by J. A. Lang
He looked around the tidy kitchen. “You have recovered, madame, from the terrible ordeal that happened here just the other day?”
“Indeed I have,” said Brenda staunchly. “It makes me mad to think of it now. The nerve of it, kidnapping that defenceless little pig. He put up a good fight, I’ll hope you’ll know that, Mr Maurice.”
There was the disjointed patter of someone coming down the stairs at breakneck speed, then a young man with tousled hair swung his head into the kitchen. He wore woefully tight jeans and a black T-shirt emblazoned with some heavy metal band logo.
“Oh, hi, darling,” said Brenda. “Nice to see you finally up. This is Mr Manchot and Mr Wordington-Smythe—you know, the food critic from the England Observer—from over in Beakley. Gentlemen, this is my son, Peter.”
The young man grunted as he inspected the fridge’s contents.
Brenda gave her guests a maternal ‘what can you do?’ smile.
“They’re all like that, I’m afraid. Don’t even see them before midday, and then they just shuffle about until it’s dark.”
“I was wondering, madame, if we might ask you again to describe the intruder who took Hamilton.”
“Oh!” Brenda threw a glance at her son, but he seemed oblivious to the conversation. “Well, he was tall, very tall in fact, and broad. Hulking, even.”
“And the balaclava he wore, you said it was black. Do you remember what it was made of?”
“Oh my, I’m afraid I don’t, it was all such a blur . . . ”
“Completely understandable,” said Arthur. “These things happen so fast.”
“Hmph,” said Chef Maurice. He was less than impressed with Brenda’s abilities of recall, even if she did keep her kitchen in good order. “Do you remember what type of gun he had?”
“A small one, I think . . . yes, small, like the ones in those American TV shows.”
“Not a shotgun, then?”
“No, definitely not.” She looked at them. “That poacher, he was shot with a shotgun, wasn’t he? Do you think it was the same man who—”
“Non, non, madame, do not distress yourself. We simply seek more information to help with the search for Hamilton. May we take a walk around the house outside?”
“Of course, please, take your time.” Brenda reached down and plopped Missy onto her lap. “Such horrible business,” she said, stroking the poodle’s curls.
Chef Maurice and Arthur spent a while combing the gravel yard round the side of the house by the kitchens, until Arthur’s back decided it had had enough of that particular pursuit.
As they walked, or limped, back to the car, Chef Maurice spotted something wedged into the drain near the front corner of the house. He bent down and used a stick to hook it up.
It was a little pink bobble hat, now sodden with rain and mud.
“A clue?” said Arthur hopefully.
Chef Maurice shook his head. The hat had clearly been dropped at the time of the pignapping, and had been shunted along the gutter by rain over the last few days. As it was, it was simply a soggy reminder of their failure, thus far, in the rescue of poor Hamilton.
He folded the little hat into his handkerchief, and they walked on in silence.
* * *
The fine dining restaurant community in Oxfordshire was not a large one, and Chef Maurice had put in calls to the head chefs of various neighbouring establishments with whom he had a passing acquaintance. None had heard of any white truffles being sold from local sources. All bemoaned the current economic climate and dearth of affordable truffles in general.
Which left him only one more call to make, which he would have to make in person. Chef Bonvivant, owner and executive chef at L’Epicure, had, according to his assistant, been unable to come to the telephone.
Given that they both had operated French restaurants in relatively close proximity for several decades, it was not surprising that Chef Maurice and Chef Bonvivant got on like a house on fire—that is to say, whenever they met, there was screaming, destruction of property, and sooner or later the need for large buckets of water.
“I cannot believe that Monsieur Ollie would sell to a . . . a . . . ”
“Blaggard?” offered Arthur, who was familiar with the two chefs’ past encounters.
“Oui, a blaggard like Bonvivant. Look at all this!” He waved a hand at the scenery outside, as they pulled up the long driveway past an immaculate rose garden and into a discreet paved courtyard at the back of the restaurant, full of Jaguars, Porsches and the occasional vintage coupé.
“If I were Ollie, Bonvivant would definitely be a good place to start offloading those truffles,” said Arthur. “He’s not exactly known to be tight with his chequebook.”
“Bah. And look at what he spends it on.” Chef Maurice gestured at the tall latticed windows at the back of the converted manor house and the valet rushing towards them to relieve them of the keys to Arthur’s Aston Martin. “He spends more on tablecloths than he does on his ingredients.”
“Really? I heard the lobster thermidor is rather g—” Arthur caught Chef Maurice’s incensed stare. “Never mind.”
Despite what his more naive customers might expect, Chef Gustave Bonvivant was not to be found in his kitchens. Instead, he was round the other side of the building, in a new glass-fronted annex which announced itself as: The Bonvivant School of Culinary Excellence.
“He dares to open a cooking school! That man, he could not even teach a dog to pi—”
“Bonjour, messieurs!” A glass door slid open to reveal Chef Bonvivant, resplendent in chef’s whites, the creases ironed to razor sharpness. He was tall and slim, wore a neatly clipped beard, and, while Chef Maurice’s accent seemed to grow stronger by the year, Chef Bonvivant’s natural French tones had by now modulated their way into a catlike purr.
“So you have come to admire my new culinary school?” He bore down on them with every sign of self-satisfied pleasure. “Mr Wordington-Smythe, what an honour, I trust things are well at the England Observer? And Maurice, mon cher collègue, so kind of you to come visit. Come, let me take you on a tour.”
He ushered them up the steps and past his assistant, who stood there attentively, clipboard poised.
“Alain, give us a few moments. I will call you when we are done.” As his assistant scuttled off, he waved his arms at the room before them. “So what do you think?”
The room they stood in was about ten times the size of Le Cochon Rouge’s kitchens. Rows of stainless steel hobs gleamed along each workstation, and the far wall was lined with the type of high-tech ovens that could not only roast a chicken, but probably then send it by email to your office.
“Bah, it is just a lot of kitchen toys,” said Chef Maurice, eyeing the ovens with a hungry look. “It is a shame I see you have no students, though, Gustave.”
“We’re fully booked until next April,” said Chef Bonvivant smoothly. “Today, we are closed because I am hosting a private masterclass for a special guest. You have heard of Karista? And her recent album Dancing on Pins?”
He looked at their blank faces. Chef Maurice refused to allow a radio in the kitchen, on the basis that Dorothy insisted on singing along, and Arthur’s musical tastes generally verged on the Baroque.
“Ah, perhaps not.” He wiped an invisible speck from a marbled work counter. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“We have come to speak to you about Monsieur Ollie Meadows.”
“Ah, tragic, truly tragic. Of course, an establishment of our size has many suppliers, so we have been minimally affected, but I imagine his passing has been quite a blow to your little bistro?”
“Not at all. I have found an alternate supplier of the highest qualifications.” Chef Maurice thought about Miss Fey’s lab.
“Fantastic. I am most pleased to hear that. But what about Ollie did you wish to speak to me about?”
“We came to speak to you of truffles.”
“Truffles?” Chef Bonvivant’s
face was a mask of polite nonchalance. “I wasn’t aware that your menu stretched to truffles.”
“I speak in particular of the truffles that Monsieur Ollie supplied you. White truffles, locally sourced, of a quality to rival the white truffles of Alba?”
“I see. I was not aware that Mr Meadows was dealing in those with anyone else.”
“But of course he would come to me first,” said Chef Maurice, radiating innocence. “We are of the same village. But his stock was so plentiful, I told him he should try to sell the smaller truffles elsewhere.”
“Indeed.” Chef Bonvivant raised a sceptical eyebrow.
“May I ask how long Monsieur Ollie was supplying your kitchens with these new truffles?”
Chef Bonvivant glanced down at his watch. “Well, I cannot see what use it is to you. But he had been supplying these ‘new truffles’, as you call them, for three weeks prior to his disappearance.”
“And he assured you he picked them himself, here locally?”
“The aroma was quite obvious, I felt. Mon cher Maurice, do not tell me you are planning to take up the truffle hunt yourself? Although, I can see that one has more free time in a village restaurant . . . ”
“In fact, I am training a truffle pig of the highest calibre.” Chef Maurice watched the other chef’s face carefully, but he saw no sign of anything but mild disinterest.
“Very good,” said Chef Bonvivant, inspecting his fingertips. “Though it may interest you to know that even Mr Meadows was not able to find the patch without assistance. At least that is what I understood, from under all his usual, ahem, braggadocio, shall we say.”
“He actually admitted to stealing the patch from another forager?” said Arthur.
“Not according to him, though of course this was Mr Meadows speaking. No, he claimed someone had tipped him off.”
“Why would anyone do that? It’s like giving away the keys to the plantation—”
“To a particularly rapacious monkey, yes,” said Chef Bonvivant. “I believe there was some question of settling a debt . . . ” He looked down at his watch again. “I am afraid, gentlemen, that I will have to end our conversation here. Mademoiselle Karista should be arriving shortly.”
As Chef Maurice and Arthur walked back to the car, a dark limousine pulled up in the yard and a raven-haired starlet swung her long legs out onto the path.
Chef Maurice stopped and bowed. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Karista. You are here for a masterclass with Monsieur Bonvivant?”
“That I am,” she drawled, adjusting her sunglasses.
“Très bien. You will find him in the glass building if you follow this path around here. One word of advice, mademoiselle. Be sure to address him as Monsieur Bon-Bon. He is most partial to that.”
“That was a cruel and unusual punishment,” said Arthur, as they drove away.
Chef Maurice didn’t answer. He was thinking about what Chef Bonvivant had said.
* * *
It was dark outside and raining again.
Mrs Kristine Hart, of Grove Cottage, Farnley, opened her front door to the smell of lemons.
“Bonsoir, Madame Hart, we bring you lemon poppy seed cake,” said the large red raincoat standing in the doorway.
“Oh. How kind . . . ”
“We met the other night, you might remember, when the police found the car of Monsieur Ollie Meadows.”
“I don’t quite—”
“It was a trying time, I am sure, madame,” said the sympathetic voice. “It is in fact about Monsieur Ollie, that we come to speak to you.”
“Oh! Well, there’s not much to tell you, Mr . . . ?”
“Please, call me Maurice. And this is Arthur, my—”
“Chauffeur, apparently.”
“I told you, mon ami, I could come myself.”
“After two glasses of cognac? Have you forgotten about the pheasant incident?”
“I was waiting for the lemon poppy seed cake to finish,” said Chef Maurice, and handed Kristine the tinfoil-wrapped parcel, still warm from the oven. “And I became thirsty.”
Mrs Hart looked back and forth between the two men. “Are you with the police?”
“There have been new developments in the case that we thought we should speak to you about, madame. Is Monsieur Hart also here?”
“He’s in Amsterdam at the moment. What—”
“Perhaps it would be better if we spoke inside?”
“Oh, yes. Sorry, do come in.”
She led them into the living room, where a stylish fake log fire was burning cheerily. The mantelpiece displayed several golfing trophies, a framed wedding photo of the couple—her in a trailing white lace dress, bouquet in hand, him in full morning suit, blond hair slicked back and white teeth flashing a smile—and a wilted vase of wild flowers.
“Ah, I see you still keep the flowers. As a token of remembrance, perhaps?”
Kristine’s eyes narrowed. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do, madame. But do not worry, we will not speak to anyone. I assume that your husband did not know of your . . . friendship with Monsieur Ollie?”
Mrs Hart stared at them for a moment, then her eyes started to glisten. “No, he didn’t. He doesn’t. At least, he’s never said a thing . . . we were in love, you know,” she added suddenly. “Me and Ollie. Things had been bad with me and Nick for a long time, long before I even met Ollie.”
Chef Maurice nodded understandingly, while privately impressed that there was enough love in the world left to make it go round, if so much was wasted on scoundrels like Ollie Meadows.
“You say that Monsieur Hart was unaware of your affaire d’amour. But there was a note found at Monsieur Ollie’s cottage. It said something like: ‘Keep away from things that don’t belong to you. Or else.’”
Kristine’s lips twisted. “That sounds like the kind of thing Nick would do. He likes threatening people. But wait . . . ” Her knuckles tightened on her chair. “You’re not saying you think Nick was involved in—”
“Monsieur Ollie’s neighbour told us that a tall man with blond hair visited Monsieur Ollie’s cottage last Thursday, and that they had a loud argument.”
“But Nick wouldn’t— He was out of the country that weekend, I swear. He flew off Friday morning, I took him to the airport myself. And I— I saw Ollie that night. Nick couldn’t have had anything to do with it. Swear on my life!”
“Did you ever go to the home of Monsieur Ollie?”
“No. He didn’t want me visiting there, he said people would talk.”
Chef Maurice thought about Mrs Eldridge and her binoculars. “I think he was right, madame. And when was the last time you saw Monsieur Ollie?”
Lipstick in the bathroom cabinet, he thought. Definitely a scallywag.
“That morning. The Saturday he . . . went missing. He went back home early in the morning, but he came back later and brought me these flowers”—she glanced with wet eyes at the mantelpiece—“then went up to the woods. And never came back. I went out looking for him, but . . . ” She reached in her pockets for a tissue.
“Did Monsieur Ollie have his dog with him when he left?”
Kristine looked up. “Tufo? Yes, I’m pretty sure he did.”
“Do you know for how long he had kept the dog?”
“Just a month or two, I think. Said he was looking after it for his uncle. He was kind like that. Do you know he called his mother in Italy, every day?”
“Quite an example, I am sure, madame,” said Chef Maurice. “He did not say anything about this dog and some new, how do we say, line of business he was conducting? One that was perhaps quite lucrative?”
“I don’t know much about his business. He didn’t like to talk about it.”
“Because of something illegal, perhaps? Like what they call the mushrooms magique?”
“Magic mushrooms?” said Kristine in surprise. “I asked Ollie about that once, but he said he didn’t deal in them anymore, it wasn’t w
orth the risk. No, in fact, I remember he was on about how his new venture was completely legal. Something top chefs would pay a fortune for, he said. He talked about how he’d dug himself up a pension.”
Chef Maurice and Arthur exchanged looks.
“But he never showed you what he was selling?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“And did he tell you how he came about such a venture?”
Kristine fingered the silver chain around her neck. “I got the feeling that someone had told him something they shouldn’t have. He kept talking about someone giving away the family heirlooms. But, that’s not to say it was easy. Whatever he had found, he worked hard for it,” she added defensively. “He was doing a lot of research. He was down at the library at all hours.”
“Do you know what for?” said Arthur.
“No idea. But he came round one day, pleased as a new puppy. Gave me this.” She lifted up the silver chain. “Gave me lots of things, the last few weeks,” she sniffed.
They left Mrs Kristine Hart with her wilting petals and flowery memories.
“So it all comes back to the truffles,” said Arthur. “Black gold, they say. Or white gold, in this case.”
“‘Top chefs’!” fumed Chef Maurice. “And he never offered them to me!”
“So what do we make of all this?” said Arthur, as they drove on past Farnley Woods.
“Hmmm, it is most interesting. I start to see a shape, under all that we find. The map that goes missing, the dog who runs away, the debts that must be paid— Wait, what is that on the side— Stop, stop the car!”
Chef Maurice tugged open the door and ran out into the road.
“Maurice, what the heck—”
But Chef Maurice was back in a moment, his scarf wrapped around what looked like a wet bundle of rags. The rags wriggled, and a little snout poked out and sniffed the air curiously.
It was Hamilton.
Chapter 19
The Welcome Back Hamilton party was set for the following evening. They hung up Le Cochon Rouge’s ‘Closed’ sign, and any hungry visitors to the Cotswolds would have to find another village to stop off in for lunch.