Chef Maurice and the Wrath of Grapes (Chef Maurice Culinary Mysteries Book 2) (27 page)

“But how can this be? I then learn from Monsieur Mack that one may buy empty bottles of fine wines on the dark market, or steal them from restaurants after the true contents are consumed. They are then refilled to give the taste, the smell, of a fine old wine. This is what happened to these four bottles, manufactured by a master forger, most likely all at the same time.”

“But how are these crooks getting away with this?” demanded Paloni. “One or two bottles, maybe, I can believe that, but once you opened enough of them—”

“Ah, but many collectors, they live to make their collections, not to drink them. The rich man or woman may buy so many fine bottles, yet never taste any. Especially in the case of the very rare, very expensive bottles. And so, we have a crime that so very often is not even detected in the first place.”

“And wealthy folks don’t exactly like to shout about it when they get stung,” added Bob Barker.

“I knew that butler wasn’t to be trusted!” said Lady Margaret. “Sneaking out of here with the real bottles, I’ll wager, and replacing them with these abominable fakes. And then what he did to poor William. The man should hang!”

“
Non
,
madame
, I am afraid the blame cannot be put on Monsieur Gilles,” said Chef Maurice. “But, you are correct when you say that the person who made the forgery of the wines is also the murderer of Sir William.

“And I can now say that this person sits with us, here. In this very room.”

“Well, you’re a piece of work, I’ll tell you that.”

A honeyed voice floated over Patrick’s shoulder, and he turned around to find a blue-eyed, blond-haired young woman glaring down at him. With that particular expression, she bore a striking resemblance to PC Lucy, albeit a mildly underfed version with a slightly weaselly cast to her features. Still, from a distance, it would be easy to mistake the two of them . . .

“I’m Sally,” she said, “and that’s Fred, my boyfriend.” She pointed over to the table so recently vacated by PC Lucy. “And you’re the muttonhead who’s just gone and upset my big sister. Don’t think I don’t see what’s going on here.”

She threw a scathing look at Isabella, who sat sipping on her Champagne with a look of mild amusement.

“It’s not what it looks like,” said Patrick quickly. “We’re just friends. Colleagues, even.”

“Of course, that bit’s obvious,” said Sally impatiently. “She’s way out of your league.”

Isabella gave her a gracious nod.

“But my sister’s too ridiculous to see that. So now you’ve gone and made her think you don’t give a fig about her.”

“But . . . I thought . . . I mean, I didn’t think she . . . ” started Patrick.

“I know,” sighed Sally, pulling up a chair to join them. “I saw your face just now. You’re really into her, aren’t you? So, luckily for you, I’m going to help you make things better. And not just because you’re kind of cute.” She leaned in. “You don’t happen to have a brother, do you?”

“I heard that,” called a voice from across the room.

Sally grinned. “I like to keep him on his toes,” she whispered, blowing a kiss over to the indignant Fred.

“I don’t think there’s much I can do,” said Patrick, glumly. “She’s really mad at me. I saw that look of hers. I doubt anything I do is going to change that.”

Sally looked at him. “Golly, you really don’t know anything about women, do you?”

Chef Maurice swept his gaze around the table. The room was full of the sound of a dozen people holding their breath.

“First, we must consider those people who had often access to the wine cellar.
Oui
, there was Monsieur Gilles, but it was not only him. Many of you here came often to the Hall, and as trusted visitors were allowed to go and admire the cellar, perhaps even left alone there.”

“But how would anyone be able to take away the bottles without Sir William noticing?” said Arthur.

“Ah, that comes later,
mon ami
. But first, we know Sir William began to hold suspicions. He sends bottles to London, under the trust of Monsieur Gilles, to have them examined. He seeks to make a new catalogue of his collection.

“And so, our criminal feels the net closing around. The investigation of Sir William must be stopped before he discovers too much.”

Arthur looked around the table, scrutinising each guest in turn. The critics were looking uncomfortable, as if they’d wandered accidentally into a blazing family row. Of the others, all looked shocked, but none more worried or haunted than the other. Apart from perhaps Ariane, who continued to wear a tight smile.

He also saw Chef Maurice running a piercing glare over each face: Paloni, Bertie, Ariane, Resnick, Lady Margaret, and then back again. A sinking feeling hit him.

Maurice didn’t know who it was
. Or if he did, he didn’t have a shred of proof. Perhaps he thought the pressure of an audience, plus the FBI chap—whose sudden appearance Arthur still didn’t quite understand—would scare the perpetrator into standing up and committing a swan song, a damning confession. Or at least into trying to make a run for it.

“I see you look around,” said Chef Maurice finally. “You ask, is it he, is it she? Who can be responsible? But, again, I give thanks to Monsieur Mack. From the work of him and his
collègues
, we need not to study the face of our neighbours. Because we have it here, clear for all to see . . . ”

Chef Maurice picked up the remote control from beside Ariane’s motionless hand and pressed a button. The picture of Bourne Hall was replaced by grainy footage of the interior of the wine cellar, shot from high up in one corner.

A hidden camera! thought Arthur. All this time . . .

The rolling shot showed Sir William’s back as he stood before a set of shelves, holding a bottle in one hand and carefully wiping down its sides with a polishing cloth.

From this angle, Arthur noticed that Sir William had a burgeoning bald spot on the top of his head that Arthur had never noticed before. He shook himself. Now was not the time for such thoughts.

In the corner of the screen, a pair of black patent leather shoes appeared from behind the wine crates. They stepped towards Sir William with quiet, deadly purpose—

“Enough!” shouted a strangled voice. A figure jumped up from the table and started tearing madly at the hanging screen. Then he stood panting, staring at them all, as the screen ribboned down behind him onto the floor.

“Ah,
monsieur
,” said Chef Maurice. “You do not wish that I continue this film?”

He smiled at the figure at the front of the room, flickering in the light of the still-rolling projector. It was Charles Resnick.

The kitchens of Bourne Hall had run out of chairs, even with the departure of many of the guests. The four wine critics had headed back to London to write up their impressions of the startling evening, and FBI Agent Mack had accompanied Charles Resnick away in a car sent by the Metropolitan Police Art Fraud department. Everyone else had retired to the kitchens in search of a comforting cup of tea, and Mrs Bates currently had three kettles on the boil. Waffles weaved in and out of the many legs around the table, biding her time until she could catch the milk jug unawares.

Arthur was the first to voice his objections.

“But that was
cheating
! If you knew there was a CCTV camera all along—”

“Ah, but,
mon ami
, you do not see—”

“—and, worse still, how could our own police have missed it in the first place?” Arthur turned to PC Lucy, who had arrived towards the end of the night’s proceedings, just in time to witness Resnick’s monumental breakdown.

“There
was
no CCTV,” said PC Lucy hotly. “We checked all over. Double-checked, triple-checked, even.”

“Then how—”

“Think,
mon ami
,” said Chef Maurice, who was sat at the end of the table with Hamilton in his lap.

Once again, Arthur fought the urge to thump his friend on the top of his conceited head.

“It was a fake video, it must have been,” said PC Lucy. “The quality was far too good, for one. And that wasn’t Sir William, was it?”

“Aha!” said Chef Maurice, looking pleased.

“I have to admit my team might have had a hand in that,” said Paloni, unleashing a dazzling smile in PC Lucy’s direction. “After Mr Maurice here talked me into his little scheme.”

“Damnation, so
that’s
what you were up to,” said Arthur, slapping the table and sending a plate of biscuits flying. “The actor chap you had wandering around the grounds . . . ”

Paloni nodded. “I was sure glad that Resnick fella tore down the screen at that point. Else you’d have seen that those black leather shoes were me, and I sure as hell don’t look a thing like him. You might have even thought to arrest me,” he added, with a wink at PC Lucy, who narrowed her eyes at him.

“I still don’t get it,” said Bertie, who was sharing a chair with Ariane, one arm around her waist. “So he was stealing wine from Uncle William’s cellar and replacing them with fakes? And what, selling the real bottles on after?”

“
Non
,
non
, even better than that. There were no real bottles to start with. Monsieur Resnick would buy empty bottles, and even sometimes manufacture the labels himself. Then he would fill them and sell them to collectors. Sometimes even at his own auctions. He would claim to have bought them from those secretly wishing to cash in their cellars, but who did not want to have it known. And in this way, he never had need to reveal his sources.”

“And none of his clients ever suspected? Apart from Sir William?” said Arthur.

“Many didn’t. Or perhaps they chose to stay silent,” said Chef Maurice. “But there was one collector in America who became suspicious, which is how Monsieur Mack became involved. He tells me that most of the wines found to be fake could be traced back to Monsieur Resnick and his company. But they needed to find a collector in Britain to also make a case, so that Monsieur Resnick could be put on trial here too. It was at this time that Sir William first contacted the police in London. It had taken him much time to have suspicions of someone he had known and trusted for so long . . . ”

“But how did Resnick find out about the Met investigation?” said Arthur.

Chef Maurice shrugged. “Monsieur Resnick will tell the police, I am sure. It is possible he realised the suspicions when he saw the yellow stickers that Sir William and Monsieur Mack used to mark those bottles that they had doubts on.

“But for me, I think Sir William was a gentleman, to the very end. Remember, he spoke to Monsieur Resnick in his office, earlier that day of the tasting. It is my thought that he told Monsieur Resnick of the investigation, to give him the sporting chance, as you say, to go himself to the police. Monsieur Resnick, he pretends to agree, begs to stay for the dinner to keep up appearances, but in truth, he has other plans. He cuts the phone line, so that there is no chance for Sir William to ring to the police, and then that evening, he takes his steps to silence him altogether.”

“An evil man,” said Ariane with a shiver.

“So how does this Agent Mack fellow fit in all this?” said Arthur. “What was he doing down at Le Cochon Rouge on the night of the murder?”