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Elisabeth offered him a cool handshake. “Goodnight, Monsieur Macleod. Why don’t you join me for breakfast in the dining room tomorrow?”

Enzo was slightly surprised. “I would like that very much.” He nodded. “Goodnight.” And as he passed the stainless steel counter where the blond girl was still working, he dropped the scrumpled up page from his pocket on to the floor, catching her eye one last time to direct her toward his note. As the sliding glass doors opened to usher him out of the kitchen, he glanced back to see her stoop quickly to recover it and slip it into a hidden pocket somewhere beneath her apron.

Chapter Five

Enzo stepped from the shower, drying himself with a big, soft, warm towel before slipping into his robe and rubbing his hair with a hand-towel. He ran his hands through it then, sweeping the thick strands of it back from his brow to fall in ropes across his shoulders.

He looked at himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, lips pulled back to reveal a row of fine, white upper front teeth, the buzz of his electric toothbrush filling the bathroom. He had been blessed with strong teeth that had required little dental care over the years. But the years had been less kind in other ways. He could see the crows’ feet gaining definition as they fanned out from the corners of his eyes, the deepening crease down the right side of his forehead and upper cheek where he slept on it. Some mornings before movement brought blood back to his face, it looked almost like a scar.

He could see the faintest discoloration now in the whites of his eyes, but he had long stopped being aware of the contrasting colors of his irises, the genetic inheritance of Waardenburg Syndrome. His jawline was holding up well, but there was a certain lack of definition now about his neck, and if he failed to shave for a few days he could see that his bristles were starting to silver, like the hair on his head. One day, he guessed, his distinctive white stripe would be lost forever.

He rinsed his mouth and padded bare-foot back through to the living room. A comfortable three-piece suite was arranged around a widescreen LCD TV, and the late evening news was playing on FR3. Thick-piled carpet led through an open arched doorway to the bedroom where the covers on his king-size bed had been turned down by the maid sometime earlier in the evening.

A soft knock at the door startled him, although he had been expecting it for some time. His heart beat a little faster as he crossed to the door and opened it a fraction. Out in the darkened hallway, he saw the pale, nervous face of the blonde. She glanced anxiously back along the hall before he opened the door wide to let her in.

She hurried into the room, bringing with her cold air from somewhere outside. As he closed the door behind her, she flung her arms around his neck and reached up to kiss him. He kissed her forehead and took her face in his hands, turning it up toward him to look at her. “What on earth have you done to your hair?”

She pulled away. “Oh, papa! It’s obvious, isn’t it? If I hadn’t dyed it, they’d have seen my white streak, and they would have known I was your daughter the moment you arrived.” It was the one symptom of Waardenburg that he had passed on to her.

He took her hand and led her to the settee. “Come and sit down, Sophie, and tell me all about it. Do you want a drink?”

She flopped into the soft embrace of the settee’s upholstery. “Oh, God, yes! I could murder something with alcohol in it. I’ve hardly had a drink since I’ve been here! Four weeks, and it feels like four months. Peeling bloody vegetables and washing floors. This is the last time I ever go undercover for you.”

Enzo smiled as he opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of chilled Chablis. “It’ll do you good. You’ll find out what real work’s all about.”

Sophie glanced around the suite. “I see
you’re
really slumming it.” She watched him uncork the bottle and fill a single glass. “Are you not having one?”

“Just brushed my teeth.”

She pulled a face. “Yeh, toothpaste and Chablis. Doesn’t really go, does it?” She took the glass from him and he dropped into the armchair opposite.

“So tell me.”

She shrugged and sipped her wine. “Not much to tell, really. That letter of introduction you got from your friend at the catering school in Souillac really did the trick. They took me on for the full five weeks, no questions asked. But there’s nothing to do here, papa! You spend most of the time working, and the rest of the time cooped up in a tiny room in the staff annexe watching a crappy TV set that looks like its broadcasting a snowstorm. And the food? You’d think because you’re working in a three-star kitchen you’d eat well. But all our meals are cooked by one of the
stagiaires
. Pretty bloody awful. We all have to take turns. Even me. So you can imagine!”

Enzo could, only too well. He wrinkled his nose.

But Sophie wasn’t finished. “And the social life is
zero
!”

“You aren’t here to socialise. You’re here to be my eyes and ears behind the scenes, to pick up the kind of things no one’s ever going to tell me.”

“I didn’t know it was going to be like this, though. I thought it would be fun. Roll on next week!” She took a lengthy draught from her glass.

“That’s Chablis, Sophie. You don’t drink it like lemonade.”

“You do if you haven’t had a decent drink for a month.”

Enzo sighed. Sophie was almost twenty-four now, but it was hard to believe sometimes that she wasn’t still sixteen. “Have you learned anything at all?”

She pursed her lips in a secret little smile and tilted her head to one side. “Maybe.”

“Sophie!” Enzo was losing patience.

Sophie tucked her legs up under her and leaned on the arm of the settee. “Well… a lot of gossip, I guess. Folk just love to blether.”

Enzo couldn’t resist a smile. From the time she had started to talk he had spoken only English to her. He knew that she would be steeped in French language and culture as she grew up, but he had wanted her to absorb at least a little of her cultural heritage. And, of course, the English she had learned was
his
English, peppered with Scottish words, and flavoured with a gentle Scottish accent, like the warm scent of whisky on a summer’s evening. “And what have they been
blethering
about?”

“Oh, this and that.” It was clear she had something to tell him. Something she was pleased with. But she wasn’t about to blurt it straight out. “And the
sous chef
’s taken a fancy to me.”

“Oh, has he?” This was not what Enzo wanted to hear. “Well, I hope you’re not encouraging him.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Philippe’s a good looking guy.”

“What about Bertrand?”

“What about him?”

“You’re not cheating on him, are you?”

A petulant little pout pursed her lips. “I’m not here to take lectures from you on cheating.” She saw immediately how she had hurt him, carelessly, thoughtlessly. And she immediately relented. “I’m sorry, papa. I didn’t mean that like it sounded.”

Enzo nodded, but said nothing.

“Anyway, I’m not cheating on anyone. It’s just nice to be getting a bit of attention, that’s all.” She sipped on her wine again. “Everyone who was here when Marc Fraysse was still alive really loved him. I mean, no one’s got a bad word to say about him. Apparently he was endlessly patient with the
stagiaires
. Unlike his successor.”

“You don’t like Georges Crozes?”

She shrugged. “He’s okay, I suppose. Bit of a cold fish. But he’s good, you know? Everyone respects his talent. It seems like Marc really thought the world of him. But he’s got a temper on him. He can lose it sometimes. And you don’t want to be around him when he does.”

“What about Marc himself? Any stories, anecdotes, observations?”

Sophie smiled. “He had a bit of a passion for the horses, apparently.”

Enzo frowned. “You mean he went horse riding?”

Sophie laughed. “No, papa! Don’t be silly! I mean he liked betting on them. It seems he drove into Thiers most mornings to the PMU to place a few bets on that day’s
courses
.”

Enzo nodded thoughtfully. “And Guy? What’s he like?”

“He’s a lovely man, papa. Treats everyone like a member of the family.”

“What about him and Elisabeth? Is there anything between them, do you think?”

Sophie raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Romantically, you mean?”

“Or sexually.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. If there is, they keep it incredibly well hidden. They are more like brother and sister. Except that she’s a lot more aloof. Treats the staff like the staff. Likes to be called
patronne
, or Madame Fraysse. Guy is happy for everyone to call him Guy. Which everyone does. Except for Patrick, of course. He’s been with the family for years. Ve-ery old fashioned. But nice.” She took another sip from her glass. “Apparently Marc had everyone just call him Marc, even the
stagiaires
. Which is unheard of. The chef is
always
called
chef
.”

“And Georges?”

“Oh, he’s
chef
. No doubt about that. You wouldn’t last long if you called him
Georges
.”

Enzo regarded his daughter thoughtfully as she drained her glass. “So what is it you haven’t told me yet?”

Sophie pouted. “Oh, papa, you’re no fun. How did you know?”

Enzo laughed. “Sophie, you’re like an open book.”

She frowned. “If I was, I wouldn’t have been able to work undercover here for four weeks without anyone knowing.”

Enzo smiled indulgently. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry.” He gazed at her fondly. So much of her mother in her. The mother he had only really got to know vicariously in the bringing up of her daughter. “So what is your little secret?”

“A pretty open secret really.” But she grinned conspiratorially, leaning forward slightly, as if they might be overheard. “Georges’ wife, Anne, works as a receptionist at the hotel. You probably met her when you checked in.”

Enzo recalled the slim, handsome woman behind the reception desk. A woman in her forties, he would have guessed. Auburn hair drawn severely back from a pale face, strong features enhanced by the merest touch of make-up. Her smile had been warm enough. But he remembered, too, the momentary shadow which had dulled it when she realized who he was. “Anne.” He repeated her name, as if trying it out for size. But, in truth, it was the technique he employed for defeating his poor memory for names. Once repeated, forever remembered.

“Everyone who was here at the time reckons Anne Crozes and Marc Fraysse were having an affair.” Sophie sat back in the settee, pleased with herself. “Which, if you were looking for motive, would provide plenty for either Georges or Elisabeth.”

***

Sophie stayed another half hour, drinking more of his wine, regaling him with tales of her four weeks in the kitchen, demanding news of Cahors, wanting to know if he had seen Bertrand. But his mind was only half with her. If it were true that Anne Crozes and Marc Fraysse had been having an affair, then it would be reasonable to assume that if everyone else knew about it, then both Elisabeth and Georges must have suspected it, too. But while motive was significant, Enzo was always careful not to attach too much importance to it. Real, hard, forensic evidence was much more compelling, and often led in a direction that belied motive. Moreover, it was equally true that while everyone around you knew that your spouse was cheating, you were very often the last person to know it yourself. And, even then, the last one to admit it. Lending veracity to the old adage that there are none so blind as those who will not see. Still, it was food for thought.

Sophie was suddenly on her feet. “I’d better go.”

Enzo followed her to the door, where she stopped, turning to look at him earnestly. “Have you seen Charlotte?”

“Out of bounds, Sophie.”

“Oh, papa…”

“Goodnight.” He opened the door and pushed her gently out into the darkness of the hallway. She hesitated a moment before turning back to kiss him lightly on the cheek. “You can’t just accept it. You’ve got rights. And he’s my blood, too.”

But she was away before he could respond, and he saw her hurrying off along the carpeted passageway to be absorbed by the dark, his mind a complex confusion of thoughts he had successfully been keeping at bay. Until now.

As he turned to go back into his room, the merest hint of a movement at the opposite end of the hall flickered in his peripheral vision. He stood stock still, heart thumping, and peered into the darkness, eyes growing accustomed to the lack of light as he did. But there was nothing. No movement. No sound. After several long moments, he began to doubt that he had seen anything at all. He returned to his room and shut the door firmly behind him.

Chapter Six

Sunlight flitted about the vast landscape spread below them as clouds scudded across a sky torn and broken by a cold north-west wind. The rain and low-hanging cloud of the day before was gone, and from their table in the south conservatory dining room, the view was breathtaking, as if seen from some hidden vantage point in the sky itself.

“Saint-Pierre,” Elisabeth said, “is the closest you can get to heaven without passing through the gates.” She smiled. “So they say.”

“It’s aptly named, then,” Enzo said. “If this is, indeed, where St. Peter resides, then we must be at the very gates themselves.”

Elisabeth tilted her head and broke off a piece of
croissant
with long, elegant fingers. “Marc would certainly have had you believe that. He loved this place, you know. He had our bedroom fashioned from the room which had once been his parents’. He was born in that room. And his children were conceived there, too.” The brightness in her eyes clouded a little. “He might well have died there, had he lived.” And then her face broke into an unexpected smile. “If that doesn’t sound a little too… Irish, you would say, yes?”

Enzo grinned. “Yes.” He dipped his
croissant
into his
grande crème
and had raised it halfway, dripping, to his mouth, before realising that Elisabeth was watching him. Perhaps, he thought, his predilection for dipping
croissants
in his coffee was not quite
de rigeur
in a three-star restaurant. But it was too late now, and his momentary pause had allowed the coffee to soften the soaked segment of
croissant
to the point where it broke off and fell back into his coffee cup, splashing and staining the pristine white linen around it.

He felt his face reddening. “Excuse me.” He dabbed at the tablecloth with his napkin.

He wondered if her smile was just a little patronising. “Don’t worry, Monsieur Macleod, Marc would have approved. He loved to
tremper
his
croissants
.” It almost seemed like a way of affirming her husband’s humble origins while placing herself on a slightly higher plane.

A young female server approached the table with a replenished
pichet
of freshly squeezed orange juice. She hovered it over Elisabeth’s glass. “Madame Fraysse?” But
la patronne
simply dismissed her with a wave of the hand, and the server immediately shrank away to present herself at Enzo’s side of the table. “Monsieur?”

Enzo gave her a friendly smile. “No thank you.”

The girl bowed and moved discreetly away. Enzo glanced at Elisabeth, but the widow was now gazing from the window at the view below, lost in some distant thought.

He said, “In everything I have read about your husband, the speculation about Michelin being poised to remove one of his stars is ever-present. Did Marc really believe that was about to happen?”

She turned a weary expression toward him. It was a subject which had almost certainly worn thin. “I don’t know that he believed it. But he was certainly afraid of it.” She sipped at her steaming herbal
tisane
. “It is the nightmare of every three-star chef. The achieving of each star is a long hard road of blood, sweat, and frustration, Monsieur. Of terrible uncertainty in an uncertain world. Each star won is a cause for celebration. When you have one you want two. When you have two, you want three. But when you have three, there is nowhere to go but down. It was Marc’s constant dread that he would lose a star. It drove everything he did, almost to the point of obsession.”

“But where did the speculation come from? Michelin?”

“Oh, no. Michelin would never be so indiscreet. It originated entirely in the media.”

“Something must have given rise to it.”

She sighed. “It was all sparked, seemingly, by a single, malicious article published by one particular Parisian food critic. A freelance critic, Monsieur Macleod, who writes for several of the more distinguished Paris publications, but also has his own online blog. An unpleasant man.”

“You knew him personally?”

“I didn’t, no. But Marc did. He and a few other Michelin-starred chefs were frequently criticised in his columns. He was, and still is, a fierce critic of the Michelin system, and likes to think that he alone should be the judge of good taste in French cuisine.” She paused, some dark thought passing like a shadow across her face, reflecting the shifting patterns of light and shade in the landscape beyond. “There was an enmity between him and Marc which dated back to the time when he was awarded his third star.”

Enzo frowned. “You told me yesterday, Madame Fraysse, that your husband did not have an enemy in the world.”

Her smile was rueful. “With the sole exception, perhaps, of Jean-Louis Graulet. But Graulet didn’t murder Marc, Monsieur Macleod. He was in Paris the day that Marc died.”

Enzo finished dipping the remains of his
croissant
in his coffee and poured himself a fresh cup from the fine Limoges china jug on the table. He sipped on it thoughtfully. “Did Marc have a biographer?”

“No, he didn’t. But he talked several times about writing a memoir. An autobiography.”

“A lot of people in his position would hire a professional to ghost write something like that for him.”

“Oh, not Marc. He would have wanted to do it himself.”

“And did he?”

“Not that I know of. I went through all his papers and his computer disks at the time, but there was nothing.” She paused. “Strange, though.”

“What is?”

“He had trouble sleeping in the last months. I used to wake at maybe two or three in the morning to find his side of the bed empty and cold. Then I would find him in his
petit bureau
, huddled over the computer on his desk, tapping away. He was always strangely evasive when I asked him about it. I always had the impression that he was, in fact, writing his memoir and for some reason didn’t want to tell me. A surprise maybe. Which is why I searched for it after his death. But I guess I was wrong.”

Enzo scratched his chin thoughtfully and realized he hadn’t shaved that morning. “What do you think he
was
doing on his computer, then, in the small hours of the morning.”

She shook her head. “I haven’t the faintest idea, Monsieur Macleod.”