Twelve Red Herrings (18 page)

Another waiter
appeared at Duncan’s side and handed us three pink menus the size of small
posters. As I glanced down the lisl of dishes, Christabel whispered something
to the waiter, who nodded and slipped quietly away.

I began to study
the menu more carefully, unhappy to discover that this was one of those
restaurants which allows only the host to have the bill of fare with the prices
attached. I was trying to work out which would be the cheapest dishes, when
another glass of champagne was placed at Christabel’s side.

I decided that
the clear soup was likely to be the least expensive starter, and that it would
also help my feeble efforts to lose weight.

The main courses
had me more perplexed, and with my limited knowledge of French I finally
settled on duck,
as !
couldn’t find any sign of
^”poulet’.

When the waiter
returned moments later, he immediately spotted Christabel’s empty glass, and
asked, “Would you care for another glass of champagne, madame?”

“Yes, please,”
she replied sweetly, as the maitre d’ arrived to take our order. But first we
had to suffer an ordeal that nowadays can be expected at every French
restaurant in the world.

“Today our
specialities are,” he began, in an accent that would not have impressed central
casting, ‘for hors d’oeuvres Gele de saurnon sauvage
et
caviar irnprial en aigre doux, which is wild salmon slivers and imperial caviar
in a delicate jelly with sour cream and courgettes soused in dill vinegar. Also
we have Cuisses de grenouilles la pure d’herbes soupe, fricassee de
chanterelles
et
racines de persil, which are pan-fried
frogs’ legs in a parsley pure, fricassee of chanterelles and parsley roots. For
the main course we have Escalope de turbot, which is a poached fillet of turbot
on
a watercress
pure, lemon sabayon and a
Gewfirztraminer sauce. And, of course, everything that is on the menu can be
recommended.” I felt full even before he had finished the descriptions.

Christabel
appeared to be studying the menu with due diligence.

She pointed to
one of the dishes, and the maitre d’ smiled approvingly.

Duncan leaned
across and asked if I had selected anything yet.

“Consomm and the
duck will suit me just fine,” I said without hesitation.

“Thank you,
sir,” said the maitre d’. “How would you like the duck?
Crispy,
or perhaps a little underdone?”

“Crispy,” I
replied, to his evident disapproval.

“And monsieur?”
he asked, turning to Duncan.

“Caesar
salad and a rare steak.”
The maitre d’ retrieved the menus and was turning
to go as Duncan said, “Now, let me tell you all about my idea for a novel. ‘
“Would you care to order some wine, sir?” asked another waiter, who was
carrying a large red leather book with golden grapes embossed on its cover.

“Should I do
that for you?” suggested Christabel. “Then there’ll be no need to interrupt
your story.” Duncan nodded his agreement, and the waiter handed the wine list
over to Christabel. She opened the red leather cover with as much eagerness as
if she was about to begin a bestselling novel.

“You may be
surprised,” Duncan was saying, ‘that my book is set in Britain. Let me start by
explaining that the timing for its publication is absolutely vital. As you
know, a British and French consortium is currently building a tunnel between
Folkestone and Sangatte, which is scheduled to be opened by Queen Elizabeth on
6 May 2994. In fact, Chunnel will be the title of my book.” I was horrified.

Another glass of
champagne was placed in front of Christabel.

“The story
begins in four separate locations, with four different sets of characters.
Although they are all from diverse age groups, social backgrounds and
countries, they have one thing in common: they have all booked on the first
passenger train to travel from London to Paris via the Channel Tunnel.” I felt
a sudden pang of guilt, and wondered if I should say something, but at this
point a waiter returned with a bottle of white wine, the label of which
Christabel studied intently. She nodded, and the sommelier extracted the cork
and poured a little into her empty glass. A sip brought the smile back to her
lips.

The waiter then
filled our glasses.

Duncan
continued: “There will be an American family mother, father, two teenage
children – on their first visit to England; a young English couple who have
just got married that morning and are about to begin their honeymoon; a Greek
self-made millionaire and his French wife who booked their tickets a year
before, but are now considering a divorce; and three students.” Duncan paused
as a Caesar salad was placed in front of him and a second waiter presented me
with a bowl of consomm& I glanced at the dish Christabel had chosen.
A plate of thinly cut smoked gravadlax with a blob of caviar in the
centre.
She was happily squeezing half a lemon, protected by muslin, all
over it.

“Now,” said
Duncan, ‘in the first chapter it’s important that the reader doesn’t realise
that the students are connected in any way, as that later becomes central to
the plot. We pick up all four groups in the second chapter as they’re preparing
for the journey. The reader discovers their motivations for wanting to be on
the train, and I build a little on the background of each of the characters
involved.”

“What period of
time will the plot cover?” I asked anxiously, between spoonfuls of consomme.

“Probably three days,”
replied Duncan.
“The day before the journey, the day of the
journey, and the day after.
But I’m still not certain – by the final
draft it might all happen on the same day.’

Christabel
grabbed the wine bottle from the ice-bucket and refilled her glass before the
wine waiter had a chance to assist her.

“Around chapter
three,” continued Duncan, ‘we find the various groups arriving at Waterloo
station to board “le shuttle”. The Greek millionaire and his French wife will
be shown to their first-class seats by a black crew member, while the others
are directed to second class. Once they are all on board, some sort of ceremony
to commemorate the inauguration of the tunnel will take place on the platform.
Big band, fireworks, cutting of tape by royalty etc.
That
should prove quite adequate to cover another chapter at least.” While I was
visualising the scene and sipping my soup – the restaurant may have been
pretentious, but the food was excellent – the wine waiter filled my glass and
then Duncan’s. I don’t normally care for white wine, but I had to admit that
this one was quite exceptional.

Duncan paused to
eat, and I turned my attention to Christabel, who was being served a second
dollop of caviar that appeared even bigger than the first.

“Chapter five,”
said
Duncan,
‘opens as the train moves out of the
station. Now the real action begins. The American family are enjoying every
moment. The young bride and groom make love in the rest room.

The millionaire
is having another row with his wife about her continual extravagance, and the
three students have met up for the first time at the bar. By now you should
begin to suspect that they’re not ordinary students, and that they may have
known each other before they got on the train.” Duncan smiled and continued
with his salad. I frowned.

Christabel
winked at me, to show she knew exactly what was going on. I felt guilty at
being made a part of her conspiracy, and wanted to tell Duncan what she was up
to.

“It’s certainly
a strong plot,” I ventured as the wine waiter filled our glasses for a third
time and, having managed to empty the bottle, looked towards Madame. She nodded
sweetly.

“Have you
started on the research yet?” I asked.

“Yes. Research
is going to be the key to this project, and I’m well into it already,” said Duncan.
“I wrote to Sir Alastair Morton, the Chairman of Eurotunnel, on Newsweek headed
paper, and his office sent me back a caseload of material. I can tell you the
length of the rolling stock, the number of carriages, the diameter of the
wheels, why the train can go faster on the French side than the British, even
why it’s necessary for them to have a different-gauge track on either side of
the Channel...”
The
pop of a cork startled me, and the
wine waiter began pouring from a second bottle. Should I tell him now?

“During chapter
six the plot begins to unfold,” said Duncan, warming to his theme, as one of
the waiters whipped away the empty plates and another brushed a few breadcrumbs
off the tablecloth into a little silver scoop. “The trick is to keep the reader
interested in all four groups at the same time.” I nodded.

“Now we come to
the point in the story when the reader discovers that the students are not
really students, but terrorists, who plan to hijack the train.” Three dishes
topped by domed silver salvers were placed in front of us. On a nod from the
maitre d’, all three domes were lifted in unison by the waiters. It would be
churlish of me not to admit that the food looked quite magnificent. I turned to
see what Christabel had selected: truffles with foie gras. They reminded me of
a Mira painting, until she quickly smudged the canvas.

“What do you
think the terrorists’ motive for hijacking the train should be?” Duncan asked.

This was surely
the moment to tell him – but once again I funked it. I tried to remember what
point in the story we had reached. “That would depend on whether you eventually
wanted them to escape,” I suggested. “
Which might prove quite
difficult, if they’re stuck in the middle of a tunnel, with a police force
waiting for them at either end.
” The wine waiter presented Christabel
with the bottle of claret she had chosen.

After no more
than a sniff of the cork she indicated that it was acceptable.

“I don’t think
they should be interested in financial reward,’ said Duncan. “They ought to be
IRA, Islamic fundamentalists, Basque separatists, or whatever the latest
terrorist group catching the headlines happens to be.” I sipped the wine. It
was like velvet. I had only tasted such a vintage once before, in the home of a
friend who possessed a cellar of old wine put down with new money. It was a
taste that had remained etched in my memory.

“In chapter
seven I’ve come up against a block,” continued Duncan, intent on his theme.
“One of the terrorists must somehow come into contact with the newly-married
couple, or at least with the bridegroom.” He paused. “I should have told you
earlier that in the character-building at the beginning of the book, one of the
students turns out to be a loner, while the other two, a man and a woman, have
been living together for some time.” He began digging into his steak.

“
It’s
how I bring the loner and the bridegroom together that
worries me.
Any ideas?”

“That shouldn’t
be too hard,” I said, ‘what with restaurant cars, snack bars, carriages, a
corridor, not to mention a black crew member, railway staff and rest rooms.”

“Yes, but it
must appear natural,” Duncan said, sounding as i he was in deep thought.

My heart sank as
I noticed Christabel’s empty plate being whisked away, despite the fact that
Duncan and I had hardly begun our main courses.

“The chapter
ends with the train suddenly coming to a hah about halfway through the tunnel
,;
said Duncan, staring into the distance.

“But
how?
And why?” I asked.

“That’s the
whole point. It’s a false alarm.
Quite innocent.

The youngest
child of the American family – his name’s Ben -pulls the communication cord
while he’s sitting on the lavatory. It’s such a hi-tech lavatory that he
mistakes it for the chain.” I was considering if this was plausible when a
breast of quail on fondant potatoes with a garnish of smoked bacon was placed
in front of Christabel. She wasted no time in attacking the fowl.

Duncan paused to
take a sip of wine. Now, I felt, I had to let him know.” but before I had a
chance to say anything he was off again.

“Right,” he
said.
“Chapter eight.
The train has come to a halt
several miles inside the tunnel, but not quite halfway.”

“Is that
significant?” I asked feebly.

“Sure is,” said
Duncan. “The French and British have agreed the exact point inside the tunnel where
French jurisdiction begins and British ends. As you’ll discover, this becomes
relevant later in the plot.” The waiter began moving round the table, topping
up our glasses once again with claret. I placed a hand over mine – not because
the wine wasn’t pure nectar, but simply because I didn’t wish to give
Christabel the opportunity to order another bottle.

She made no
attempt to exercise the same restraint, but drank her wine in generous gulps,
while toying with her quail. Duncan continued with his story.

“So, the
hold-up,” said Duncan, ‘turns out to be nothing more than a diversion, and it’s
sorted out fairly quickly. Child in tears, family apologises, explanation given
by the guard over the train’s intercom, which relieves any anxieties the
passengers might have had.