Chef Maurice and the Wrath of Grapes (Chef Maurice Culinary Mysteries Book 2) (9 page)

Gilles paused a moment, then answered: “They were acquainted through Mrs Lafoute’s husband, Mr Bertie Lafoute, who has been known to Sir William for all his life, I understand, and has been a frequent guest here at Bourne Hall. As for Mrs Lafoute herself, I believe Sir William has only met her on a handful of occasions since their wedding two years ago.”

There was a knock on the door, and a freckle-faced young man stuck his head in. He was wearing a police hat and a very long woolly scarf.

“Um, do you have a moment? It’s a bit urgent,” he said to PC Lucy, who nodded and gestured him in.

Chef Maurice brightened up. He’d encountered PC Alistair on a few previous occasions, and found him to be a very pleasant, honest young man who held his elders in great respect—unlike PC Lucy, who seemed to carry certain misguided views on what information Chef Maurice should and should not have access to. Thankfully, her colleague Alistair seemed to have no such shortcomings to
his
cheery personality.

“Um . . . ” said PC Alistair, looking at Gilles.

“This is Mr Gilles, Sir William’s butler. So what have you found?”

“The cellar is just how you described. Most of the team is still down there. But I’ve just been for a walk around the building and, well, the footprints just don’t work out. You can see everything very clearly, you see, what with all the snow.”

“What do you mean, they don’t work out?” said PC Lucy.

“Well, there’s two sets going up to the main gate and back, fairly recently—”

“Monsieur Gilles and Monsieur Lafoute,” said Chef Maurice, nodding.

“—and then there’s quite a lot of sets outside the side door to the east wing—”

“Yes, that’s where I arrived, like I explained earlier,” said PC Lucy quickly, shooting another look at Chef Maurice and Arthur. Clearly, the mysterious blond man was not yet a tale for general consumption. “And then?”

“That’s it, miss. There’s no other prints.”

“None from the storeroom near the kitchen?” said PC Lucy sharply.

“It’s clean snow all around, miss.”

“But there was glass on the floor—” started Gilles.

“Could have been done earlier, sir. Or even a few days ago. The room doesn’t look much used.”

Gilles looked at PC Lucy. “I was in there this morning, just before lunchtime. I can assure you there was no sign of a break-in then.”

“So it happened this afternoon, then,” said PC Lucy. “The intruder could have been waiting in there—”

“Bah! With no footprints outside after? Do you see? It is
une ruse
. To take us away from the scent,” said Chef Maurice.

“There’s another thing, miss. The phone line was definitely cut on purpose. Halfway up the wire, where it runs outside.”

“But I thought you said there were no other prints.”

“That’s right. So it must have been done earlier in the day, before the snow. But another thing, that bit of wire goes right outside the window of one of the parlour rooms on the west side.”

“So it could have been cut by someone inside the house? Leaning out of the window?” said PC Lucy, her eyes on Gilles, who looked back at her impassively.

“Looks like it, miss.”

PC Lucy shut her notebook and sighed. “I’ll need to talk to each of the guests.” She glared at Chef Maurice and Arthur. “In
private
. And if I catch you two listening at the door, I’ll be making use of the cells tonight, I swear.”

Chef Maurice stood up and bowed solemnly.

“We would not dream of it,
mademoiselle
.”

Not when, he thought, he had much more fruitful plans for his evening. Though no one had voiced the thought out loud, the lack of footprints outside the broken window could only mean one thing.

The storeroom had only been a diversion, a clever trick that might have very well worked, if it hadn’t been for the snow.

But now they knew that no one had entered, and no one had left.

Which meant the real killer was someone who had been in the house all along.

“Good of you to listen to Lucy for once,” said Arthur to Chef Maurice, as they shut the study door behind them. PC Alistair had disappeared off into the house, and Gilles had been dispatched to summon the first interviewee. “You do rather upset her sometimes.”

“
Mon ami
, I have only the most high respect for Mademoiselle Lucy and her work.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. I am certain she will conduct the interviews with the most professional correctness. But the talking, this can be done anytime. The rooms, however . . . ”

Arthur followed Chef Maurice as he hastened up the main staircase. A heavy door led to a landing of sorts, with a window at one end facing the front of the house. The only light source now was the dim glow of an ornate porcelain table lamp.

Sir William had once given Arthur the grand tour of the Hall. His own master bedroom, though the tour had not extended quite so far as to see inside, was the door at the far end of the corridor, flanked on one side by a large mahogany bookcase, laden with tomes spanning centuries, languages and genres, presumably thus placed to save insomniac guests from having to venture downstairs to the main library. There was also a small cut glass decanter of what smelled like brandy and some square glasses.

Sir William had been a most genial host, indeed.

The other doors all led to the various guest rooms.

They located PC Alistair across the hallway, in the suite occupied by Bertie and Ariane.

“Does PC Gavistone know you’re up here, sir?”

Chef Maurice drew himself up importantly. “I informed Mademoiselle Lucy that we were most ready to aid her in this investigation as much as possible.”

While PC Alistair considered this statement, Chef Maurice took the chance to duck past him into the room and subject its contents to a thoroughly good staring, hands on hips.

This stage completed, he looked over at PC Alistair. “So where do we begin?”

There were two travel suitcases leaned up against the wall, neither of which contained anything of much interest, save for a rather large amount of silk and lace in Ariane’s that turned PC Alistair’s ears a bashful shade of pink.

They migrated into the en-suite bathroom, where his-and-hers toiletries were lined up either side of the double sink like two opposing armies. A peek into a capacious satin-lined vanity case revealed that Ariane shared the usual hypochondriac tendencies of many of her countrymen, and travelled with a vast array of painkillers, anti-nausea tablets, sleeping pills, stomach pastilles, flu remedies, and all the other items necessary to set up a fully operating pharmacy wherever your travels took you.

Over at the writing desk, Chef Maurice unrolled a large architectural drawing. “
Très impressionant.
”

“Is it a plan of Bourne Hall?” said PC Alistair. He had been expounding his theories on the existence of a secret underground passageway that would allow a nefarious outsider to enter and exit the building unseen—the young policeman being uncomfortable with the thought of any of the fine upstanding citizens downstairs being potential murderers—and was keen to be proved correct.

Chef Maurice shook his head and pointed to the building in the centre of the map. “It is a plan of Chateau Lafoute. And this new building, it appears to be a winery.”

Arthur whistled. “Not just a winery. Look, they’re planning a visitor centre too. Very spacious. Looks like a serious undertaking. Do you think Sir William was going to be one of their investors?”

“If he was, it would give Monsieur Bertie and Madame Ariane a reason for
not
wishing his murder.”

“Very true.”

They exited the suite and moved on to Resnick’s room next door. The decor was decidedly more spartan, with a four-poster oak bed, a desk and wardrobe and sombre maroon wallpaper. On the bedside table was a pile of blue-backed notebooks—“He claims to record every single wine he drinks,” sniffed Arthur—as well as a few brochures from recent wine auctions.

Resnick’s cat-hair-ravaged clothes were hung on the back of the door, and they found a selection of fresh shirts and trousers arranged in the wardrobe. Aside from the usual travel necessities, a search of his suitcase revealed a small flask of whisky, a half-eaten jar of potted mackerel, and a box of crackers.

“He is a more sensible man than I thought,” said Chef Maurice in tones of approval.

Next up was Lady Margaret’s room, which, compared to the last two rooms, had a much more lived-in feel. Clearly this was her regular abode when visiting her brother-in-law.

“Do you really think one of the guests did it?” said Arthur, as he flicked through the stack of hardback novels on the nightstand. “Hard to imagine any of this lot smashing a bottle over anyone’s head, let alone going for the throat afterwards.”

“A murderer can come from the most unexpected places,” said Chef Maurice, staring sternly at Lady Margaret’s lacy-cuffed rose-patterned bathrobe.

There was the sound of glassware rolling across tiles. “Whoops,” came PC Alistair’s voice from the bathroom.

They found him on his knees, scrabbling on the floor for a wayward jar that had escaped from a battered embroidered carry bag containing a collection of creams, lotions and ointments, all giving off an overly floral scent. There were tubs of ‘100% natural’ remedies, various herb-based lozenges, and several phials of ‘aroma-centric calming oils’.

“Just as well Sir William wasn’t poisoned,” said Arthur to PC Alistair. “Your labs would be tied up for weeks with all this lot. And Ariane’s collection too.”

Paloni had somehow managed to snag the most opulent of the guest suites. Every piece of furniture was upholstered in thick gold-threaded brocade, the bed linen felt like silk, and the bathroom was dominated by an elegant claw-foot bath.

“
Très
’Ollywood,” commented Chef Maurice.

The wet loofah and half-empty bottle of expensive bubble bath suggested that Paloni had wasted no time in availing himself of the amenities on offer.

“What kind of gentleman wears red silk boxers?” demanded Arthur, recoiling from the suitcase that PC Alistair had just popped open. “
And
carries around signed photographs of himself,” he added, as PC Alistair used a pen to push aside the offending undergarments, revealing a stack of prints beneath.

“There was once a lady in the restaurant, she expressed herself as a fan of your restaurant column. She even carried a picture of you in her wallet,” said Chef Maurice, rummaging through the wardrobe.

“What? Where’d she get a picture of me?”

“She cut it from the newspaper, I think.”

“But they haven’t changed that photo for decades!”

“
Oui
. I told the lady she would be most disappointed if she should meet you now.”

A worrying thought crept across Arthur’s mind. “You didn’t tell Meryl about this, did you? She gets jealous over the smallest of things,” he said, nevertheless with a smidgen of pride regarding his status as an evidently much-coveted male.

“
Oui
, of course I tell her. But do not worry, she found it to be most amusing.”

“Hmph,” said Arthur, manly pride somewhat deflated.

They also found various letters and financial papers relating to Paloni’s wine venture, the Basking Buffalo winery. There were several iterations of the agenda for the upcoming shareholders’ meeting in two weeks’ time. In the latest, Sir William’s listing as the after-dinner speaker had been crossed out. With some force.

“Interesting,” murmured Arthur. The accompanying Annual Report also bore further scrutiny, littered as it was with telling phrases such as ‘rising to the inevitable challenges’, ‘longer-term site potential’ and ‘much appreciated continuing support of our shareholders’. All was not well at Basking Buffalo.

“Cash flow troubles, if you read between the lines,” said Arthur, handing the report to Chef Maurice, who flipped through, looking at the glossy pictures.

“And we know that Sir William was an investor.”

“Or so Paloni told us,” said Arthur, thinking about the crossed-out agenda.

The guest rooms dealt with, PC Alistair led the way up to the attic rooms, where Gilles and Mrs Bates had their living quarters.

Mrs Bates’ rooms were functional and spotlessly clean, bare of personal memorabilia apart from a half-eaten box of milk chocolates and a small shelf of well-thumbed paperbacks featuring smouldering-looking young men wearing top hats and waistcoats, and frilly ladies in horse-drawn carriages.

Gilles’s quarters consisted of two rooms: a living room and a smaller bedroom. The former afforded him a small fireplace, an armchair and a desk, while the latter housed a single bed and a wardrobe almost entirely filled with white shirts, pressed black trousers, and a row of identical tailcoats. A stool and shoeshine kit were neatly arranged in one corner.

PC Alistair set about peering behind furniture and riffling through the drawers, with the desperate enthusiasm of one who has failed to find anything suitably incriminating to report back to one’s superiors.

Thankfully for the young policeman, Chef Maurice’s excavations under the bed revealed a strange metal suitcase, about the size of two briefcases put together. He laid it on the bed and reached for the fastenings.