Chef Maurice and the Wrath of Grapes (Chef Maurice Culinary Mysteries Book 2) (25 page)

“Sad?”

He’d expected fury, envy and possibly a well-aimed ballistic truncheon. Sadness hadn’t been on the menu.

Isabella held out an imperious hand. “The recipe?”

“Later! We’re meant to be pretending to be on a date, remember? Which means
not
looking like a pair of spies swapping state secrets.”

“Suit yourself,” said Isabella, and converted her gesture into a finger-curl at a nearby waiter, who executed a swift about-turn and zoomed in their direction. She ordered them two glasses of expensive Champagne, which elicited a slight wince from Patrick. Payday wasn’t for another two weeks.

“You
did
say this was a date,” said Isabella, settling back in her chair. Her eyes lit up as she stared past him. “Ah, now the drama begins.”

“Is it him? Is he here?”

Isabella nodded, as she stretched out a hand towards their returning waiter, who placed in it a tall bubbling glass. “He’s not much to look at, though,” she said, taking a sip. “Thin, not very tall. He seems to be attempting to grow a beard, and failing. Her friend, though, she is pretty—”

She paused. And continued to pause.

“What? What is it?” Patrick fought against every nerve in his body, which desperately wanted to turn around and gawk. “Is he proposing? Tap-dancing? Taking off all his clothes? What?”

Finally, Isabella turned her cool, assessing eyes on him. “Patrick?”

“Yes?”

“I have news for you.”

“Yes?”

“You are a giant idiot.”

“Yes. But
why
?”

The guests filtered slowly into the Bourne Hall dining room. To Arthur, there was the unsettling feeling of continuation on from the last fated evening when he was in this room, except that tonight he was playing the part of Gilles.

The table was laden with wine glasses—Arthur having laid them out earlier with the help of a metre rule and set square—crystal jugs of water, small plates of plain crackers, and spittoons. The latter were mostly for the show of things; no one had come tonight expecting to do anything but swallow.

The Lafoutes had invited eight guests in total. In addition to Lady Margaret, Paloni, Resnick, and Chef Maurice, the roster included the four most influential wine voices of the decade: Miss Janet Fetters, she of the cat-eye glasses and rapier pen; Mr Bob Barker, jovial and loud, with the physique of a punching bag; Mademoiselle Céleste Dauphine, a young French critic, scion of a notable French wine family; and finally Herr Hunfrid Herrmann, publisher of the celebrated German wine magazine
Wein
.

They took their seats. Paloni wasted no time in unleashing his charms on the unsuspecting Céleste, while Bob Barker and Hunfrid Herrmann exchanged shouted opinions across the table about the latest release of Rheingau Rieslings. Lady Margaret occupied the far end of the table, staring around at her fellow guests with a lemon-sucking expression.

“Quite a journey through the decades,” said Miss Janet Fetters, running an eye down the lavishly calligraphed list of vintages.

Chef Maurice, sat to her left, nodded. “They have all come from the cellars of Bourne Hall, I am told,” he said, with a glance at Ariane, who was seated at the head of the table.

Their hostess nodded. “Sir William was a long-time admirer of my family’s chateau. There were in fact many more vintages downstairs, but Charles and I”—she shot Resnick a brief smile—“thought this list would represent the peak expression of Lafoute across the years.”

There was the gentle tap of fork against glass, and the guests quietened down to a murmur.

Arthur took up a suitably butler-ish position by the door. To his surprise, it was not Ariane but Bertie who stood. Perhaps as the new master of Bourne Hall, the young man felt it was his duty to lead the night’s proceedings.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for being here with us tonight, especially given the short notice. As much as I regretted to hear of the postponement of your undoubtedly stellar Burgundian dinner, I’m afraid I can’t be too sad, as it offers us the unparalleled chance to gather here tonight the most distinguished palates of today’s wine community, for what is certain to be the most extensive tasting of Chateau Lafoute ever to be held.”

Bertie surveyed the table with a level gaze, only the slight bob of his Adam’s apple giving away any hint of nervousness.

“I am sure Chateau Lafoute needs no introduction to those present, but as we are unable to be in the vineyards tonight”—a brief smile—“we took the liberty of shooting a short film at the property yesterday, with the help of a friend of the family. A certain filmmaker of note.”

He nodded at Paloni, who flashed his megawatt smile around the table.

Bertie pressed a button on a handheld remote and a white screen began to unfurl from high on the ceiling, where it had been neatly concealed by the plasterwork. Arthur stood watching its stately descent—he remembered Sir William boasting about having the screen installed a few years back, along with the purchase of a couple of comfy velvet chairs and a popcorn maker—then noticed Ariane staring at him pointedly, and hurriedly dimmed the lights.

The presentation began with snatches of grainy black-and-white film; a montage showing the chateau and its surrounding vineyards over the years, merging then into a monochrome portrait shot of Madame Thérèse Lafoute, staring out over her domain from one of the chateau’s many balconies. Her white hair fanned out in the breeze, and it was clear from whom Ariane had inherited her impressive cheekbone structure.

“History . . . ” boomed a deep voiceover, which sounded suspiciously like Paloni speaking down a didgeridoo. “Culture . . . longevity . . . integrity . . . ”

The list of dignified nouns rolled on, accompanied by close-up footage of Ariane wandering through the winter vines in a thin white dress, one slim hand caressing the bare branches as she went.

The video ended with a still image of Bourne Hall, lit by tendrils of sunrise and overlaid with the words:
Chateau Lafoute welcomes you to Bourne Hall for a grand tasting. From 1848 to the present day.

Thankfully, it appeared Paloni had decided that his footage of the pseudo-Sir William, traipsing gaily around the gardens, was not quite in keeping with the rest of the montage.

The lights went up, and the guests looked around at each other in delighted anticipation.

Bertie cleared his throat and made as if to stand, but Ariane laid a quick hand on his, and rose to her feet.

“I, too, would like to give my thanks for your company here tonight,” she said, smiling down the table. “But before we start the main tasting of the wines of Chateau Lafoute, I would like to propose a toast to a person dear to many who are here tonight. Without him, this tasting would not be possible, and all of us at Chateau Lafoute are much saddened to have lost such a friend and champion of our wines.

“Sir William was a man with a great, but very human, understanding of wine. He understood its need to be drunk, admired, not hidden away in the darkness. So please join me in a small tasting of some great wines that I am sure he would have wished to enjoy too, should he have been with us tonight. These wines come from the collection here at Bourne Hall, and though they are not from Chateau Lafoute, I am sure the selection will be a fitting tribute to a great man, sadly missed.”

She nodded at Arthur, who looked around in some confusion. He had not been briefed on this part of the evening. Eventually, he noticed the dining room door had opened a crack, revealing the sight of Alf, jiggling from one foot to another, a silver trolley by his side.

On it stood four bottles from Sir William’s prime collection: a ’49 Margaux, a ’61 Mouton-Rothschild, a ’52 Pavie, and a ’39 Latour. All in magnum.

As Arthur wheeled the trolley into the room, he noticed Bertie lean over to Ariane, his face tight with concern. “Darling, do you really think—”

“Wine is made for the human lips,” replied Ariane, with some finality. Bertie retreated, brow furrowed as he looked around, trying to make sense of the change in proceedings.

Resnick, too, was looking rather put out, perhaps sensing that the night’s carefully chosen line-up was now being upstaged. He hurried over as Arthur picked up the corkscrew with a certain amount of trepidation.

“Allow me, Arthur,” he said. “These old bottles can be quite temperamental.”

Arthur relinquished the corkscrew, with secret relief. He’d been witness over the years to a good number of old corks crumbling into their bottles, necessitating the hasty application of a fine sieve before drinking, and he had no wish for such a fiasco on his head tonight. Not with four of the world’s foremost wine experts in the audience.

“Are you entirely certain about this, Mrs Lafoute?” said Resnick, pausing as he hovered over the wax seal of the first bottle. “I believe Sir William acquired these bottles in recent years, and although I cannot vouch for any exact valuation, of course, I can assure you that to open them all represents a significant loss to the collection, I hope you understand.”

“I am definite in my choice,” said Ariane coolly.

The critics were smiling at each other, like cats in a dairy. Like many wine writers, they themselves had very little personal wealth, and relied on the generosity of their hosts to acquire the depth and breadth of their knowledge and tasting notes, especially at the most expensive and rare end of the wine market.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” muttered Paloni to Ariane, as he watched Resnick make his way around the table, pouring careful measures of the smooth caramel-brown liquid into each participant’s glass.

Arthur’s eyes followed every drop. To taste an old fine wine was more than just a pleasure; it was an experience, a slice of history, to imagine the air that these grapes had breathed, the lives of those—most of them now long gone—whose hands had brought these wines into being. And to taste not just any wines, but four titans of the Bordeaux region, side by side . . .

He wanted to kick Chef Maurice for not having got him an invite too.

As if by some sixth sense, the chef stopped in the middle of sniffing his glasses and turned around to look at him. Then he stood up, laid his napkin carefully on the table, and walked over to Arthur.

“
Mon ami
, please, take my place. You will appreciate this more, I am sure.” He took the white waiter’s cloth from Arthur’s arm.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “This is some kind of trick, isn’t it? Have you spiked the wines with something?” His gaze was drawn upwards to the chandelier hanging heavily over the table. “Is something about to happen that I don’t know about?”

“
Mon cher
Arthur! I make a most generous offer to my dear friend, and yet you—”

“All right, fine. Very, er, kind of you.”

Arthur sat down in Chef Maurice’s place and, with a last glance towards the chandelier above him, gingerly inched his chair forwards until he was sat with his nose over the four glasses.

The others barely noticed his arrival, so engrossed were they in the prizes before them, noses in glasses, taking the occasional little sips, accompanied by heady sighs. Bob Barker had his famous black spiral-bound notebook out, and Céleste Dauphine was tapping away at a slim electronic device held discreetly in her lap. There was the occasional murmur of astonishment, and various appreciative glasses were raised in Ariane’s direction.

Arthur looked down at the wines before him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Chef Maurice had some hand in this, but to what end, he couldn’t begin to fathom. He’d watched Resnick carefully cut away the dusty wax seals and painstakingly ease out the old corks (which thankfully had all come out whole). So tampering was out of the question.

Was his friend trying to confuse their palates before the main event? But these were practised tasters, capable of making their way around the hundreds of wines present at a big tasting event.

From around the table, mutterings of ‘majestic’, ‘hint of autumnal fruit’, ‘subdued but lively’, ‘
incroyable
’ and ‘
eindrucksvoll
’ floated past.

Arthur finally gave in and picked up the first glass. Long-stewed berries, spice, and dark, earthy notes floated up his nostrils. On the palate, there was still the faintly lingering hint of red fruit, but mostly it was like drinking a very handsome, antique-filled, wood-panelled room. Utterly unforgettable.

He moved on to the next.

“Stunning,” murmured Resnick, his usual sneer quite forgotten, replaced by a look of quiet reverence. “Each from a different vineyard and year, yet tied together by their shared histories. It’s almost as if they’re talking to each other through time . . . ”

There were various nods from around the table, though Arthur caught Lady Margaret rolling her eyes heavenwards.

Only Bob Barker was wearing a slight frown.

“Mr Barker,” said Ariane, raising her voice so that it carried sweetly down the length of the table. “What is your opinion?”

“You want my honest opinion?” said the man, turning his gaze on his hostess.

“Nothing but honesty, please. After all”—Ariane gave a mischievous smile—“these are not made by
my
family. You may say anything you wish.”