by J. A. Lang
She placed the lilac-coloured note in a plastic bag for safekeeping, and reached gingerly into Sir William’s nearest trouser pocket. Her fingers closed around something heavy and metallic.
It was a large brass key, hung on a thick woven cord.
She looked over at Chef Maurice.
“I thought you said the intruder locked the door behind him. Or her,” she added. Crime, after all, was an equal opportunities employer. “From the outside.”
“But it is true! It was most definitely locked when Madame Bates came for us. Unless . . . Un moment. Let us not jump on conclusions.” Chef Maurice grabbed the key and hurried up the stairs. A moment later, there was a whirring noise and a click.
“Oui, this is the correct key,” he said, as he returned down the stairs.
“Then how . . . ?” PC Lucy looked around the room. The cellar was big by normal standards, but bottles and small wine crates lined every available wall. There was nowhere for anyone to hide. “What about a second key?”
Chef Maurice shook his head. “It was in wax. We saw Monsieur Gilles break it open before us. It could not have been used before.”
PC Lucy checked the other trouser pocket, but found only a clean white handkerchief. She pushed it back in.
“Right, let’s get back upstairs,” she said.
Chef Maurice remained squatted down for a moment, then reached out and laid a gentle hand on Sir William’s shoulder.
“Do not worry, mon ami. We will find who did this. It is my promise.”
Uh oh, thought PC Lucy, who’d experienced Chef Maurice’s first attempts at impromptu sleuthing earlier that year.
He just said ‘we’.
Back in the Bourne Hall kitchens, Mrs Bates was serving up cold beef sandwiches from the remains of what would have been the evening’s dinner.
Chef Maurice would have preferred the slices a little pinker, but he allowed that Mrs Bates had suffered quite a shock today, and in her defence, the horseradish cream was both excellent and liberally applied.
PC Lucy entered the kitchen with a small police radio in her hand.
“My colleagues will be here shortly,” she said. “In the meantime, if you wouldn’t mind, Mr Gilles, I’d like to ask you some questions about Sir William?”
“Of course, madam,” said Gilles, who’d been standing by the door, holding a cup of tea in the awkward manner of a man unaccustomed to social gatherings. He seemed quite relieved as he led PC Lucy down the hallway into Sir William’s study.
It was a good-sized room, decorated to male tastes, with old oil paintings on the walls depicting historic battles, an abundance of oak panelling, and several firm, leather-studded armchairs.
“Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer this interview to be conducted in private?” said PC Lucy, throwing an exasperated glance at Chef Maurice and Arthur, who’d followed them in and had settled themselves into the two armchairs by the small fireplace.
Gilles folded his hands neatly before him. “If the gentlemen wish to be present, I certainly have no objection. There is nothing I can tell you that would be in any way inappropriate.”
“As you wish,” said PC Lucy. “So walk me through the events of this evening.”
Gilles cleared his throat. “From which point in the evening would you like me to start?”
“How about when you last saw Sir William?”
“I last saw Sir William at around seven o’clock, when he was entertaining the guests in the main drawing room. I poured the Champagne, then stepped into the dining room to check on the table arrangements. I heard Sir William leave the drawing room to go collect the final wines from the cellar, accompanied by Mr Paloni. I remained in the drawing room, where I was joined by Mr Wordington-Smythe and Mr Manchot. It was here that Mrs Bates found us and informed us that Sir William was apparently locked in the cellar and not responding. We then proceeded at once to the cellar entrance to lend assistance.”
PC Lucy nodded as she scribbled in her notebook. “So the other guests were still in the drawing room?”
“No. Only Lady Margaret, who I believe was resting by the fire. The other guests had retired upstairs at that point.”
“And then?”
“On finding the door to the cellar locked, as per Mrs Bates’ description, and not being able to rouse a response from Sir William, I came here to the study to procure the spare key from the safe.” He gestured towards the wall by the desk, where a small iron safe was embedded at chest height.
“May I see inside?”
“Of course.” Gilles walked over to the safe and twiddled the dial. The little door swung open.
The safe was mostly empty, save for a bottle of forty-year-old single malt whisky—“Worth a pretty penny!” whispered Arthur—and a small pile of papers.
“As you can see,” said Gilles, “Sir William was not in the habit of making much use of the safe.”
“But he kept the spare cellar key in here? Sealed in wax?”
“Yes, it was a practice he inherited from his father, I’m told, to ensure he knew exactly who had access to the cellar at any one time.”
“So the only cellar key that could have been used to lock him in was the one that Sir William carried himself?”
“So it appears.”
“Interesting. Carry on. So you went to fetch the spare key?”
“Yes. I then proceeded to unlock the cellar door, and descended first, followed by the guests, which in hindsight I am most regretful of. For the ladies and gentlemen to have to witness such a sight . . . ” Gilles shook his head.
“Was it normal for Sir William to lock the cellar door when he was down there?”
“No, I’d say not. On rare occasions when he did not wish to be disturbed, perhaps.”
“I understand that there had been some form of disagreement between him and Mr Paloni, just beforehand. Is it possible he locked the door after Mr Paloni had left him, to ensure he wouldn’t be disturbed further?”
“Possible, yes.”
“And what about the cellar itself? Is anything missing?”
“I would need to consult the cellar book and carry out a full audit to ascertain this. But the most valuable bottles in the collection are kept in a glass cabinet with a key code lock. I observed at the time that these bottles were undisturbed.”
PC Lucy scribbled this down in her notebook. “And then what happened after?”
“To ensure the safety of the guests, I conducted a preliminary search of the building, and soon after discovered a broken window in the storeroom beside the kitchen. We concluded that this was where the intruder had entered and exited the premises.”
“So this was before you called the police?”
“Yes. As our phone line has been non-functional since the afternoon, Mr Lafoute and I then walked to the main road to make the call.”
Chef Maurice leaned over to Arthur. “The phone line, I find this most suspicious,” he murmured. Arthur nodded his agreement.
“Have you worked for Sir William very long?”
“Fifteen years.”
“And to your knowledge, has Sir William ever received any threats? Notes, phone calls, that kind of thing?”
Gilles smiled faintly. “The local pro-fox-hunting lobby have been known to send the occasional sternly worded letter, but no, nothing of a genuinely threatening nature. As far as I am aware, of course.”
“What about past burglaries? I understand the wine collection is worth millions of pounds.”
“Most certainly. Especially with the additions to the collection over the last five years. But we have never had any trouble here. Our location is fairly remote, and Sir William had a new security door installed over the summer, though more for insurance purposes, I’m given to understand, than due to any real apprehension of theft.”
“And what about his . . . personal relationships?”
“Relationships?”
“Was there anyone Sir William was involved with? Romantically, I mean?
”
Gilles appeared to blanch at this thought. “None whatsoever. Rightly or wrongly, I do believe Sir William regarded himself quite past the age of acquiring . . . a female companion, shall we say.”
Chef Maurice made a sudden harrumphing sound, causing PC Lucy to shoot him a warning look.
“And how would you describe the relationship between Sir William and Mrs Ariane Lafoute?”
Gilles paused a moment, then answered: “They were acquainted through Mrs Lafoute’s husband, Mr Bertie Lafoute, who has been known to Sir William for all his life, I understand, and has been a frequent guest here at Bourne Hall. As for Mrs Lafoute herself, I believe Sir William has only met her on a handful of occasions since their wedding two years ago.”
There was a knock on the door, and a freckle-faced young man stuck his head in. He was wearing a police hat and a very long woolly scarf.
“Um, do you have a moment? It’s a bit urgent,” he said to PC Lucy, who nodded and gestured him in.
Chef Maurice brightened up. He’d encountered PC Alistair on a few previous occasions, and found him to be a very pleasant, honest young man who held his elders in great respect—unlike PC Lucy, who seemed to carry certain misguided views on what information Chef Maurice should and should not have access to. Thankfully, her colleague Alistair seemed to have no such shortcomings to his cheery personality.
“Um . . . ” said PC Alistair, looking at Gilles.
“This is Mr Gilles, Sir William’s butler. So what have you found?”
“The cellar is just how you described. Most of the team is still down there. But I’ve just been for a walk around the building and, well, the footprints just don’t work out. You can see everything very clearly, you see, what with all the snow.”
“What do you mean, they don’t work out?” said PC Lucy.
“Well, there’s two sets going up to the main gate and back, fairly recently—”
“Monsieur Gilles and Monsieur Lafoute,” said Chef Maurice, nodding.
“—and then there’s quite a lot of sets outside the side door to the east wing—”
“Yes, that’s where I arrived, like I explained earlier,” said PC Lucy quickly, shooting another look at Chef Maurice and Arthur. Clearly, the mysterious blond man was not yet a tale for general consumption. “And then?”
“That’s it, miss. There’s no other prints.”
“None from the storeroom near the kitchen?” said PC Lucy sharply.
“It’s clean snow all around, miss.”
“But there was glass on the floor—” started Gilles.
“Could have been done earlier, sir. Or even a few days ago. The room doesn’t look much used.”
Gilles looked at PC Lucy. “I was in there this morning, just before lunchtime. I can assure you there was no sign of a break-in then.”
“So it happened this afternoon, then,” said PC Lucy. “The intruder could have been waiting in there—”
“Bah! With no footprints outside after? Do you see? It is une ruse. To take us away from the scent,” said Chef Maurice.
“There’s another thing, miss. The phone line was definitely cut on purpose. Halfway up the wire, where it runs outside.”
“But I thought you said there were no other prints.”
“That’s right. So it must have been done earlier in the day, before the snow. But another thing, that bit of wire goes right outside the window of one of the parlour rooms on the west side.”
“So it could have been cut by someone inside the house? Leaning out of the window?” said PC Lucy, her eyes on Gilles, who looked back at her impassively.
“Looks like it, miss.”
PC Lucy shut her notebook and sighed. “I’ll need to talk to each of the guests.” She glared at Chef Maurice and Arthur. “In private. And if I catch you two listening at the door, I’ll be making use of the cells tonight, I swear.”
Chef Maurice stood up and bowed solemnly.
“We would not dream of it, mademoiselle.”
Not when, he thought, he had much more fruitful plans for his evening. Though no one had voiced the thought out loud, the lack of footprints outside the broken window could only mean one thing.
The storeroom had only been a diversion, a clever trick that might have very well worked, if it hadn’t been for the snow.
But now they knew that no one had entered, and no one had left.
Which meant the real killer was someone who had been in the house all along.
“Good of you to listen to Lucy for once,” said Arthur to Chef Maurice, as they shut the study door behind them. PC Alistair had disappeared off into the house, and Gilles had been dispatched to summon the first interviewee. “You do rather upset her sometimes.”
“Mon ami, I have only the most high respect for Mademoiselle Lucy and her work.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. I am certain she will conduct the interviews with the most professional correctness. But the talking, this can be done anytime. The rooms, however . . . ”
Arthur followed Chef Maurice as he hastened up the main staircase. A heavy door led to a landing of sorts, with a window at one end facing the front of the house. The only light source now was the dim glow of an ornate porcelain table lamp.
Sir William had once given Arthur the grand tour of the Hall. His own master bedroom, though the tour had not extended quite so far as to see inside, was the door at the far end of the corridor, flanked on one side by a large mahogany bookcase, laden with tomes spanning centuries, languages and genres, presumably thus placed to save insomniac guests from having to venture downstairs to the main library. There was also a small cut glass decanter of what smelled like brandy and some square glasses.
Sir William had been a most genial host, indeed.
The other doors all led to the various guest rooms.
They located PC Alistair across the hallway, in the suite occupied by Bertie and Ariane.
“Does PC Gavistone know you’re up here, sir?”
Chef Maurice drew himself up importantly. “I informed Mademoiselle Lucy that we were most ready to aid her in this investigation as much as possible.”
While PC Alistair considered this statement, Chef Maurice took the chance to duck past him into the room and subject its contents to a thoroughly good staring, hands on hips.
This stage completed, he looked over at PC Alistair. “So where do we begin?”
There were two travel suitcases leaned up against the wall, neither of which contained anything of much interest, save for a rather large amount of silk and lace in Ariane’s that turned PC Alistair’s ears a bashful shade of pink.
They migrated into the en-suite bathroom, where his-and-hers toiletries were lined up either side of the double sink like two opposing armies. A peek into a capacious satin-lined vanity case revealed that Ariane shared the usual hypochondriac tendencies of many of her countrymen, and travelled with a vast array of painkillers, anti-nausea tablets, sleeping pills, stomach pastilles, flu remedies, and all the other items necessary to set up a fully operating pharmacy wherever your travels took you.
Over at the writing desk, Chef Maurice unrolled a large architectural drawing. “Très impressionant.”
“Is it a plan of Bourne Hall?” said PC Alistair. He had been expounding his theories on the existence of a secret underground passageway that would allow a nefarious outsider to enter and exit the building unseen—the young policeman being uncomfortable with the thought of any of the fine upstanding citizens downstairs being potential murderers—and was keen to be proved correct.
Chef Maurice shook his head and pointed to the building in the centre of the map. “It is a plan of Chateau Lafoute. And this new building, it appears to be a winery.”
Arthur whistled. “Not just a winery. Look, they’re planning a visitor centre too. Very spacious. Looks like a serious undertaking. Do you think Sir William was going to be one of their investors?”
“If he was, it would give Monsieur Bertie
and Madame Ariane a reason for not wishing his murder.”
“Very true.”
They exited the suite and moved on to Resnick’s room next door. The decor was decidedly more spartan, with a four-poster oak bed, a desk and wardrobe and sombre maroon wallpaper. On the bedside table was a pile of blue-backed notebooks—“He claims to record every single wine he drinks,” sniffed Arthur—as well as a few brochures from recent wine auctions.
Resnick’s cat-hair-ravaged clothes were hung on the back of the door, and they found a selection of fresh shirts and trousers arranged in the wardrobe. Aside from the usual travel necessities, a search of his suitcase revealed a small flask of whisky, a half-eaten jar of potted mackerel, and a box of crackers.
“He is a more sensible man than I thought,” said Chef Maurice in tones of approval.
Next up was Lady Margaret’s room, which, compared to the last two rooms, had a much more lived-in feel. Clearly this was her regular abode when visiting her brother-in-law.
“Do you really think one of the guests did it?” said Arthur, as he flicked through the stack of hardback novels on the nightstand. “Hard to imagine any of this lot smashing a bottle over anyone’s head, let alone going for the throat afterwards.”
“A murderer can come from the most unexpected places,” said Chef Maurice, staring sternly at Lady Margaret’s lacy-cuffed rose-patterned bathrobe.
There was the sound of glassware rolling across tiles. “Whoops,” came PC Alistair’s voice from the bathroom.
They found him on his knees, scrabbling on the floor for a wayward jar that had escaped from a battered embroidered carry bag containing a collection of creams, lotions and ointments, all giving off an overly floral scent. There were tubs of ‘100% natural’ remedies, various herb-based lozenges, and several phials of ‘aroma-centric calming oils’.
“Just as well Sir William wasn’t poisoned,” said Arthur to PC Alistair. “Your labs would be tied up for weeks with all this lot. And Ariane’s collection too.”
Paloni had somehow managed to snag the most opulent of the guest suites. Every piece of furniture was upholstered in thick gold-threaded brocade, the bed linen felt like silk, and the bathroom was dominated by an elegant claw-foot bath.
