Chef Maurice and a Spot of Truffle (Chef Maurice Mysteries Book 1)

by J. A. Lang

  “Ai, d’accord, but if you become fat, it is not my fault.” Chef Maurice fished in his pockets, which were already bulging with sow nuts for this eventuality, and tossed a handful into Hamilton’s bowl.

  While the little pig wolfed down his morning treat, Chef Maurice bent over him to fit a new collar around Hamilton’s stubby neck.

  Gravel crunched and a large shadow loomed up behind them.

  “And what do you think you are doing with that micro-pig?”

  The voice was thoroughly thoroughbred, verging on braying, and belonged to a large tweed-upholstered woman with a clipboard.

  This did not bode well, thought Chef Maurice. Nothing good in life, in his experience, ever came attached to a clipboard.

  “We are going for a walk.”

  Her beady eyes lit up. “And do you have a Pig-walking Licence?”

  “Ah, a joke, yes? Très drôle, madame. Non, I have not a pig-walking licence. Now, if I may—”

  The clipboard was thrust at his chest.

  “Section XVI, part iii, sub-paragraph d), of the Registration and Movement of Livestock code, as issued by the Department of Environment, Food and Rural Affairs. All pigs, whether owned as pets or forming part of a commercial herd, must apply for and obtain a CPN reference number. In addition, pigs owned for pets or as a hobby must carry a Pig-walking Licence from your local AHVA office, which must be—”

  “And who are you, madame?”

  At their feet, Hamilton gave the newcomer’s boots a few exploratory snuffles.

  “Helena Carter-Wright, founding member of the Friends of Our Fields Animal Welfare Trust. I was over at the sanctuary yesterday and Tara told me this little chap had found a home. So I thought I’d come see how he’s settling in. You know a pig is for life, not—”

  “Oui, oui, not just for dinner— I mean, Christmas.” He glanced at the clipboard, then balanced it on top of Hamilton’s kennel. “But I can write for my licence later, non? Hamilton and I, we have most important business to attend.”

  “I am afraid not,” said Mrs Carter-Wright, in the voice of someone who is most delighted indeed. “No licence, no approved walks. Health and safety is paramount, Mr . . . ”

  “Manchot.”

  “Mr Manchot. Absolutely paramount. As a business owner yourself, working in the food industry, I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

  Chef Maurice scratched his head. He usually left all the health and risk assessment forms to Patrick, who dutifully filled them out and concluded each year that the biggest health and safety risk to Le Cochon Rouge was Chef Maurice himself. Last year, this had led to the triple-layered tarte tatin with a moat of flambéed Calvados brandy being removed from the menu—much to Dorothy’s relief, as the char marks on the dining room ceiling had always been a chore to scrub off.

  “Very well, madame. If you have a pencil . . . ”

  Mrs Carter-Wright smiled triumphantly. “That’s the spirit. Here are all the forms you’ll need. Just pop them in the post and in four to five weeks you’ll—”

  “Weeks?”

  “Safety, Mr Manchot,” said Mrs Carter-Wright, waving a severe finger. “Safety must always come first.”

  Chef Maurice appeared deflated. “Très bien. We must wait, Hamilton. Now I must start the morning preparations. Bonne journée, madame.”

  After the Land Rover had rolled out of the yard and away down the lane, Chef Maurice popped his head back around the corner and gestured at his pig.

  “Psst, Hamilton, viens ici!” Hamilton stuck his nose out of his kennel, then trotted over.

  Chef Maurice scooped him up and hurried into the dining room, where Dorothy was standing on a chair, dusting around the old stone fireplace. The building had once served as the old village pub, and the main dining room still retained all the original features.

  “Dorothy, you have a little grand-niece, n’est-ce pas?”

  “That’s right, chef. Our Karen’s eldest had her first back in April, gorgeous little thing, quite knocks your socks off, she does. I can show you some photos if you’d—”

  “Yes, yes, I remember, un bébé très adorable,” said Chef Maurice hurriedly. “And they live in Beakley, I recall. Where is the exact address?”

  “Oo, you know, I can never remember the number. It’s just opposite the green, Mrs Cranshaw’s old cottage, she’s renting it out now on account of her bad—”

  “Merci!”

  The front door slammed, and pig and chef were gone.

  * * *

  Farnley Woods, twenty minutes west of Beakley, was a sprawling expanse of hilly woodland, sloping upwards from the winding main road. It was old forest land, populated by twisting oaks and towering sycamores, as well as beeches, birches, elms and the furry and fluttering creatures that called it home.

  It was also the open-plan office for a small but growing number of professional foragers, who picked their way across the acres of woodland with empty backpacks, sturdy boots and a keen eye trained to the ground.

  If there were truffles near Beakley, then Farnley Woods was where they’d be found.

  Thus, a logical observer of recent events would not have been surprised to see Chef Maurice pull into the little dirt car park at the bottom of the woods.

  They might, however, have spared a moment of surprise for the sight of his four-legged companion.

  A few minutes later, Arthur’s old but lovingly maintained Aston Martin pulled up alongside Chef Maurice’s battered Citroën.

  “Fine morning for a spot of truffle hunting,” said Arthur, jumping out. He looked down at the little huddle sat beside Chef Maurice’s steel-capped toes. “By golly, what have you done to Hamilton?”

  Chef Maurice explained about Mrs Carter-Wright and her clipboard offensive.

  “So you thought you’d disguise Hamilton as a six-month-old baby girl?”

  Hamilton got to his trotters—daintily clad in two tiny pairs of wellington boots, one red, one sparkly pink—ran a little circle around them, then sat back down. He was wearing a bright pink fluffy hoodie.

  “A dog,” said Chef Maurice patiently. “Hamilton wears the disguise of a dog. The little ones that the Hollywood ladies carry in their handbags, non?”

  In fact, he’d been quite disappointed when Geri, Dorothy’s niece, had drawn the line at lending Hamilton a pair of pink diamante-encrusted sunglasses that, Chef Maurice had been convinced, would have been just the right accessory to complete ‘le look’.

  “Whatever you say, old chap,” said Arthur, as they started up the hill. “At least we can’t lose him this way.”

  In the summer, Farnley Woods was full of weekend ramblers, young families, and couples looking for a little bit of seclusion, still convinced that there was something romantic, rather than prickly and slightly damp, about being around nature. Now, though, with autumn’s gusty breezes and winter’s dark nights just around the corner, the woods were empty of other walkers.

  In front of them, Hamilton tugged at his lead, determined to show the world what a champion truffle hunter looked like.

  “I never understood why you’d want to keep a dog in your handbag,” mused Arthur. “Damned uncomfortable for the dog, I’d imagine, sitting on all those car keys, diaries, hairbrushes and whatnot. You should see the stuff Meryl keeps in hers. You could fit a good-sized Doberman in there, I reckon.”

  Hamilton gave a squeak and started digging at the roots of a nearby hazel.

  “Good lad! Reckon he’s found something already?”

  Chef Maurice shook his head. “We are too close to the road. If the truffles are so easy to find, everyone would know, I think.”

  Sure enough, Hamilton’s excavations produced half an old boot filled with mud. Chef Maurice patted him on the head and slipped him a sow nut.

  They trudged on upwards. Recent showers had turned the ground into a treacherous mess of mud and soggy mulch. Chef Maurice could feel his knees creaking, and Arthur had fallen silent, apart from the occasional wheeze. Only Hami
lton continued to forge ahead, now off his lead and running in dizzy circles ahead of them. He left no mound of leaves nor mouldering branch unturned, to the great consternation of the watching squirrel population.

  Half an hour later, they were far off the well-trodden path and starting to wonder if they should have brought a map, a compass, and, most importantly in Chef Maurice’s view, a bag of edible provisions, when they stumbled into a clearing. At the centre, surrounded by drifts of leaves, was a tall moss-covered rock that, if you half-closed your eyes and turned your head just so, looked just like a large standing bear.

  “We call it The Bear,” said a voice behind them. It belonged to a well-coiffed lady in her early fifties. She wore stout hiking boots and one of those padded green jackets with the leather elbow patches that managed to look both shapeless and very expensive at the same time. She was accompanied by a leggy grey poodle, wearing a matching green jacket, who attempted to look down its nose at them.

  “That seems,” said Chef Maurice, glancing at the rock, “a most appropriate name.”

  She looked like the type of woman who might take lunch with the likes of Mrs Carter-Wright. Just in case, he attempted to push Hamilton behind him with his foot.

  “Goodness, aren’t you Arthur Wordington-Smythe?” She turned her big blinking eyes on Arthur.

  “At your service, madam,” he said, lifting his hat.

  “I simply adore your reviews. Such brilliant writing, I even tear out the ones I really like, you know, and stick them on the fridge. I get the England Observer every day, come rain or shine, but it’s always your reviews I look forward to. I’m Brenda, by the way.”

  She held out a hand, but stopped halfway as her gaze fell to Chef Maurice’s feet. “Oh my, is that a pig you have there?”

  Chef Maurice considered denying it, but Brenda looked the type of well-bred outdoorsy Englishwoman who’d know her pigs from her pugs.

  “He is a micro-pig, madame. His name is Hamilton.” And because he couldn’t stop himself, he added, “He is a champion truffle pig.”

  “How adorable!” said Brenda, bending down to pat Hamilton on the head. “More of a dog person myself, really, but isn’t he precious?”

  “Are you familiar with these woods, madame?”

  “Like the back of my hands, I should say. I practically grew up in these woods. They back onto our land, you see,” she said, waving vaguely into the distance.

  Chef Maurice paused for a moment, weighing this woman up. “I do not suppose, madame, that you have seen such an item as this on your walks?” He unwrapped his handkerchief to reveal the remaining half truffle. The musty forest scent wafted around the clearing, and Hamilton started prancing up and down. The poodle looked up at the truffle and sneezed.

  Brenda peered into the handkerchief. “Goodness, whatever is that? I thought it was a potato for a moment, but—”

  “It is a truffle, madame.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard of those.” She glanced at Arthur. “Restaurant critics are always talking about truffle this and truffle that. Never seen one up close, though.” She gave it a sniff. “Can’t say I see what the fuss is about, I’m afraid.”

  “You have not seen anything like this, then, here in these woods?”

  “Not that I’ve ever noticed. And I think I’d have noticed something like that. Did you find it here?” She looked at him curiously.

  “Non, but we have hope—” Chef Maurice stopped as Arthur jabbed him, hard, in the ribs. “Non, we did not. But we are most interested in these woods, even if there are no truffles here.”

  He shot Arthur a look that said: there, satisfied?

  Brenda was staring up at the surrounding trees. “You know, my father collected all kinds of maps of these woods.”

  “Maps?” said Arthur quickly.

  “Yes, all sorts. They go back decades, centuries even. If you’re interested in Farnley Woods, you should come and take a look at them.”

  She reached into her handbag and pulled out a card.

  Mrs Brenda Laithwaites. Laithwaites Manor, Farnley Woods, Oxfordshire.

  “That is most kind of you, madame. We would be delighted to visit you.” Chef Maurice dug around in his pockets for a moment, then looked beseechingly at Arthur. “Mon ami, do you, ah . . . ”

  Arthur sighed, opened his own wallet and extracted a card for Le Cochon Rouge.

  “And do bring darling little—what was his name, oh yes—darling little Hamilton along with you too. Missy would love the company, I’m sure.”

  The grey poodle contrived to raise its nose even higher.

  “Maurice, you really should buy a zipper for that big mouth of yours,” said Arthur, as Brenda disappeared back into the woods, having extracted a promise that they would call on her soon. “And a cardholder, too, while you’re at it.”

  “You think I should not have spoken of truffles? Ah, but now we have an invitation for tea!”

  “Since when do you like tea?”

  “I prefer an Englishman’s tea to his coffee. But Madame Brenda also has maps of these woods. This could be very useful in our hunt.”

  “You think someone will have made a map marked ‘Here Be Truffles’?”

  “Ah, you joke, but a map of the trees, that is most useful. The white truffle of Alba”—he raised his lecturing finger—“is most fond of the hazelnut tree and the oak. We must look for these trees in particular, and there we will find truffles.”

  They walked on. The terrain here was rockier, the trees scrubbier, and huge drifts of leaves littered the ground and concealed a number of treacherous tree roots. Chef Maurice picked up a long stick and began poking around at the base of the nearby oak and hazel trees, as well as interrogating various suspicious mounds of moss.

  “One never knows when you may find une belle girolle, or perhaps some oyster mushrooms,” he explained.

  Arthur peered under a large damp fallen trunk. “I find it’s easier just to wait for the menu.”

  Hamilton continued to run in circles ahead of them, his little boots squelching through the mulch.

  “Do you really think Hamilton is going to find these truffles of yours? Assuming they exist, of course.”

  “He has the soul of a truffle hunter, you will see,” replied Chef Maurice staunchly.

  “Soul maybe, but what about the nose?”

  Hamilton gave a sudden squeak and started running towards the ridge above them. He weaved in and out of the moss-covered boulders, all of the same grey stone as The Bear earlier.

  “You really . . . should have kept him . . . on a leash,” breathed Arthur, as they hurried after the little pig.

  “Bah. This is nothing. A little hill,” said Chef Maurice, stomping onwards. “Meryl, she will thank me for taking you to exercise.”

  Up ahead, Hamilton had stopped at the edge of the ridge and was pacing back and forth, his curly tail quivering.

  Chef Maurice was the first to reach him. “What is it, mon petit Hamilton?” He looked down into the gully. And swore.

  “What is it? Is it truffles?” Arthur struggled up alongside him and looked down. “Bloody hell! Is that who I think it is?”

  At the bottom of the gully, lying in a drift of leaves like a cast-aside rag doll, was the body of the late Ollie Meadows.

  Chapter 7

  PC Lucy stared down into the gully. She was not in the best of moods.

  First off, and most definitely first, was the dead body. Not just any dead body, but the dead body of someone she knew. Well, not that she’d known Ollie on more than a passing basis, but still, she’d seen him around. And now here he was, face up in a ditch with a shotgun wound in the chest.

  Second of all, there was Sergeant Burns, whose usual beat was Cowton town centre, but who’d somehow got it into his head that this was his investigation, despite Farnley being slap bang in PC Lucy’s neck of the woods, as it were. He’d even gone as far as calling her ‘lassie’. This was not helping her mood.

  Lastly, there was Chef
Maurice, who seemed to be developing a disconcerting habit of turning up in these situations.

  Okay, so it was him and Arthur Wordington-Smythe who’d stumbled across the body—not literally, thank goodness—and phoned it in. But now the chef had snuck under the police cordon and was shuffling around behind the forensics team, such as it was, which consisted of a freckled young police officer called Alistair and a German shepherd called Fred. He was asking questions and, worst of all, making suggestions.

  He was also carrying a small pig under one arm. The same pig that had tried to head-butt Fred on the nose when they’d first arrived at the scene.

  “The body, it has been here many days?” said Chef Maurice, watching PC Alistair take pictures and carefully scrape bits of forest floor into plastic tubs.

  “At least a couple of days, we think. It’s Wednesday today, so that means—”

  “Alistair! Please refrain from discussing details with members of the public.”

  “Sorry, miss.” He saw the look on her face. “Uh, I mean, PC Gavistone.”

  Chef Maurice wandered round to the other side to get a better view of PC Alistair’s work.

  “And it is certain that Monsieur Ollie was murdered?”

  “I think you’ll find, Mr Manchot,” said PC Lucy drily, “that people don’t tend to go around shooting themselves with shotguns. At least not in the chest.”

  Dammit. She hadn’t meant to engage. “Ahem. That is, the police will certainly be carrying out a thorough investigation. We appreciate your concern, and thank you for your co-operation earlier with your witness statements. We’ll be in touch if we have further questions.”

  At least the statements had been easy enough. Having most definitely absolutely without-a-doubt secured a pig-walking licence this morning—whatever that was—Chef Maurice and Arthur had taken a leisurely stroll up into Farnley Woods. They’d met a nice lady walking her dog who, in their measured opinion, did not appear to be a shotgun-wielding maniac. Then they had found Ollie in the gully. Or at least, the pig had found the gully, and then they’d found Ollie.

  Had they known the victim? Arthur knew him by sight, but viewed Ollie as the type who kept himself to himself. Plus, the forager had only lived in the village for a few years, which was no time at all by Beakley standards.