Gourmet Detective by Peter King Page A

You need a white wine to allow the full flavour of the duck to come through. A Gambellara or a Friuli would be the—”
    The Italians had the ball back and were bound together in an alliance that might last several minutes. The main course was being served now though and attention was re-directed.
    â€œRoast Pork Perigourdine” it said on the menu card. Meltingly tender symmetrical discs of roast pork with a centre piece of truffle and an undertaste of garlic with the jellified gravy from the joint, they were accompanied by Pommes Parisiennes.
    I knew that François had spent most of the morning supervising the preparation of this masterpiece of seeming simplicity. The wine was a Château Ausone, a veteran vintage, master of the table and a benevolent dictator of the meal. Rich and full yet smooth and rounded, it had an elegant nose and a lasting but restrained finish.
    What was that? Someone not waiting to enjoy this marvellous dish? Tarquin Warrington had risen to his feet and was heading for the door. It was not one of the doors leading to the facilities—it looked as if he were leaving. He was passing my seat and I put out a restraining arm.
    â€œLeaving so soon?” I asked him.
    â€œYes,” he said curtly and shook off my arm.
    He was never particularly polite but I had a job to do even if he didn’t know it. “Why are you leaving before the meal is over?” I asked.
    â€œNone of your business,” he snapped and was gone.
    That was strange. What would Lord Peter Wimsey have done? He would probably have been enjoying the meal as much as I was and would have shrugged it off as a problem to be solved later. I didn’t know what else to do—I could hardly stop him leaving—so I emulated Lord Peter.
    â€œThat lamprey was really delicious,” said the Australian lady. “Better even than carp.”
    â€œNever eaten carp,” confessed the pastry man. ‘I kept goldfish as a boy. They’re related, I understand, so you can see why I’d never think of eating carp.”
    The Frenchman shook his head. “The English have always been sentimental about food.”
    The travel agency man said, “Nightingales’ tongues used to be very popular in Ancient Greece. I had them at a banquet once.”
    The pastry man shuddered. “I could never eat anything that sings.”
    â€œDon’t see why not,” said the Australian lady cheerfully. “You eat things that moo, don’t you?”
    The Château Ausone flowed substantially and soon there was not an uncleaned plate in sight. Comments were being exchanged and François would be glowing with pleasure if he could hear them. It had been truly a memorable meal.
    There was a puzzled murmur which seemed to roll through the many conversations. Heads turned. It looked as if there was going to be a speech. IJ had risen to his feet and stood surveying the room. Voices quieted. Most faces were surprised. No one was expecting this and François had not said anything to me about a speech.
    Silence fell. Every guest was watching IJ, waiting for him.
    He stood, surveying the Circle.
    â€œThe two of them are in it together,” he said in a loud, clear voice. There was a soft buzz of mystified muttering. No one knew what to make of this. IJ looked from side to side, taking in the entire banquet room. He seemed to be looking at everyone yet somehow focusing elsewhere.
    â€œI have the proof,” he said confidently. His hand patted his side. It appeared to be a gesture of confidence but I realised that he was patting the pocket where he had put the envelope handed to him by Roger St Leger.
    â€œI can prove…” his voice, strong before was faltering now. He made an effort to get out the words. “I can prove that they are—”
    He didn’t finish the sentence. He collapsed across the table with a crash of glasses and crockery. An overturned bottle spread its