Biscuits for Starving Visitors

Good afternoon friends. Welcome to Chimneys. I dare say you’ve all had a chance to freshen up and avail yourselves of a cocktail on the lawn. First off, can I thank you for agreeing to this clandestine get together? I’ve done a quick head count. All present and correct, as they say in the Services. Much appreciated Ladies and Gents. I’ll press on. You must be wondering why I’ve asked you to meet here, in the broom cupboard of all places. It’s hardly ideal. Julian I can see the vacuum cleaner is pressing upon your left thigh. And do mind yourself, Lady Winchester, it must be a devil of a nuisance picking your way through all these buckets and mops in such impressive heels. Let me take the opportunity to apologise for our current conditions. I’d much prefer to be conducting this meeting in a more salubrious spot: the lounge ideally, or even the library. But discretion is of the essence in this case and knowing the servants, as I’ve come to know the servants here at Chimneys, any gathering of more than two individuals would be bound to draw undue attention. We are, if you have not yet picked this up, doing our best, not to draw undue attention. I’d thank you to be cognisant of this as you exit the broom cupboard. Particularly yourself, Count Kalinov. You are, pardon my bluntness, not known for your stealthy tread. What’s that you say, Millicent? A bull in a china shop? Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but do take all due care when leaving dear Count. The last thing we want is a scene. Indeed, this is why I’ve summonsed you all here this afternoon. The avoidance, as they say, of a scene. I’m very aware that there are other more pressing demands on your time -lawn tennis, billiards, the blackmail letters you’re currently carrying in that delightful beaded purse, Dame Margot- might I thank you for sacrificing the following five minutes and ask you not to mention this meeting to anyone. Not the servants. Not Papa. And certainly not Maman. Please, I beg you, even if Maman should come across you stumbling out of the broom cupboard with particles of the feather duster attached to your person, please furnish her with a suitable excuse such as losing one’s way in the dark or fooling around with a parlour maid. The truth, should she know it, would be too much for Maman to bear. Maman, as you know is not good with her nerves. You’ll sympathise Clifford, I hear since returning from Ypres, you’ve been a martyr to the nerves yourself. It’s Maman’s nerves which have us secreting ourselves in the broom cupboard this afternoon. Maman has not been herself since dear Percy died and the Twins took up with those dreadful Americans. Dr Arthurs suggested a hobby might alleviate her anxiety. Naturally we all encouraged her to take up something suitably frivolous: embroidery, piano lessons, politics. Unfortunately, Maman was drawn to the culinary arts. She took up residence in the kitchen and began to experiment with odd combinations of ingredients. She insisted this was standard practice on the Continent and who were we to disagree? The cookery seemed to lift her spirits. For a brief period, just after Cousin Clemency’s wedding, Maman seemed to be on the mend. Sadly, things took something of a turn for the worse just before Christmas. Bolstered by a thoughtless comment. I won’t name the culprit -alright, I will, Roger Daveneaux, you dreadful old swine- Maman got it into her head that she was something of a whizz in the kitchen and subsequently fired the cook and pastry chef. Now, it was one thing to tolerate the odd mouthful of duck with custard sauce or candied hake, it was another thing entirely to be consistently subject to Maman’s dreadful cooking. Even in this woeful light, I can see you paling Sir Michael. I’m surmising you’ve sampled Maman’s delights. The veal trifle, you say? I do apologise Sir Michael. What a brick you are to have returned for another weekend. Now, you may already have deduced why I’ve called you all here. I’m afraid Maman’s in charge of the dining this weekend. Breakfast, lunch and sad to say, dinner also, though it may be possible to furnish an excuse and nip into town for high tea on Saturday. You’ll be starving by Saturday afternoon. I can assure you. I’m constantly starving since dear old cookie left. What are you to do? Well, my dear Sebastian I’m glad you asked. For God’s sake don’t swallow anything she serves you. You’ll all have heard about poor Godfrey St Claire. No, no, you’re wrong Marjorie, it wasn’t strychnine, nothing so cosmopolitan. It was a serving of Maman’s lobster carmel which done the old boy in. I suggest you follow my lead when it comes to meal times. Secrete a handkerchief upon your person and do your best to be discrete. I find feigning a cough offers the perfect opportunity to -how shall I put this?- dispose of the offending articles. You will no doubt be subject to pangs of hunger, so I’ve taken the liberty of hiding some dry biscuits under the pillows in each of your rooms. I had initially hoped to provide cheese, however the smell made it impossible to conceal. Any questions? No. Top notch. You’re a stellar bunch I knew you’d understand. One last thing, should Maman ask you to comment upon her menu, I’d ask you to be cautious though, please, not cruel. Two weekends back Boris Milenski told her the liver souffle was simply divine. Damn Boris Milenski, he only had to pocket it on one occasion, before heading back to Budapest. We, I’m sorry to have to tell you, have been served the same vile creation six times since. 

Inspired by Agatha Christie’s 1929 novel, The Seven Dials Mystery

Dropped in the QFT Belfast on 19th February 2020