Chef Maurice and the Wrath of Grapes (Chef Maurice Culinary Mysteries Book 2) (7 page)

Lady Margaret looked up from her book with an unimpressed stare. “I think you will find we are quite capable of looking after ourselves.”

“Of course, ma’am,” said Gilles with a bow, then beat a hasty retreat with Bertie on his tail.

Paloni lost no time in settling himself next to Ariane, draping his dinner jacket over her bare shoulders, and was soon engaged in a low, murmuring conversation.

Mrs Bates gave a sudden cry and hurried over to the warming oven. She extracted a large tray of mini Yorkshire puddings, complete with mini sausages and dollops of thick gravy.

“They were his favourite,” she said quietly.

The assembled guests had, however, lost their appetites. Arthur managed two, while Chef Maurice stepped in to polish off the lot—no doubt for Mrs Bates’ sake.

“Madame Bates, when was the last time that you saw Sir William?” asked Chef Maurice, sitting down with his second cup of coffee.

“It was just when he was going down to the cellar with Mr Paloni,” said Mrs Bates. “He popped his head in here and asked me to get the canapés ready to go.”

“And when was this?”

Mrs Bates looked up at the clock over the sink.

“Was just a few minutes after seven,” she said. “I remember because the tartlets take ten minutes to warm through, and I was going to get the first trays ready for quarter past.”

“And the door to the kitchen, it was open all the time?”

Mrs Bates nodded. “But I was racing all over the place, single-minded I am. I don’t think I’d have noticed anything happening out there.” Her hands trembled. “Do you think I might have seen—”

“Ah, you must not worry yourself about that. A criminal makes sure to not be seen. But do you remember seeing Monsieur Paloni leaving the cellar?”

“That I did. Came storming out, he did. I remember laughing to myself because he tried to slam the door”—she shot a quick look over to Paloni, but he was still occupied with Ariane—“except it ain’t that kind of door and swings ever so slow.”

Chef Maurice lowered his voice. “And you did not see him lock it?”

Mrs Bates shook her head. “He was gone before it even closed. Plus, I’d have remembered something like that. Only the master or Gilles ever has a key. He just walked off, he did.”

Arthur looked up at the clock. “It was around half past when Mrs Bates came to get us in the dining room. So that gives the intruder about fifteen minutes to get in, get down to the cellar, and get out. Tight, but more than possible.”

“I told William he should get better locks on all the windows,” said Lady Margaret severely. “These roving madmen, they’ll be the death of us all.”

This set Mrs Bates off into another chorus of sobs.

“Now, now,” said Arthur, reaching out to pat the cook, his hand hovering uncertainly before settling for an outer-lying expanse of elbow. “Whoever it was, he won’t be coming back. No one would take that risk.”

“You are sure it was a madman,
mon ami
?” said Chef Maurice.

“Of course!”

The other guests nodded. Of course it had to have been.

Because if it wasn’t a madman, so their collective thoughts ran, it must have been one of them.

Patrick struggled to the top of the hill, PC Lucy trudging along in his wake. From here, he could see the little squares of light that picked out the eastern side of Bourne Hall. They must have still been half a mile away, but from this vantage point, he could see the dark footprints stretching down the slope before them.

And, in the distance, the blond-haired, black-clad stranger.

“We’d better hurry up. He’s almost at the Hall,” said PC Lucy, reaching his side. She grabbed his hand and they ran skidding down the slope.

Reaching the flat fields below, they pounded through the thick snow, which slowed their steps and pushed back at them like an invisible hand. Thankfully, their quarry didn’t seem to have noticed them closing the distance on him.

They might have made it, too, if a hidden tree root hadn’t snagged Patrick around the ankle and sent him flying across the ground.

A few frosty moments later, he raised his head out of his self-created snow drift. They were less than twenty metres from the Hall, and the man had almost reached the nearest side door.

“Please tell me Sir William at least locks his doors at night,” PC Lucy muttered, as she slid an arm under Patrick to try and lift him up. “I hand out leaflets every year, and every year I can stroll into most of the village’s—”

There was a burst of warm light as the door flung open, and the man disappeared inside.

There comes a point in a man’s life when he must boldly go, and this point had come on, rather suddenly, for Arthur. So, recruiting Chef Maurice as backup, and instructing Paloni to send out a search party in the event of their non-return, they set out for the east wing of Bourne Hall in a quest to visit the bathroom facilities.

Chef Maurice had borrowed another of Mrs Bates’ frying pans, on the promise that he would avoid attacking any intruders with the side with the non-stick coating.

To get to the east wing, they had to pass through the drawing room again, which was now shrouded in an eerie silence. Empty glasses littered the coffee table, and the fire had burned low in the grate, casting long shadows over the carpet.

Chef Maurice stuck his head into the dining room. The masked bottles, corks untouched, stood there patiently—judgement would have to wait another day.

The bathroom was located down a cold corridor off the main drawing room. The walls were lined with faded fleur-de-lis wallpaper, and a long display cabinet stood to one side, filled with ranks of polished silverware.

“Only be a moment,” said Arthur, ducking into the bathroom. “Keep an eye out for anything suspicious,” he added, his voice muffled by the thick door.

Chef Maurice wandered over to the silverware display, and inspected his moustache with the aid of a large silver tea tray.

“I say, this is an original Crapper!” came Arthur’s voice through the bathroom door. “Thomas Crapper & Co., Sanitary Engineers, it says here. Fine old firm. They say his father . . . ”

Chef Maurice tuned out from Arthur’s ablutionary rhapsodies and concentrated on his own bladder control. Of course, any chef who’d spent time in a busy kitchen developed an iron bladder, but the evening’s turn of events had apparently unsettled even his own normally stout constitution.

A flicker in the silverware and a creak of a floorboard drew his attention to the end of the corridor. A tall man, dressed head to toe in black, emerged from a side door. There was snow on his hat and boots, and he was carrying a leather briefcase. He started at the sight of Chef Maurice, then reached into his jacket.

“I’m—” he began, but stopped.

This was because Chef Maurice had raised his trusty frying pan above his head and was pounding towards the intruder, bellowing like a berserker warrior.

Kitchens are generally noisy environments, and Chef Maurice could bellow with the best of them.

“Aaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!”

The man gave him one look, and turned and ran.

Arthur was just drying his hands when he heard the demonic yell from outside.

“All right, all right, I’m almost done. No need to yell like that,” he called.

He drew the lock and pulled open the door.

The corridor was empty, save for a small patch of melting snow down the other end. A frosty breeze was sneaking its way into the building through the open doorway.

“Argh!” came a cry from somewhere outside, and the sound of scuffling.

It had been a male voice, but definitely not Chef Maurice.

Picking up a nearby candlestick, Arthur edged his way over to the door.

Patrick lay in the snow, trying to piece together the last forty seconds.

They had almost reached Bourne Hall when the same side door had been flung back and the blond-haired man had come sprinting out, crashing straight into Patrick.

The man had landed right on top of him, his briefcase dealing Patrick a nasty jab to the kneecap. Then his attacker had scrambled to his feet and taken off back across the fields.

Completely winded, he’d rolled over to see PC Lucy—who’d been some ten metres behind—running towards him.

“Patrick, are you—”

A bellowing sound erupted from the open doorway.

“Aaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiii—
Eh?
”

The frying pan halted its descent a few inches above Patrick’s nose, and was quickly replaced by the only mildly less alarming sight of Chef Maurice bending over him.

“Patrick? What do you do out here in the snow? It is not the time for making the snow angels. We are under attack!”

“Wha— Why—”

“What the hell was all that?” PC Lucy rushed over to Patrick and knelt down. “Are you okay?”

“Just winded. Nothing broken. I think.” He tested his knee gingerly.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Lucy, you have arrived. That was very fast, most impressive.”

“What?”

“You received our call, did you not?” He looked at her blank face. “They did not tell you what has happened? That is bad communication! For the prevention of crime, information must flow like hot oil. It is imperative—”

“Maurice! What on earth are you on about?”

He paused, finger raised in mid-lecture.

“Sir William, he has been murdered. That is why you are here,
non
? But why do you bring Patrick?”

PC Lucy gaped at him.

Chef Maurice looked down in puzzlement at his sous-chef, then light dawned in his eyes.

“Ah, I forget! You must also add the brandy-soaked nutmegs. They are in the fridge.”

“Whuh . . . ” said Patrick, still a little behind events.

“For the mulled wine. This is why you also come, is it not?”

“I think,” said PC Lucy, hauling Patrick to his feet, “we better go inside and find out what the heck is going on.”