Chef Maurice and the Wrath of Grapes (Chef Maurice Culinary Mysteries Book 2) (24 page)

Arthur looked over at Chef Maurice. “I’m surprised you’re not out there hobnobbing, old chap. What with all the fizz and canapés floating around.”

Chef Maurice reached down wordlessly and hefted up a half-empty Champagne bottle from under his chair.

“And why do you think it’s taking me so long to load up all these trays?” complained Mrs Bates. “He keeps snuffling up the canapés when he thinks I’m not looking. And with a five-course dinner to follow as well, I don’t know . . . ”

There was a little squeak from under Chef Maurice’s armchair. Arthur bent down. It was Hamilton, sat in a little basket with a tartan blanket, a silver platter of sow nuts beside him.

“Should he even be in here?”

“I thought
le petit
Hamilton should not miss out on the evening. If things happen as I plan, I assure you they will be most spectacular.”

“I do hope you’re not planning any fireworks, Mister Maurice,” said Mrs Bates distractedly. “Scares me no end, all those big bangs.”

“Do not worry, Madame Bates, there will be none of
those
type of fireworks.”

Alf staggered back into the kitchen with an empty tray and a harrowed look in his eyes. As Mrs Bates readied another tray for the following salvo, he sidled up to Chef Maurice.

“Delivered your message, chef.”

Chef Maurice’s eyes sprang open, suddenly alert. “
Oui?
”

“She said to meet up in the Pinky Mauve Room, chef. And you better make it quick.”

Chef Maurice stood up and brushed a few crumbs from his lapels.

“Stay here and guard the kitchen,” he said, addressing the hidden Hamilton. He nodded at the others. “I will return soon. Tonight, a murderer will be revealed.”

Patrick got off the bus in Cowton’s town centre, just across the road from Trattoria Bennucci. It was starting to snow again and little flakes were settling on his new hat, which, the shop lady had assured him, gave him the look of a young Gregory Peck. Whoever that was.

His new scarf was tied just so around his neck in a way that
Gentlemen’s Weekly
claimed would impress 87.4 per cent of girls he met, and a single purple iris was clenched in one gloved hand as he contemplated his next move.

Either Lucy would look at him in a completely new light after this evening, or it would all go hideously wrong and she’d never speak to him again. But wars were not won, he told himself, by coming second.

Through the big glass frontage, he could catch a glimpse of her, sat at a table in the middle of the room. She was alone, gazing around with a bored expression and perusing the menu in the manner of someone who had made their choice ten minutes ago and now regrets having bothered to turn up on time.

It was now or never.

He crossed the road, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door.

In the Pinky Mauve Room, Ariane was seated at the little vanity table, powdering her nose from a compact. She looked up in the mirror as Chef Maurice entered quietly.

“Thank you for allowing me this meeting,
madame
.”

Ariane turned to face him. “Tonight is an important night for Chateau Lafoute. Please make this quick. I must return soon to my guests.”

Chef Maurice wandered over to the tall bay windows. It was dark outside now, but moonlight picked out the first shimmer of snow settling in the garden below.

He cleared his throat. “The murder of Sir William has always seemed to me a fantastical one. The method? A secret stairway and a bottle of fine wine. And those held suspect? A group of his most esteemed guests. The discovery of the truth, it has not been simple. And made even less by the many lies told.”

Ariane watched him silently from her seat before the mirror.

“You,
madame
, for example, you gave two lies. The first? That you went upstairs on the night of the crime to rest in your own room. But you did not. Instead you went to Monsieur Paloni, who had been in some anger after his conversation with Sir William.”

“Where did you hear such a lie? I was with my husband. He will tell you so.”

“Come,
madame
, there is no time for this game. The note you left for Monsieur Paloni, it was found by the police. I am certain it can be proved to be your handwriting, if you so wish.”

Ariane gave a shrug of her thin shoulders.

“And then, we come to your second lie. You say to your husband that you are shocked to hear of his inheritance. But this is not true,
n’est-ce pas
? You are an observant woman. You had already made the guess that Sir William was Monsieur Bertie’s true father. It could be presumed that Monsieur Bertie would likely come to inherit the estate after Sir William’s death. In fact, you could not resist to make such a jibe, as they say, to Lady Margaret.”

“I could not be certain about anything. I merely spoke to annoy that horrible old woman.”

“Ah. Perhaps you were not certain, but I think that you were sure enough. Enough, perhaps, that it happens like this.

“On the night of the murder, you climb the stairs, saying you retire to your own room. Instead, you go to the bookcase, the secret passageway your husband once talked about in his childhood tales, and you run quickly down the staircase. You carry one of Monsieur Bertie’s handkerchiefs, so that you may wipe your fingerprints from the bottle after. You stand behind Sir William, and raise your hand. And then . . . ”

Chef Maurice brought his own hand down into his other palm in a loud, meaty slap.

“Sir William’s death, you were sure, would make your husband a very rich man. And you had many plans for your vineyard. All you needed after was to convince the two gentlemen, Monsieur Paloni and Monsieur Bertie, to both lie for you. Which they do, most admirably. And so you have my tale.” He gave a little bow.

“A bizarre story,” said Ariane with disdain. “Yes, I asked them to lie for me, I will admit that, but it was only to protect my husband. It was obvious he would face suspicion, if Sir William had left his estate to him as I thought. So I took a precaution. That is all.”

Chef Maurice regarded her for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded.

“And I believe you,
madame
.”

“
Comment?
” Ariane blinked.

“
Oui
,
ma petite
. I do not believe you would murder Sir William. Not for the money your husband would inherit.”

“You can be so sure?” She stuck out her chin, defiant.

“
Oui
. You,
madame
, could have married any of the world’s many rich men. Men like Monsieur Paloni,
par exemple
. Yet you make the choice of Monsieur Bertie, a man who had no riches before this week. And why? It is simple. Because you fell in love with him.

“And not just that. You love him still, very much. My friend, Arthur, he is very English. He would not understand. But when you heard of the murder, you sought to protect Monsieur Bertie with an alibi. You did this, not knowing whether he would inherit or not. And not even knowing,
madame
,
if he was innocent of the crime
.”

Ariane looked at him. “You tell more stories?”

“Ah,” said Chef Maurice, shaking his head, “perhaps if there was more time. But there is not. Until the murderer is captured, there are those who still live in danger. I have my ideas, but what I do not have, is the
proof
. And so,
madame
, I ask for your help. If you will give me your permission to, how shall we say, add to the evening’s entertainment . . . ”

Ariane listened to Chef Maurice’s proposal, eyes narrowing as he spoke. Finally, she nodded.

“You have my permission. But this must work. Or you put us all in grave danger!”

“It will work. I give you my assurance.” Chef Maurice strode towards the door. “I go now to make the final arrangements. Return,
madame
, to the entertaining of your visitors. You may leave the rest to Papa Maurice . . . ”

Patrick sauntered past the restaurant reception, keeping his gaze fixed on the back of the room. He was just passing PC Lucy’s table when he heard a little gasp and looked down to meet her blue-eyed stare.

“Patrick?” She sounded startled, more confused than guilty, though he saw her gaze flicker towards the front door.

“Oh, hi.” He tipped his hat. “Fancy seeing you here. I didn’t think this was your kind of place.”

“It wasn’t my choice,” said PC Lucy with a grimace. She appeared to have now recovered from the surprise. “What brings you, er—”

“Just catching up with an old friend,” he replied, with painstakingly practised insouciance. “I think I see her over there. I better go sit down. Have a good evening.” He tipped his hat again, wondering if two rounds of hat-tipping was a bit overkill, and strolled as slowly as he dared over to the table in the back, which was occupied by a long-legged dark-haired woman wearing a fur-trimmed coat.

“Patrick,
mio caro
, it has been too long,” she purred, unfurling herself from her seat to kiss him on both cheeks.

“You too,” said Patrick, taking his seat opposite her. He was facing the wall, which was probably a good thing, in that PC Lucy would not be able to see his face. Unfortunately, it wasn’t so good for being able to keep an eye on hers.

“Can you see her? What’s she doing?” he whispered, leaning over the table.

Isabella glanced up. “She is looking at us. She looks very angry. Do you really think this was a good idea?”

“We’re just having dinner. That’s allowed, isn’t it? Plus, she can’t talk. She’s definitely meeting some guy here tonight.”

Isabella gave a little eye roll. “You men. So territorial. Did you bring the recipe?”

Patrick patted his pocket.

“Perfect. It will go onto my spring menu,” she said, with a wicked glint in her eye.

Isabella Raffini was currently making headlines as the youngest ever female head chef to grace the kitchens of a two-star Michelin restaurant, not to mention being by far the most photogenic. The press were swarming all over her, and she had obliged them by posing for one particular photo shoot wearing only a tall white chef’s hat and holding a large, but not very large, baking tray. Patrick knew that Alf had a printout pinned up in his room, and would probably keel over with jealousy if he knew Patrick was here with her tonight.

But to Patrick, Isabella had always been just another brother-in-arms, a fellow fighter on the culinary battlefield. They had trained in many of the same kitchens earlier in their respective careers and, in contrast to certain of his colleagues, Patrick had never had any interest in getting any closer. Seeing someone ferociously gut, debone and skewer half a dozen wild ducks in under five minutes on their first day at work could have that effect on a man.

“And you, Patrick, why do you work here in the middle of nowhere? In a village restaurant? You should be in London, it is where things happen. By now, you could have your own restaurant. There are people I could put you in touch with.”

“I know. But, well, London always did my head in, and I’m getting to quite like it out here. Honestly. Plus . . . ” His thoughts turned to PC Lucy. “Wait, is she still looking?”

Isabella took another glance over his shoulder. “No. But she looks sad.”