Eat, Drink, and Be Buried Read online

  For lunch, I stopped in to see an old friend with a restaurant on Kennington Road, near the Oval. When Dick Lewis had opened Harris House, I had been skeptical about its success. He had taken this step after years of running a restaurant on the island of Harris in the Outer Hebrides. It had been very successful, and when the hostile climate of the North Atlantic became too much for him, he took the bold step of moving to London.

  Hebridean food was a novelty, I had to admit, when he first opened. Whether it would be popular enough, I doubted, but within a year Dick had proved me wrong. People wanted good, wholesome food, well cooked and nicely served. Dick managed a fine blend of homely dishes made from natural ingredients, all fresh and yet surprisingly piquant. This was the main reason that this particular restaurant had come to mind out of so many-there was a strong parallel between Dick's food and the medieval food at Harlington Castle.

  The place was tastefully decorated and had the appearance of a superior and perfectly kept farmhouse. Vases of flowers on the tables enhanced the image.

  One of Dick's secrets was that he made fuller use of Oriental spices than one might expect in Hebridean cooking. The cauliflower and fennel soup was fragrant with its seasoning of coriander and cumin, and the ingredient that made all the difference was the crushed dried pomegranate seeds, adding a fruity but firm aftertaste.

  He brought a smoked mackerel spread next and two slices of black bread. "Not enough to be called a course," Dick said. He said it so I could enjoy a typically Hebridean plate of scallops in oatmeal. In the Hebrides, scallops are called clams. The biggest and freshest are obtained by diving, which makes them more expensive-but very much better-than the dredged variety. Oatmeal is used in place of breadcrumbs and adds an extra dimension. A pungent accompaniment is tomato sauce with plenty of tamarind.

  I was earnestly assimilating all these ideas.

  A large percentage of Hebrideans are vegetarian. This originated from necessity as the bitter weather often limited the population's food to what they could grow themselves. But then it became a preferred way of eating for many. Dick offered me a choice of meats, though, starting with venison. Deer are wild in the Hebrides but sparse in number. The popularity comes from the fact that it freezes better than any other meat.

  Lamb features in several dishes on the islands, but as Dick had said to me once, "Kill a lamb when it weighs twenty pounds rather than wait till it grows to eighty pounds-doesn't make sense!" To the thrifty Hebrideans, battling the elements for survival, it made a lot more sense the way Dick put it. "You often hear the comment, 'Mutton dressed as lamb'-well, we serve lamb dressed as mutton," he said.

  I settled on a roasted pheasant. The birds were introduced some years ago into the Hebrides but did not do well until plantations were established for them. They are really best when roasted, but I told Dick that would be too much for me for lunch, so he proposed the pot roast.

  He confided that this method was usually used so the cook could choose birds too tough for roasting, even though those he could obtain here in London were tender enough. Nevertheless, he was proud of the pot-roasted pheasant. It was cut into pieces and boned, cooked with carrots, onions, and celery, seasoned with bayleaf, thyme, and lemon peel, with some quince jelly added at the end.

  Every housewife in the Hebrides has her own way of making scones. Some sweeten with sugar, some with treacle, some use sour milk to lighten the texture. They are known by the names of their originator, so Mary Ann MacSween's scones and Kathleen Morrison's scones are two of the best known. Dick brought me a couple of each when I declined dessert. Golden brown, light but not airy, they tasted as good as they looked.

  At the beginning of the meal, I had asked, "They are still not producing wine in the Hebrides?" Dick's answer was inevitable, but he brought me a half bottle of a wine from Hampshire, "only thirty miles from here." It was a sound, light white with a firm finish.

  I left Harris House fully satisfied, having assured Dick that his food was better than ever. I also had a headful of notions for augmenting the castle's medieval table.

  London's supply of fish in earlier days came from Billingsgate Market, where the turrets of the Tower of London made a splendidly appropriate background. It was a dour Victorian building with spidery iron girders. I remembered my father taking me there when I was at a very young and impressionable age. I recalled the stalls in the bays, the hundreds of porters carrying their impossibly heavy loads, the dead eyes of the fish, the haggling and bargaining that took place before the porters hoisted the dripping wet boxes of purchases out to waiting transport.

  Today, much of the fish trade has moved to Docklands, five thousand acres of recently developed land just beyond fabled Limehouse. The elevated railway gave fine views of it; the sky had now stopped raining and sunshine threatened.

  A large warehouselike building was at one end of the road I was looking for, and had a sign: "London Original Fashions." I peered in a side door, but all I could see was row upon row of Asian girls sitting at sewing machines, sewing labels onto garments. Next to it, another warehouse-type structure housed several small vans that were being loaded with leather clothing. I hadn't realized that so much leather was worn or that so many items of the clothing were so skimpy. Then I noticed that one of the vans was stenciled "S and M Specials," so I supposed that explained much.

  By the time I reached the end of the row, I had come to the conclusion that this was not the elite part of Docklands. An unpleasant odor was in the air but I could see nothing to account for it. The buildings were not numbered, but the one at the end must be the one I was looking for. "Seven Seas" had been a supplier of fish to Harlington Castle for some time, according to the files, though the name was not known to me. The unpleasant odor increased as I got nearer and there was no doubt that this was the place. A sign proclaimed "Main Entrance," followed with the admonition, "No salesmen, no visitors," which sounded forbidding. I went in.

  I was in a small office, one of a row of small offices. The walls were made of glass close to the ceiling, but not for reasons of visibility because they were too dirty to see through. An umbrella stand and a bucket of dead flowers adorned this would-be lobby. I was looking to find my next move when a door opened and a large man entered.

  He wore dark blue overalls and stomped loudly in heavy boots. He needed a shave and his hair was short and aggressively bristly. His small eyes regarded me with suspicion. "No salesmen," he growled. "See the sign?"

  "I'm not a salesman-"

  "No visitors either."

  "I'm not a visitor. I want to talk to you about supplies of seafood to Harlington Castle."

  The name didn't ring a bell. Even Big Ben would not have penetrated that skull at five yards range. He continued to eye me as if he were trying to decide which limb to break first.

  "I'm sure you want to keep on selling us fish," I said with a smile that required a significant effort. "After all," I added, "we are your biggest customer."

  I had no idea if that was true but it sounded impressive, and after some seconds, the message reached its mental destination. "Better talk to Violet," he muttered. He motioned through the doorway by which he had entered. "Down the end."

  I lost no time hurrying in that direction. Talking to Violet sounded like a vast improvement over that Neanderthal throwback. Talking to any female sounded good to me. The corridor was lined with more offices. Through most of the windows, silhouettes of human forms could be seen and telephone bells rang shrilly.

  At the end of the corridor was a figure even larger and more menacing than the one I had just left. He was just as unshaven and his eyes were even smaller.

  "I'm looking for Violet," I told him, my eyes roaming in search of a female form.

  "Me," he said gruffly.

  I stared. My disbelief must have been obvious.

  "Dennis Violet. What do you want?"

  I explained why I was there. He listened with a lack of reaction that told me nothing about what he was thinking-if
he was thinking. "So you see," I wound up my spiel, "I'd like to know what other fish you might be able to supply for us, besides the current ones. Fish that are less common and even unusual. The boats are trawling deeper now than ever before and new species swim into the nets all the time. Some of them are discarded because they are not what the fishermen are going for, but we could have an interest in them at the castle. Save throwing the fish back, and you'd make money from them."

  The unpleasant fishy smell was as strong in here as outside. Perhaps it softened the brain, I thought. No signs of intelligent life flickered in the tiny eyes of the man in front of me and my doubts about Seven Seas as a reliable supplier were reinforced. I wanted to knock on his forehead and ask if anyone was home.

  "What do you think?" Maybe a direct question would stir some primal response.

  "Eels," he said.

  I was so surprised, I didn't answer right away. It was a good suggestion and I hastened to tell him so. "Yes, eels-they were very popular in medieval times. Good idea. They'd be even more popular today if only they didn't look like eels." Maybe he had heard that one before; at least it prompted no flicker of acknowledgment.

  "What about freshwater fish?" I asked. "We don't seem to have served much in that line at the castle."

  "Don't get much of 'em," was the response.

  "Tench, pike, carp." I tossed out the names as if throwing out a line but I did not get even a nibble. "Grayling, perch?" The head movement might have been a shake.

  "I see from the files that we get oysters from you. They seem to go well but your prices are a little high."

  "Getting to be less of 'em," was the comment, and I had to agree.

  "That's true. So really your supply is cod, haddock, sole, turbot, and herring?"

  "S' right."

  "No salmon?"

  He shook his head. "Only smoked."

  "Scottish?"

  He nodded.

  "What about tilapia?"

  Another shake.

  "It's the fish they fed the workers who built the Pyramids. It went out of style for many years, but recently they have been cultivating them in the Caribbean. You see them in Florida more and more."

  "Not here," said Dennis Violet.

  We chatted a few minutes longer. The input to the conversation was ninety-eight percent to two percent, with me contributing the vast majority. He had little to add and I was getting increasingly skeptical. Dennis began to fidget, clearly anxious to usher me out. I sniffed as I turned to go. "Do you smoke any fish?"

  "Not allowed here."

  "That smell ..."

  "We burn some rubbish. Heads and tails get in with it sometimes."

  I thought that surely that was not allowed either, but he was not a man to pick an argument with. I thanked him and headed down the corridor. He made no attempt to show me out but watched me every step of the way. Outside, the smell was stronger. I walked around the back of the building.

  There was a stack of boxes. They carried a stenciled name in Cyrillic lettering and had been shipped from Riga in Latvia. The smell seemed to be a little stronger here and I scrutinized the roof. A strangely shaped conical projection was emitting the very slightest amount of smoke. In the gusty air over the Thames, it was almost unnoticeable, and then only in a rare moment of calm.

  I hurried toward the Docklands Light Railway terminal. Seven Seas was buying salmon from the Baltic, where it is significantly cheaper because it is an inferior fish in taste and appearance. They were smoking it illegally and no doubt selling it as prime Scottish smoked salmon. I increased my hurried pace. The staff of Seven Seas would not be gentle or forgiving if they learned that an outsider knew their secret.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I took the 4:45 train and was back at the castle soon after six. The gates had just closed to the daytime crowds and those attending the evening joust and banquet had not yet started to arrive. I did as I was bid-I reported to Inspector Devlin.

  She was in the main hall, talking to two uniformed police, when I located her. She held up a hand to restrain me until she finished, then beckoned me over. I wanted to say something mildly humorous, but after considering various possibilities, I just said, "I'm back, Inspector."

  "Ah, the Gourmet Detective. I hope you haven't been detecting."

  "I went to a meeting of a club I belong to, then to Smithfield Meat Market, then to a supplier of seafood in Docklands," I said.

  She nodded briefly.

  "Any progress in the case?" I asked.

  "We'll be making a press release tomorrow." So much for being a Gourmet Detective-I was not going to get any special treatment. I took my leave and ran right into Felicity Harlington, who was also leaving.

  "Congratulations," I said. "You've succeeded in escaping from the ogre's den too."

  She laughed. It suited her classic face. All her features were pleasing.

  "It's hard to believe there's any crime in Hertfordshire," she said. "Inspector Devlin must terrify every criminal in the county."

  "Let's hope she has the same effect here and can settle this terrible business."

  She nodded. "How's your project coming along?" she asked.

  "Fair. A couple of things I wanted to ask you, so I'm glad I've run into you."

  "Surely. Glad to help."

  "I was just about to head for the bar," I said. "Care to join me and I'll tell you what they are?"

  "A fine idea." She smiled.

  The large bar that adjoined the main dining room was empty except for a couple of drinkers who looked like stuntmen. I hoped they were not on duty this evening. We each ordered a gin and tonic, and I told her of my conversation with Victor Gontier and Madeleine Bristow.

  "Discovering consumer reaction to changes is always a tricky job," she admitted. "But I'll do some thinking on it. I know we can come up with something."

  "Fine. The other thing is this ... I know what the menu in the dining room lists, but I'd like to taste the dishes myself. I mean, I know some of them need changing, but I might get some further ideas from eating with the guests."

  "You might get some immediate customer reaction too," she commented. "Look, we're not fully booked tonight. Want to eat there? I can give you a pass."

  "Great. Are you busy tonight?"

  She smiled again, ruefully, I thought. "Can't, I'm afraid. Having dinner in the village with a rep from a travel agency. Another time though?" She declined a second drink and left. I made my way to the kitchen.

  Victor Gontier was supervising the preparations for the evening meals. He greeted me without cordiality but politely enough. "I was in London for the day," I told him. "A friend at Smithfield gave me a few good suggestions. Perhaps we can can go through them tomorrow."

  "Yes, all right."

  "I was also at Seven Seas in Docklands."

  He said nothing and his face did not indicate any concern with my statement.

  "You've visited them, I presume?" I asked him.

  "Some time ago," he said. "Our supplies office places the orders. I have nothing to do with that."

  "Who keeps in touch with Seven Seas?"

  "I do." He frowned. "Is there something wrong?"

  "I don't believe they would pass a routine quality-control inspection," I said. "When were you there last?"

  "It was-ah, it must have been a year ago."

  "Or more?" I pressed.

  "It could have been more-does this have some connection with Kenny being poisoned?" he asked in alarm.

  My alarm almost matched his. I didn't want the formidable Inspector Devlin accusing me of meddling in her investigation. She was already suspicious of me, quite without cause-well largely without cause anyway. If she heard that I was spreading a story of poisoning, she'd have me in the castle dungeons by nightfall.

  "I went to see the Seven Seas operation to see what other fish they could get for us," I explained. "That's all." He looked relieved. "At present, they seem to be limited to cod, haddock, sole, turbot, and herring,"
I added.

  "That's all we get from them, other than smoked salmon," Gontier said, glad to be on safe ground discussing seafood.

  "Is the salmon of acceptable quality?" I asked casually.

  "We have never had any complaints."

  That was quite possible. An expert can make the poorest fish taste good, thanks to the smoking process. Smoke contains over two hundred components, including dozens of alcohols, acids, and phenols. Most of these influence the flavoring and coloring as well as acting as preservatives.

  "Did they have any suggestions for other fish?" Gontier asked.

  "Eels was the first suggestion. A good one, too, I thought."

  Gontier nodded. "Indeed. Very popular in the past."

  "Greatly prized in France," I agreed. "Why don't you start thinking about a few recipes for them? Eels are not unknown in England but we need some ways to conceal their eel-like characteristics, make them less like serpents."

  Gontier smiled for the first time. "I will do that."

  "Eels were very popular in England at least a thousand years ago," I said, keeping my tone light and conversational so it would not sound as if I were lecturing, "Eel pie was the way most people ate it. They skismed the eels, chopped them into pieces, and simmered them in fish stock. Then they sauteed them in butter, strained in the stock, added cream, and poured the resulting mixture into a pie crust. They were sold on street corners and were an early form of fast food. They continued to be popular until fairly recent years."

  "We could try that," Gontier nodded.

  As I left, I thought about his responses. He was probably delinquent in not keeping in closer touch with his suppliers, but maybe the pressures of the job here made it difficult. The "supplies office" he mentioned might be worth a visit. Perhaps if the bureaucratic complex of Harlington Castle was handling the purchasing of food as well as everything else, they were too far flung to be efficient.