CHAPTER FOUR
42“A pet pigeon?” asked Alice.
“Pet? Hugo is training her to be a secret messenger,” said Adele.
Alice stared at the pigeon that was placidly pecking at loose dust on the hut floor. As the bird turned, she noticed the brass cannister attached to its neck by a black ribbon.
“Oh, like pigeon post!” she cried.
Hugo nodded. “Pigeons are one of the best ways to carry messages. The Romans used them over two thousand years ago and when Paris was under siege from German forces in the winter of eighteen seventy, people in the city used pigeons to pass messages to the outside.”
Alice’s grandmother had told her all about the pigeon post operation, when hundreds of thousands of letters had flown in and out of the city, carried by pigeons. She still had a letter from her grandfather to her grandmother, stamped for pigeon post at Poitiers.
“I drop Columba off with one of the other teams in the morning,” Hugo continued. “They write what time they release her on a slip of paper and then they let her out. She’s never taken more than a few 43minutes to find her way home, the clever girl.”
“Don’t get Hugo started on how brilliant pigeons are,” said Adele.
“If the grown-ups are right and another war does come, pigeons could make a great difference,” Hugo said. “Radio is all very well, but pigeon post is hard to intercept.”
“I must remember to bring her some pistachio macarons,” said Alice, and Hugo grinned. Alice glanced at her watch. “Now, I’d better go and introduce myself at the Chefs’ Hall. I promised I’d create something special for tonight’s gala dinner.”
The Chefs’ Hall was as plush and shiny as the twins’ hut had been dusty. Alice walked through the main dining hall, marvelling at how much glass and steel they had managed to fit into the space. The roof was a great dome of glass, with runners, javelin-throwers, cyclists and swimmers etched into façades that ran around the edge. Polished steel columns held the roof up and the hall was lit by tubular sconces that sprouted from the columns and the walls. Everything was built on elegant curves and simple lines. There was none of the frippery 44and detail that Alice had seen on her previous missions on the luxurious Sapphire Express or at the Palace of Versailles. The hall was designed to show off the elegance of the modern age with its clean lines and crisp colours. The tables were laid with white linen, simple crystal bud vases for a single rose stem, and white tableware with silver accents on the rims.
Alice passed through to the kitchen and was not surprised to find it as ordered and glossy as the hall outside. A man in crisp chef’s whites paused in the middle of checking through a list on a clipboard and raised a hand in greeting.
“Mam’selle Éclair!” he cried. “I am Chef Michel. Your reputation precedes you! Welcome to the heart of Olympia!”
Alice glanced around. She always thought that a kitchen should be the heart of a place. The Vive Comme L’Éclair kitchen was where she always felt safest. But the Chefs’ Hall kitchen felt cold. Every surface was polished and hard, and the chefs worked in silence, chopping and mixing with precision and utter focus. She was sure that delicious meals were being cooked in this room, but she 45did not see the heart.
“We have a spot for you over here,” said Chef Michel, ushering her over to a space on one of the steel worktops marked out with etched lines. On one side was a bald man assembling mille-feuille. On the other, a young woman whisked egg whites. Neither looked up from their work to greet Alice.
“We don’t chat much,” said Chef Michel, “but if you need anything, raise a hand and someone will come to help. The ingredients store is over there and you should be able to find anything else in the fridge next to it.”
Alice nodded.
“I have prepared a list of possible cakes for your first event,” she said, taking out her baking notebook to reveal a sketch for a three-tier chocolate ganache gateau topped with whipped cream and white chocolate curls.
The chef cut her off with a wave of his hand.
“Oh, all our chefs are already busy with the treats for tonight’s gala dinner,” he said. “We need you to prepare something different.”
Alice grinned. Different was her speciality.
“There has been so much talk in the press about 46what our athletes eat. Of course, they like the odd treat as do all of us, but people are talking about how much butter and sugar our desserts have. The cream, the chocolate. We would like you to create … some healthy desserts. Less butter. Less sugar.”
Alice’s smile faltered.
“L… Less… Less butter?”
The chef nodded happily as though he had not just said the most appalling thing possible.
Alice took a deep breath. Her mother’s fury at the use of margarine in the confectionery at Hotel Anise came to her mind and she eyed Chef Michel carefully. What sort of chef would ever suggest such a thing? Alice was used to fighting traitors. She had brought down traitors to France and to peace, but as the chef turned contentedly on his heel and left her fuming at her station she realised she had now met another type of traitor.
Chef Michel was a traitor to baking!
Five hours later, Alice was ready to throw her icing tools back into their case and head home to Vive Comme L’Éclair. It was impossible. The puff pastry 47with the margarine in had refused to rise and was a brittle mound on the bottom of her baking tray. Her cake had fared better and she was surprised to find that it was lighter even than her buttery creations normally were, but after nibbling on one of her test pieces, she found that it was dry and tasteless.
Alice tore off her apron, flung it on to the countertop and stormed out of the kitchen to think. She was in such a hurry that she did not watch where she was going and ran straight into Sophie, almost sending her flying.
“I was just on my way to see the twins,” Sophie gasped. “One of the camp messengers spotted me and passed on a note for Adele. I recognised the envelope at once and I’m sure it’s another poison pen.”