Chef Maurice and a Spot of Truffle (Chef Maurice Mysteries Book 1) (17 page)

Arthur was dealing with the aftermath of his latest review, of a restaurant in London’s trendy Shoreditch district that only served fried chicken cutlets and scrambled eggs. (“Which to order first, the chicken or the egg? After sampling both, the cutlet burnt on one side, perilously raw on the other, the eggs having reached a peculiar rubberised texture that reminds one of a slice of Pirelli’s finest, the answer is an emphatic ‘neither’.”) The review had apparently angered the young-chef-cum-farmer-cum-restaurateur and had resulted in an envelope of chicken droppings being delivered with the morning post.

Every household has one person who dutifully slices open the mail, and another person who hides unopened mail under piles of newspapers and lets letters get lost behind the hallway table, and in the Wordington-Smythe household, the designated letter-opener was Meryl. Hence why Arthur was now in the serious doghouse and was hiding out at Le Cochon Rouge until his wife’s anger cooled down to a gentle simmer.

Only Alf, having spotted a supply gap in the local mushroom market, seemed fairly contented, leafing through a copy of
The Beginner’s Guide to Field Foraging
.

So far, he’d reached Chapter 1: Mushrooms, Fun(gus) Friend or Deadly Foe?

“Did you know,” he said to the captive audience around the table, “that just one Death Cap mushroom can kill several people, by attacking the liver and kidney cells, with no known antidote?”

“
Très intéressant
.”

“I mean, at least they were dry. And the kitchen table wipes down easily enough. I don’t know why she’s making such a fuss . . . Women!”

“‘Women claim to admire a man of strong intent and mind, who is capable of expressing his opinions in a calm and rational manner.’”

Chef Maurice flipped over the flyer and started scribbling. “I must make an arrangement of my thoughts,” he muttered to himself. “The rescue of Hamilton is without doubt tied to the solving of the murder of Monsieur Ollie. So I must think.

“First, we have the break-in to Monsieur Ollie’s cottage. The first time, on the Friday, Monsieur Mannozzi admits to. According to Monsieur Ollie, nothing was taken. Did he lie? Perhaps something was put there instead? Or is Monsieur Mannozzi telling the truth, he was only looking for Tufo?

“The second time, an old map is stolen. A map of Farnley Woods, made many decades ago. But we have seen this map, it shows nothing of interest. Did Monsieur Ollie add to the map? Mrs Eldridge said that he drew on it. But who would know to take it?”

The rain continued to drum on the windows.

“‘Unfortunately, the Death Cap mushroom can easily be confused with the Tawny Grisette, a harmless edible example of the Amanita family, with a delicate flavour best enjoyed on its own or in omelettes.’”

“Then we have the pignapping of Hamilton. To send a warning, it is clear. But a warning of what? Monsieur Ollie searched for truffles. We search for truffles. Who else might search for them?”

“‘However, when faced with an angry or upset woman, it is best to avoid calm and rational opinions altogether. Instead, endeavour to see things from her, and only her, point of view. Under no circumstances should you offer up what you view as reasonable solutions to the problem at hand. Especially when expressly asked to do so.’”

“Finally, we have the case of the magic mushrooms. Monsieur Ollie was without doubt part of this illegal trade. There is money in this trade, according to Madame Fey. Did someone owe Monsieur Ollie money? And if so, did they murder him in order to cancel their debt?”

“It’s not my fault Horace got his paws all up on the table and they went all over the place . . . ”

Chef Maurice slapped his hand down on the flyer. “We need to know more! And we must find those who will tell us. Had Monsieur Ollie truly found truffles in Farnley Woods? Then who did he sell to? Who would know? He seems to have no friends . . . ”

“‘Women often think they have left you subtle hints about things they like. Unfortunately, these hints are generally only discernible to other women.’” Patrick looked up from his book. “Do you think she didn’t like the rose I gave her?”

“Roses! A capital idea. Meryl has a thing for the pink ones . . . ”

“
Les fleurs
 . . .
les fleurs sauvages
 . . . ” muttered Chef Maurice. “Why do I think of flowers?”

“What’s that about savage flowers, old chap?”

“Wild flowers,
mon ami
. I am thinking of wild flowers . . . ”

Ollie hadn’t had many close acquaintances in Beakley. But what was that Miss Fey had said? Something about his many lady friends. Maybe one of them might know something about his shady dealings.

And then he remembered a pot of wild flowers . . .

* * *

The afternoon rain clouds were just clearing as Chef Maurice and Arthur swung up the driveway to Laithwaites Manor.

It was time to return to the scene of the crime, thought Chef Maurice, and do some detectoring of his own. Clearly the local police had their minds on other priorities, such as letting hardened pig-stealing criminals shout at him and wander out of their station, and letting their female officers get high on illicit substances and proposition his sous-chef. No, if this crime was to be solved, it would not be solved by the police.

Soon, they were ensconced in Brenda’s warm kitchen, with a pot of coffee brewing on the stove and compliments flowing about the frangipane plum tart he’d brought along.

“I just don’t know how you get the pastry so nice and even,” said Brenda, cutting a generous slice each for her guests and a smaller one for herself.

“It does take much practice,” said Chef Maurice, who’d spent the last few months standing over Alf’s shoulder as the commis chef rolled out the pastry to just the right depth.

He looked around the tidy kitchen. “You have recovered,
madame
, from the terrible ordeal that happened here just the other day?”

“Indeed I have,” said Brenda staunchly. “It makes me mad to think of it now. The nerve of it, kidnapping that defenceless little pig. He put up a good fight, I’ll hope you’ll know that, Mr Maurice.”

There was the disjointed patter of someone coming down the stairs at breakneck speed, then a young man with tousled hair swung his head into the kitchen. He wore woefully tight jeans and a black T-shirt emblazoned with some heavy metal band logo.

“Oh, hi, darling,” said Brenda. “Nice to see you finally up. This is Mr Manchot and Mr Wordington-Smythe—you know, the food critic from the England Observer—from over in Beakley. Gentlemen, this is my son, Peter.”

The young man grunted as he inspected the fridge’s contents.

Brenda gave her guests a maternal ‘what can you do?’ smile.

“They’re all like that, I’m afraid. Don’t even see them before midday, and then they just shuffle about until it’s dark.”

“I was wondering,
madame
, if we might ask you again to describe the intruder who took Hamilton.”

“Oh!” Brenda threw a glance at her son, but he seemed oblivious to the conversation. “Well, he was tall, very tall in fact, and broad. Hulking, even.”

“And the balaclava he wore, you said it was black. Do you remember what it was made of?”

“Oh my, I’m afraid I don’t, it was all such a blur . . . ”

“Completely understandable,” said Arthur. “These things happen so fast.”

“Hmph,” said Chef Maurice. He was less than impressed with Brenda’s abilities of recall, even if she did keep her kitchen in good order. “Do you remember what type of gun he had?”

“A small one, I think . . . yes, small, like the ones in those American TV shows.”

“Not a shotgun, then?”

“No, definitely not.” She looked at them. “That poacher, he was shot with a shotgun, wasn’t he? Do you think it was the same man who—”

“
Non
,
non
,
madame
, do not distress yourself. We simply seek more information to help with the search for Hamilton. May we take a walk around the house outside?”

“Of course, please, take your time.” Brenda reached down and plopped Missy onto her lap. “Such horrible business,” she said, stroking the poodle’s curls.

Chef Maurice and Arthur spent a while combing the gravel yard round the side of the house by the kitchens, until Arthur’s back decided it had had enough of that particular pursuit.

As they walked, or limped, back to the car, Chef Maurice spotted something wedged into the drain near the front corner of the house. He bent down and used a stick to hook it up.

It was a little pink bobble hat, now sodden with rain and mud.

“A clue?” said Arthur hopefully.

Chef Maurice shook his head. The hat had clearly been dropped at the time of the pignapping, and had been shunted along the gutter by rain over the last few days. As it was, it was simply a soggy reminder of their failure, thus far, in the rescue of poor Hamilton.

He folded the little hat into his handkerchief, and they walked on in silence.

* * *

The fine dining restaurant community in Oxfordshire was not a large one, and Chef Maurice had put in calls to the head chefs of various neighbouring establishments with whom he had a passing acquaintance. None had heard of any white truffles being sold from local sources. All bemoaned the current economic climate and dearth of affordable truffles in general.

Which left him only one more call to make, which he would have to make in person. Chef Bonvivant, owner and executive chef at L’Epicure, had, according to his assistant, been unable to come to the telephone.

Given that they both had operated French restaurants in relatively close proximity for several decades, it was not surprising that Chef Maurice and Chef Bonvivant got on like a house on fire—that is to say, whenever they met, there was screaming, destruction of property, and sooner or later the need for large buckets of water.

“I cannot believe that Monsieur Ollie would sell to a . . . a . . . ”

“Blaggard?” offered Arthur, who was familiar with the two chefs’ past encounters.

“
Oui
, a blaggard like Bonvivant. Look at all this!” He waved a hand at the scenery outside, as they pulled up the long driveway past an immaculate rose garden and into a discreet paved courtyard at the back of the restaurant, full of Jaguars, Porsches and the occasional vintage coupé.

“If I were Ollie, Bonvivant would definitely be a good place to start offloading those truffles,” said Arthur. “He’s not exactly known to be tight with his chequebook.”

“Bah. And look at what he spends it on.” Chef Maurice gestured at the tall latticed windows at the back of the converted manor house and the valet rushing towards them to relieve them of the keys to Arthur’s Aston Martin. “He spends more on tablecloths than he does on his ingredients.”

“Really? I heard the lobster
thermidor
is rather g—” Arthur caught Chef Maurice’s incensed stare. “Never mind.”

Despite what his more naive customers might expect, Chef Gustave Bonvivant was not to be found in his kitchens. Instead, he was round the other side of the building, in a new glass-fronted annex which announced itself as:
The Bonvivant School of Culinary Excellence.

“He dares to open a cooking school! That man, he could not even teach a dog to pi—”

“
Bonjour
,
messieurs!
” A glass door slid open to reveal Chef Bonvivant, resplendent in chef’s whites, the creases ironed to razor sharpness. He was tall and slim, wore a neatly clipped beard, and, while Chef Maurice’s accent seemed to grow stronger by the year, Chef Bonvivant’s natural French tones had by now modulated their way into a catlike purr.

“So you have come to admire my new culinary school?” He bore down on them with every sign of self-satisfied pleasure. “Mr Wordington-Smythe, what an honour, I trust things are well at the England Observer? And Maurice,
mon cher collègue
, so kind of you to come visit. Come, let me take you on a tour.”

He ushered them up the steps and past his assistant, who stood there attentively, clipboard poised.

“Alain, give us a few moments. I will call you when we are done.” As his assistant scuttled off, he waved his arms at the room before them. “So what do you think?”

The room they stood in was about ten times the size of Le Cochon Rouge’s kitchens. Rows of stainless steel hobs gleamed along each workstation, and the far wall was lined with the type of high-tech ovens that could not only roast a chicken, but probably then send it by email to your office.

“Bah, it is just a lot of kitchen toys,” said Chef Maurice, eyeing the ovens with a hungry look. “It is a shame I see you have no students, though, Gustave.”

“We’re fully booked until next April,” said Chef Bonvivant smoothly. “Today, we are closed because I am hosting a private masterclass for a special guest. You have heard of Karista? And her recent album
Dancing on Pins
?”

He looked at their blank faces. Chef Maurice refused to allow a radio in the kitchen, on the basis that Dorothy insisted on singing along, and Arthur’s musical tastes generally verged on the Baroque.

“Ah, perhaps not.” He wiped an invisible speck from a marbled work counter. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“We have come to speak to you about Monsieur Ollie Meadows.”

“Ah, tragic, truly tragic. Of course, an establishment of our size has many suppliers, so we have been minimally affected, but I imagine his passing has been quite a blow to your little bistro?”

“Not at all. I have found an alternate supplier of the highest qualifications.” Chef Maurice thought about Miss Fey’s lab.

“Fantastic. I am most pleased to hear that. But what about Ollie did you wish to speak to me about?”

“We came to speak to you of truffles.”

“Truffles?” Chef Bonvivant’s face was a mask of polite nonchalance. “I wasn’t aware that your menu stretched to truffles.”

“I speak in particular of the truffles that Monsieur Ollie supplied you. White truffles, locally sourced, of a quality to rival the white truffles of Alba?”

“I see. I was not aware that Mr Meadows was dealing in those with anyone else.”

“But of course he would come to me first,” said Chef Maurice, radiating innocence. “We are of the same village. But his stock was so plentiful, I told him he should try to sell the smaller truffles elsewhere.”