by J. A. Lang
The tall wrought-iron gates of Bourne Hall were covered in a half-inch dusting of snow. A solitary lamp post pooled orange light onto the ground, illuminating a dark-haired man wearing a short coat and an expression of intense concentration as he paced back and forth, yelling into the phone that was clamped, or possibly frozen, to his ear.
Arthur coasted up to the gates. “I say, isn’t that Chuck Paloni? As in, the Chuck Paloni?” He turned to Chef Maurice. “Famous actor, won a whole slew of awards, now turned Hollywood director, I hear. Not ringing any bells?”
Chef Maurice shrugged. He maintained a mild disapproval of the film industry in general, on the basis that they almost always failed to depict their characters enjoying a good meal. Or, on the rare occasions when a good meal was in progress, it would invariably be disturbed by gunfire, concealed bombs, irate spouses, or marauding aliens.
He also deplored the number of chase scenes that took place in restaurant and hotel kitchens, with completely innocent chefs being knocked aside, trays of canapés flying, as the hero runs helter-skelter from gun-wielding villains, without a thought for the catering-sized mess left in his wake. And who would be paying for all the ruined ingredients?
“I had no idea he was dabbling in vineyards now,” continued Arthur. “Still, I guess these film types have to have their hobbies. He looks older than he does on screen, don’t you think?”
The actor-director appeared to be in his mid-forties, his dark hair verging on salt-and-pepper, with a tall, athletic frame no doubt honed by a team of personal trainers. He glanced up at the sound of Arthur’s Aston Martin approaching, shouted a hasty goodbye into his phone, and started waving frantically in their direction.
Arthur cranked down his window. “Evening. Can we offer you a lift?”
“That would be swell,” said the man, climbing hastily into the back seat and huffing into his hands. “Call me Chuck, by the way,” he added, in the certain knowledge that Arthur and Chef Maurice would know exactly who he was.
“Arthur Wordington-Smythe,” said Arthur, offering a leather-gloved hand over his shoulder. “And this is my friend, Mr Maurice Manchot.”
“Pleased to meet you, monsieur.”
“Damn long driveway,” said Paloni, staring out at the snowy landscape rolling by. “Took me almost half an hour just to get to the gate.”
“And not the best weather for a stroll, either, I’m sure. They say a blizzard might be coming later.”
“It better not. I’ve got meetings back-to-back all tomorrow. That damn big house has no cell reception, plus the main phone line’s down or something, can’t understand half of what that butler says sometimes. So I stepped out to make a call and the next thing I know it’s like I’m trekking through Siberia. And even then there’s barely a signal. Nothing like back in Napa. Back home, I can be knee-deep in my vineyards, not a building in sight, and I’m chatting to my broker in Hong Kong, crystal clear like he’s standing right beside me.”
“Did you fly in today?” asked Arthur.
“What? Hell no, I’ve been in London all week for the premiere of The Dark Aquarium.”
“Ah, yes. That’s the one with Miranda Mackenzie, am I right?” said Arthur, to show willing.
“You got it. Dynamite little actress, she is. I was the one who gave her her first big break a few years back. Dynamite, she is, in more ways than one, if you catch my drift.” He aimed a big wink at Chef Maurice in the rear-view mirror, possibly on the assumption that, being a Frenchman, the chef might appreciate the sentiment. Unfortunately, all he got in return was a blank stare; Chef Maurice considered today’s movie starlets to be a grossly underfed and, as such, thoroughly unattractive cohort.
“So how do you know Sir William, then?” said Arthur.
“Wine,” said Paloni promptly. “He was one of the first investors in the Basking Buffalo vineyards. Minority stake now, but having his name on the books sure helped a lot in those early days, I can tell you that. Gives them confidence, you know what I mean?”
“So, actor, director, now winemaker, eh?” said Arthur.
“Nah, not really. I have a guy who does all the technical stuff down at the winery. I just tell him what I like. That’s the joy of having your own vineyard, you know, always having good wine to drink at the end of the day, made just to your taste.”
They parked up in front of Bourne Hall, next to a rather battered Rolls-Royce and a silver Porsche with the number plate R3S NCK.
“The things that man spends his money on,” muttered Arthur.
Paloni had already jumped out and was banging on the front door. A butler, wearing what Chef Maurice liked to think of as standard country-house-butler uniform—that is to say, a black tailcoat, black tie, black trousers, and shiny black shoes so clean you could eat your dinner off them—opened the door and bowed.
“Ah, Mr Paloni, I’m glad to see you’ve returned safely. We were about to send out a search—”
“No need, got a lift back with these fellas here,” said Paloni, pushing past the man into the warmth of the house.
The butler turned his smooth gaze onto Chef Maurice and Arthur.
“Mr Manchot. Mr Wordington-Smythe. So good to see you back at the Hall. I trust the snow didn’t give you too much trouble over the short distance?”
“No, though I’m not liking the thought of trying to get back afterwards,” said Arthur, stepping inside. “And how are you, Mr Gilles?”
“Very good, sir. And it’s just Gilles, sir.”
“Ah, like Madonna, eh?”
Gilles gave them a brief, humourless smile, and led them through the marble-floored hallway into the handsome wood-panelled drawing room.
A young couple, presumably the Lafoutes, were seated at either end of the long divan. Lady Margaret, who they had encountered on a few previous occasions, was sat by the fire, wearing a severe grey dress that matched her hair, and pointedly ignoring all of Paloni’s attempts at conversation. Paloni himself was still rubbing his hands and rotating himself slowly in front of the roaring flames, like a particularly nattily dressed kebab.
“I will inform Sir William of your arrival,” said Gilles, exiting the room with another small bow.
“Arthur, how good to see you again,” said an oily voice from behind them.
It was Charles Resnick, sporting a burgundy bow tie, slicked-down black hair and, thought Chef Maurice, a rather sorry excuse for a pencil moustache.
“Charles,” said Arthur, with a nod. “Have you met Maurice before?”
“I don’t believe so,” replied Resnick, looking the chef up and down.
They shook hands. Resnick’s were cold yet slightly clammy.
“So Sir William tells me you’re all practically neighbours. How quaint,” said Resnick. “I suppose that explains your being here. Not really your type of thing, is it, Arthur?”
Arthur coughed. “Yes, the Bourne Hall estate borders on Beakley village. Just up by Maurice’s restaurant, in fact.”
“Oh, your village has a restaurant?” He turned to Chef Maurice. “It must be such a drag, cooking in such a—how should we say—pedestrian neighbourhood.”
“Mais non,” said Chef Maurice staunchly. “My customers, they come by car from all around. In fact, we have had to make bigger the car parking, just last year.”
There was a little silence.
“So, Charles, how did you come to know Sir William?” said Arthur.
“In the wine world, how does one not?” replied Resnick with a thin smile. “In fact, I now count Sir William as one of my most valued clients.”
“Oh yes, I did read something about your little wine brokerage venture—”
“Coming up to twenty million turnover this year. And that’s not including the auction side of the business, of course. I’ve been working extensively with Sir William on building up his collection in recent years. I don’t know about you, but I found being just a critic got ever so boring.”
Arthur pointedly ignored the jibe. �
�Surely there’s a bit of a conflict of interest, no? Between your reviews and wine business?”
“Not at all,” said Resnick smoothly. “My writing is purely my impartial professional opinion. And on the brokerage side, I’m merely a conduit, a facilitator of transactions. Any valuations are completely at the discretion of the client.”
“I see,” said Arthur. He frowned at something in the distance. “If you’ll excuse me one moment, gentlemen, I see that Mr Paloni’s jacket sleeve has just caught fire . . . ”
Chef Maurice watched his friend hurry over to Paloni, who had also just noticed his smouldering appendage and had started leaping around like, well, a man on fire, until Arthur grabbed a nearby vase of flowers and doused him down. Lady Margaret looked up from her book, tut-tutted, then carried on reading.
“So,” said Chef Maurice, searching his mind for a suitable topic of conversation. Resnick was surveying the room with a distinctly bored expression. “What do you think of this weather today?”
Flames danced on the hobs as the kitchen’s back door swung open. Patrick and Alf looked up from behind a giant stockpot.
“Mind if I come in? It’s brass monkeys out there.”
It was PC Lucy Gavistone, the only local police officer to actually live in Beakley (and the most attractive one at that) and Patrick’s not-quite-girlfriend.
They’d been on two dates so far, once to the cinema to see the latest sci-fi blockbuster (Patrick’s choice) and once to a photography exhibition in Cowton entitled ‘From Peaks to Valleys’, which had turned out to be a collection of studies on the nude male form. (PC Lucy had spent most of that evening apologising. “I honestly thought it was going to be about Welsh landscape prints!”)
Today, she was wearing a thick parka over her police uniform and a red-and-white bobble hat, which she now pulled off, shaking out her blond hair.
“Fancy a hot drink?” said Patrick, waving his ladle.
“Mmmm, mulled wine?” PC Lucy stuck her head over the pot and inhaled. “Smells gorgeous.”
“It’s the special Cochon Rouge recipe. Chef wanted us to make up a big batch for tomorrow, but we think he left out a few ingredients when he wrote it down. Something’s not quite right.”
PC Lucy dipped a teaspoon in. “Tastes good to me.”
Patrick shook his head. “I’m thinking it needs a bit more orange zest. Alf, do you mind—”
“Sure, sure, I get the hint,” said Alf, as he headed over to the walk-in fridge. “Give you two a moment of privacy, right? To talk?” He shot Patrick a meaningful look.
“I didn’t—” began PC Lucy with a blush, as the fridge door clicked shut, but Patrick waved a hand.
“Ignore him. He’s just scared of you.”
“Should I be flattered?”
“Probably. Can I get you something to eat?”
“’Fraid not. I’m just going door-to-door at the moment, checking up on everyone. They say it’s going to be the heaviest snowfall we’ve had for decades. You’d better warn your customers to hurry up. Tonight’s not a night for lingering over desserts.”
“We’re pretty quiet at the moment,” said Patrick, glancing up at the empty ticket rail. “Had a few early tables, but I think most people are staying in.”
“Good.” PC Lucy shook a piece of snow off her hat. “Right, I better get on. I’ll try to pop back in later for a drink.” She smiled up at him, and Patrick felt his insides get a little warmer, in a way that definitely had nothing to do with the mulled wine.
“Um, sounds great.”
He was just being silly, he told himself. Or Alf had just been trying to wind him up. But he couldn’t quite dismiss what the commis chef had said the other day, about spotting PC Lucy in Cowton last weekend, strolling around arm-in-arm with a dark-haired man who was definitely not Patrick.
Probably her brother, he’d told himself. Or maybe even her father—though PC Lucy had mentioned her family lived up in Northumbria and rarely ventured further south than York.
“You okay?” said PC Lucy, her blue eyes full of concern.
“What? Oh, yup, all good. Just thinking about the mulled wine. Actually, I wanted to ask you—”
There was a yell and a loud clatter from inside the walk-in. Alf stuck his head out. “Um, I may have put my hand a bit too close to the lobster box . . . ”
PC Lucy looked at her watch. “Right, I better dash. I’ll catch you later?”
Patrick nodded, torn between dealing with a possibly uncomfortable truth or a definitely uncomfortable Alf.
But PC Lucy was already halfway out the door.
Alf it was, then.
Sir William was the type of man who commanded a room’s full attention. Tall and imposing, wearing an impeccably cut evening jacket, his grey beard neatly clipped, he bore down upon Chef Maurice and Arthur with his hands outstretched.
“Maurice! Arthur! Glad you made it out here. Cold as hell’s doorstep out there, isn’t it? Sorry to keep you waiting, just had a few matters to sort out. Have you been introduced to everyone?”
“We have not yet the pleasure, mon ami.”
“Well, let’s get started then, shall we? Now that we’re all here.” He strode into the middle of the room to address the young couple, who stood up as he approached them.
“Ariane, Bertie, this is Mr Maurice Manchot and Mr Arthur Wordington-Smythe, you’ve read his restaurant reviews in the England Observer, no doubt. Maurice here runs a little restaurant just down the road. Proper French fare, top-notch ingredients, and not a bad wine list too, though I must confess to having a little hand in that . . . ” Sir William gave a chuckle.
Chef Maurice nodded affably. He and Sir William had their little routine, honed over the years. The latter would turn up every now and then, waxing lyrical about some hitherto unknown grape variety, or an organic producer growing vines on the slope of a volcano or suchlike, that Chef Maurice simply had to get onto the wine list. Chef Maurice would smile, express admiration at Sir William’s superb tastes, then continue to order the same wines as he always did—though occasionally he’d slip one or two new additions onto the list just to keep Sir William happy.
“Maurice, Arthur, this is Bertie and Ariane Lafoute, of Chateau—”
“Lafoute, but of course.” Chef Maurice gave a little nod. “I most enjoyed a bottle of your ’82 a few years ago, but I am sad to have not had the chance to try the newer vintages.”
“Not a worry, we’ll be remedying that quite comprehensively this evening, I should think,” said Sir William.
“There will be a few of our older vintages too,” added Ariane Lafoute. She was, head to toe, best described as a classic beauty. Her dark raven hair was pulled back into a shiny chignon, and her sea-green dress draped elegantly over her slim form. A silver diamond bracelet graced one slender wrist and glittered as she held out a hand to Chef Maurice.
“Enchantée,” she said.
“Jolly good to meet you both,” said Bertie Lafoute, shaking their hands in turn. He too had the look of a classic, but the classic in this case was the weak-chinned but well-bred Englishman. He wore a grey three-piece suit and grinned the grin of a young man eager to please.
“Bertie’s parents were old family friends,” said Sir William, laying his hand on Bertie’s narrow shoulder. “His father and I, we practically grew up together.”
Bertie nodded. “My father liked to collect wines too. Nothing as serious as Uncle William’s collection, of course.”
“He must have been pleased then, when you married a Lafoute,” said Arthur, smiling at Ariane.
Bertie’s face fell momentarily. “I’m afraid both he and my mother passed away quite a few years back. But yes, I’m sure they’d have loved Ariane.” He put a hand around his wife’s waist, while she smiled coolly up at him.
“You took the nom de famille as your surname, then?” said Chef Maurice.
“Rather modern, I know,” said Bertie. “But I always said Burlington was far too near the start of
the alphabet, and anyhow, it’s quite nice, sharing the same name.” Clearly, the option of Ariane taking her husband’s name had not been on the cards. Or even in the deck.
“Margaret, do come over and say hallo,” said Sir William, gesturing to his sister-in-law over by the fire.
“How lovely to see you both again,” said Lady Margaret, standing up and drifting over. She turned to Sir William. “Does that mean you’ll finally be joining us? You’ve been hidden away in your study all day, though quite what you do in there is a mystery to us all, I’m sure.”
“Yes, Margaret, the festivities are now quite underway. I’m just finishing up the introductions. Gentlemen, you presumably already know Charles—”
“—how could we not—” muttered Arthur under his breath.
“—and finally, let me present Chuck Paloni. He’s representing California tonight, and has brought along some of his vineyard’s top wines, he tells me.”
Paloni, who was still wringing out his sleeve over the fireplace, looked up.
“We’ve met. These fellas gave me a lift up your driveway. You should think about getting a cell tower out here, solve all your problems. Is the main phone line still down?”
“Gilles is looking into it,” said Sir William, frowning, “though I highly doubt anyone will be coming out in this weather to fix it today.”
Paloni looked glum.
At this point, Gilles glided in with a tray of fluted Champagne glasses.
“The ’04 Dom Pérignon,” he murmured, like a benediction.
“Magnifique,” said Ariane, holding the glass to her nose, eyes closed.
Bertie clinked his flute against Arthur’s. “Here’s to tonight’s tasting!”
“May the best wine win,” said Resnick.
“Come now, Charles, we all know there’s no such thing as ‘best’ when it comes to wine,” said Sir William, beaming at his guests.
“Bah!” Chef Maurice lifted his glass to the light. “See, the little bubbles, the superb bouquet, the long taste—a good Champagne is unrivalled. No one can beat the French, mes amis.”
“Except that they did,” Arthur pointed out. He raised his glass to Paloni. “What do you say? Can California do it again tonight?”