Dread Murder by Gwendoline Butler

about Spike and the dog, but decided to wait. He liked the Major, but life had taught him to be cautious about confiding in anyone.
    â€˜You saw where I went. Any good to you?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘I wanted to know where Felix lived.’
    â€˜He works from there. Can’t say where he lives.’ In fact, he did know; he made it his business to know that sort of thing. So he could have told the boy that Felix lived – perhaps with a woman, but no wife or family – near the river, by what had been the town of Windsor before William the Norman and his son built the Castle. They had even built the hill on which it stood, making
the unfortunate English labour and dig to make the hill.
    â€˜The English got the better of William in the end,’ thought the Major. ‘Not many years ago, the descendants of the Norman lords were calling themselves Englishmen. And speaking English.’
    â€˜You still look a bit hungry,’ said Mearns, giving the boy a searching look.
    â€˜I am hungry.’ Charlie was already regretting his sausages.
    The Major made up his mind. ‘Come up to the Castle with me, lad, and I’ll see you get something. I could do with a meal myself. We eat when we feel like it, Denny and I.’ He gave his generous smile. ‘I don’t know what we have in our larder, but I can go down into the kitchens where I will be given something. They are easy there and eat well, so we shall get something good: cold meat, a grouse or a chicken – something of that sort.’
    â€˜Won’t the King mind?’ asked Charlie, running to keep up with the Major’s long strides.
    â€˜His Majesty? Generosity itself. Besides, he would not know. Much goes on in the Castle that the King knows nothing of, and for certain all he wants from the kitchens is excellent food – which he has got by hiring a famous French chef. But he has no notion of what goes on in his kitchens.’
    â€˜Oh, poor old King!’ said Charlie with genuine sympathy.
    The Major took him straight to the kitchens, where Charlie saw with surprise that there was not just one kitchen but a sequence of them, one after the other.

    He said nothing, but his eyes widened.
    The Major spoke to a tall, thickset man in a white overall and tall hat. In return he got a bow and a ‘Bonjour’.
    â€˜François,’ he explained to Charlie. ‘A Frenchman. His Majesty thinks all the best chefs are French. François worked for the Emperor Napoleon.’
    Charlie took it all in with an interested gaze. ‘The King knows that much about his kitchens then.’
    â€˜You are a sharp one, you are,’ said the Major, with some admiration. Yes, he knows about the food he eats. Not what I’d want though. Fancy, you know. All looks and no flavour.’
    â€˜You’ve eaten it then?’
    Mearns shrugged. ‘Only what comes back to the kitchens.’
    The boy had left his side to wander between the long tables at which white-coated men were working.
    â€˜It’s a big meal tonight. Do you call it a “banquet”?’
    Mearns pursed his lips. ‘I think it is always like this.’ He could see that his friend, François, had nodded for a tray to be prepared; he saw the slices of beef go on together with slices of some paler meat, which might be chicken. He was just thinking that something sweet would be welcome when a pie, certainly fruity, was deposited on his tray. ‘Enough for six,’ he thought, ‘but it would never be noticed out of this kitchen. After all, that was what kings were for, wasn’t it? Charity to the hungry.’
    One of the chefs was talking to Charlie; then Mearns
saw that the man leaned forward and took Charlie’s arm in a gently caressing way.
    The Major frowned. Charlie was an attractive boy. Better get him out of here. Then he saw the boy’s heel come down heavily on the chef’s foot. Charlie did