Just Desserts (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Read online

  ‘Did you say you knew poor old Scoff? I don’t remember.’

  ‘It’s a bit like Aubrey. I went to his restaurant and he’d come round and ask if everything was all right and we’d chat for about fifteen seconds. But I wouldn’t say I knew him. Did you?’

  ‘You could say so,’ she said. ‘I told you I was a gastronomic groupie, and you must know Scoff’s reputation.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Oh, come on. Anything in skirts. And anything under about forty and twelve stone in trousers. Though they say he’d lost his touch recently—occupational hazard—what the lower orders rather crudely refer to as “brewer’s wilt”. Not that I speak from personal experience you understand. My relationship with le grand chef was fleeting and many years ago. We thought of each other as collector’s items. He liked to notch up titles and I’m rather penchant for the better sort of restaurateurs and hoteliers—not, to be absolutely honest, that they’re much good at it. Wine scribes are definitely better. Ugh!’ She wrinkled her nose at her glass of number twenty-three. ‘Don’t touch that. It’s disgusting. Bolivian. Or Czech. Or, I know, bad Californian. That’s it. Beverley Hills Burgundy.’ She went over to the nearest tub and poured it away, making no effort to conceal the operation.

  ‘Did Scoff have much success with titled ladies?’

  ‘He scored once or twice but most of us seem to prefer pop stars or genuine artisans—plumbers or gardeners—that sort of person.’ She lowered her voice and mentioned a duchess, a marchioness, a brace of baronesses and half a dozen sprigs of the nobility like herself—women whose names were properly prefixed with ‘Hon’ or ‘Lady’. ‘Mind you,’ she continued, ‘most of them were just curious, and I’m more or less certain some of them slept with him for his recipes. The only ones who lasted more than a few nights were people like Gabrielle or poor little Miss Bullingdon.’

  ‘I see.’ He chewed thoughtfully on a biscuit and inadvertently poured a glass of number twenty-three. It was every bit as disgusting as Lady Aubergine had suggested. ‘But he’d lost his touch recently?’

  ‘So they say.’ She saw him grimace at the number twenty-three, removed his glass deftly and poured it into the sawdust.

  ‘Try some of the twenty-seven. Aubrey will have written “nectar” on his card. I think it’s a burgundy. By the way, what exactly are you doing about le monde gastronomique for your people?’

  ‘Um,’ said Bognor, ‘well, more or less what I was trying to explain last night.’

  Lady Aubergine, despite the drink, managed to look distinctly ho-hummish. Nevertheless she said, ‘Aubrey will be very helpful in showing you round, but he doesn’t know everyone and there are a number of pitfalls he’s simply not aware of. If there’s anything I can do … or, put it another way, I’ll give you a hand.’

  Further conspiracy was prevented by Pendennis banging a bottle on the table for silence. It was time for lunch.

  No very serious attempt had been made to seat members of the opposite sex next to each other. This seemed sensible since there were not enough women to go round and several of the men would not have been interested even if there had. Moreover, none of the men would have been interested, surely, in the sagging, red-veined lady from Wines and Winebibbers who sat, barely sensible, between Petrov and a dapper hotelier from the Cotswolds.

  Bognor, between Ebertson and Amanda Bullingdon, studied the menu. Wine was listed on the left, food on the right. The first entry on the left was Bitschwiller N V.

  ‘Bitschwiller?’ said Bognor to Ebertson. ‘I thought something was said about Krug?’

  ‘We get Krug for tea,’ said Ebertson. ‘A charming Petheram perversion of your English ritual.’

  ‘Krug and crumpets?’ said Bognor, feeling witty with wine.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘And the Bitschwiller?’

  ‘Compliments of the widow herself. Another Petheram tradition.’

  ‘Oh.’ Bognor was again nonplussed. ‘How so?’

  ‘Pendennises are the people who really put Bitschwiller on the map. La Veuve was a friend of old man Pendennis way back before the war.’

  ‘La Veuve Bitschwiller?’

  ‘The old bitch herself.’ Ebertson grinned. ‘She’s extraordinary, a real relic. You should try to meet her, you’d enjoy it.’

  He leant across the table towards Erskine Blight-Purley who was absent-mindedly baring his teeth in the general direction of Amanda Bullingdon. ‘Is it true that Gabrielle is going to take Scoff’s place in Acapulco?’

  ‘I hadn’t heard,’ said Blight-Purley, not removing his gaze.

  ‘Like hell,’ said Ebertson sotto voce. He returned to Bognor. ‘That old buzzard hears everything. Doesn’t miss a trick.’

  ‘What’s happening in Acapulco?’

  ‘The Feast of the Five Continents. You know, you must have read about it. Real top-end-of-the-market stuff. Sort of twenty-course dinner cooked by the top chefs from every country on earth which has any pretensions to a cuisine more sophisticated than mealies and beans. Even, I might say, my own beloved United States whose contribution to the culinary arts, you have to admit, is dubious.’

  ‘Clam chowder’s nice,’ said Bognor politely.

  Ebertson leant back so that a waiter in sommelier’s kit could pour him a glass of Bitschwiller. Bognor watched the pale golden liquid froth to the top of the glass and then subside gently. He leant back to allow the sommelier to do the same for him. He was fond of champagne and in his present state, which was one of mild befuddlement rather than real intoxication, he felt euphoric.

  ‘Ever had hominy grits?’ asked Ebertson.

  ‘Never had hominy grits.’

  ‘I don’t advise it, but if you want to experience all that’s worst in American cooking, try hominy grits.’

  ‘What do they taste of?’

  ‘They don’t. That’s the whole point of them. Bland is the name of the game. The argument is that you eliminate anything which might give offence. That way everybody likes it. What actually happens is that it’s so outrageously bland that nobody dislikes it. That’s not the same thing at all. Matter of fact, it’s not a bad way to make people end up hating you.’

  ‘Some people would argue that that’s a criticism of the American character as much as American cooking.’

  ‘They’d be entitled to. Hey, this looks good.’ He bent low over the steaming terrine newly arrived on his plate and inhaled. ‘Mmmm,’ he said.

  Bognor picked up the gherkin from the side of his helping and bit through it. ‘Who’s organizing this jamboree?’ he asked.

  ‘Guide Bitschwiller, the Mexicans, Association Hôtels de luxe du Monde, the Pasta Producers Federation … the usual gang. Rothschilds will be involved somewhere along the line.’

  ‘Are Guide Bitschwiller and Maison Bitschwiller one and the …?’

  ‘Oh sure. You ought to swing an invite. I’m sure they’d be glad to have a guest from the British Board of Trade.’

  ‘Are you going?’

  ‘I’m working on it, but I’m not certain I can see any way to justify it. I can just about maintain that haute cuisine comes within my brief in cultural affairs here in England, but I’m not sure I can persuade Washington that my parish extends very far outside the UK. Western Europe, maybe, but I have an idea they’ll baulk at Mexico. Still, we’ll see.’

  They ate their terrine in appreciative silence. When they had finished Bognor said, ‘And the buzz is that Gabrielle is going to be allowed to stand in for Scoff?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Can she cook?’

  ‘Well enough. Scoff was down for the chocolate omelette. You’ve had their chocolate omelette?’ He leant back again as the sommelier poured a ’71 Alsatian Riesling.

  ‘Yes. Fantastic’

  ‘Agreed, but it’s the conception and the ingredients that are inspired. Putting them together isn’t that difficult. I’ve done it at home myself, and the result’s a passable imitation of
a Scoff special.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Tell me,’ they were drinking a clear soup now, redolent of goose and cabbage, ‘were most of you friends of Scoff? I mean most of the people here.’

  Ebertson made a slurping noise as he funnelled soup off the spoon and looked round. ‘Let’s see,’ he said. ‘We most of us seem to have known Scoff all right. Petrov, yes. Aubrey certainly. Erskine …’

  ‘What’s that?’ Blight-Purley had appeared rapt in soupy concentration, yet the mention of his name occasioned an immediate response.

  ‘Scoff,’ said Ebertson. ‘Our friend from the Board of Trade wanted to know if we knew him, whether we were friends of his.’

  Blight-Purley produced an oddly metallic grunt. ‘Almost everyone who ever met him thought they were a friend Scoff’s,’ he said, ‘but I always used to wonder if he regarded himself as anyone’s friend.’

  It was one of those remarks which unfortunately came in a universal conversational gap. It was heard by everyone at the table save the roseate lady from Wine and Winebibbers who saved the day by suddenly staggering to her feet, napkin held to her mouth. She lurched towards the door evidently on the point of being dramatically, spectacularly unwell. Pendennis managed to combine extreme solicitude and intense disapproval in his expression as he hurried her out.

  ‘La Veuve Bitschwiller strikes again,’ muttered Ebertson.

  ‘More likely the twenty-three,’ said Bognor.

  Ebertson looked at him appreciatively. ‘You didn’t like it either?’ he said.

  ‘No. Aubergine Bristol and I agreed it must have been Californian.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m a great admirer of Aubergine Bristol’s gastronomic savoire faire, but on this occasion I’m inclined to agree.’

  Pendennis returned, mopping his brow with a red and white spotted kerchief. ‘Oh dear,’ he said sitting down heavily, ‘it happens every year. I really shall have to think about inviting her next time. On the other hand it wouldn’t be the same without her premature departure. But enough, let us return to our moutons.’

  The suggestion was more than usually apposite since they were now being issued with large helpings of saddle of mutton, accompanied by Clos Vougeot. Conversation settled down to things gastronomical. Bognor alternated politely and enjoyably between Ebertson and Amanda Bullingdon, savouring his food and drink in the intervals between sentences and pausing occasionally to reflect that there must be worse ways of making a living than from some professional association with eating and drinking. It was all too easy to forget that he was only being spared the execrable civil service canteen lunch because he was attempting to establish the cause of Scoff Smith’s death. Somehow, through the confusion which always occurred at the beginning of his investigations (and which sometimes continued until their conclusion), he was beginning to think that his objective was more than usually complicated. It was not so much the cause of death which had to be established as the cause of the cause. Suicide by gas poisoning was the certain coroner’s verdict. What he had to find out, he feared, was not whether it really was suicide, but why the man should have killed himself at all. Was it an entirely natural reaction to some sad spontaneous depression or was the depression deliberately induced? Bognor wondered.

  They had just finished a peculiarly high Munster cheese and were sipping at their Framboise when Freddie Pendennis once again stood and called for order. There were a number of toasts to propose, he said, the first of which, sadly, was the memory of their friend and mentor, Escoffier Savarin Smith. He had, he continued, nothing to add to what had already been said in The Times and elsewhere but he would like simply to propose that we all stand and drink to the memory of Scoff and to express a hope that he was even now in the kitchen of the gods preparing food which could scarcely be more heavenly than that which he had produced for us on earth. This flowery tribute concluded, the company shuffled to its collective feet and drank Framboise with the muffled muttering which is characteristic of English middle-class toast drinking. This done, Pendennis asked his guests to remain standing for the two traditional toasts. First of all he asked everyone to drink to la Veuve Bitschwiller. Once more, glasses were raised and there was a chorus of mumbled salutation. ‘La Veuve … la Veuve.’ And finally, ‘The Queen,’ he said, slowly and reverently but, it seemed to Bognor, with markedly less reverence than he had reserved for la Veuve Bitschwiller. For a third time glasses were raised and the words reverberated around the table. Blight-Purley, Bognor noticed, was the only one to add the traditional subordinate sentence: ‘God bless her.’

  Framboise was replenished. An assortment of strangely shaped bottles materialized. So did cigars: five-inch Havana Petit Coronas from Upmann. Heavy blue smoke began to clog the atmosphere. Bognor felt his own sense of well-being on the verge of turning to biliousness. Through the rising fog he saw that Blight-Purley was attempting to attract his attention. He was saying something about lunch.

  ‘Very much,’ said Bognor, assuming he was passing judgement on the meal just eaten.

  ‘One o’clock then,’ he said, his voice suddenly audible as surrounding sound subsided. It was an invitation, Bognor realized; nothing to do with food already consumed but a portent of food to come. He was stretching a veiny hand across the table and Bognor accepted the contents. ‘My card,’ said Blight-Purley, ‘in case you can’t make it. The club at twelve-thirty.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Bognor as conversation once again became impeded by that of others. ‘What club?’

  ‘The Mess,’ he said, ‘Thursday.’ Bognor had a distinct impression of a yellow gleam in the rheumy eyes. There was indeed a universal yellow about the man—a jaundiced sallowness which stemmed from debauchery of a sort Bognor found oddly sinister. Why did he want to have lunch? It would hardly be for the pleasure of his company. From what he had seen of him so far Bognor was uncomfortably sure that Blight-Purley smelt a rat.

  ‘Did you guess any of the wines do you think?’ asked Amanda Bullingdon.

  ‘Not really,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid I didn’t try terribly hard after the first few.’

  She smiled. ‘The secret is simply to keep quiet. Freddie’s very kind. He enjoys catching out the know-alls but he’s perfectly happy to leave the novices alone.’

  ‘In that case I shall keep absolutely silent.’

  ‘I should,’ she said. ‘Most people in this business talk far too much.’

  Bognor made a mental note of the fact, though it was an impression he had already gained for himself.

  A few seconds later the discussion of the wines began. It was informal and relaxed but deceptively so. Pendennis obviously enjoyed the role of genial question-master but behind the bland façade he was clearly getting a lot of fun from the barely veiled hostility of the more prominent oenophiles among his guests. Most of the company were as taciturn as Bognor, but a small group seemed concerned to maintain their reputation. Aubrey Pring, naturally, had to be seen to be knowledgeable. So in a less bumptious way did Blight-Purley, whose sardonic, throw-away style of delivery did little to hide the seriousness with which he was taking it. Both Petrov and Ebertson competed, with frequent unconvincing disclaimers about their amateur status. A young bespectacled Master of Wine from one of the great London auction houses appeared more knowledgeable than any of them, answering questions in the clipped, flat tones that Bognor associated with lesser accountants and solicitors’ clerks. Aubergine Bristol eschewed silence, which did not come easily to her, but was shrewd enough to keep her comments to opinions rather than facts. These, happily, were entirely favourable until Pendennis arrived at the dread number twenty-three.

  ‘Twenty-three,’ he exclaimed. ‘The joker in the pack. I don’t somehow think you’re going to get this one.’ He beamed around the table.

  ‘I don’t think any of us would want to get it,’ said Lady Aubergine loudly. ‘Absolute stinko stuff, Freddie. Even Mr Bognor couldn’t drink his, could you?’ She glared down the table s
eeking Bognor’s support. He could cheerfully have drowned her in number twenty-three. Everyone was looking at him. Pendennis did not look un-angry.

  ‘I … er … well,’ Bognor felt purple, ‘that is …’

  ‘Simon guessed Californian Cabernet, but he’s probably too modest to admit it. I guess he’s probably right, though I rather think it could be a Zinfandel. With respect, Freddie, I felt it lacked a little of the rotundity of a good Cabernet, but give it three or four years and I dare say …’

  Pendennis seemed mollified by this. The crisis was past. Bognor mopped his forehead and half-turned to grin gratitude at his neighbour, Ebertson.

  ‘I like the idea of Zinfandel,’ said Pendennis, ‘but it’s not a grape you’ll find outside the United States, I think, Anthony, and this isn’t an American wine. Mr Bognor’s right about the Cabernet though.’ Bognor blushed again. He certainly couldn’t tell Cabernet from Pinot Noir. He wished, for the first time that day, that he was in the canteen.

  ‘So it’s a European wine?’ This was Aubrey.

  ‘Yes, European.’

  ‘But not French.’

  ‘No, Erskine, you’re absolutely right. It’s not French.’

  ‘Is it Saperavi?’ asked Petrov. ‘I thought it had something of the flavour of Georgia. Like blood.’ He laughed.

  ‘There speaks a loyal Muscovite,’ said Ebertson. ‘That wine’s too thin-blooded for Georgian. Georgian’s thick as treacle. My guess is it’s from Switzerland.’

  ‘Warmer,’ said Pendennis, ‘or rather, not. It’s a cold climate wine but not Swiss.’

  There was a general scratching of heads. ‘German,’ volunteered the Master of Wine without enthusiasm.

  ‘No.’ Pendennis beamed round. ‘Fourteen fifty-three might give a clue to any historians among us.’

  ‘We lost Bordeaux,’ said Aubrey Pring quickly, ‘but I hardly think …’

  ‘And,’ continued Pendennis, ‘had we then possessed an imaginative minister for trade and industry what would his proper, flexible response have been? Self-sufficiency would have cut our import bills—just as desirable then as now, I’m sure.’