Chef Maurice and the Wrath of Grapes (Chef Maurice Culinary Mysteries Book 2)

by J. A. Lang

  “I suppose we’d better call the police,” said Resnick. “Though in these parts, who knows how long they’ll take to turn up.”

  Arthur, who found himself nearest to the wall-hung phone, picked up the receiver and held it to his ear.

  “Line’s still down,” he reported. “Nothing but crackle.”

  “Surely that can’t be a coincidence,” said Bertie, looking pale.

  “Really?” said Resnick. “I understood the line had been down since this afternoon. Surely someone would have noticed an intruder sneaking around all that time.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Lady Margaret, crisply. “It’s a big house. My Timothy used to hide for hours in all the nooks and crannies, and only a good gingerbread cake would get him to come out. Plenty of places to hide in here.”

  With that, she flipped open her book and started reading.

  There was a series of clinks and clatters as Chef Maurice conducted a thorough investigation of the cupboards in search of a coffee pot.

  “There’s loose tea and some instant coffee in the drawer over there,” said Mrs Bates, who’d perked up at the sound of another cook invading her professional space.

  “Pah, instant coffee,” muttered Chef Maurice, and continued on until he unearthed a slightly tarnished coffee pot and an unopened bag of fresh grounds.

  “How many?” he said.

  All hands shot up, except for Mrs Bates, who deplored such a patently European habit and went to fill up the teapot.

  The coffee had barely brewed when Gilles and Paloni returned, their faces grim. Mrs Bates bustled over and grabbed the saucepan out of Paloni’s hands.

  “My best pan, that is,” she tutted.

  “We found where he got in,” said Paloni. “Broken window in the storeroom right next to here. Glass all over the shop.”

  “The intruder must have waited to enter the cellar after Mr Paloni left Sir William,” said Gilles. “Presumably it was he who locked the cellar door after.”

  “But why would he do that?” said Ariane. Her eyes were wide, and she was clutching Bertie’s arm.

  “To slow us down and distract us, clearly,” said Resnick. “Give him time to make his escape.”

  “A plausible explanation, sir,” said Gilles. “Has anyone telephoned the police?”

  They explained the crackly phone line.

  “Very well. If you will excuse me, I will walk down to the main road. There is a telephone box not far from the gates. The police must be notified immediately.”

  “I’ll go too,” said Bertie, though there was a slight tremor in his voice.

  “So will I,” said Resnick.

  “And me,” said Paloni.

  Arthur looked around and realised he’d have to volunteer too, for the look of the thing. Thankfully, Gilles spoke first.

  “If you will allow me, gentlemen, I do not think it needs so many of us. Mr Lafoute and I will go to telephone the police. Perhaps the rest of you gentlemen could stay here and look after the ladies.”

  Lady Margaret looked up from her book with an unimpressed stare. “I think you will find we are quite capable of looking after ourselves.”

  “Of course, ma’am,” said Gilles with a bow, then beat a hasty retreat with Bertie on his tail.

  Paloni lost no time in settling himself next to Ariane, draping his dinner jacket over her bare shoulders, and was soon engaged in a low, murmuring conversation.

  Mrs Bates gave a sudden cry and hurried over to the warming oven. She extracted a large tray of mini Yorkshire puddings, complete with mini sausages and dollops of thick gravy.

  “They were his favourite,” she said quietly.

  The assembled guests had, however, lost their appetites. Arthur managed two, while Chef Maurice stepped in to polish off the lot—no doubt for Mrs Bates’ sake.

  “Madame Bates, when was the last time that you saw Sir William?” asked Chef Maurice, sitting down with his second cup of coffee.

  “It was just when he was going down to the cellar with Mr Paloni,” said Mrs Bates. “He popped his head in here and asked me to get the canapés ready to go.”

  “And when was this?”

  Mrs Bates looked up at the clock over the sink.

  “Was just a few minutes after seven,” she said. “I remember because the tartlets take ten minutes to warm through, and I was going to get the first trays ready for quarter past.”

  “And the door to the kitchen, it was open all the time?”

  Mrs Bates nodded. “But I was racing all over the place, single-minded I am. I don’t think I’d have noticed anything happening out there.” Her hands trembled. “Do you think I might have seen—”

  “Ah, you must not worry yourself about that. A criminal makes sure to not be seen. But do you remember seeing Monsieur Paloni leaving the cellar?”

  “That I did. Came storming out, he did. I remember laughing to myself because he tried to slam the door”—she shot a quick look over to Paloni, but he was still occupied with Ariane—“except it ain’t that kind of door and swings ever so slow.”

  Chef Maurice lowered his voice. “And you did not see him lock it?”

  Mrs Bates shook her head. “He was gone before it even closed. Plus, I’d have remembered something like that. Only the master or Gilles ever has a key. He just walked off, he did.”

  Arthur looked up at the clock. “It was around half past when Mrs Bates came to get us in the dining room. So that gives the intruder about fifteen minutes to get in, get down to the cellar, and get out. Tight, but more than possible.”

  “I told William he should get better locks on all the windows,” said Lady Margaret severely. “These roving madmen, they’ll be the death of us all.”

  This set Mrs Bates off into another chorus of sobs.

  “Now, now,” said Arthur, reaching out to pat the cook, his hand hovering uncertainly before settling for an outer-lying expanse of elbow. “Whoever it was, he won’t be coming back. No one would take that risk.”

  “You are sure it was a madman, mon ami?” said Chef Maurice.

  “Of course!”

  The other guests nodded. Of course it had to have been.

  Because if it wasn’t a madman, so their collective thoughts ran, it must have been one of them.

  Chapter 6

  Patrick struggled to the top of the hill, PC Lucy trudging along in his wake. From here, he could see the little squares of light that picked out the eastern side of Bourne Hall. They must have still been half a mile away, but from this vantage point, he could see the dark footprints stretching down the slope before them.

  And, in the distance, the blond-haired, black-clad stranger.

  “We’d better hurry up. He’s almost at the Hall,” said PC Lucy, reaching his side. She grabbed his hand and they ran skidding down the slope.

  Reaching the flat fields below, they pounded through the thick snow, which slowed their steps and pushed back at them like an invisible hand. Thankfully, their quarry didn’t seem to have noticed them closing the distance on him.

  They might have made it, too, if a hidden tree root hadn’t snagged Patrick around the ankle and sent him flying across the ground.

  A few frosty moments later, he raised his head out of his self-created snow drift. They were less than twenty metres from the Hall, and the man had almost reached the nearest side door.

  “Please tell me Sir William at least locks his doors at night,” PC Lucy muttered, as she slid an arm under Patrick to try and lift him up. “I hand out leaflets every year, and every year I can stroll into most of the village’s—”

  There was a burst of warm light as the door flung open, and the man disappeared inside.

  There comes a point in a man’s life when he must boldly go, and this point had come on, rather suddenly, for Arthur. So, recruiting Chef Maurice as backup, and instructing Paloni to send out a search party in the event of their non-return, they set out for the east wing of Bourne Hall in a quest to visit the bathroom facilitie
s.

  Chef Maurice had borrowed another of Mrs Bates’ frying pans, on the promise that he would avoid attacking any intruders with the side with the non-stick coating.

  To get to the east wing, they had to pass through the drawing room again, which was now shrouded in an eerie silence. Empty glasses littered the coffee table, and the fire had burned low in the grate, casting long shadows over the carpet.

  Chef Maurice stuck his head into the dining room. The masked bottles, corks untouched, stood there patiently—judgement would have to wait another day.

  The bathroom was located down a cold corridor off the main drawing room. The walls were lined with faded fleur-de-lis wallpaper, and a long display cabinet stood to one side, filled with ranks of polished silverware.

  “Only be a moment,” said Arthur, ducking into the bathroom. “Keep an eye out for anything suspicious,” he added, his voice muffled by the thick door.

  Chef Maurice wandered over to the silverware display, and inspected his moustache with the aid of a large silver tea tray.

  “I say, this is an original Crapper!” came Arthur’s voice through the bathroom door. “Thomas Crapper & Co., Sanitary Engineers, it says here. Fine old firm. They say his father . . . ”

  Chef Maurice tuned out from Arthur’s ablutionary rhapsodies and concentrated on his own bladder control. Of course, any chef who’d spent time in a busy kitchen developed an iron bladder, but the evening’s turn of events had apparently unsettled even his own normally stout constitution.

  A flicker in the silverware and a creak of a floorboard drew his attention to the end of the corridor. A tall man, dressed head to toe in black, emerged from a side door. There was snow on his hat and boots, and he was carrying a leather briefcase. He started at the sight of Chef Maurice, then reached into his jacket.

  “I’m—” he began, but stopped.

  This was because Chef Maurice had raised his trusty frying pan above his head and was pounding towards the intruder, bellowing like a berserker warrior.

  Kitchens are generally noisy environments, and Chef Maurice could bellow with the best of them.

  “Aaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!”

  The man gave him one look, and turned and ran.

  Arthur was just drying his hands when he heard the demonic yell from outside.

  “All right, all right, I’m almost done. No need to yell like that,” he called.

  He drew the lock and pulled open the door.

  The corridor was empty, save for a small patch of melting snow down the other end. A frosty breeze was sneaking its way into the building through the open doorway.

  “Argh!” came a cry from somewhere outside, and the sound of scuffling.

  It had been a male voice, but definitely not Chef Maurice.

  Picking up a nearby candlestick, Arthur edged his way over to the door.

  Patrick lay in the snow, trying to piece together the last forty seconds.

  They had almost reached Bourne Hall when the same side door had been flung back and the blond-haired man had come sprinting out, crashing straight into Patrick.

  The man had landed right on top of him, his briefcase dealing Patrick a nasty jab to the kneecap. Then his attacker had scrambled to his feet and taken off back across the fields.

  Completely winded, he’d rolled over to see PC Lucy—who’d been some ten metres behind—running towards him.

  “Patrick, are you—”

  A bellowing sound erupted from the open doorway.

  “Aaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiii— Eh?”

  The frying pan halted its descent a few inches above Patrick’s nose, and was quickly replaced by the only mildly less alarming sight of Chef Maurice bending over him.

  “Patrick? What do you do out here in the snow? It is not the time for making the snow angels. We are under attack!”

  “Wha— Why—”

  “What the hell was all that?” PC Lucy rushed over to Patrick and knelt down. “Are you okay?”

  “Just winded. Nothing broken. I think.” He tested his knee gingerly.

  “Ah, Mademoiselle Lucy, you have arrived. That was very fast, most impressive.”

  “What?”

  “You received our call, did you not?” He looked at her blank face. “They did not tell you what has happened? That is bad communication! For the prevention of crime, information must flow like hot oil. It is imperative—”

  “Maurice! What on earth are you on about?”

  He paused, finger raised in mid-lecture.

  “Sir William, he has been murdered. That is why you are here, non? But why do you bring Patrick?”

  PC Lucy gaped at him.

  Chef Maurice looked down in puzzlement at his sous-chef, then light dawned in his eyes.

  “Ah, I forget! You must also add the brandy-soaked nutmegs. They are in the fridge.”

  “Whuh . . . ” said Patrick, still a little behind events.

  “For the mulled wine. This is why you also come, is it not?”

  “I think,” said PC Lucy, hauling Patrick to his feet, “we better go inside and find out what the heck is going on.”

  Chapter 7

  If Gilles or Bertie were surprised to find a police officer already at the Hall when they returned from their trek, they were too polite to make any comment.

  Gilles thanked PC Lucy for her prompt arrival, while Bertie made a beeline for the kitchen’s wood-burning stove.

  The cellar key was produced and Gilles led PC Lucy down the stone steps. They were followed by Chef Maurice, still avec trusty frying pan, ready to protect PC Lucy should any more intruders be found; Arthur, ready to protect Chef Maurice should PC Lucy lose her temper and attempt to strangle him; and lastly Patrick, who felt, as PC Lucy’s not-quite-boyfriend, he should not be seen to be upstaged by his boss in this protection racket.

  PC Lucy crouched down next to the body, trying to maintain a mask of professional blankness while her insides did somersaults.

  “What do you think happened?” said Patrick, next to her.

  PC Lucy leaned closer to the body, careful not to disturb anything.

  “We’ll have to wait for the forensics report to be certain, but it looks like he was hit on the back of the head with something heavy, probably a wine bottle, given these cuts. Then they went for the throat . . . ” She glanced down at the dark pool which had spread across the flagstones.

  “With that, you think?” Patrick pointed at the remains of a wine bottle, the cork and neck still intact, but the body smashed in to leave a jagged, razor-sharp edge.

  PC Lucy nodded.

  “Any chance of fingerprints?”

  “I doubt it.” She had noticed a soft, slightly grubby cloth lying nearby, presumably used by Sir William or Gilles to wipe dust from the bottles. It was now splattered with bloodstains. “But we’ll send it off to the lab anyhow. You never know.”

  Chef Maurice, bending over the body, shuffled around to PC Lucy’s side.

  “His arm like that, perhaps this has some meaning?”

  Sir William’s left arm lay flung out to one side, his head tilted in the same direction.

  They all looked up at the display cabinet opposite, which housed a collection of very large old bottles of wine in a temperature-controlled environment. There were roughly thirty in total, with a few of the stands still empty.

  “Why are they so big?” asked PC Lucy.

  “They’re magnums,” said Patrick. “Double the size of a normal bottle, so one and a half litres each.”

  “Magnum?” said PC Lucy. “Like the gun? And the ice cream?”

  “That’s right. Though I’m not sure there’s much of a connection there . . . ”

  “Funny, I’ve never seen them in a restaurant,” said PC Lucy, still staring at the cabinet. “Are they common?”

  “Non, it is usual for only the chateaux with great prestige to produce magnums and bigger,” said Chef Maurice. “Especially for the old vintages like the ones here. The making of magnu
ms, it is expensive, you see.”

  PC Lucy ran her gaze along the display cabinet once more, then shook her head. If Sir William had been shot, or possibly stabbed with an ice cream stick, the collection of magnums might just have been a clue. As such, she moved on with her search.

  She slid a careful hand into Sir William’s dinner jacket pocket but, as she expected, there was nothing there. Sir William didn’t seem the kind of man who would ruin the line of his tailoring by carrying around unnecessary items, especially not in his own home.

  However, the other pocket revealed a folded piece of lilac notepaper.

  Darling, wait up for me tonight, I will slip out as soon as I can. I cannot wait to have you. A.

  The handwriting was curly, expansive, passionate, even. A woman’s handwriting.

  Chef Maurice, reading over her shoulder, clicked his tongue. “Oh là là, the poor Monsieur Bertie.”

  “A is for . . . ?” PC Lucy had been hurriedly introduced to the guests upstairs, but hadn’t had time to take down names.

  “Ariane Lafoute,” said Arthur. He was standing in a corner as far away as possible, staring at a wall stacked with wine crates. Dead bodies were not his forte, as he had discovered only a few months previously. “Married to Bertie, the young chap who came in with Gilles. But, well, it’s a bit hard to believe, isn’t it? I mean, Sir William is, was, hardly the type of fellow to fool around with another man’s wife. And Bertie’s practically family to him. You saw the way he talked.”

  “But there are no other A’s present here in the house. Except for you, mon ami,” pointed out Chef Maurice.

  Three faces turned to Arthur, who spluttered:

  “Well, I certainly didn’t write that note. If you ask me, it looks a lot like Maurice’s handwriting. Very French, I can see even from here.”

  “Bah! I object! How could I—”

  “Okay, gentlemen, enough,” said PC Lucy, holding up a hand. “And it goes without saying, you are not to mention this note to anyone, understand?”

  There were vigorous nods all around, which meant, she knew from experience, exactly nothing.