Chef Maurice and a Spot of Truffle (Chef Maurice Mysteries Book 1)

by J. A. Lang

  Patrick was browning some beef ribs in preparation for several hours of slow braising, while Alf had been turned loose on the task of creating a sow nut pie, sow nut soup and sow nut trifle for the guest of honour.

  Dorothy was at the kitchen table with a large pile of pink napkins, struggling to evolve an origami pig out of the stiff starched squares.

  Patrick wandered over, tongs in hand. “Looks like a pink bomb,” he offered.

  “It’s got a curly tail,” said Dorothy, a tad defensively.

  “It’s funny how everyone thinks pigs are pink,” said Alf. “Then you meet one, and they’re a light brown, or black, or white with spots.”

  “I’ve never seen a bomb-shaped one, though.”

  “You just need a little more imagination, luv.”

  “Quite a bit more—”

  Dorothy swiped at Patrick with a spare napkin. He jumped out of the way and went to check on his caramelising vegetables.

  Arthur dropped by mid-morning, carrying an expensive-looking paper shopping bag—the type with the little string handles and dissolvable tissue paper wrapping, from the kind of store that assumes you’d never do something as crass as walk around in a downpour.

  “Meryl sends her regards, via the medium of shopping.” He pulled out a little knitted jumper, embroidered with the words: Little Porker.

  “Ooooh, isn’t that adorable,” cooed Dorothy.

  “Indeed,” said Arthur. “So where’s the pig of the moment?”

  Patrick held back the temptation to ask ‘which one?’—Chef Maurice having caused the sudden disappearance of their entire Stilton cheese stock overnight—and pointed to the backyard.

  “Out in his field, happy as a pig in mud.”

  Arthur peered out of the window. Hamilton was running around his enclosure, squealing and leaping, while the two cows in the next-door field chewed their cud and watched this display with mild interest.

  “Is he okay?”

  “He’s been like that all morning. Happy to be out in the fresh air, I guess, after being cooped up who knows where.”

  “All fit and present then?”

  “Well, the vet came round first thing this morning, said he couldn’t see anything to worry about. He’s lost a little weight, but I think he’ll put it back on pretty soon.” Patrick nodded towards Alf, who was sorting sow nuts by size for his trifle.

  “No doubt. So where’s Maurice got to today?”

  “Funny you should say that, luv,” said Dorothy, who’d now moved on to pink swans. “We’ve not seen him all morning.”

  Arthur groaned. “That cannot be a good thing.”

  * * *

  Despite the appearance of mindless gallivanting, Hamilton was in fact in the middle of a serious re-enactment of his imprisonment for the benefit of his enthralled bovine audience, who found the whole thing fascinating.

  There was shock (a pignapping!), torture (or at least, a serious lack of apples), a heroic escape, and finally a most fortuitous ending, being reunited with his owner as he trudged his way back home.

  It was, all in all, a cut above the usual stories the cows heard down at the milking parlour, though occasionally one of the sheep turned up with a pretty good yarn.

  They were particularly interested in the identity of Hamilton’s pignapper. (Cows being, by nature, very law-abiding creatures, they were looking forward to getting some righteous stampeding done should they come across the pignapper in future.)

  But that question was easily enough answered. All you had to do, according to Hamilton, was look for the human with the big piggy-bite mark on their arm.

  * * *

  Chef Maurice was also having a busy morning.

  Come daybreak, he spent a good hour stomping up and down the fields behind Ollie’s cottage, prodding at the dewy grass with a long stick. Eventually, he found what he was looking for.

  Next, he drove over to Oxford to pay a visit to the University Department of Plant Pathology and received a guided tour from the gratified but rather puzzled Deputy Head of Department.

  On his way back to Beakley, he stopped at Laithwaites Manor to invite Brenda to Hamilton’s homecoming party and to twist her arm for her walnut-and-coffee-bean cake recipe, which she scribbled down after extracting a promise that it would not turn up on the restaurant’s menu.

  Rejuvenated by a large cup of tea with four sugars, he headed for the Beakley library and sweet-talked the librarian into letting him down into the archives by means of a tray of caramel fudge brownies.

  One dusty hour later, he was on the move again, this time to see a pheasant broker over near Cowton, who bought pheasants from local landowners and game-shooting companies to sell to the high-end restaurants and gastropubs, where people were apparently willing to pay a premium to pick lead shot out of their teeth after dinner.

  He also popped into the Cowton police station to see PC Lucy, who, after being located hiding under her desk, rolled her eyes at his suggestion, reluctantly agreed to see what she could do, and promised to be at Le Cochon Rouge in time for Hamilton’s dinnertime celebrations.

  He paid one final special visit in Beakley, where a large bottle of fine cognac may or may not have changed hands.

  Thus prepared, he motored back to the restaurant. He really hoped it was all going to work. Because if things went wrong, there was a chance he’d end up with something a lot more deadly than pie on his face.

  * * *

  Dusk fell on the kitchens at Le Cochon Rouge.

  “Maurice?”

  “Oui?”

  “This seating plan of yours.” Arthur waved the piece of paper. “What exactly are you up to?”

  “Ah, you think I should have sat the gentlemen alternately with the ladies? To be more traditional?”

  Arthur looked at the diagram again. Indeed, Brenda was sat next to Miss Fey, while on the other side of the table, PC Lucy would be tasked with making small talk with Mrs Eldridge.

  “And who’s this Peter?”

  “He is the son of Madame Laithwaites. He was there when I visited. I thought it would be rude to not invite him.”

  “Even so, we’re still a bit short on men. But anyway, that wasn’t what I was talking about. You’re up to something. I can tell.”

  Chef Maurice looked up from tasting the jus for the beef ribs. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  “Meryl says she saw you down at the library today. What’s that all about?”

  “I thought I should start to take an interest in the plants of this region.” Chef Maurice pointed to a battered copy of Egbert’s Miscellany of Wild Botany sitting on the counter.

  “You’re not planning on some course of rash action, are you?”

  “Quelle idée! This a simple dinner of celebration, to welcome back mon Hamilton. And do not worry, should there be misbehaving, there will be a police lady in attendance.”

  He winked and nudged Patrick, who almost dropped the tray of beef ribs.

  “I think I’ll be staying in the kitchen, chef, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Bah! One unreturned phone call, and you are in retreat? You must go for the chase!”

  Arthur wasn’t so sure. He was all for gentlemanly persistence, of course, but when your intended was a member of the police force, perhaps you had to tread a little more carefully . . .

  “I’m not retreating, chef, I’m just giving her some space. I’m sure she’s still busy with Ollie’s murder case.”

  “Ah, then do not be despondent. The case may be closed sooner than you think.”

  “There, I knew it, you are up to something!” Arthur put his fingers to his temples. “Maurice, how many times do I have to tell you not to—”

  Arthur was saved from adding to the count by the arrival of their guests, who’d all turned up at the front door with unnerving punctuality.

  Mrs Eldridge was already engaged in deep conversation with Brenda about the local traffic situation. Miss Fey, wearing a smart dress but no lab coat, w
as exchanging pleasantries with Peter Laithwaites regarding his future academic plans. The young man stood there, slouched with hands in pockets. He had, Arthur noted, a particularly annoying laugh, like a small hyena stuck down a hole.

  PC Lucy handed a paper bag to Chef Maurice. “Just a little something for Hamilton.”

  Inside, was a pile of assorted apples and a brand-new bobble hat.

  “You are too kind, mademoiselle. And about the other thing . . . ?”

  PC Lucy lowered her voice. “It all checked out. But I still don’t see—”

  “You will see in time. Very soon, in fact. But first we eat.”

  He turned to his group of guests.

  “Alors, now that everyone is here, please come, sit!”

  Chef Maurice took his place at the head of the long table that had been set up in the middle of the dining room. Hamilton sat in a child’s highchair at his elbow, and Arthur took his place on Chef Maurice’s right. Opposite Arthur sat Miss Fey, then Brenda and her son, Peter. On Arthur’s right was PC Lucy, then Mrs Eldridge.

  The eighth place, at the other end of the table, was laid with crockery but empty. Arthur consulted the seating plan; the last box was blank. He gave Chef Maurice a questioning look.

  “Ah!” said Chef Maurice, raising a finger. “You will see in good time. Now, bon appétit!”

  As if on cue, Dorothy appeared bearing a giant mushroom tart, the top covered in golden flaky pastry, steaming with the aromas of garlic and thyme.

  Hamilton’s sow nut tartlet was placed on an enamel plate in front of him and disappeared within seconds.

  Chef Maurice raised his glass. “Madame Fey, I offer congratulations on the superb quality of your produce, and thank you for sending these fine champignons with such speed.”

  “My pleasure, Mr Manchot. Always a delight to see my work go to such good use.”

  The wine, a white from Bordeaux, was flowing easily. Conversation turned to the antics of local politicians, the state of young people’s education, and remembrances of other fine bottles of wine. Arthur found himself starting to relax. He wondered if it would be untoward to help himself to the last slice of mushroom tart.

  Chef Maurice tapped his fork on his wineglass, and an expectant silence fell over the table, punctuated only by a clatter of enamel as Hamilton upended his empty plate onto the floor, on the off chance that another sow nut tart was lurking beneath.

  “My friends, I have a confession. It is not just for the celebration of Hamilton’s return that I make this invitation.”

  He cleared his throat.

  “It is, I am afraid, about the murder of Monsieur Ollie Meadows that we sit here now.”

  Arthur let out a small groan.

  “Because I can tell you that, tonight, his murderer is sitting with us. Here at this table.”

  Six faces (and one snout) turned to him in amazement and incredulity.

  At this point Dorothy bustled out of the kitchen, oven gloves on her hands.

  “Ready for the main course? What are you all sitting around here like pumpkins for?”

  They looked at her.

  She put her gloved hands on hips.

  “Well? And who’s going to finish this last slice of mushroom pie?”

  Chapter 20

  Once Dorothy had come and gone with the big casserole of beef rib stew, tut-tutting at their lack of party spirit, Chef Maurice cleared his throat once more.

  “Throughout the search for the murderer of Monsieur Ollie, it seemed that always there was the question of money. Money found in Monsieur Ollie’s house, money to borrow a dog, money for illegal mushrooms. And most valuable of all, money for these.”

  He pulled a large white truffle out of his pocket. Hamilton gave a squeal and tried to stand up in his highchair to reach it.

  “A few evenings ago, an intruder broke into Monsieur Ollie’s cottage. What did the intruder take? Just a map, an old map of the area including Farnley Woods. A map much reproduced, and so of little value.

  “And what did he not take? There was much money hidden in Monsieur Ollie’s house, and there also a bag of these.” He raised the truffle. “This is a white truffle, much the same as the very expensive, very desirable white truffle of Alba, apart from a small difference in the arôme, only detectable to the most delicate of senses.”

  Arthur rolled his eyes.

  “But to senses like these,” continued Chef Maurice, “it was undoubtable that these were white English truffles, never seen before. And so very rare and very valuable, even more so than the white truffle of Alba.”

  “Looks like a potato,” whispered Mrs Eldridge to PC Lucy.

  “Shh. It’s a mushroom. Or a type of fungi, I think.”

  “Doesn’t look very fun to me.”

  “Ahem,” said Chef Maurice, glaring at them. “So we ask ourselves, why did the thief not steal these too? Perhaps he could not find them. Perhaps he was”—he coughed—“interrupted. Perhaps we will never know. But the finding of these new truffles can be no coincidence when we consider also the disappearance of Monsieur Ollie. So I go to search out these truffles, in the hope to discover where we might find Monsieur Ollie too.”

  “Actually—” began Arthur, but Chef Maurice hurriedly cut him off.

  “Therefore, I sought to find myself a pig who could be trained to be a truffle pig—”

  “Actually, you started out looking for a d—”

  “Shhh, pas devant le cochon!” hissed Chef Maurice, looking in alarm at Hamilton.

  The rest of the table looked at each other.

  “So,” said Chef Maurice, recovering his thread of thought, “we take Hamilton to walk in the woods of Farnley. But we do not find truffles. Instead, we find Monsieur Ollie. He has been shot, and his body dragged and hidden.

  “So it seems, the hunt for truffles is a very dangerous thing. But we continue, in all cases! And like this, we come to be noticed by someone. Someone who is not happy that we search for truffles, like Monsieur Ollie did. And so they threaten. They steal Hamilton, right in the home of chère Madame Laithwaites here.”

  Brenda gave a small shudder.

  “So it is clear, we are not the only people to know about the new truffle. They send a note, telling me to stay away from their business. But we do not stop. We ask questions, to those who knew Monsieur Ollie. And so it is we hear, Monsieur Ollie did not find the truffle patch by accident. He knew, at the very least, of its existence. So he sought to find it, and we know he was successful. But then he paid a price.

  “So we must ask ourselves, who did the truffle patch belong to? Who knew of its existence before Monsieur Ollie? These are large truffles, mature truffles. The trees producing these truffles must have been in production for many years before this. Did they stay under the ground, silent? Or did somebody know about them, and has been profiting for all this time? And when Monsieur Ollie stole into their patch, did this person look to stop him?

  “So I also must go in search of this person. Now, it is clear that this person must know much of truffles and how to discover them. But the searching of truffles is not an easy task. One must have knowledge of the woods, and a knowledge of truffles. And this person must have a desperation for money, enough that they would kill to stop Monsieur Ollie.”

  “Well, that’s easy,” said Mrs Eldridge triumphantly. “It’s that so-called uncle of his. I heard talk that he’s a truffle hunter, along with that scruffy little dog. Saw him take off in his car earlier, hasn’t been back since. On the run, I expect, right after you came and had that big argy-bargy with him this morning, Mr Maurice. You better get moving, dear, if you want to catch him.” This last bit was to PC Lucy, whom she poked in the leg with her cane.

  “Non, non, Madame Eldridge. I am not talking of Monsieur Mannozzi. While at first I did have suspicions and alerted the police—”

  “Which I’m still getting flack for, by the way,” muttered PC Lucy.

  “—it would not make sense. How would Monsieur Mannozz
i know of a truffle patch in an area of the country far from where he lives? And even if he did, why would he then agree to lend his nephew his valuable truffle dog?

  “Non, it is not Monsieur Mannozzi who we must consider. But there is another expert of the woods. One with a hidden interest in truffles.

  “I speak, of course, of Madame Fey.”

  * * *

  Miss Fey did not move, apart from raising her eyebrows.

  “Is that so?” she said calmly.

  “Today, madame, I make a visit to your university department. It was most informative. You claimed little interest in truffles when we first met you, yet your current work concerns the cultivation of the truffle fungus, including the white truffle of Alba.”

  “But that’s impossible,” said Arthur. “No one’s managed it. It’s why we pay a fortune for those things!”

  “But perhaps someone with enough knowledge has managed it,” said Chef Maurice, watching Miss Fey. “The gentleman at the university also gave mention of another thing. That the laboratory of Madame Fey was under threat to close, because of a sudden lack of funds. And where had these funds been coming from? A hidden truffle patch, perhaps, cultivated by Madame Fey herself? And recently depleted due to the actions of Monsieur Ollie?”

  Miss Fey regarded Chef Maurice with an amused expression. “I think, Mr Manchot, that you misunderstand the cut and thrust of the world of academic funding. All labs are perpetually underfunded. We do not go around killing people off because of it. And if I had indeed cultivated the white Alba truffle—on English soils, no less—it would be my scientific duty to make my research known. Though I must thank you for bringing these truffles to my attention. You can be assured that our lab will be looking into this with great scrutiny.”

  She smiled. “And of course, I assume you have absolutely no actual evidence to suggest I would do something as ridiculous as to shoot Ollie Meadows in cold blood?”

  Arthur held his breath. What had Chef Maurice been up to this morning? And what had he found? Had he really—

  “Non, madame, you are correct. I have no evidence.” Chef Maurice sat back down, looking deflated. Then he smiled. “You are also correct that you would not do something as ridiculous as to shoot Monsieur Ollie. But not because you would not stop in the removal of a rival, if there was such. But in this case, to shoot him like so would be most unintelligent. In the woods, not far from a main road and houses? Impossible!