by J. A. Lang
“Très jolie,” said Chef Maurice, casting a glance at the neatly wrapped parcels along the counter. “But today, I come simply to buy a book about wine. Come, Arthur, you are a writer, tell me which to buy.”
As well as supplying fine wines to London’s oenophile population, Mingleberry & Judd also stocked the city’s most comprehensive collection of guides, histories, dissertations and tasting bibles concerning the humble wine grape. Whether you were in search of a scientific discussion of the various Burgundian grape clones, a travel guide to Santa Monica’s vineyards, or a book of vinous quotations for your after-dinner speeches, this was the place to go.
“What kind of book are you looking for?” said Arthur suspiciously. His friend was not known for his love of the written word, unless you counted the pile of old Encyclopaedia Britannicas he used to weigh down terrines in the walk-in.
“I wish to find a book of the famous wines of the world. It is for Alf. It is important for him to recognise and appreciate the history of our great wines.”
“And to stop him turning them into mulled wine?”
“That, also.”
“What about this one?” Arthur reached up and pulled out a thick tome titled The World’s Hundred Greatest Wines. “Look, they even have pictures of all the labels, and maps of the regions.”
“Would you gentlemen be interested in trying the ’83 vintage Port from Loffburns?” Mr Mingleberry appeared behind them, holding a silver tray with three small glasses of dark red liquid. “Just coming up to its peak, in my opinion. Quite outstanding.”
Chef Maurice downed his sample, then offered the empty glass to Hamilton in his hamper for a sniff. The little pig sneezed.
“I will take one bottle,” he announced.
“Two for me,” said Arthur, who was definitely partial to a good glass of Port by the fireside.
Mr Mingleberry nodded in satisfaction, and reappeared just moments later with three neatly wrapped bottles. “Unless you would like us to send them with the rest of your order?”
“That will not be necessary.” Chef Maurice took the bottles and added them to Hamilton’s hamper.
“You sure that’s a good idea?” said Arthur, looking at the little pig, who was now sniffing at the wrapping.
“They will be safe. He does not enjoy the Port.”
“Just as well, he’s probably underage.”
“A little Calvados in his water, though . . . ”
Mr Mingleberry was fiddling with his tiepin. “I suppose,” he said, after a moment, “you have heard the terrible news about Sir William?”
They nodded.
“Did you know him well?” asked Arthur.
“He was one of our oldest and dearest clients,” said Mr Mingleberry, now wringing his hands. “We always managed to secure him the allocations he desired, and he was always constant in his support of us. A loyal client, and most generous, too. He took our whole team out to lunch after we managed to secure him three cases of the ’96 Latour en primeur.”
“Had you seen him much lately?”
“I’m afraid not. He had been coming to London less and less, and when he did, it was usually to attend the auctions. He was purchasing more and more at auction too,” sniffed Mr Mingleberry, like a wife alluding to a barely tolerated mistress, “but I suppose one cannot blame him. The old and rare wine market has been seeing a startling ascent in these last few years.” He shook his head. “I do hope whoever comes into inheritance of Sir William’s collection will take great care over it . . . ”
They left Mr Mingleberry to his Christmas wrapping and headed down the street, Chef Maurice carrying hamper in one hand and book in the other, and Arthur carrying doubts as to how enthusiastic Meryl would be to discover yet another addition to his Port collection.
“Do not fear, mon ami,” said Chef Maurice, reading his friend’s expression. “You may keep your bottles in our cellar. Madame Meryl will never need to see them.”
Like Sir William, Arthur maintained a small collection of bottles down in the cellars of Le Cochon Rouge, purportedly because of its superior temperature and humidity stability compared to his own at home, but in actuality to keep Meryl from knowing the exact tally of bottles he’d accumulated over the years.
(On her part, Meryl had no such qualms about her own shoe collection, in the happy knowledge that her husband was entirely incapable of telling one pair from another, and was happy to accept each new incoming shoebox as ‘a real bargain, darling’.)
It was a short walk over to The Hansdowne Club, which stood on a quiet back street off Berkeley Square.
Outside, they found PC Lucy pacing up and down, while PC Alistair studied a leaflet of the evening’s theatre showings.
“What is the matter?” said Chef Maurice.
PC Lucy spun to face them, pointing an accusatory finger at the bowler-hatted doorman. “Of all the stupid, outmoded, sexist, pig-headed—”
“They don’t let ladies in,” explained PC Alistair. He held up the leaflet to Arthur. “Do you think I should see Phantom or Cats first?”
“Can you not ask Monsieur Bertie to come outside?” asked Chef Maurice.
“You ask him.” PC Lucy shot a hostile look at the doorman, who tipped his hat politely.
“I’m afraid, sir, that club rules do not allow us to pass on messages from ladies to our members when they are resident at the club.” He coughed. “The rule was instituted after the Wife Riots of April 1903.”
“I can just imagine,” said Arthur, rather glumly.
“What about us?” said Chef Maurice. “May we go inside to visit Monsieur Bertie?”
“I will enquire within, sir.” The doorman opened the door a crack and spoke in hushed tones to someone standing inside. “Please tell Mr Lafoute that there is a . . . ”
“Mr Wordington-Smythe, Mr Manchot, and . . . ” Arthur looked at PC Alistair.
“Bobbin, sir.”
“ . . . Mr Bobbin to see him.”
“And a Monsieur Hamilton, too,” said Chef Maurice, lifting the hamper lid to reveal the dozing pig. “He is a gentleman pig, of course.”
PC Lucy made a choking sound.
A few minutes later, the door opened wider and a tailcoated attendant appeared.
“Mr Lafoute will see you gentlemen in the Billiards Room,” he said with a small bow. “But no pets, I’m afraid, sir.”
“Eh? But what must I do with—”
“No pets, sir.”
Chef Maurice threw a beseeching look at PC Lucy. Hamilton, now awake, stuck his head out of his hamper and trained his most pathetic ‘take me home’ look on the policewoman.
“Oh, fine!” Cheeks flushed, she grabbed the hamper and shoved the clear plastic bag containing Bertie’s handkerchief at PC Alistair. “Get confirmation that this belongs to Mr Lafoute. I’ll see if I can track down Mr Paloni and Mr Resnick while I’m here. If they’re not hiding out in some men’s-only club too.” She stalked off down the street, hamper in hand, leaving the three males standing in embarrassed silence.
Arthur, as a right-thinking fellow of the modern world, was of course in full support of PC Lucy’s outrage at this archaic, woefully discriminatory system. That said, as they passed various handsome rooms, with freshly pressed newspapers laid out and various club members snoozing peacefully with copies of the England Observer rising and falling gently on their bellies, he experienced the sudden inexplicable urge to join them.
He shook his head. “Got to move with the times, I guess. Not right, keeping women out in this day and age.”
Chef Maurice snorted. “Bah, the Beakley Ladies’ Institute refused for me to join! Is that not also unfair?”
“Well, yes, but I know for a fact that that had nothing to do with you not being a woman, Maurice. Mr Evans is a member, and Meryl says everyone raves about his raspberry shortcake. They didn’t let you join because you called the chairwoman ‘a lady with the face of a horse and a derrière to match’.”
“She dared to disqu
alify my tarte aux pommes!”
“It was an amateur baking contest, Maurice. Which means chefs can’t enter.”
“Then how will people know that my tarte is the best?”
Thankfully, their conversation was halted by their arrival at the door of a low-ceilinged room dominated by a giant billiard table. Large leather-bound journals lined the walls, and comfortable dark green leather armchairs were dotted around the edge of the room. One of these armchairs was currently home to Bertie Lafoute, who was staring down at a sheet of typed paper with the glazed look of a man whose thoughts are very far away indeed.
On spotting his visitors, though, he jumped up like an eager schoolboy and shook their hands. “Arthur, Maurice, how spiffing to see you. Sorry I didn’t see you there, I’ve just had a bit of a shock,” he added, stuffing the piece of paper into his pocket.
“Not a bad one, I hope?” said Arthur.
“No, no. Not at all.” Bertie appeared to notice Alistair for the first time. “And PC Bobbin, too. That’s right, isn’t it? Are you on your day off?”
Alistair, who was wearing his usual police uniform, looked at Arthur for guidance.
“Alistair is thinking of catching The Phantom of the Opera this evening,” said Arthur. “Though he appears to have forgotten to bring his pitchfork.”
“Splendid musical, and a fantastic set, of course.” Bertie started humming happily, then seemed to remember himself. “Sorry. I suppose at a time like this . . . ” His face sobered up.
They settled down, and a waiter materialised to take their tea and coffee orders.
“So what brings you to London?” said Bertie.
Chef Maurice leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his stomach. “We have come,” he said, eying Bertie carefully, “to speak to you of secret passageways.”
Bertie froze. “Secret passageways, you say?”
Chef Maurice outlined yesterday’s discovery at Bourne Hall, though he omitted the finding of the handkerchief.
“You spent much time as a child at Bourne Hall, n’est-ce pas? And as a jeune homme, returning from the school holidays. Perhaps you are familiar with this hidden way?”
Bertie’s eyes widened, then he started to shake his head vigorously. “No, no, not at all! In fact, I’d all but—”
He stopped.
“All but what, monsieur?”
Bertie remained silent, his gaze darting back and forth between them.
“You had, perhaps, forgotten the existence of the passageway, until very recently?”
A jerky nod. “Until you just mentioned it. I swear, it never crossed my mind! It sounds daft, but my memory’s always been a bit funny, and we all thought the attacker had come in from outside—”
“So you were aware of the passageway, on the night of Sir William’s murder?”
“N-no! Not at all! I mean, I must have known about it, deep down, of course, but like I said, the idea that—” He stopped, and looked around at his three visitors. “Anyway, why does any of this matter? I told the police already, I was with Ariane the whole time when we were upstairs that night. I never went anywhere. She’ll tell you!”
“We have spoken already with Madame Ariane. She too says she has no knowledge of any secret passageway.”
“You spoke with my wife?” Bertie sat up straighter, managing to emit a certain degree of quavery indignation.
“A simple visit. There is no law about that, non?” said Chef Maurice. “And we also come to speak to you about a handkerchief.” He motioned to Alistair, who held up the plastic bag. “This was found in the kitchens of Bourne Hall.”
“Ac—” began Arthur, but Chef Maurice’s steel-capped boot was quick to deliver a warning message through Arthur’s ankle bone to his tongue.
“Oh yes, that’s one of mine,” said Bertie, still shaken, but relieved to be moving on to more manageable topics. “I’m always losing them. Ariane complains we have to order a new dozen every few months.” The mention of Ariane seemed to trigger another bout of jitters. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I must be getting back to the hotel. Ariane is expecting me. Do feel free to stay for lunch—I’ll let the front desk know. I’m sure they’ll be able to find you a table.”
With that, Bertie stood up stiffly, shook their hands, then hared out of the room.
“Well, that was odd,” said Arthur, in the silence that ensued.
“Do you think I should have arrested him?” asked PC Alistair.
“Not enough to go on,” said Arthur, with the confidence of a man known to enjoy the occasional crime novel. “Knowing-but-sort-of-not-knowing about a secret passageway isn’t exactly a crime.”
Chef Maurice nodded, staring at Bertie’s empty chair. “You saw, mon ami, how quick he was to say he was not alone when upstairs that night?”
“Indeed. So what do we do now?”
“It is obvious,” said Chef Maurice, pulling out his battered watch.
“It is?”
“Of course. As Monsieur Bertie reminds us, it is now the time for lunch.”
The dining room of The Hansdowne Club was full of well-heeled and well-padded gentlemen of a certain age, enjoying their lunches in peaceful solitude, with their folded newspapers mounted on special silver stands to allow the cutting and chewing of food without interruption to their perusal of the day’s news. A few were sat together in small groups, though this did not cause any discernible difference in their mode of silent eating.
PC Alistair sat staring around the room, agog at his surroundings. “Does everyone in London belong to one of these club things?” he asked, picking up a monogrammed fork.
“Hardly,” said Arthur, settling back into his chair and picking up the wine list. “You usually have to be recommended by at least two other members, and the fees are astronomical.”
“Hmph,” said Chef Maurice, returning from an investigation of the cheese trolley. “Far too many blues, not a single goat’s cheese. And the brie, it is not ripe at all!”
“Criminal, indeed. Though I have to say I’m rather impressed by the wine list. Excellent selection, even the half-bottles, and the prices are extremely fair.”
“I’m so glad to hear you say so, Arthur,” said a silken voice from behind them. Without turning around, Arthur’s gaze fell to the bottom of the wine menu.
Hand-selected with care by our cellar consultant Charles Resnick, M.W.
Blast, thought Arthur, and turned around with an exaggerated expression of pleasant astonishment.
“Charles, what a surprise to see you here!”
“Likewise. I had no idea they let non-members take lunch here,” said Resnick.
“Care to join us?” said Arthur, determined to play the bigger man. Plus, Resnick was technically a suspect in the murder case. Alistair surely had all kinds of pressing questions for him.
He shot a glance over at the young policeman, who was staring up at the chandeliered ceiling in undisguised awe.
“Perhaps another time,” said Resnick. “I’m just here to discuss the New Year’s Eve wine list with Mr Barries, then I’m needed over at Guthries for this week’s auction. Quite a charming little line-up. There’s a ’29 Chateau Chèvre come up in magnum, never seen on the market before. One of my better discoveries, if I do say so. A gentleman of my acquaintance recently bought a Scottish castle—”
As one does, thought Arthur.
“—and they found a fake partition wall in the cellar. You can guess what they found behind. Dozens of bottles in perfect condition, including some extremely interesting pre-war bottlings. You really should come along, pick something up for your cellar.” Resnick extracted a glossy brochure from his briefcase and placed it on the table.
“Merci, we will try to attend,” said Chef Maurice, with one eye on the dessert trolley as it wheeled on by. “But we also have another auction to attend later this afternoon.”
“Ah, if that’s the case, keep the reins on this one”—Resnick clamped a thin hand to Arthur’s sh
oulder—“we wouldn’t want to bankrupt him, ha ha.”
“Ha ha,” said Arthur.
Resnick nodded at PC Alistair, who was painstakingly counting the array of cutlery before him. “I suppose you’ve been here to see good old Bertie, then? Following up all ‘the leads’, as they say? I think you’ll find he’s a rather lucky young man. I’ll be looking forward to doing much business with him in the future.”
“You’re working with Chateau Lafoute?” Arthur was more than a little surprised. It was common knowledge that Chateau Lafoute preferred to sell direct to their long-standing client base, opting out of the Bordeaux fine wine marketplace completely. Brokers like Resnick usually only got a look in when it came to the secondary market for older vintages.
“The chateau? Hardly. I’m talking about the Bourne Hall collection.” He looked at their faces. “Oh, did he not tell you?”
“Tell us what?” demanded Chef Maurice, who did not take well to suspense when he wasn’t the one creating it.
“I suppose the solicitors only visited this morning—the poor boy was in quite a state of shock when I came across him earlier. Sir William left everything to Bertie, you see. The Hall, the cellar, all his investments, everything.”
“To Bertie?!” said Arthur and Chef Maurice.
Resnick gave a thin-lipped smile. “Yes, it appears you’ve gained a new neighbour. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . . ”
“Should I go arrest Mr Bertie now?” asked PC Alistair urgently, as Resnick walked away.
Arthur looked at Chef Maurice. “Rather changes everything, doesn’t it?”
Chef Maurice tut-tutted as he examined the slice of cake he’d liberated from the passing dessert trolley. “The English, they still cannot make a good opéra cake. The layers, see, they are uneven. And”—he sniffed at a forkful—“there is not enough coffee. But yes,” he added, seeing Arthur’s expression, “this does very much change the investigation. But to inherit a fortune is not a crime. We must proceed with care.”
His gaze fell onto the auction brochure left there by Resnick.
“You know, mon ami, I have always had in mind to attend a wine auction . . . ”
