by J. A. Lang
“Do you know what it is they discussed?”
“I would not have dreamed of enquiring,” said Gilles, looking mildly shocked. “But one might surmise their conversation pertained to Sir William’s various wine investments. Mr Resnick has been a frequent guest here in recent years, advising Sir William on his various purchases.”
“What about the other guests?” asked Arthur. “What did they do the whole afternoon while Sir William was holed up in his study?”
“I’m afraid I cannot account for the entirety of our guests’ movements that afternoon, nor would I wish to do so. I know that Mr and Mrs Lafoute took a turn around the gardens in the mid-afternoon, before the snow started, only because Sir William asked me to fetch Mrs Lafoute to his study to speak with him. I believe he had some enquiries about the history of Chateau Lafoute, in preparation for the evening’s tasting.”
“When was this?” asked Arthur.
“Sometime before three, I remember, as it was before Lady Margaret arrived. But as to the rest of the afternoon, I’m afraid I was quite occupied with preparations for the evening’s dinner and attending to the wines that were to be served.”
Chef Maurice looked up from wiping his plate clean with a slice of bread. “You went down into the cellar, then? With the use of Sir William’s key?”
“Yes. This was our usual routine. Sir William had already laid out the bottles several days ago. I merely brought them upstairs to allow them to come to serving temperature for the evening.”
“And did you notice anything different in the cellar?”
“Nothing that drew my attention, sir. Everything was exactly as it should have been.”
“So apart from talking to Resnick and Mrs Lafoute, Sir William was alone in his study for the whole afternoon?” asked Arthur. “Did he take any calls, or receive any other visitors?”
“Certainly no calls. The line rings first on the hallway phone, so I would be the one to receive any incoming calls before putting them through.”
“And visitors? Or his guests?” said Chef Maurice, watching the butler’s face.
Gilles hesitated. “It was the early evening and I was in the hallway—I remember because this was when I first discovered that the phone line was down—when Lady Margaret came downstairs and insisted on speaking to Sir William. I informed her that the master had specifically asked not to be disturbed, but she was not, shall we say, amenable to that suggestion. Short of restraining her, there was little I could do.”
“When exactly was this?” said Arthur.
“Around five o’clock, I believe.”
“Before or after he spoke to Resnick?”
“After,” said Gilles promptly. “And before you ask me, sir, no, I do not know what Lady Margaret wished to speak to Sir William about.”
“Did she say anything to you after?” asked Chef Maurice.
Gilles coughed. He seemed unwilling to tell a direct lie, and it was obvious that this interrogation was paining him. “Lady Margaret did say something to me afterwards, on the lines of how she considered herself an excellent judge of character, especially in regards to a certain guest. I did not enquire as to the person she was referring to, but she seemed quite satisfied with the outcome of her meeting.”
“I see,” murmured Chef Maurice.
“Seems that for a man who didn’t want to be disturbed, Sir William had quite a few little chats that afternoon,” said Arthur.
“So it appears.” Gilles cleared his throat once more. “If that will be all, sirs?”
“One final thing, Monsieur Gilles. May we go to speak with Madame Bates?”
Surprisingly, Gilles looked quite gratified by this suggestion.
“Yes, of course. If you would follow me. If I might say, sir, I believe it would be of great help for Mrs Bates to have someone to talk to.”
“How is she doing?” said Arthur. “I mean, this can hardly be the easiest of circumstances. I understand she’s been here even longer than you have.”
Gilles, always the good servant, hesitated.
“Perhaps, sir, you should see for yourself.”
The Bourne Hall kitchens looked as if half a dozen pastry chefs had moved in and proceeded to start a competitive bake-off.
Every surface was covered in bags of flour, cartons of eggs, wooden spoons, whisks and mixing bowls of all designs and sizes. The central table was home to a three-tier black forest gateau, a large chocolate brownie cake, one rotund Christmas pudding, a wedding-style square white cake encrusted in icing swirls, dozens of home-made mince pies, and a trio of cream-and-fruit-loaded pavlovas. The smell of fresh jam bubbling on the stove heralded the imminent arrival of at least a quartet of Victoria sponge cakes.
Waffles the grey Persian was meandering around under the table, her paws white with flour, blinking up at the creamy delights and biding her time.
Chef Maurice, who had experienced his fair share of cooks in the midst of an emotional crisis, carefully edged his way up next to Mrs Bates.
“Tell me what can I do, Madame Bates?”
“The cream needs whipping, and I need you to go check on the oatmeal-and-raisin cookies in the second oven. And make sure the jam isn’t setting too firm.” Mrs Bates kept her eyes firmly fixed on the sponge cakes as she eased them out of their shallow tins.
“Oui, at once, madame.”
Silently, working in tandem and watched by Arthur and Waffles, they assembled the four Victoria sponges and dusted them with icing sugar.
As Mrs Bates reached for another bag of flour, Chef Maurice quickly took her hand and patted it. “Perhaps it is time for a cup of tea, Madame Bates?”
She looked up at him, as if noticing his presence for the first time.
“Deary me, Mister Maurice, of course, how rude of me. Oh, and Mister Arthur too. Do have a seat. Sugar, milk?”
“Three sugars and milk, merci.”
“Just a dash of milk for me, thanks.”
Mrs Bates bustled around the kitchen, trailed by Waffles, who had recognised the word ‘milk’.
“Horrible, simply horrible,” muttered Mrs Bates.
Chef Maurice and Arthur nodded along in sympathy.
“And down in his own wine cellar too. He loved that place, I tell you, spent a near fortune on it, what with all the whizzy doors and fancy locks. Always thought, if we were ever under attack, it’d be straight down into those cellars, safest place in the house. Waffles even had her kittens down there last spring, disappeared one day and then next thing we know, we’re on our hands and knees looking under crates and all. Dearest little things, they all found a good home too, bless ’em.”
“Under attack, did you say?” said Arthur. “Was Sir William ever threatened in some way?”
“Oh no, that was just a figure of speech, Mister Arthur. He was a gentle man, the master was, never could stand to quarrel. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, and I mean it. He’d have Gilles trap ’em in a glass and let ’em outside. Wouldn’t raise a finger, not to man or beast. I remember those fox hunting people, coming round causing a fuss. We had a whole family of them, the foxes, I mean, cubs and all, bless ’em, living out by the greenhouses. And why not? We don’t keep chickens, they were no trouble to us.”
“Was Sir William in any way different, in this last week or month?” said Chef Maurice.
Mrs Bates filled the kettle and stood tapping her foot. “He hadn’t been himself lately, that’s for certain,” she said finally.
“Really?” said Arthur. “How so?”
“Kept going on about trust and betrayal. And how you never really know a person . . . ”
“Did he mention any names?”
“No, and I never would’ve asked, of course.”
“Could he have been talking about one of the guests who were here yesterday? Do you think he was acting differently to any of them?”
“I really couldn’t say. I was in here most of the day, you see, sorting out their lunch, and then the big dinner, of course. He didn’t even t
hink to tell us he was coming for lunch, that American film fellow, and bringing Bertie and his lady wife too. If I hadn’t just happened to have that steak-and-ale pie all ready in the pantry, it would have been a disaster, mark my words. Sometimes I reckon they think I work some kind of magic in here.”
Chef Maurice nodded understandingly, while surreptitiously sliding a hot oatmeal cookie off the tray.
“Do you know much about the guests?” asked Arthur. “Was there any ill feeling between any of them and Sir William, as far as you know?”
“Now, that’s a silly question. They wouldn’t have been invited here if there was,” said Mrs Bates, tutting. “As for knowing them, well, let’s see. Lady Margaret’s been coming to visit ever since I worked here, and that’s nigh on twenty-five years now. Of course, she used to come with her husband, spitting image of Sir William, he was, just a bit older, and their little boy. Though he’s all grown up now, of course. She likes her sweets, she does, but gives me ever such an earful if I leave too much fat on the roasts. Flavour’s in the fats, I try to tell her, but she won’t listen. Set in her ways, she is.”
“I have the same complaint at my restaurant sometimes,” said Chef Maurice, spreading jam onto the cookie. “But I make compensation by using the extra fat on the roast potatoes. Some of my customers, they tell me they drive two hours for my roast potatoes.”
“And the other guests?” said Arthur, keen to get the conversation back on a less cholesterol-heavy track.
“Now, Mister Bertie, he’s been coming to the Hall ever since he was a babe! Used to run all around the kitchens, looking for hiding holes. Found him in amongst the pots and pans, more than once. Such a sad story, his poor parents. You know they died in a car crash? Mister Bertie would’ve been with them, too, except he was laid up with flu that day. Only sixteen, he was.”
“A tale most tragique. And what of Madame Ariane? Did Sir William approve of Monsieur Bertie’s choice in a wife?”
“Hah, like approval’s got anything to do with it, what with ’em young people these days. Funny you should say that though, Mister Maurice. I always thought the master was a bit, well, reserved when it came to Mrs Lafoute. You could see him holding back judgement, like. I always reckoned he thought she wasn’t good enough for Mister Bertie. And what a thought! A bit high-minded, I’ll give you that, but she’s a real lady, Mrs Lafoute is. Anyone can see that.”
“Perhaps,” said Chef Maurice, thinking about the note they’d found in Sir William’s pocket. “And what is your impression of Monsieur Paloni and Monsieur Resnick?”
“Oh, I was in a right tizzy, I was, having a movie star up here at the Hall. He did put me out, though, when he turned up out of the blue for lunch like that, but golly if he ain’t a handsome fellow! He knows it too, though you can’t really blame him. And his teeth! Whiter than an angel’s laundry line, I’ll tell you.”
“He had come here before?”
“Oh no, never. You know, I rather fancy he invited himself up, the way the master put it. Told me last week we’d be having an extra guest to stay, and the way he said it made me think he was none too pleased.”
“Ah, so there was bad feeling between Sir William and Monsieur Paloni?”
“Oh, hardly like that. Sir William loves to host a big party, and he was soon all excited again, saying it’d be just like Paris or something, having a big dinner with the Americans against the French.”
“What about Resnick?” asked Arthur. “I hear he’s up here pretty often?”
“Oh yes, up here like clockwork, talking Sir William into buying all those fancy old bottles that nobody ever drinks. I told the master, you can’t take it with you. I mean, it’s good for a gentleman to have a hobby, keeps ’em out of mischief, but at the end of the day, wine’s made for drinking. You don’t see me collecting centuries’ worth of jam jars in the pantry, just to ogle at, do you?”
“Quite,” said Arthur.
Chef Maurice drained his teacup. “Merci, madame. You have given us much to think around. Now, we must continue on with our search.” He reached over to the bell cord to summon Gilles.
“Continue on to where?” said Arthur.
“The cellar, of course. We must return to the scene of the crime.”
“We must?” Arthur gave a little shudder.
“Can I get you gentlemen anything to eat before you go?” said Mrs Bates. “All this shock, plays havoc with the appetite, I tell you.”
Chef Maurice surveyed the table, which was groaning with the cumulative weight of all the cakes.
“If you would be so kind, madame, I would most enjoy a kipper sandwich.”
If Mrs Bates thought the request in any way odd, she was professional enough a cook not to show it. “Certainly, Mister Maurice, I’ll just go see if we have any out the back.”
“Clever,” whispered Arthur, as Mrs Bates disappeared into the pantry. “Get her mind off the cakes. Can’t think about dessert in a kitchen reeking of smoked fish.”
“Ah, mon ami, once again you do not see,” said Chef Maurice, helping himself to a still-warm mince pie.
“See what?” said Arthur indignantly.
“I am confident that soon we will solve the mystery of the locked cellar and the single brass key.”
“With the help of a kipper sandwich?”
“Oui.”
Under the table, Waffles perked up. Someone had just mentioned kippers.
Chapter 9
Patrick put down the receiver and made a small cross on the piece of paper beside him.
“Three down, six to go,” he announced to the dining room, which was empty apart from Dorothy, doing a stocktake behind the bar, and Alf, who was laid out on a bench taking a post-caffeine snooze.
“Are you sure you want to be doing this, luv?” asked Dorothy, as Patrick consulted his list for the next number.
“It’s not a matter of want, it’s a matter of must,” replied Patrick grimly.
“Why don’t you just hack into their booking systems?” suggested Alf, opening one eye.
Patrick, in his pre-cheffing days, had dabbled in a short-lived career as a software engineer, which, in Alf’s eyes, meant that he commanded a range of godlike powers over all technological realms.
“First off, that’s illegal, and secondly, if these places are anything like us”—Patrick held up Le Cochon Rouge’s own bookings diary, its edges wavy from use and its pages liberally marked by Chef Maurice’s coffee cup stains—“then I doubt they’re hackable in the first place.”
He dialled the next number. After a few moments, the line picked up and a light symphony of background chatter filtered through.
“Trattoria Bennucci,” said the male voice at the other end of the line. “How may I help you?”
“Hi, I think my friend made us a booking for dinner on Sunday evening,” said Patrick, his heart thumping, “but I can’t remember what time she booked for. The table’s under her name, I think. Gavistone.”
There was the rustling of pages. Probably just for show, thought Patrick, to impress upon him how fully booked they were.
Trattoria Bennucci was one of the more pricey establishments in Cowton, with the type of clientele who were more concerned about the low-lit, faux-rustic decor, which served as an eminently suitable venue for prospective amorous encounters, than with the quality of food, which was cheap knock-off Italian, at best.
“Yeessss, Gavistone. Seven pee-em, for three people?”
“Three— Oh, yes, that’s right. Seven o’clock. Great, thanks.”
Patrick hung up, his heart heavy as an anvil.
“She booked a table for three,” he reported. “At Trattoria Bennucci.”
“There you go, then,” said Dorothy, with a told-you-so smile. “She’s just having dinner with friends, nothing to worry about.”
“No, this is worse.” A table for three meant that not only was Lucy having dinner with another man, she was bringing along a friend to meet her not-so-secret lover. He and Lu
cy had yet to proceed to the ‘meeting each other’s friends’ stage. Which meant that—horror of horrors—he was the other man.
“You’re catastrophising, luv,” said Dorothy, reading his expression. “Making mountains out of molehills. You’ve nothing to go on. Just talk to her straight, you might just be surprised . . . ”
But Patrick had stopped listening. He’d just had a thought. It was a bold, daring thought, with potential for things to go very wrong indeed.
But it was also a thought that might just win him PC Lucy’s respect and undying love.
That was worth a shot, surely. But first, he’d need to go shopping.
They left Waffles mewing at the top of the stairs in a kipper-induced trance, and carefully shut the cellar door.
Gilles led the way down, the slight wrinkle of his nose indicating that he did not at all approve of letting Arthur and Chef Maurice poke their way around Bourne Hall, but had yet to find a suitably decorous manner in which to eject them from the building.
The nose wrinkling might also have been due to the large hot-smoked kipper sandwich that Chef Maurice was currently munching his way through, wrapped neatly in a white linen napkin by Mrs Bates.
“I still don’t see what you need that sandwich for,” whispered Arthur, as they bent down to examine the flagstones where Sir William had fallen. “You already had salmon for lunch.”
The forensics team had removed all the shattered glass, but a few tiny fragments still glinted in the grooves between the stone slabs.
“Patience, mon ami.”
“And you don’t even like kippers.”
“I learn to appreciate the taste.”
“Hah. You gave half of it away to the cat.”
Chef Maurice bent down to inspect a bottle on a lower shelf. “She was looking at me. What was I to do?”
Arthur decided to abandon this line of enquiry and conduct his own search of the crime scene.
He’d been down into the cellars before on previous visits, but had never quite taken in the full extent of Sir William’s collection.
It wasn’t a particularly large room, at least by wine-collecting standards, but every vertical surface had been put to use with a criss-cross grid of wooden shelves holding a vast array of bottles, all neatly stacked on their sides. There were fat heavy bottles of single-vineyard Chardonnays, rows of slim-necked German Rieslings, dark wax-encrusted bottles of vintage Port, and even the odd balthazar—the equivalent of sixteen normal bottles of wine in one gigantic glass behemoth, sufficient to serve a hundred guests, if you could find a waiter strong enough to lift it.
