Chef Maurice and the Wrath of Grapes (Chef Maurice Culinary Mysteries Book 2) (15 page)

“For Albert, of course. You did not think his parents would have named him Bertie?” Ariane sniffed. “I much prefer to call him Albert, too. Bertie, it is a silly name.”

PC Lucy carefully picked up the bag. “Is Mr Lafoute also here at the hotel?”

“No. He left early this morning. He is probably at his club, The Hansdowne. On Graham Street.”

PC Lucy made a note of this. “Thank you for your time, Mrs Lafoute. We’ll be in touch if there are any more questions. In the meantime, if you have anything you’d like to discuss with us”—such as why your husband’s handkerchief was found near the scene of the crime, was the unspoken message—“do give us a call.”

After the two police officers had departed, Ariane collapsed back down on the couch. She looked suddenly weary, as if the last five minutes’ conversation had drained a decade from her.

“Should we give Bertie a call?” said Arthur, determined to play the concerned acquaintance. “Give him a heads-up, so to speak?”

Ariane shook her head. “They do not pass on messages from outside at his club. And they forbid them to use their phones. I think that is why the men go there,” she added, with a wan smile.

“Did Monsieur Bertie ever speak of any secret passageways in Bourne Hall?” said Chef Maurice.

“No, certainly not.”

“What about that night at Bourne Hall,” said Arthur, “when you were upstairs? Did you hear anything unusual? Notice anything out of the ordinary?”

“Someone slipping from behind a bookcase, you mean?” said Ariane, raising an eyebrow. “No. I remember hearing noises, the banging, from downstairs. I heard someone, I think it must have been Chuck, running past outside. Bertie, he went first to see what the noise was. I stayed a moment, I was . . . tired, then when the noise did not stop, I followed.”

“Did you see anyone else in the corridor upstairs?”

“Only Charles. He was just coming from his room. He asked me what was happening, but I said I did not know. So we came downstairs.”

There was a thump from under the table, and Hamilton stuck his snout out to see if he had caused sufficient disruption to the fruit bowl. Chef Maurice waggled a finger at the little pig.

“You will spoil your appetite,” he told Hamilton. He looked back up at Ariane. “When you were at Bourne Hall, Sir William wished to speak to you in private,
n’est-ce pas
? Was that usual?”

“No. As I said, I hardly knew him.”

“May I ask what you spoke about?”

“He asked me many questions about Chateau Lafoute. The history, the changes my great-grandfather made, the stocks we have still of the older vintages, how the chateau operated during the wars. I told him he should speak to my
grand-mère
, not me.”

“Any reason he’d have suddenly been so interested in the chateau’s history?” said Arthur, who harboured doubts as to how much of Ariane’s story was true. Despite his limited personal experience of such matters, he was pretty sure that clandestine lovers did not usually meet up merely to discuss the historical details of Bordeaux chateaux.

Ariane shrugged. “I assumed he wanted to make an introduction of our wines for the night’s tasting. I thought also perhaps Bertie had discussed with him the new winery plans, but he says later he did not.”

After a few more polite enquiries regarding the future winery, Arthur and Chef Maurice took their leave—though first they had to locate Hamilton, who had managed to trap himself in the bedroom wardrobe.

“A most clever
cochon
,” said Chef Maurice, patting the hamper’s lid as they stood in the lift.

Arthur raised a questioning eyebrow.

“You did not see,
mon ami
? While we were in the bedroom, I had the chance to look at Monsieur Bertie’s clothing. Madame Ariane was not lying. I found many such handkerchiefs as the one that we found at Bourne Hall.”

“She didn’t look too happy telling that to the police. I suppose she knew they’d find out anyway, best to come clean at the start. It’s not exactly binding evidence, after all.”

“But it shows that Monsieur Bertie is definitely in knowledge of the passageway.”

“So it seems. A cool customer that one, I mean, Ariane. Hard to believe that she and Sir William were . . . you know . . . ”

Chef Maurice looked at his friend curiously. “You still believe there was
une liaison
between them?”

“You don’t?”

Chef Maurice shook his head. “Madame Ariane, she is like the wines her family makes in Bordeaux. They are stern, powerful, strong beneath the silk, as you say. But Sir William, his preferred wines were the wines of
Bourgogne
.
Fragile
, subtle, wines of quiet beauty.”

“So you’re telling me that just because Sir William preferred his Burgundy to his Bordeaux, he couldn’t possibly have been having an affair with Ariane Lafoute?”

“
Exactement!
”

“So how do you explain the note?”

“Ah.” Chef Maurice rubbed his moustache. “That, I have not yet discovered.”

The lift pinged, and they exited into the lobby. “So where do we go next? Fancy tackling our Mr Lafoute?”

Chef Maurice nodded. “But first we must stop at Mulling Street. I have something important I must collect.”

The door of Mingleberry & Judd, fine wine merchants of Mayfair, gave a polite tinkle, and the silence of hundreds of bottles of wine maturing slowly on the shelves was broken by the sound of two voices raised in argument.

“—get over to The Hansdowne as quickly as possible, else Lucy and Alistair will have already cornered Bertie—”

“Bah, you must have patience,
mon ami
. I tell you there is no need for rush, this will be just a small moment—”

“You, in a wine shop? This I’d like to see.”

“Then you will. Ah,
bonjour
, Monsieur Mingleberry.”

Mr Mingleberry adjusted his tie and hurried across the room to welcome his visitors.

“Mr Manchot, how good to see you. I assume you’re here to check upon your Christmas order? We were just about to start the packing and labelling today. Always good to miss the postal rush. I’m rather taken with the wrapping paper Mr Judd ordered this year. Midnight blue, thick weave, it’ll look quite fetching under the tree.”

“
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.