The Dessert by James Laver

The dessert by James Laver The smart little touring car came to a halt in the cobbled market square. The dust of what had evidently been a long and rapid journey had dimmed its shining surface, but could not conceal the elegance of its line. Both doors opened simultaneously and the occupants climbed out, on the right of the car a young man in the middle twenties in carefully negligent tweeds, and with a short-clipped moustache; obviously an Englishman and almost certainly, as the observant onlooker would have remarked, an Army man.

On the other side of the car stood for a moment, looking about her with wide-eyed delight, a girl, or rather a young woman, slim, long-legged and with the most remarkable coppery hair. The two met in front of the bonnet of the car, and the man took her arm with a proprietary air, the somewhat self-conscious proprietary air of one whose proprietorship is not, perhaps, of very long date. They looked like two young people on honeymoon, which is not surprising, for that is precisely what they were.

“Where are we, John?” said the girl.

“Douarnenez, I think, if my map-reading is up to standard.”

“As if you could ever make a mistake!”

Yes, it was obvious that they were very newly married indeed.

“The first thing to do,” said the young man, “is to find ourselves a billet.

There must be plenty of hotels. I vote we leave the car here and wander round for a bit. It’s still quite early.”

It was indeed barely six o’clock, but the little cafés round the square were already fairly full. A narrow but animated street debouched into it from the opposite corner. There seemed to be several hotel signs.

“Come along,” said the young man, still grasping his wife’s arm, and guiding her over the cobbles. Suddenly he gave a startled exclamation and stopped dead.

“What is it?” she asked anxiously. “Aren’t you well?”

“Look at that;” and he pointed to the sign over the door of a little hotel.

“What?”

“Poisson d’Argent.”

“What of it? What does it mean?”

“Poisson d’Argent,” he explained, “is French for the Silver Fish.”

“Well!”

“That is where we must stay,” he announced with conviction, “unless it’s too disgusting.”

It was not too disgusting. In fact it seemed a very charming little hotel; and they were received by a neat and not at all bad-looking maid who said But yes a room was available and would they have the goodness to wait a small moment and she would fetch the proprietor. “He is in the kitchen,”

she explained, “for he is also the chef. Like that, one eats well, is it not?”

And she vanished into the inner recesses, while the two travellers looked into one another’s eyes and their thoughts became strangely reminiscent.

“Fancy another Silver Fish,” said the girl, “and here—in Brittany.”

But she had scarcely time to finish the sentence before heavy footsteps were heard on the stone flags of the passage and the manager stood before them. He was a big, stout man and as he moved into the patch of sunlight from the door both the visitors gave a cry of recognition.

“Quimerle!”

“The same,” said that individual, throwing his head back so that his magnificent beard stuck straight out in front of him. “But may I ask—?”

Then he too gave a cry of astonishment.

“Why, it is Captain Jervis and—and Belle!”

“Major Jervis,” the girl corrected, “and Mrs Jervis.”

“Mrs Jervis! Ah! I begin to understand. But how did you find me? What led you to—?”

“It was the name of the hotel,” explained the Major.

“Ah yes. Le Poisson d’Argent. I chose the name myself. A touch of sentiment. Not that I had any reason to think kindly of the old Silver Fish

—”

His manner changed abruptly, became suddenly professional. Did they wish to stay for a night or two? A double room of course (and he smiled slightly). And they would no doubt be dining at the hotel.

“If you can promise us a better meal than the last one we ate, or did not eat, at the Silver Fish,” said Jervis.

The proprietor of Le Poisson d’Argent laid his forefinger against his nose and then wagged it slowly in front of them. “That at least I can promise.”

And he led the way to the little office where they were to register their names.

“And what would you like for dinner?” he asked when these formalities had been concluded.

“Anything at all,” said Mrs Jervis. “We know you cook so well.” But her husband was more exigent.

“I should like,” he said, “the meal which we should have eaten that night at the Silver Fish, if there had been—fewer interruptions.”

“Fewer interruptions!” cried Quimerle. “That is good—and so English. If I remember rightly, the interruptions, as you term them, included an air-raid, an invasion by German parachutists and a murder! But we will not speak of those things now. We began, if I remember rightly, with a Crème St Germain?”

“Yes, that was it.”

“And then there was a sole. Terrible! But I had nothing to do with it. And the other dishes did not appear at all.”

“Too true,” murmured the Major.

“This time it will be different. Leave it to me, Monsieur and Madame.”

His professional manner was once more dominant. “And meanwhile I will tell Marie to show you your room.”

***

Two hours later they were seated in the neat little dining-room. They had been given the place of honour, the table in the embrasure of the window, from which they could look out over the square and catch a glimpse, beyond it, of tall masts in the harbour.

“This soup,” said the Major, “is even better than the last. Don’t you think so, Belle?”

His wife raised her eyebrows slightly and tossed a shining red curl back from her white forehead.

“You forget,” she answered, “that I was not sitting down with the company. I was waiting at table. And Crème St Germain was not provided for the staff supper.”

The Major looked slightly pained and for a moment devoted his attention to the wine which Marie had just poured into their glasses. It was a light white wine, fresh and clean to the palate, but there was no label on the bottle and Jervis could not put a name to it.

“Now for the sole,” he said.

It was delicious, cooked in the simplest way, légèrement dorée, the firm white flesh melting in the mouth. They ate it in silence. It was not that they did not appreciate it, but their thoughts were elsewhere, at another dinner in another country, in the third year of the Second World War. Unconsciously they were waiting for someone—for Quimerle. Doubtless he was still busy in the kitchen.

Jervis was gazing absently at the little desk at the far end of the room, the desk at which “Madame” sits enthroned in so many French restaurants. But Madame, if there was a Madame, had not yet appeared. He took another sip of his wine, and when he looked again, behold, the seat behind the desk was no longer empty. A large lady in a black silk dress had taken her place there and was busy with her papers and her small change.

“Belle,” he said softly.

“What is it, John dear?”

“Do you see what I see?”

The girl’s eyes followed his in the direction of the desk.

“But—but she was with you that night,” she stammered; “the lady who—

I don’t know her name.”

“Lily Latour.”

“Lily Latour! But what is she doing here?” And her lids narrowed as if she suddenly remembered, only too clearly, the terrors and the mysteries of

“that night”.

“It looks,” said her husband smiling, “as if more than one wedding resulted from our little dinner party at the Silver Fish.”

“I see. But it’s all a bit uncanny, isn’t it?”

“Unexpected anyway. I wish Quimerle would come. There is so much I want to ask him. After all, I had my duty to do, and when the troops approaching the hotel turned out to be English, who had mopped up the German parachutists without difficulty, I collected the Prisoner of State and that Foreign Office fellow, commandeered a car and took them both back to London. I left all the other complications—”

“Including me,” pouted Belle.

“I came back for you. But I never saw any of the others again, except of course the Brigadier, or rather his coffin. He was given a military funeral.”

Belle shuddered slightly.

“And then, as you know, I was sent overseas, and we couldn’t even get married until, until—”

“Last Friday,” said Belle.

He smiled at her and raised his glass.

“But I wish Quimerle would come.”

It was not, however, until they had passed from the sole to the saddle of lamb and from the white wine to Pommard ’34, and from all these to a memorable cheese, it was not until the dessert plates had been set before them, that the proprietor appeared. He had taken off his white cap and apron

and was dressed once more as they had first seen him. He entered quietly, watchful and collected, conferred a moment with Madame at the little desk, and then passed between the tables, bowing to his guests, joking with some and conversing gravely with others. Belle became quite flustered as she watched him. John Jervis peeled a pear with pretended nonchalance. He knew that Quimerle would finally come to sit at their table.

If Lily Latour had seen them she gave no sign. She was busy with her dockets and her calculations. Still Quimerle’s slow progress continued until at last, when Jervis had eaten the last of his pear, the big bearded man came to the table in the window.

“Well,” he said, still in his professional manner, “you have dined well, I hope.” Then, relaxing a little, he added: “At least as well as on the last occasion.”

Belle could contain herself no longer. “Oh, Monsieur Quimerle,” she said, “there is so much we want to ask you.”

The big man’s manner changed again. He glanced rapidly round the room to see that nothing needed his attention, then sat down calmly at their table.

Then he turned round and beckoned Marie to him.

“Une bouteille d’Armagnac,” he said, “et trois verres.” It was not until the pale straw-coloured liquid gleamed in their glasses, until he had raised his own and bowed over it, first in the direction of Belle and then in that of Jervis, that he spoke again.

“Eh bien!” he murmured, “you wish to ask me many things?”

“But of course,” cried Jervis. “How you came here and—and everything.”

“It is very simple,” answered Quimerle. “It so happens that Douarnenez is my native place, and besides, I was tired of working for others. I had accumulated a little capital. What more natural than that I should return here and set up for myself, modestly, I confess, but not, I think, without a certain distinction.”

Before his hearers could frame the compliment which seemed expected he went on:

“You wonder, no doubt, about Lily, but she also is part of my past.”

“Part of your—?”

“I knew her when she was a dancer at the Bal Tabarin and I—I was in the kitchen of Foyot’s. You see, the wheel has come full circle. It is true that Madame no longer dances—”

He paused to take another nip of brandy.

“I lost sight of her for many years. We parted, I fear, in anger. I am by nature a rather jealous man.”

“I know,” whispered Belle softly, a remark which caused something almost like anger to pass over her husband’s face.

“Do not distress yourself, Monsieur le Commandant,” said Quimerle smoothly. “If I resented the advances of Oscar Watson it was (how do you say it?) in an avuncular capacity.”

Belle giggled slightly and once more Jervis glanced at her. He wished the conversation would take another turn.

“You were jealous about Lily Latour,” he prompted.

Quimerle spread his hands in a deprecatory gesture. “I was jealous,” he said, “but I was also sensible. Lily went her own way, and I could not blame her. But I did not like to meet her men friends. In fact there were only two of them I ever did meet: the Prisoner of State, as you so humorously called him, and Brigadier Miles. Fortunately they are both dead.”

Jervis started a little at this cold-blooded announcement.

“Both dead!” he muttered.

“But yes! The Prisoner of State, as the world knows, was condemned by the International Court and duly executed, and the Brigadier, as you also know, was murdered.”

Quimerle laughed at the horrified silence which had fallen upon them.

“Perhaps you think I murdered him?”

“Of course not.”

“But the idea had crossed your mind?”

Jervis shook his head in what he hoped was a convincing manner. Belle said nothing.

“The strange thing,” said Quimerle, “is that the murder of Brigadier Miles had nothing to do with either jealousy or with affairs of state. It was, as you might say, a completely meaningless murder.”

“But who did it?”

“You remember Lady Dawes?”

“The loud-voiced woman at the next table?”

“Yes. I suppose you did not notice the people she had with her?”

“No, I can’t say I did, particularly. They were a pretty nondescript lot, I thought.”

“Among them was a sort of novelist—”

“A writing fellow!” cried Major Jervis with some disgust. “Who was he?”

“His name,” said Quimerle, “was E. M. Forster. Ever heard of him?”

They both shook their heads.

“But why—?” asked Jervis.

“He didn’t like soldiers.”

“Didn’t like soldiers! Why not?” cried Belle.

Quimerle smiled at her indignation. “Perhaps,” he said, “his nurse was frightened by a soldier when she was pushing him in his perambulator. It is called, I think, a complex. Anyway, the sight of Brigadier Miles with his medals and his tabs, his assurance and his efficiency, his obvious command of the situation, was too much for him. When the lights went out he seized his opportunity and cut the Brigadier’s throat.”

There were exclamations of horror.

“Has he been hanged?” asked Belle.

“Not yet,” said Quimerle with a touch of regret.

“But he will be, surely?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. These writing fellows, as you call them, can get away with anything.”

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