Chef Maurice and the Wrath of Grapes (Chef Maurice Culinary Mysteries Book 2) (19 page)

“But that man, he did not come to Bourne Hall until
after
the crime,” said Chef Maurice, stabbing another slice of venison with his fork. “So he also cannot be the murderer.”

“Then why was he there?” said Patrick.

“Perhaps to meet Monsieur Gilles? It is clear they are in a co-operation of some type.”

“Did Mrs Bates say which wines he stole?” asked Alf, ready to put his newly acquired wine knowledge into action.

Chef Maurice shook his head. “She says they cannot know. He stole the cellar book also.”

“Shameful,” said Dorothy, shaking her head at the butler’s audacity.

“Tell me, how on earth does a guy like him get a girl like
that
?” said Patrick, leaning over Alf as the commis chef flipped past the entry on Chateau Lafoute. In the bottom corner, there was a photo of Bertie and Ariane holding up wine glasses as they posed in front of a barrel.

“Forget about getting her, luv. Keeping her, now that’s the problem. See the way he’s looking at her, but she’s looking off somewhere else? Roving eye, she has, I’ll put a bet on it,” said Dorothy, who had a postgraduate in Body Language Studies gleaned from a lifetime of reading the women’s weeklies. “That being said, guess he’s not going to have a problem keeping her now, not with him inheriting all those millions. Wonder if she knew all along. Wouldn’t put it past a savvy-looking girl like that to do her research . . . ”

“Chateau Lafoute,” read Alf, “founded in 1779, was for a long time considered one of the more minor Bordeaux chateaux, until its rise to prominence in the wake of the Second World War, followed by a later surge of interest in the 1980s when Bob Barker, renowned American wine critic, anointed the 1986 vintage with a perfect 314 out of 314 on his now iconic wine-rating scale. The chateau, which has been in the Lafoute family since the mid-nineteenth century, is currently owned by Madame Thérèse Lafoute, while day-to-day operations are overseen by her granddaughter Ariane Lafoute, who heads the winemaking team. The long-term cellarmaster—”

“Aha!” Chef Maurice banged the table, sending Dorothy’s neatly laid-out cutlery dancing. “Dorothy, what did you say?”

The head waitress looked confused. “I didn’t say nothing, chef—”

But Chef Maurice was already pulling on his jacket. “Patrick, slice the gravlax for today’s lunch menu, and prepare all the breasts of duck for dinner. The fridge is much too full now that we have Gérard—”

“Oh great, now we’ve
named
that goose—”

“—and Alf, assemble two game terrines, wrapped with the dry cure bacon. We will press them overnight.”

He paused at the back door. “Does no one ask me where I go?” he said, in a rather hurt voice.

His three members of staff looked up from their duties.

“Where are you off to, chef?” asked Patrick, always one to oblige.

“I go,” said Chef Maurice, “to discover the murderer of Sir William!” He paused. “I will return in time for staff dinner.”

The door banged shut.

“Well, I think it’s sweet,” said Dorothy, gathering up the cutlery in her apron.

“What is?” said Patrick.

“Him having a hobby and all.”

“Solving murders is now chef’s hobby?” said Alf.

“Well, as long as he doesn’t start causing any, that’s fine by me,” said Patrick. “I just hope he knows what he’s getting himself into . . . ”

Lady Margaret lived a twenty-minute drive north of Bourne Hall in an eighteenth-century manor house known as Cleethorpe Park.

“I think I’m starting to suffer from the status anxiety of living in a cottage,” said Arthur, as they stood on the front doorstep, admiring the stone carvings. “All these Halls and Parks and Manors. Meryl will soon start insisting we upsize to a castle.”

“Is there not a Wordington-Smythe Manor in your family?” asked Chef Maurice.

“Well, there was something of the sort, a few generations back. But my great-uncle had to sell it off to pay some racing debts.”

“Ah, the horses. It is sad,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“Horse racing would have been fine. It was the giraffe racing out in South Africa that got Great-Uncle Harry into a pickle. The upkeep of a racing herd can be ruinous, plus they’re a devil to steer, always running off the course and getting injured.”

The door was answered by a sour-faced housekeeper, who grudgingly let them inside. Cleethorpe Park bore a passing resemblance to Bourne Hall, but was smaller and in far worse repair. The air smelt stale and undisturbed, though Lady Margaret would no doubt have described it as ‘antique’.

They found the lady of the house sat in a high-backed armchair by the fire, if such a name could be given to the dull embers in the grate, which looked as if a sudden sneeze might be the death of it all.

“Mr Wordington-Smythe, Mr Manchot, so good of you to come visit. It’s criminal these days, how the younger generations neglect their social duties to their elders.”

“It is our pleasure,
madame
. It must be hard,
non
, for a lady to live alone like this?” said Chef Maurice, laying on the Gallic charm in thick spreads.

“It certainly is,” said Lady Margaret appreciatively. “And getting help these days is quite a nightmare. Everything has become so
dear
. Now Mrs Pollock, she’s been with me for over thirty years now, and still, every year like clockwork, bowing and scraping for a wage increase. I said to her, all this inflation is very well and good but I’m not having any in my house, understand?”

“You have a most acute financial mind,
madame
.” Chef Maurice coughed. “I wonder if you have had news of the inheritance of Sir William’s estate?”

Two red circles blossomed on Lady Margaret’s cheeks. “Indeed I have! I’ve been ringing up that lawyer for days on end. He kept telling me these matters take time to settle, poppycock I told him, and then finally he comes out and tells me it’s all gone to Lady Annabel’s boy, Bertie!”

Arthur and Chef Maurice managed to feign gasps of indignation. “You were not included in the will?” said Chef Maurice.

“A collection of silver tea trays, Mr Cranshaw told me. And nothing for my boy Timothy, not a single penny! Not a blood relation, he tried telling me. Well, of course I know that, Timothy was from my first husband, rest his soul, but I made sure he took the Burton-Trent name, and Henry treated him like his own son. And at the end of the day, a nephew is a nephew, I say!”

“It must have come as quite a shock,” said Arthur.

“A complete scandal, if there wasn’t scandal enough! I was laid up in bed all day, Mrs Pollock will tell you that”—she gestured at her housekeeper, who had stomped in that moment with a tray of tea and biscuits—“I could hardly eat a thing, just cold tea and plain toast was all I could manage. I mean, that little French minx had been hinting at it, but of course I thought she was lying. She looked just the type.”

Chef Maurice coughed again politely. “You speak, perhaps, of Madame Lafoute?”

“Of course I am! You know, now I think about it, she must have known all along. I was admiring the Turner that William has hanging in one of the corridors, saying how Timothy has always had a passion for art, and how he’d make sure these masterpieces were displayed in the
proper
manner, not tucked down some dark hallway like William does with them. And that little madam, she looks at me and gives me this smile, like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, saying I shouldn’t necessarily count on everything one day going to Timothy.”

Arthur and Chef Maurice shared a look. “So you think it likely that Madame Ariane knew in advance about the will?”

“Knew about it?” said Lady Margaret. “She had a hand in it, mark my words! Coercing a poor old man like William into leaving everything to that lily-livered excuse for a husband of hers. Her and that butler fellow, wouldn’t be surprised if he was all mixed up in it somehow. You’ve heard he’s gone into hiding?”

They nodded.

“Never trust a man who walks too quietly, I always told William. And now there he’s gone, pilfering who knows what from the cellar—William’s pride and joy!—and running off, probably out of the country already, I’m sure. Disgraceful, the way the police are dealing with the whole thing.”

Apparently having exhausted this particular vein of ire, Lady Margaret picked up a teacup and stirred in a lump of sugar with studied fury.

“Madame is an excellent judge of character,” said Chef Maurice, in such solicitous tones that Arthur looked up in surprise. “Tell me, what are your impressions of the other guests that evening?”

Lady Margaret shuffled herself up straighter in her chair, clearly flattered. “Well, let’s see. Charles Resnick, he’s a little too fond of his wine and big words, I’d say, but there’s no harm in him as long as you keep your chequebook close. I do remember some years back, there was some funny business in the papers, someone accusing him of selling some wine he didn’t actually own—though how you can do that, I have no idea—but nothing much came of it. A case of sour grapes, no doubt.”

She allowed herself a little chuckle at her own cleverness.

“Though, him and all those fancy bottles, I dare say he egged William on a fair bit. But at the end of the day, you can’t make a man spend money on something he doesn’t want to spend it on.”

“Quite,” said Arthur, with visions of his new four-wheel drive.

“And Monsieur Paloni?”

Lady Margaret leaned forward. “Distinctly
not
a gentleman. I told William as much, the minute I laid eyes on that man.”

“You had made his acquaintance before?”

“Oh no, if I’d known I would be dining in company like
that
, I might not have even attended. These movie people, they’re not really
our sort
, I told William. It was obvious the man was simply out to get William’s money, getting him to invest in some vineyard out in America. I said to Timothy—he lives out in San Francisco, you know—how do you know the land even
exists
? Napa Valley, sounds like a made-up place, don’t you think?

“And
clearly
a ladies’ man. You just had to look at him, probably goes for all those hair implants and injecting poison into his face and whatnot. The type to wear red silk underwear, and dark glasses in the middle of winter, I’m sure. I told William I was frankly
shocked
that he should have a man like that staying under his own roof.”

“This conversation, this took place in the study of Sir William? Monsieur Gilles made mention that you had wished to discuss something with Sir William that day, something most important?”

Lady Margaret gave him a cold look. “I don’t quite see, Mr Manchot, why my private conversations should be any business of yours. And I certainly don’t approve of William’s butler going around reporting who spoke to whom and all that.”

“My apologies,
madame
,” said Chef Maurice quickly. “I thought perhaps you had chosen to speak to Sir William on a, how shall we say, delicate topic. I had heard rumours, only rumours, you understand, that Sir William had become involved with a lady of an age much younger than him—”

Lady Margaret started spluttering into her tea. It took a moment for Arthur to realise she was laughing. “
William?
At his age? Positively not! Everyone knows he never got over Annabel.”

“Yes, we had heard it mentioned,” said Arthur. There was a thought niggling him . . .

“
Un moment
,
madame
. You said that Monsieur Bertie was the son of a Lady Annabel. This is the same Annabel?”

“Certainly. His mother was Annabel Marchmont, quite the society beauty of her time, as they like to say. A silly girl, though, married the wrong fellow and never did a thing about it. And her boy is no better, going and marrying that French fancy of his. She might act like she has all the airs and graces in the world, but winemaking? It’s just a fancy name for grape farmers, if you ask me.”

“Very good,
madame
.” Chef Maurice paused. “I wondered also if we should be able to visit the gallery here at Cleethorpe Park? Sir William spoke most highly of the family portraits that his brother had collected together. It would be a pleasure to view such distinguished history.”

“Of course,” said Lady Margaret, with a benevolent smile. “I’ll have Mrs Pollock show you up there. I’m afraid the gallery is rather drafty, and my doctor has strictly forbidden me from such exertions.”

A few minutes later, having been deposited there by the surly Mrs Pollock, Arthur and Chef Maurice found themselves tracking dusty footprints along the floor of Cleethorpe Park’s Long Gallery. Various stately portraits of past Burton-Trents stared down from the walls above them.

“So what exactly are we doing up here?” said Arthur, stopping in front of a portrait of a moustached gentleman in full army regalia.

“Aha.
Regarde
,
mon ami
, and tell me what you see.”

Arthur looked around at the staring faces of Sir William’s ancestors. Many were wearing military uniform, and occasionally perched atop a horse—which was a feat in itself, as Arthur had never seen a horse voluntarily stand still long enough for a decent portrait session.