Chef Maurice and the Wrath of Grapes (Chef Maurice Culinary Mysteries Book 2) (20 page)

“Let’s see . . . Well, Sir William’s forbearers certainly fought valiantly for home and country. And sideburns were eminently more in fashion back in those days.”

“Pah, you do not use your eyes.
Regarde
, the
ears
.”

Arthur swept his gaze from painting to painting. Now that his friend mentioned it, there was a certain sticking-out-ness common in that particular feature of many of the male Burton-Trents.

“And now, see this.” Chef Maurice pulled out the copy of
The World’s Hundred Greatest Wines
that Alf and Patrick had been looking at earlier.

The resemblance, now pointed out in all its glory, was impossible to miss. If you ignored the weak chin and floppy fair hair, all the other signs were there. The dark eyes, the set of the nose, and of course, those jutting-out ears.

Arthur looked down at the book again. “The ears have it,” he breathed.

There could be no doubt.

Bertie Lafoute was Sir William’s son.

“Well, that explains a lot,” said Arthur, a while later after they’d returned downstairs and managed to disentangle themselves from Lady Margaret’s wide-ranging and voluble complaints about her neighbours, her housekeeper, and all of modern society in general. “Makes sense now, Sir William being so attached to young Bertie, the inheritance, and all that. Do you think he knew? Bertie, I mean?”

Chef Maurice shook his head. “I do not think so. Sir William was an uncle figure to him, no more. There was no conflict in his manner with him, as one would expect if he had known the truth of, how do you say, his birth
illégitime
.

“
Non
, the more important question is, which of the
other
guests had this knowledge? See,
mon ami
, as Sir William’s son
naturel
and so the most likely inheritor to his fortune, Monsieur Bertie presents a perfect space-goat.”

“Scapegoat, I think you’ll find.”

“
Exactement!
The murderer, knowing of this, seeks to throw us off the scent once more. In the case that the story of the broken window is not believed, they pick one of the many handkerchiefs lost by Monsieur Bertie, and leave it in the hidden stairs where it will be found.”

“Or maybe, just maybe, we’re missing the obvious answer here. That Bertie Lafoute is our murderer.”

“Bah! This, I cannot believe. Unless Monsieur Bertie is much a better actor than we can expect. You saw how the night of the murder overturned him completely.”

“Mmm, yes, rather hard to imagine Bertie up on the stage,” said Arthur. “But what I don’t understand is, if Lady Margaret is right and Ariane knew about the contents of Sir William’s will all along, why wouldn’t she have told her own husband?”

“
Les femmes
,” said Chef Maurice, waving his hands to suggest all enigmas could be easily understood if only one could figure out the inner workings of the female mind.

“And what was that she said about Paloni being after Sir William’s money? I mean, if he was looking to raise more funding for his winery, bumping Sir William off was hardly going to help his cause.”

“One can never be sure of the artistic type,” said Chef Maurice darkly. “He is unstable, capable of anything.”

“Says the man who threw a hissy fit the other day because his macarons came out ‘too round’,” muttered Arthur.

“One does not eat in a place of fine cuisine to have a dessert that appears made by a machine,” grumbled Chef Maurice. “But I think we should speak once more with Monsieur Paloni. Lady Margaret gave mention of one thing I found most interesting . . . ”

“And how are you planning to swing that one? I don’t think one just drops in on Hollywood directors. In fact, they hire hordes of personal assistants just to keep you away from them.”

“Ah, but not every person has a famous food critic as his friend,” said Chef Maurice, clapping Arthur on the shoulder.

Arthur gave him a dubious look. Like many other chefs, his friend was more than vocal in his opinion that the role of a food critic was to be found several rungs below that of a chocolate teapot tester, in terms of use to society.

So, if Chef Maurice was bringing it up, it could only mean one thing: there was something he wanted, and he needed Arthur to get it.

As Arthur had predicted, Paloni’s schedule was packed tighter than a jumbo tin of sardines. But thankfully, when it came to the world of public relations, there were always plentiful strings to be pulled, if you knew how it all worked. The necessary one was identified, and duly tugged upon . . .

It was lunchtime at La Sobriquette, Piccadilly’s long-standing dining room of note, and various media types, celebrities and platinum-card-carrying shoppers were tripping through the brass-edged rotating doors, staring with unchecked curiosity at the odd pair currently occupying Table Sixteen, generally agreed upon to be the best table in the house.

Table Sixteen was a circular leather banquet on a raised dais, set just off to the side of the central dining area, affording it a direct view of the entrance (necessary for keeping an eye out for any A-list friends swinging through the doors), along with a sweeping view of the rest of the room (in case you missed a few acquaintances when you were busy admiring your reflection in the polished mirrors around the walls). Lastly, sitting at Table Sixteen granted everyone else in the room the generous opportunity to gaze upon you and your guests in adoration and envy.

The fact that none of today’s diners could put a name to the two men up on the dais was currently causing major consternation amongst this veteran crowd of stargazers.

“The tall, thin one,” whispered someone at Table Eleven, “I think I’ve seen him in the papers somewhere. A foreign politician, maybe. Moldova, yes, Moldova, I’m sure of it.”

“I don’t think tweed and leather elbow patches are quite the look over in Moldova,” sniped his dining partner. “Maybe he’s one of the minor Royals?” This caused her a worried look, because snubbing a member of royalty, no matter how minor, was just not the done thing. “The big, fat one, though, he’s an actor, for sure. Why else would you grow a moustache like that? He must be in the middle of shooting . . . ”

Such was the state of affairs when Paloni came strolling through the doors to find Chef Maurice and Arthur sitting at his usual table.

“Quite a coincidence,” he drawled, handing his coat to an attentive waiter.

“Not at all,” said Arthur, waving Paloni to the seat across from him. “When my editor heard we’d met before, she thought I’d be the best one to meet you for the paper’s ‘Lunch with . . . ’ piece.”

In truth, Lisa, Arthur’s blond-highlighted, talon-nailed editor at the
England Observer
had been less than thrilled to give up her chance to hobnob with one of Hollywood’s major heart-throbs, but Arthur had sweetened the deal by agreeing to take Lisa’s parents along on his two-star Michelin review next week—thus freeing her for a date with Liverpool’s bad-boy rock star
du jour
.

Plus Meryl had been less than impressed yesterday evening when her husband had returned late from London, not only having missed dinner but making his arrival in the back of a police car. Arthur therefore surmised that a signed photograph from a Hollywood legend would go some way to soothing the current marital friction.

“Maurice, good to see ya again,” said Paloni to the chef, who was deep in a critical analysis of La Sobriquette’s à la carte menu.

“Horseradish with the turbot,
non
, that I do not approve of,” muttered Chef Maurice.

“So,” said Paloni, clasping his tanned hands together as the waitress swanned off with their drink orders, “I guess we better get down to business and talk about
The Dark Aquarium
?”

Arthur and Chef Maurice blinked at him politely.

“That the fish, they bump into the wall a lot?” suggested Chef Maurice.

“Ha ha, that’s a good one,” said Paloni. “No. So, I like to start with the moment the idea for this film—the
nucleus
of the thought, I like to say—came to me. I was snorkelling down in New Mexico, I have a little place down there, and I saw this amazing angelfish, which turned out, according to my guide, to have the most amazing defensive properties”—he paused to check Arthur was getting this all down—“so, what they do is, if they see a predator coming toward them, they angle their scales in a way that reflects the light around them and makes them completely invisible. Poof! Then I thought, what would happen if a mad scientist crossed this fish with a rogue ultra-elite military unit?”

“A very dangerous plate of fish and chips?” suggested Arthur.

Paloni, clearly unaccustomed to anything but fawning praise, ignored this. “The most lethal soldier ever imagined. One that can disappear with just a moment’s thought!”

“Ahh,
magnifique
!” said Chef Maurice, with grand theatrical awe. “To disappear and reappear, just like that!”

“Yeah, you got it!” said Paloni, gratified to finally have an appreciative audience. “And then I thought, what would be the first thing—”

“But there is another way to disappear and reappear,” continued Chef Maurice. “You are familiar with the idea of secret passageways?”

Paloni stopped and looked at Chef Maurice with an aggrieved air. “What?”

“You have not yet heard of the secret passageway between the cellar of Sir William and the bookcase outside the guest bedrooms upstairs at Bourne Hall?”

Paloni threw Arthur the now familiar ‘what the heck is this chap on about’ look, who responded with his usual ‘don’t ask me, he just followed me here’ shrug. Arthur gave Chef Maurice a little kick under the table. He’d have quite liked to get his photo autographed before Chef Maurice started giving the director the third degree.

“I haven’t a damn clue about secret passageways. Now, can we get back to my—”

“Then you deny that after you went upstairs after speaking to Sir William, you used this passageway to descend to the cellar to commit murder?”

“What? Of course I didn’t!” said Paloni hotly.

“Yet you were most insistent to speak to Sir William when he went downstairs, and you returned in a most angry mood. May I ask what it was you spoke of?”

“It’s none of your damn business!”

“Ah, that is a good word, Monsieur Paloni. Because I think it is because of
business
that you wished to speak with Sir William,
n’est-ce pas
? The business of the Basking Buffalo vineyards.

“You told us Sir William was one of your first investors. In fact, he was to give the after-dinner speech at your next meeting of shareholders. But then his attendance was cancelled. Why? Perhaps he did not approve of the recent bad management of the winery and wished to take away his support? It is known that Sir William was most careful with his investments.”

“And if he was, what’s it to you?” said Paloni, his face now contorted in an effort to appear cool and contemplative in front of the watching crowd below. “Not a reason to murder a man, just because he doesn’t like your balance sheet one year.”

“It might be,” said Chef Maurice. “If the man holds the respect of much of the wine world. There was every chance that such a blow to, how do you say, the confidence of your investors, might be fatal to the vineyard. So perhaps you took steps, to ensure that he would not have the chance to withdraw his funds . . . ”