never let it flower at
     all.’ She looked disapprovingly at the cluster of purple flowers amid the handfuls of green-grey leaves.
    ‘Your grandmama will be proved correct, Miss Dawson, if you do not watch your use of that knife,’ Auguste pointed out quickly.
     ‘You do not concentrate, Miss Dawson. Where is your mind today?’
    Emily’s mind was partly on the enjoyable walk she had taken with Heinrich, who had unexpectedly proved a most delightful companion
     during the week; partly on the bright green foulard dress she had seen on sale at Bobby’s in Margate yesterday when they visited
     the famous menagerie at the Grand Hall by the Sea, and partly it was on the coming evening. What, if any, dangers did it hold
     for her?
    ‘Emily,’ said Heinrich kindly, clearing his throat, ‘the kidneys have