The Mata Hari Institute of Culinary Excellence

[Pleater]

This has now (1st December), wound its way to a sort of finish. You will find all sorts of corresponding threads in other parts of the forum. Not all of them (and this is the slightly worrying part) are due to my reading them before this was written - there is a thread on kilts as costume for instance, which I just noticed. Recipes and time travel are in the forum, but I hope I have given them an interesting twist. The lightning strike just 200 yards from Hamish and his Kollection really happened, so did some of the other weather, but not all of it. The colours of the New Forest trees were real this year. There are inconsistencies which are both intentional and accidental. The mock Victorian style which is somewhat erratic is of course in emulation of other narrations here.

There was no plot for this, it just arrived, it was written straight into the reply window with very little editing. Most of it was as much a puzzle to me as I am sure it will be to those who attempt to read it. Part of one sentance was removed retrospectively to allow a later thing to be true, otherwise it is a continuous development.

The spelling is eratic, I have a US spellchecker which wants to take out the English u and replace s with z and which is going to get its **** kicked when I get the time. Oh - I think **** is ruder in the US than here - here it is just what you find by moving your hands to the rear and then inwards when in a relaxed standing position. If you get called an *** here it means the small equine animal with long ears.

There are few names - I am sure it is perfectly obvious who they are, but I go through life without the ability to remember a lot of names and seem to manage alright.

Don't tell Panache that the British Navy still tend to add angustura bitters to gin, rather than wormwood - vermouth, that is.

This is where it began.


In an attempt to persuade Mr Dove to continue with his literary offerings, I was intending to use the books of accumulated culinary arts which were kept in the supercooled safe in the lower cellars of the Mata Hari Institute of Culinary Excellence.

Imagine my consternation when upon approaching the fine old oak doors I observed that the lower panel of one of them had been removed. Having gained access to the old wine cellar which had been utilized for its supposed security, I found that the door to the safe was not locked. Luckily the door had been latched closed, so the contents remained at a suitably low temperature. Having taken the insulating gloves from the ornate hook which bore my name, and drawn them onto my trembling hands, I examined the contents of the safe and discovered that the penultimate volume of recipes was missing from the series which I had thought safely hidden from those who might abuse their powers.

Over the years experiments had proven that the omission or substitution of a single ingredient resulted in excellent though usually high calorie dishes which were entirely lacking in the effect experienced by those consuming the dishes conforming to the recipes.

I was so shaken to see the gap at 'desserts' in the row of matching volumes that I almost failed to check the folders of hand written recipes in the box file beneath the shelf. However, I noted that the lid of the file was not properly secured, and I almost swooned as I realised that the original manuscript of 'The Joy of Snacks' had also been taken. A deep breath of the ice cold air restored my senses, and I hurriedly checked the contents of the other folders. Much to my relief, but also astonishment, I found that the sheet with the recipe and method for making Strawberry Wobblers had been left behind loose in the file. I placed it in its folder and closed the lid of the box file, replaced it on the floor of the safe, and began to swing the door closed.

I heard an exclamation behind me, and looked around to see the two other directors of the Institute staring at me wide eyed. The door thudded closed.

'Ladies, someone has removed The Joy of Snacks and Volume Nine from the safe.' I informed them, my voice tremulous.

To my surprise they both blushed like maidens, and I realised that they each carried identical cold bags, which they now lifted and placed on the small table with the cooling coils used when one of the recipes was to be examined.

'We did not take them.' said Daphne, hurriedly.
'Obviously,' I replied. 'Neither of you would have needed to remove the panel from the door to gain entry here, you could have removed and returned the recipes undetected.'
'These packs were left with two of our suppliers who made deliveries today, one addressed to each of us by name,' Bronwen declared as her colour faded. 'We met in the larder on our way here.' She frowned and looked around, 'Was there a third item removed?'
It was my turn to blush hotly despite the chill of the room.

[Pleater]

I had began to recount how I and the two other directors of the Mata Hari Institute of Culinary Excellence discovered that two items had been removed from the super chilled safe, and then mysteriously returned to the Institute.

I was the first on the scene, having been intent on using one or more of the recipes to persuade Mister Dove to continue with his narration. I explained my presence at the scene by claiming to have had some presentment of the incident - which was entirely false. I have inherited a little of the psychic ability my grandmother possessed, but it has not been at all active for some time. I left the other directors to return the recipes to the safe and walked up to the apartment I use when staying at the Institute.

I was somewhat disturbed to find that at about that time, there was a suggestion that recipes should be fore warded to the off topic section of X marks, and then for some hours I was unable to navigate the forum. I was suddenly filled with foreboding, and after some soul searching, I went to the other directors and told them everything.

We called in The McGeek and - posing it as a hypothetical question, enquired as to what would happen if someone tried to post one of the recipes, for instance, from The Joy of Snacks, over the Internet. He thought for a moment, and then went rather pale.
'The recipient would undoubtedly begin to experience rather strange happenings, though exactly what I could not predict with any accuracy. Those recipes are effective on carbon based lifeforms - what would happen to a silicon based device is anyone's guess.'

Daphne smoothed her elegant lace jabot. 'But electronic devices are not alive, surely - they do not think.'

'Well, Ma'am, the recipes do not affect the parts that think.'

We let him return to his office, and sat in silence for some time.

'What can we do?' I enquired at last.
'Wait.' said Bronwen. 'There is nothing to be gained by making a hasty decision.'
'True, but I would like to call in someone to investigate the theft. It is most disconcerting that someone was able to enter the institute, reach the cellars and remove the door panel - and then open the safe. Even though the recipes were returned, anyone able to get past our security is potentially very dangerous.'
We nodded in agreement.
'But who could take on such a task?' I asked.
They sighed.

[Pleater]

I had left Bronwen and Daphne deliberating how to get in touch with their old school friend, who had a great nephew who could be useful in the investigation of recent events at the Institute.

As the youngest director I had to see to the running of the various classes, and I found myself making a tour of the building. There are seven levels counting the belvedire and after ascending the stairs to that lookout point I had to pause to regain my breath.

A life in which cookery plays some part requires rather more exercise than my old injury allows. I therefore gazed out over the New Forest which at this time of year is glorious in its Autumn colours which vary from pale gold to deepest burgundy, but my thoughts kept wandering to an image of a woman with glowing red hair.

I set off to make my inspection.

I found the dance classes in progress. Madam Erzulie was demonstrating in the Red Studio in her usual exuberant fashion - my how that woman can laugh. Next door about a dozen of the gels were indulging in freeform exotics, upon which I will not dwell. The classrooms were all empty and quiet, and so were most of the teaching kitchens.
I descended through the building - which is arranged on four sides of a central rectangle, and found nothing amiss until I came to the row of offices.
The door to The McGeek's office stood open, and the room was empty. I leaned against the door to the office opposite and considered why that should be, then I heard footsteps approaching. I reached behind me and opened the door, stepped inside and waited. Mister McGreagor strode past.

My eyes widened.

Although he still wore the long knitted cardigan which had given rise to his nickname, and the highly polished boots which I suspect indicate a military background if not training - he was wearing an ankle length denim kilt.

[Pleater]

Ian McGreagor went to his desk and sat down in front of the PC. In a few mouse clicks he had called up something which held his attention, and as he navigated around he paused and read, and several times he laughed aloud.

I was uneasy about leaving the office in which I had hidden, for The McGeek had never shown any interest in kilts, or anything much other than computing, and his usual reaction to anything comic was a rather simpering giggle.

Although I could not see the monitor screen, the reflection in his glasses made me suspect that he was reading the messages on the X marks the Scot forum.

There was a slight noise behind me, I felt my hair rise in alarm, and slowly turned to look into the office.

A man sat at the desk, the monitor at his elbow was showing the X marks forum, and I divined that it was spying on the one across the corridor. He smiled and using hand signs told me to close the door quietly.

I obeyed, and then with a lift of an eyebrow he turned to the keyboard and typed rapidly. There was a cry of rage from the office opposite, and then several shouts as reconnection failed - after a few minutes a door slammed and McGreagor left. The man had dropped to the floor and was invisible from the corridor as soon as the monitor showed the disconnection from the Internet.

'Has he gone?' he enquired quietly, in a disconcertingly deep voice, and he peered over the edge of the desk with a merry twinkle in his eyes.
'Who are you and how did you get in here?' I demanded.
'A friend. A chef. You may call me James Brown. I walked in.'
I glared.
'Please take your hand off the knife you carry in the small of your back - that is if you can remove it now that you have engaged the wrist strap. Otherwise you will have to draw it and disentangle yourself.'
I frowned at him and lifted my left hand which already held the nine inch blade. I saw his eyes flicker, then he looked away and slid back into the chair.

'Are you really called James Brown?'
'At the moment I do not need to use an alias - I thought I was amongst friends. Friends who might need someone with my particular skills.'
'Which are?'
'Spotting ways in and out of places, and of computers. My Aunt May, the dowager duchess, tried to get in touch with my son - but he's off doing something in a research station in the Arctic - something to do with peculiar electromagnetic activity, so as I was already in the area, I came instead.'
'The man we wanted was not called Brown.'
'For that I would have had to be married to his mother, and she decided that I was not the right sort of man to be a father. Unfortunately for her peace of mind the genes won. However, if you take me to your fellow directors, I am sure I can prove my identity. I believe they are old school friends of my aunt.'
I did not take my eyes off him as I opened the door and retreated into the corridor, then directed him to the kitchen where Daphne would be making scones for tea.
As the man entered she turned, and after a second she smiled.
'Why James - how nice of you to come.'
I sheathed my knife.

[Pleater]

I let Daphne and Bronwen explain as I sipped some tea.
Mister Brown had listened attentively, yet seemed not to grasp the serious nature of the situation.
'The only things taken were some recipes, which were returned almost as soon as the break in was discovered?'
'They are very special recipes.'
'And you drew a knife on me. I could have been hurt.' he said, turning to me.
'No, Mister Brown, you could have been killed. It is many years now since I learned Human anatomy, but I have not forgotten it.'
'But why do you carry a knife here?'
'Do you imagine that we allow our students to work on meats from who knows where?' Daphne said sternly. 'All the poultry, rabbits, fresh water fish are from our own resources, and the larger animals are farmed locally.'
'And you?' he enquired, doubtfully.
'And I.' I nodded. 'Then I know it is done properly.'
Bronwen sighed and put down her cup. 'It was my fault for dozing off - I am getting rather doddery now. It will soon be time to find someone younger.'
'Oh don't say that, we had enough trouble when Lizzy decided to retire. Finding someone suitable is so difficult.'
I could see that Mister Brown was not up to speed yet.
'Its the effect of the foods which we teach the gels how to make.' I declared.
'Oh?'
'You see - powerful men have their pick of women, they are notoriously fickle, so we give our gels what could be thought of as an unfair advantage. The dishes they learn to prepare here contain herbs and spices, and particular ingredients, which keep the men coming back to them for more.'
'They are addictive.'
'Not exactly. They are aphrodisiac.'
To our surprise Mister Brown burst out laughing.
Bronwen sighed.
'Still so young.' she said, and smiled at the thought.

'But surely - it isn't - well - I'm sorry but it isn't very important - surely?'
'It is a matter of national security. Well - not just for us, for our alies too. We are a very cosmopolitan organisation. Thank goodness the recipe for the Strawberry Wobbler was not taken.'
Mister Brown snorted, and then quivered with bairly controlled mirth.
'This is serious, Mister Brown!' I snapped.

Bronwen looked up with a furrowed brow.
'Some people, you know, are alergic to strawberries. I had a friend who was. It was rather startling - anything with the least bit of strawberry in would make her turn bright pink, all over.'

[Pleater]

Mister Brown went off to 'Have a word' as he put it with The McGeek, and I went to phone home, check the emails and assess the sunset. For some reason they have been particularly glorious recently.

From my window I can see the squat shape of The Rotunda - the oldest building on the site and due to the fact that Cromwell's forces did not manage to destroy it when they were in the area, it is used for the weekly disco dance.

We do have male students here - for obvious reasons the name on the Institute letterhead does not include 'Mata Hari'. The usual expression on their faces, after the first week, is a sort of stunned grin and they seem to float through their eighteen month courses in a state of euphoria. It is no wonder that chefs in later life are notoriously bad tempered and any who gain a celebrity status do so despite their perpetually foul mood.

The present set of male students were making their way along the topiary lined avenue like a rag of colts, throwing eachother into the neatly clipped double rows of chessmen which had required decades of diligent care by the gardeners, and punching eachother's heads. What was strange was that they were all clad in an assortment of garments, from former dressing gowns to table cloths and in a deranged way each one was almost like a kilt.

[Pleater]

I looked on X marks the Scot.

Mister Brown gave me the new password required to access the Internet, which he says should not be available to others at the Institute, just in case.

The forum is filling up with recipes, Mister Dove's narration has now got the caterers coming to the rescue.

The kilt forum is all of cooking, and the ICE is full of young men in strange kilts. Plus all the gels went off to the disco clad in strips of strips of tartan - different tartans. (Small strips too. The gels these days.)

It is all getting really strange.

What I could do with is some hint of what is going on here.

What I could really do with now is seeing the X marks diridgibibble thingy flying along the South Coast of England, bringing Hamish home after his adventure.

Then I could go up into the belvedere and use a heliograph to signal to them in Morse code, and we could cook up some strengthening broths for the invalid whilst the sensibly kilt clad crew and its commanding officer get to work on the mystery, and we could do with a carpenter to fix that hole in the door to the wine celler.

I was relying on Mister Brown to sort this out, but I have just seen him rushing off to the Rotunda clad in what looks like a kilt suit made out of old grey army blankets with a sporran made from one of the long blonde wigs from the hair dressing salon. The McGeek was with him, in what looked like a brown leather version of the long kilt he was wearing earlier, and his corduroy jacket with the patches on the elbows.

Oh deary deary me.

[Pleater]

I changed from my working dress of white academic gown and plain white dress and flat shoes into my DPM kilt with a dark brown tunic, dark green hose and soft dark brown boots.

I made a large mug of sage tea, pulled on my heavy khaki jersey and black beret then walked up into the belvedere. The view is to the south and at night it is possible to see the lights of the ships at sea.

I considered the situation, and sighed, I was out of my depth with all the strange goings on.

'I'm not even a chef,' I protested to the clear cold air with the tang of the sea in it. Then I remembered what Mister Brown had said whan I first saw him - 'A friend. A chef.'

I suddenly saw The McGeek's peculiar mode of dress in a new light. Perhaps it was really an attempt to wear the kilt but with his usual geekness - and perhaps some bad advice, he had simply got it wrong. Bad advice from - could it possibly be Mister Brown - the man who, by his own admission was already in the area?

Would anyone deliberatly mislead someone wanting to wear a kilt?

I shivered at the dreadful thought.

[Pleater]

Feeling that there was, after all, some sense to be made to the recent events I returned to my room feeling refreshed and checked my To Do list.

My eyebrows rose when I saw that the scheduled breakfast for the next day included porridge. Everyone had checked the honey with almonds sauce. Not one wanted the other option of strawberry puree.

I scrolled through the proposed dishes for the rest of the day as I noted down those items I would have to prepare. It is useful to be able to use both hands fairly equally, so my PC is set up as for a right handed person but with a clear area to the left for making notes by hand.

Something about that thought bothered me, but there was work to do, so I closed down the PC for the night and went to attend to the animals and check the greenhouses.

It was simply a matter of checking that all was well, and that the flocks had settled down for the night. The lighting had dimmed, but with my excellent night vision I had no trouble making my way through the buildings.

One of the rabbits was still out and about. I vaulted the wall and went over to inspect it. The animals have no fear of me, so I was able to pick it up and carry it to the roof of the hutch which serves as an inspection table. I ran my hands over its long white silky fur, felt its limbs and paws and found that it had damaged a claw. I carried it to the first aid box, cleaned and taped the little wound, then returned it to its pen. After a few hesitant hops it suddenly lept into the air, scampered a couple of circuits of the pen and vanished into the hutch. Nothing else delayed my rounds, but when I returned to the House I saw that I was required in the infirmary.

I canceled the notice board display and went as quickly as I could to find out what had happened.

I found Mister Brown and a couple of the stewards waiting outside the curtained cubicle.

'Matron?' I enquired, and she emerged a few seconds later.
''Its Ian McGreagor, heat exhaustion. Dancing in all that heavy clothing, so I'm not surprised.'
'How is he?'
'Still away with the fairies, though that is fairly normal for him.'
Mister Brown came up looking pale and drawn.
'May I see him?'
'Just a peep - '
Matron drew aside the curtains, and there was The McGeek looking pale and drawn too. He did turn his head and raise a hand before the curtain was dropped.
'I'll be with you in a moment,' said the Matron and went back inside.
'Have I been silly?' I enquired, 'is Ian another of your offspring?'
He nodded.
'And you walked in because you know the way to get down to the village pub through the back gate.'
'I was based here for six months when I went from cook to chef.'
'So Ian does have a military background.'
'His mother's father was a Major, his mother liked profiteroles.'
I gave him a hard look. He shrugged and smiled engagingly.
'So why is everyone suddenly wearing kilt-ish clothing?'
'Ian thought it would be a good idea. I used your PC to send out the notice that there was to be a kilt theme to the disco.'
'I see.' I said dryly. That's why you were surprised when I had my knife in my left hand, I thought. 'To take my mind off something else?'
He pursed his lips and looked away, leaving me to draw my own conclusions.

[Livingston]

Doing good so far, Pleater. A little different from Jamie and Dave in that you are making us think more I like it, keep up the good work.