Chef Maurice and a Spot of Truffle (Chef Maurice Mysteries Book 1) (21 page)
They stared at her.
“What?” she said defensively. “They ain’t.”
It was now November. The trees had shaken off their leaves, and the weather was coasting inexorably into the blustery winter blues.
Hamilton had settled happily into his field behind Le Cochon Rouge, snug in his little cocoon of hay as the wind huffed and puffed outside. The cows, feeling starved of excitement, were currently loitering down the other end of their field, right by the main road, in case anyone felt like cownapping them.
Miss Fey, thanks to the joint publicity from Arthur’s article and her soon-to-be-groundbreaking research into white Alba truffle cultivation, had expanded her mushroom business to the point where she was now able to take on a lab-assistant-cum-apprentice-forager, a nervous young woman who lived in constant fear that her employer would poison her if she broke a single pipette.
Luciano had gone off to Italy with Tufo to make the most of the Alba truffle season. He promised to return next autumn to train Hamilton into a champion truffle pig.
In the kitchens of Le Cochon Rouge, November was a welcome respite before the frantic Christmas season. Alf’s new foraging skills had brought in a glut of hawthorn berries and, today, head chef, sous-chef and commis were all covered head to toe in sticky red jam as they bottled up enough jars to accompany the cheeseboard through the winter.
There was a knock on the back door and PC Lucy stuck her head round.
“I tried to phone, but no one picked up, so I thought I’d just walk over.” She looked them up and down. “Is this a bad time?”
“But of course not,” said Chef Maurice. “It is a delight to see you,
mademoiselle
. It has been too long.”
“Yes, sorry about that. The Meadows case has been keeping everyone pretty busy, but it’s now wrapping up.”
“Madame Brenda, she has been found guilty?”
“The trial’s not till next month, but she’s already confessed to everything. She tried to keep Peter out of it, so I think he’ll get off with minor charges.”
“Hmph, pig stealer,” muttered Chef Maurice. “And what will happen to the Manor?”
“I hear she’s had to sell it. To pay the legal fees.”
“Ah, a shame. I sometimes wonder if the
grand-père
Laithwaites had perhaps planted more truffle trees within—”
“Don’t you even
think
of trespassing on that land.”
“But of course not. Please, come in. A coffee, perhaps, or a
chocolat chaud
?”
PC Lucy hesitated by the door. “Actually, I was hoping to have a word with Patrick . . . ”
Chef Maurice prodded Patrick forwards with a jammy spoon. “
Voilà
, he is all yours.”
“Um.” Patrick’s face was red as a hawthorn berry. “Shall we go outside?”
They went out into the backyard, while Chef Maurice and Alf shuffled themselves over to a window to watch the proceedings. To their disappointment, Patrick led PC Lucy around the corner of the building, out of their line of sight.
They appeared some minutes later. There was a smear of red jam on PC Lucy’s cheek, and Patrick wore a big dreamy grin.
“Do you think that counts as assaulting a police officer?” asked Alf.
Chef Maurice stroked his moustache. “I think probably not.”
“Shame.”
PC Lucy waved goodbye to them from the gate, and shouted promises to come over to try the new Christmas lunch menu.
Patrick spent the rest of the afternoon in a happy daze.
Like truffles, sometimes things just need a little time to grow.
J.A. Lang is a British mystery author. She lives in Oxford, England, with her husband, an excessive number of cookbooks, and a sourdough starter named Bob.
Also by J.A. Lang
Chef Maurice and the Wrath of Grapes
(Book 2)
Chef Maurice and the Bunny-Boiler Bake Off (Book 3)
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Published by Purple Panda Press
ISBN 978-1-910679-03-6
