Chef Maurice and the Wrath of Grapes (Chef Maurice Culinary Mysteries Book 2) (11 page)

“’Course, ’course, didn’t mean it like that,” said Paloni, throwing Chef Maurice one of those ‘the English, aren’t they a funny lot’ looks.

“How long are you both staying here?” asked Arthur, helping himself to a cup of tea while Chef Maurice tackled the chafing dish of hot-smoked salmon.

“My driver’s on his way down,” said Paloni. “Traffic getting out of London was a killer, at least that’s what he tells me, but he should be here soon. I’m giving these folks a ride back too, if the lady can manage it, of course.”

“The police, have they come again?” asked Chef Maurice.

Bertie shook his head.

“They took down all our details last night. Passports, hotels, all that jazz,” said Paloni, looking offended.

“They obviously think it was one of us,” said Bertie, in matter-of-fact tones.

“Well, I’ll be contacting my embassy if any more of those cops turn up, trying to make out I had anything to do with it. Couldn’t find the guy that did it, so now they’re trying to pin it on one of us. I mean, we were all upstairs. What do they think we are, the Invisible Man? You saw me”—he turned to Bertie—“didn’t ya, coming out of my room?”

Bertie nodded, though a tad reluctantly.

“And I saw you just about to run down those stairs. And your lady and that wine fella, they must have come down not a minute after us.”

“But, Lady Margaret, she was not upstairs,” Chef Maurice pointed out, causing Paloni to let out a great guffaw.

“Now you’re really scraping the barrel, my friend, if you’re telling me that pipe cleaner of a woman had anything to do with it! I mean, she could hardly keep her eyes open—”

He stopped, with a guilty look, as Gilles glided into the room and addressed him.

“Sir, your car from London has arrived.”

“Right about time, too,” said Paloni, jumping up. “Enjoy your lunch,” he said, nodding at Chef Maurice and Arthur, and hightailed out of the room.

Bertie folded his napkin on his plate and stood up. “I better go and make sure Ariane is ready.” He shook their hands solemnly. “I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to meet under better circumstances.”

“Likewise,” said Arthur.

“Can I get you gentlemen anything else?” said Gilles, watching Chef Maurice upturn the remains of the lemon hollandaise over his plate.

“
Oui
. I would be most interested if you will recount for me the events of yesterday. Not the evening, which we all know, but from the morning. How was the
tempérament
of Sir William? Did anything happen that was not usual?”

Gilles pursed his lips, but replied, “Nothing unusual that I recall. Sir William rose at eight, as was his routine, and took breakfast here in the Morning Room. He then spent the rest of the day attending to various private matters in his study, though he took lunch in the dining room with Mr and Mrs Lafoute and Mr Paloni, who arrived at around midday from London.”

“At what time did the other guests arrive?”

“Lady Margaret arrived just after three, I believe, and Mr Resnick not long after her.”

“Did Sir William come out to greet his guests?”

“Yes. He came out and spoke briefly with Lady Margaret. And he spoke to Mr Resnick for quite some time in his study.”

“Do you know what it is they discussed?”

“I would not have dreamed of enquiring,” said Gilles, looking mildly shocked. “But one might surmise their conversation pertained to Sir William’s various wine investments. Mr Resnick has been a frequent guest here in recent years, advising Sir William on his various purchases.”

“What about the other guests?” asked Arthur. “What did they do the whole afternoon while Sir William was holed up in his study?”

“I’m afraid I cannot account for the entirety of our guests’ movements that afternoon, nor would I wish to do so. I know that Mr and Mrs Lafoute took a turn around the gardens in the mid-afternoon, before the snow started, only because Sir William asked me to fetch Mrs Lafoute to his study to speak with him. I believe he had some enquiries about the history of Chateau Lafoute, in preparation for the evening’s tasting.”

“When was this?” asked Arthur.

“Sometime before three, I remember, as it was before Lady Margaret arrived. But as to the rest of the afternoon, I’m afraid I was quite occupied with preparations for the evening’s dinner and attending to the wines that were to be served.”

Chef Maurice looked up from wiping his plate clean with a slice of bread. “You went down into the cellar, then? With the use of Sir William’s key?”

“Yes. This was our usual routine. Sir William had already laid out the bottles several days ago. I merely brought them upstairs to allow them to come to serving temperature for the evening.”

“And did you notice anything different in the cellar?”

“Nothing that drew my attention, sir. Everything was exactly as it should have been.”

“So apart from talking to Resnick and Mrs Lafoute, Sir William was alone in his study for the whole afternoon?” asked Arthur. “Did he take any calls, or receive any other visitors?”

“Certainly no calls. The line rings first on the hallway phone, so I would be the one to receive any incoming calls before putting them through.”

“And visitors? Or his guests?” said Chef Maurice, watching the butler’s face.

Gilles hesitated. “It was the early evening and I was in the hallway—I remember because this was when I first discovered that the phone line was down—when Lady Margaret came downstairs and insisted on speaking to Sir William. I informed her that the master had specifically asked not to be disturbed, but she was not, shall we say, amenable to that suggestion. Short of restraining her, there was little I could do.”

“When exactly was this?” said Arthur.

“Around five o’clock, I believe.”

“Before or after he spoke to Resnick?”

“After,” said Gilles promptly. “And before you ask me, sir, no, I do not know what Lady Margaret wished to speak to Sir William about.”

“Did she say anything to you after?” asked Chef Maurice.

Gilles coughed. He seemed unwilling to tell a direct lie, and it was obvious that this interrogation was paining him. “Lady Margaret did say something to me afterwards, on the lines of how she considered herself an excellent judge of character, especially in regards to a certain guest. I did not enquire as to the person she was referring to, but she seemed quite satisfied with the outcome of her meeting.”

“I see,” murmured Chef Maurice.

“Seems that for a man who didn’t want to be disturbed, Sir William had quite a few little chats that afternoon,” said Arthur.

“So it appears.” Gilles cleared his throat once more. “If that will be all, sirs?”

“One final thing, Monsieur Gilles. May we go to speak with Madame Bates?”

Surprisingly, Gilles looked quite gratified by this suggestion.

“Yes, of course. If you would follow me. If I might say, sir, I believe it would be of great help for Mrs Bates to have someone to talk to.”

“How is she doing?” said Arthur. “I mean, this can hardly be the easiest of circumstances. I understand she’s been here even longer than you have.”

Gilles, always the good servant, hesitated.

“Perhaps, sir, you should see for yourself.”

The Bourne Hall kitchens looked as if half a dozen pastry chefs had moved in and proceeded to start a competitive bake-off.

Every surface was covered in bags of flour, cartons of eggs, wooden spoons, whisks and mixing bowls of all designs and sizes. The central table was home to a three-tier black forest gateau, a large chocolate brownie cake, one rotund Christmas pudding, a wedding-style square white cake encrusted in icing swirls, dozens of home-made mince pies, and a trio of cream-and-fruit-loaded pavlovas. The smell of fresh jam bubbling on the stove heralded the imminent arrival of at least a quartet of Victoria sponge cakes.

Waffles the grey Persian was meandering around under the table, her paws white with flour, blinking up at the creamy delights and biding her time.

Chef Maurice, who had experienced his fair share of cooks in the midst of an emotional crisis, carefully edged his way up next to Mrs Bates.

“Tell me what can I do, Madame Bates?”

“The cream needs whipping, and I need you to go check on the oatmeal-and-raisin cookies in the second oven. And make sure the jam isn’t setting too firm.” Mrs Bates kept her eyes firmly fixed on the sponge cakes as she eased them out of their shallow tins.

“
Oui
, at once,
madame
.”

Silently, working in tandem and watched by Arthur and Waffles, they assembled the four Victoria sponges and dusted them with icing sugar.

As Mrs Bates reached for another bag of flour, Chef Maurice quickly took her hand and patted it. “Perhaps it is time for a cup of tea, Madame Bates?”

She looked up at him, as if noticing his presence for the first time.

“Deary me, Mister Maurice, of course, how rude of me. Oh, and Mister Arthur too. Do have a seat. Sugar, milk?”

“Three sugars and milk,
merci
.”

“Just a dash of milk for me, thanks.”

Mrs Bates bustled around the kitchen, trailed by Waffles, who had recognised the word ‘milk’.

“Horrible, simply horrible,” muttered Mrs Bates.

Chef Maurice and Arthur nodded along in sympathy.

“And down in his own wine cellar too. He loved that place, I tell you, spent a near fortune on it, what with all the whizzy doors and fancy locks. Always thought, if we were ever under attack, it’d be straight down into those cellars, safest place in the house. Waffles even had her kittens down there last spring, disappeared one day and then next thing we know, we’re on our hands and knees looking under crates and all. Dearest little things, they all found a good home too, bless ’em.”

“Under attack, did you say?” said Arthur. “Was Sir William ever threatened in some way?”

“Oh no, that was just a figure of speech, Mister Arthur. He was a gentle man, the master was, never could stand to quarrel. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, and I mean it. He’d have Gilles trap ’em in a glass and let ’em outside. Wouldn’t raise a finger, not to man or beast. I remember those fox hunting people, coming round causing a fuss. We had a whole family of them, the foxes, I mean, cubs and all, bless ’em, living out by the greenhouses. And why not? We don’t keep chickens, they were no trouble to us.”

“Was Sir William in any way different, in this last week or month?” said Chef Maurice.

Mrs Bates filled the kettle and stood tapping her foot. “He hadn’t been himself lately, that’s for certain,” she said finally.

“Really?” said Arthur. “How so?”

“Kept going on about trust and betrayal. And how you never really know a person . . . ”

“Did he mention any names?”

“No, and I never would’ve asked, of course.”

“Could he have been talking about one of the guests who were here yesterday? Do you think he was acting differently to any of them?”

“I really couldn’t say. I was in here most of the day, you see, sorting out their lunch, and then the big dinner, of course. He didn’t even think to tell us he was coming for lunch, that American film fellow, and bringing Bertie and his lady wife too. If I hadn’t just happened to have that steak-and-ale pie all ready in the pantry, it would have been a disaster, mark my words. Sometimes I reckon they think I work some kind of magic in here.”

Chef Maurice nodded understandingly, while surreptitiously sliding a hot oatmeal cookie off the tray.

“Do you know much about the guests?” asked Arthur. “Was there any ill feeling between any of them and Sir William, as far as you know?”

“Now, that’s a silly question. They wouldn’t have been invited here if there was,” said Mrs Bates, tutting. “As for knowing them, well, let’s see. Lady Margaret’s been coming to visit ever since I worked here, and that’s nigh on twenty-five years now. Of course, she used to come with her husband, spitting image of Sir William, he was, just a bit older, and their little boy. Though he’s all grown up now, of course. She likes her sweets, she does, but gives me ever such an earful if I leave too much fat on the roasts. Flavour’s in the fats, I try to tell her, but she won’t listen. Set in her ways, she is.”

“I have the same complaint at my restaurant sometimes,” said Chef Maurice, spreading jam onto the cookie. “But I make compensation by using the extra fat on the roast potatoes. Some of my customers, they tell me they drive two hours for my roast potatoes.”

“And the other guests?” said Arthur, keen to get the conversation back on a less cholesterol-heavy track.

“Now, Mister Bertie, he’s been coming to the Hall ever since he was a babe! Used to run all around the kitchens, looking for hiding holes. Found him in amongst the pots and pans, more than once. Such a sad story, his poor parents. You know they died in a car crash? Mister Bertie would’ve been with them, too, except he was laid up with flu that day. Only sixteen, he was.”

“A tale most
tragique
. And what of Madame Ariane? Did Sir William approve of Monsieur Bertie’s choice in a wife?”

“Hah, like approval’s got anything to do with it, what with ’em young people these days. Funny you should say that though, Mister Maurice. I always thought the master was a bit, well, reserved when it came to Mrs Lafoute. You could see him holding back judgement, like. I always reckoned he thought she wasn’t good enough for Mister Bertie. And what a thought! A bit high-minded, I’ll give you that, but she’s a real lady, Mrs Lafoute is. Anyone can see that.”