Chef Maurice and the Wrath of Grapes (Chef Maurice Culinary Mysteries Book 2) (21 page)

“What a load of—”

“But what if I tell you,” said Chef Maurice, leaning forwards, “that I hear it said you were seen coming out from behind the bookcase on the night of the murder. No, I cannot say by who . . . ”

Arthur looked at his friend. This, he was sure, was pure fabrication. The question was, to what end?

“Lies! Some crackpot talking garbage to please the press, I see it all the time. And there’s nothing they can pin on me, anyway, because if it comes to it, I’ve got a watertight alibi!”

“
Oui
, you may have, but can you trust Madame Ariane to tell the truth on your behalf?”

There was a moment’s shocked silence.

“Wha— How— What did she tell you?” spluttered Paloni, his composure melting away like a summertime snowman.

“It was only a matter of deduction, to know that you and Madame Ariane were involved in
une liaison
, as we say,” said Chef Maurice, leaning back comfortably. “You returned from speaking to Sir William in a black mood, and so, of course, she follows her lover upstairs to offer comfort.”

“Damn fool of her too. When a man wants to be alone, you should leave him well alone,” fumed Paloni.

“But still, you told the police you were in your room by yourself,
n’est-ce pas
? To save the reputation of the lady?”

“Ha! She didn’t even give me the chance. Even before the cops turned up, she told me she was going to insist she was with that damp rag of a husband of hers, instead. She’d already made one of those big heartrending confessions to him, promising to go on the straight and narrow—ha, if I had a dollar every time I’ve heard a gal say that . . . Anyway, she said at the end of the day, it’d be their word against mine. And what’s a fella to do then?”

“Hmmm,
très intéressant
,” said Chef Maurice, staring up at the gilded ceiling. “But in truth, she was with you all the time? She did not leave the room?”

“Not for a moment,” said Paloni. “But, hey, what’s this all about? Are the cops trying to put the finger on Ariane? Because if they are, I don’t care what she says, I’ll make sure they know everything. It’s no skin off my nose!”

“
Non
,
non
, do not exert yourself,
monsieur
, the police are not to be worried about. For now, that is.” Chef Maurice grabbed a bread roll, picked up his hat, and stood up. “I thank you for your time, and wish you a success with your film of the dangerous
poisson
.”

With that, Chef Maurice left the restaurant, his progress followed by a dozen curious gazes.

Arthur looked over at Paloni, who had the haggard look of a man who’d just run into the Maurice Manchot Questioning Squad. Time to get matters back on track, before Paloni decided to bolt. He pulled a shiny square of paper out of his briefcase.

“I don’t suppose I could trouble you for an autograph? My wife, Meryl, she’s a huge fan . . . ”

Half an hour later, Arthur located Chef Maurice in a little Italian cafe around the corner, polishing off a plate of tiramisu and a double espresso.

“Okay, spill,” said Arthur, pulling out the chair opposite.

Chef Maurice lifted up his coffee cup and looked underneath.

“No, I didn’t mean— How in the foggiest did you know all that stuff about Paloni?”

“Ah, when one is trained to observe the smallest of details, it becomes the first nature—”

“—second nature, you mean—”

“—to watch and see what one can learn, in the things that people do not say, the things they do not do.”

“So, what you’re saying is—it was all guesswork?”

Chef Maurice looked affronted. “
Mon cher
Arthur, you have so small a regard for me?”

“How did you know all that stuff about Paloni’s business? Don’t tell me you’re a sudden expert in wine investments.”

“
D’accord
, I will admit that
that
part was a task of speculation. But it seemed clear that the only matter of interest to both Sir William and Monsieur Paloni was the question of the investments in his vineyards, which, we learn from Monsieur Norton at the auction, does not go well.”

“Okay. And what about him having an affair with Ariane Lafoute? Don’t tell me that was all serendipitous guessing too?”

“Ah,” said Chef Maurice, looking pleased. “
Non
. Here, we must use the head.” He tapped a finger against his own. “We had made the assumption that the note we found in Sir William’s pocket was meant for him and written by Madame Ariane. But what if we were wrong in our first thought? Madame Ariane has already admitted to a private conversation with Sir William in his study, on the history of Chateau Lafoute, she tells us. Why then would she need to leave him a private note?
Non
. The note was written by her, yes, but it was not intended for Sir William.

“Recall the first conversation we had with Monsieur Bertie. He claims to be a bad sleeper, yet he comes to London and he sleeps like
un bébé
? This cannot be! Those who cannot sleep at home, it is not likely that they sleep well in a new bed. And then we have the many sleeping medicines that Madame Ariane carries with her. Monsieur Bertie’s deep sleep, and the fact that Monsieur Paloni stays in the same hotel, this cannot be a coincidence.”

“So she was drugging her husband so she could sneak off to meet Paloni? Crafty,” said Arthur. “So assuming the note we found was meant for him, how on earth did it turn up in Sir William’s pocket? We can assume Ariane left it somewhere for Paloni to find, but I really can’t see Sir William being the type to go snooping around his guests’ bedrooms.”

“
Non
, he was not, but his
belle-sœur
, Lady Margaret, she is
exactly
the type to feel that she has the right to look into the rooms of the other guests. Especially the ones she does not like. Remember, she spoke of Monsieur Paloni being a man to wear ‘red silk underwear’. She is not the kind of woman to have the imagination for such detail, and yet, she makes such a claim. How? We know already from looking in his luggage that this is what he wears. So it was Lady Margaret, not Sir William, who looked around Monsieur Paloni’s room and found the note. She then insisted to speak with Sir William, most likely to show him the note and complain of the type of guests he invites into his house.”

Arthur leaned back in his chair, whistling. “Not bad, not bad at all. But where does this leave us with the identity of the murderer? If we believe Paloni, then it can’t have been him. He wouldn’t have had time before Ariane went up to see him to sneak down to the cellar. And according to him, it can’t be her either. Unless they were in it together . . . ”

“A possibility,
oui
.”

“They could have arranged the whole thing. The argument, the stomping upstairs. And then, icing on the cake, poor old Bertie is wheeled in to provide a suitable alibi to protect his now-penitent wife, not realising that there’s a chance she’s been up to something much more sinister . . . ”

“Very good,
mon ami.
But what if Monsieur Paloni, he tells us the truth? That he and Madame Ariane were in his room all the time?”

Arthur considered this. It seemed a much less dramatic option. Unless . . .

“What if Bertie’s not the wet dishcloth everyone thinks he is? He goes upstairs, finds Ariane gone, and decides to seize the opportunity. There’s every chance he was lying about having conveniently ‘forgotten’ about the secret passageway.”

“
Oui
, if it is Monsieur Paloni who speaks the truth, then things do not look very good for Monsieur Bertie,” said Chef Maurice gravely. “But
non
, it cannot be . . . ”

“You still think he’s innocent? Because it’s all piling up, motive, opportunity . . . Lucy’s going to have him down in the cells pretty soon when she hears about all this.”

“Then, we must think faster. There is much still about this case that disturbs me. And also, I have a feeling . . . a feeling that we run out of time . . . ”

The next few days in Beakley proceeded at their usual leisurely pace.

General consensus amongst the villagers, as reported by Dorothy, was that Gilles the butler was undoubtedly the culprit, probably a covert recruit from an international ring of wine thieves, and had now gone into hiding across the Mexico border.

Patrick pointed out that the Mexico border would take a rather long time to reach from the Cotswolds, and Gilles would have been better off nipping onto a ferry across to France, but his views were pooh-poohed in favour of a more cinematic outcome.

Old Mrs Eldridge, just returned from a seaside stay in Brighton, claimed to have spotted the fugitive butler working incognito as a waiter in the bed and breakfast she was staying at, but given that last month she had telephoned the police at the sighting of a UFO hanging over the village green—which had turned out to be a particularly oddly shaped gibbous moon, half-hidden behind the clouds—this theory was not given much weight.

PC Lucy had made a show of taking down Chef Maurice and Arthur’s latest discoveries, with a promise to ‘look into matters in due course’, but no further developments seemed forthcoming from the Cowton and Beakley Constabulary.

Come Friday, though, the village was shaken out of its beds by the news that the young Lafoutes had temporarily moved themselves into Bourne Hall, supposedly to sort out the estate’s legal affairs before returning to Bordeaux.

“Despicable!” was Dorothy’s pronouncement on the situation. “Sir William’s hardly cold in his grave and they’re probably selling off the furniture and putting in a swimming pool.”

Chef Maurice glanced out of the window. The trees were bare and there was a light coating of frost on the hedgerows. Swimming pools, he was sure, could not possibly be on anyone’s mind in the current climate.

Still, the return of the Lafoutes now gave him a reason to go back up to Bourne Hall for another look around, especially in the wake of Gilles’s disappearance.

It was clear that there were still many missing pieces in this puzzle, and it was high time to start searching under the metaphorical sofa.

Or something like that, anyway.

“Still refusing to believe good old Bertie is involved in all this?” said Arthur, as they pulled up the long driveway. The snow had melted down to a thin mottled blanket, and tufts of green were poking out here and there in the weak winter sunlight.

“There is no guilt without proof,” replied Chef Maurice, staring out over the empty lawn.

“And what about Gilles? No cunning explanation about his disappearance yet?”

“
Non
, but it is possible that he too has become a victim of the murderer.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “So, I take it you’ll just be spouting more ominous nonsense in the meantime, until you figure it all out?”

Chef Maurice patted his friend’s arm. “It warms me,
mon ami
, that you too are confident that I will, as you say, figure this out.”

Arthur sighed, and wondered what life would feel like with an ego as large and impervious as the one owned by Chef Maurice.

There was a shiny Mercedes parked beside the front door, presumably hired by the newly minted Lafoutes.