by J. A. Lang
Like the next ice age, thought Arthur.
“Have you been with Sir William a long time, Gilles?” he asked.
“Fifteen years this January, sir.”
“Golly, that long, eh? Still enjoying it? The butlering?”
“Very much so, sir,” said Gilles, pulling one of the chairs a millimetre further out from the tablecloth. Down the centre of the table was a long row of wine bottles, each covered with a smart black cotton bag with a numeral sewn on. A few places were empty, presumably ready for the bottles Sir William had gone to fetch.
“We’ve been especially busy this year with the expansion of the wine cellar, which brings the whole collection together in one place for the first time. Sir William has also had me assisting him with the update of the cataloguing system.”
“Ah, a database and whatnot?”
Gilles wrinkled his nose. “I’m afraid we’re not quite that modern, sir. It’s a simple cellar book. Name, producer, vintage, source, date acquired, that kind of thing.” He noticed Arthur’s expression. “It’s a significant improvement on what we had before, I assure you.”
“Ah, and what was that?” said Chef Maurice.
Gilles smiled faintly. “Scraps of paper, the odd receipt. One does marvel at the miraculous filing properties of an old shoebox.”
“Indeed. So any chance of a hint about tonight’s wi—”
Arthur stopped, as a huffing sound from the drawing room grew louder and a middle-aged woman in a blue gingham apron burst in. If Chef Maurice was turnip-shaped, then she was possibly a medium-sized radish. Her face, at least, was currently the right colour.
“Gilles . . . the cellar . . . Sir William . . . ”
“Breathe, Mrs Bates, breathe,” said Gilles, quickly sitting the panting cook down into a nearby chair. “Now tell me, what has happened?”
She stared up into his concerned face.
“He won’t unlock the cellar door! Oh, Gilles, I think something terrible’s happened to Sir William!”
Chapter 4
The residents of Beakley were all tucked up warm in their cottages, though some of the older kids had taken the opportunity to start building snowmen and other icy sculptures on the village green.
PC Lucy was particularly impressed with the life-sized Vauxhall Astra, which she’d tried to take down the number plate of—it was illegally parked in the middle of the green, after all—until she realised it was entirely made of snow.
She hoped no one had seen her. The local kids would never let her live that one down.
Policing duty done, she was looking forward to a nice glass of mulled wine in front of Le Cochon Rouge’s big stone fireplace.
And seeing Patrick, of course. But currently, with her fingers numb and her toes having cut off communications several hours ago, she was mostly looking forward to the fire.
She knocked on Le Cochon Rouge’s back door and stepped inside to be met with a rather odd scene.
Alf was crouched under the main kitchen workbench, clutching a tea towel, while Patrick paced back and forth. He always looked so good, thought PC Lucy, when he had that darkly serious, knitted-brow look going on . . .
“Is something wrong?”
Alf pointed an unsteady finger towards the dining room. “He’s got a gun. A gun! You gotta go save chef!”
PC Lucy peered under the table for a moment into Alf’s unfocused eyes, then looked up at Patrick.
“Has he been drinking?”
“All night. He’s been testing the mulled wine recipes.”
“Ah, well that explains that. He’s drunk as a skunk. What’s this about a gun?”
Alf clutched at her leg. “He’s gonna shoot chef!”
PC Lucy looked at Patrick again. “Is he?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t see any gun. Alf went looking through one of the customers’ briefcase when he went outside to take a call. Yes, I know,” he added, seeing her appalled expression, “but anyway, I stalled the guy at the door and got Alf back here to the kitchen.”
“And what’s all this about shooting Maurice? I know he rubs people up the wrong way sometimes, but it’s a bit of an overreaction, no matter what he’s done this time.”
“I don’t think he’s done anything,” said Patrick, rubbing his forehead. “And the guy did seem weirdly interested when we tried to give chef a call up at Bourne Hall.”
“He wanted to talk to him?”
“I don’t know, the line was down. We told him that, and he dashed out to make a call.”
“Hmm. Odd.”
PC Lucy stuck her head into the main dining room to get a look at the lone visitor. If he was going for the hired-killer look he was doing a good job of it, she thought. Black jacket, black polo neck, black jeans, black boots. Close-cropped white-blond hair. He was staring intently at his watch, as if waiting for it to explode.
He looked up at her, and she ducked back into the kitchens.
“Well, he’s not doing anything particularly suspicious. Apart from sitting in a restaurant on the coldest night of the year with a snowstorm blowing outside. Is he stuck here?”
Patrick shook his head. “He kept refusing to let me call him a taxi. Can you at least, uh, go out and search his briefcase?”
“Patrick, I can’t just randomly search members of the public for no good reason. Not without ‘reasonable grounds’, and I’m afraid Alf really doesn’t qualify at this point.”
Alf tugged on her trouser leg. “But what about chef?”
PC Lucy sighed. “Okay, I’ll go have a word with your mysterious stranger, find out what he’s waiting for, make sure he’s got a home to go to. Maybe he’s been stood up for a date or something.”
Unlikely, she added to herself. Who’d stand up a man with a jawline like that?
She shrugged out of her parka and pulled off the bobble hat—not a good look when aiming to command authority—and headed into the dining room.
It was empty.
“He’s gone,” she said, returning to the kitchens.
“What?” said Patrick and Alf in unison.
Rather than relief, both their faces registered sudden alarm.
Alf scrambled out from under the table. “He’s gone after chef!”
“Do you really think he’s gone to look for Maurice?” said PC Lucy to Patrick.
“I got the impression he was more interested in Bourne Hall. Like he was trying to get hold of someone there and couldn’t.”
Alf had run out into the backyard and was pointing into the distance. PC Lucy and Patrick followed him, trudging through the knee-deep snow. In the field behind the restaurant, picked out by the faint moonlight, was a tall dark figure trekking steadily across the whiteness.
“We’ve gotta follow him! That’s the way to Bourne Hall!”
PC Lucy and Patrick shared a look, then grabbed Alf by the shoulders and dragged him back inside.
“You’ve gotta believe me. I’m not stupid, I know a gun when I see one!”
PC Lucy looked over Alf’s head at Patrick. “So what do we do now?”
“Well, if we set off right this minute, he won’t be hard to follow, what with the tracks in the snow—”
“I meant about Alf.”
But Patrick was already pulling on his coat and gloves.
“Wait, you’re not seriously going after that guy, are you?”
“He’s up to something, I’m sure of it. And why not?”
He’s got a gun, thought PC Lucy, then shook herself. People didn’t just carry guns around, not here in England. There had to be another explanation. Plus the police made sure people didn’t just go around carrying illegal weapons.
She looked down at her badge.
Dammit.
“Fine. But we’re not approaching him, okay? We’ll just see where he’s going.”
They left Alf wrapped in a blanket in the corner of the kitchen, with strict instructions to lock the door behind them.
“One moment.” Patrick stopped, st
rode over to the hob, grabbed a large stockpot and poured the contents down the sink.
“Oooooaawwww,” said Alf, at the sound of his night’s work sloshing down the plughole.
“Right, now we can go.”
The Bourne Hall wine cellar door was located behind the main staircase in the hallway. It was seven feet tall, made of solid oak and carved with a tasteful border of grapes and vines.
“I was just getting the canapés ready and thought I’d ask Sir William if he wanted the little Yorkshire puds first or last, you know how they’re his favourite, so I came out”—Mrs Bates waved at the kitchen door, which faced the cellar from across the corridor—“to check with him, but the cellar door was all closed and wouldn’t budge. I knocked and knocked, but the master, he ain’t answering!”
Gilles tried the doorknob.
“Locked,” he said gravely. He gave a loud rap on the door. “Sir? Sir William? Is there a problem?”
“’Course there’s a problem,” sobbed Mrs Bates. “It’s not like him not to answer, especially not with guests and everyone waiting for him.”
She hammered on the door with her fists.
“Does he usually lock the door when he’s down there?” said Arthur.
The butler shook his head. “Not normally. Only when he doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
Chef Maurice bent down and put his eye to the keyhole. It was all black. He gave the keyhole a good sniff too.
“In the case of poisonous gas,” he explained as he caught Arthur’s look.
There was the clatter of footsteps on the stairs.
“What’s going on?” It was Bertie, looking puzzled, closely followed by Paloni, straightening his bow tie.
“The master’s gone and locked himself in the cellar and ain’t answering!”
“Maybe the door’s jammed with all this cold weather,” said Paloni. “Happened to me once in Vermont, at this—”
“Then why’s he not answering?” Mrs Bates pounded on the door again. “Sir William, if you can hear me, you open up this door right this minute!”
“What is happening?” Ariane floated down the stairs. Her eyes were slightly red from sleep. “Who is in there?”
“We think Sir William might have had an accident,” said Arthur. “He’s locked the door, and isn’t answering.”
“Well, isn’t there a second key?” said Resnick, who’d caught the end of the conversation as he hurried down behind Ariane, his bow tie hanging around his neck and his jacket undone.
“I believe there is a spare key in the safe in Sir William’s study. I will see if I can procure it,” said Gilles, disappearing back down the corridor.
“You!” said Bertie, advancing on Paloni, who gave him the look a bull would give a particularly uppity sheep. “You were down there with him a moment ago. What happened?”
“What? Nothing!”
“What do you mean, nothing? You mean he was completely fine when you left him?”
“Of course he was!”
“Are you sure? And what did you need to speak to him so badly about in the first place?”
Paloni hesitated. “Just winery business,” he said finally. “Wanted his advice. No, thanks,” he added, as Chef Maurice proffered the tray of goat’s cheese and red onion tartlets that he’d found going cold in the kitchen.
“Who’s making that infernal racket?” said Lady Margaret, coming out of the drawing room, book in hand.
“The master’s gone and locked himself in the cellar, ma’am,” said Mrs Bates.
“Can’t say I blame him. I told him throwing all these parties would wear him out eventually. A nice quiet evening with a book, that’s what you need, I told him.”
Gilles returned, walking fast and carrying a key-shaped lump of red wax.
“Sir William gave you the code to his safe, but keeps the spare cellar key in wax? How oddly . . . untrusting,” said Resnick with a sneer.
Gilles broke the wax open and turned the key in the door. There was a click and a whirring sound, and the door swung backwards. It was now evident that the carved oak was merely a facade, hiding a thick steel door lined with deadbolts all around.
“Gosh, when did that happen?” said Bertie. “It wasn’t like that last June.”
“Sir William had new security measures installed over the summer. I advised him on the design, after he made some rather valuable additions to the collection,” said Resnick.
They descended the stairs, Gilles leading the way, closely followed by Bertie. Chef Maurice brought up the rear, supporting a weak-kneed Mrs Bates.
“Sir William, are you there—” Gilles voice strangled to a stop, mid-sentence.
Chef Maurice, dragging the poor Mrs Bates, hurried down the last steps. They rounded the corner of the stairwell to find the others frozen in place, staring at the scene before them.
Sir William was laid out on the floor, motionless, a broken wine bottle beside him and a terrible gash on his neck.
“Is he . . . ?” breathed Ariane.
Gilles, his face drained of colour, knelt down carefully beside his master and applied two fingers to the man’s wrist.
He nodded. “He’s dead.”
Chapter 5
Patrick pulled his hat further down over his ears, stuffed his gloved hands deeper into his pockets, and tried not to think about snow, ice, icicles, ice cubes, ice cream, and other chilly topics.
In the moonlight, the stranger’s footprints were dark pits in the snow, leading endlessly over the fields behind the restaurant.
“Why couldn’t he have taken the main road?” said Patrick, his breath misting the air.
“If he’s heading to Bourne Hall, then this is the quickest way,” said PC Lucy. “The gate on the main road is nowhere near the house itself.”
“So he knows the layout of Bourne Hall, then.”
“Looks like it.”
The black-clad man was nowhere in sight. Patrick liked to think of himself as a fairly fit specimen—it was amazing what lugging copper pots all day would do for your biceps—but it was dawning on him that chefs were built for power over short distances, such as between the walk-in and hobs.
Plus, professional kitchens never got this cold.
At least the snow had now stopped falling, leaving the air icy fresh. The low hills around Beakley were soft and pristine in the moon’s glow. It was almost romantic, if you ignored the fact they were on the trail of a potential gun-toting killer.
Perhaps now was a good time to tackle the matter of the other mystery man . . .
“So, um, did you get up to much last weekend? Sorry I had to work.”
“What?” PC Lucy was a good head shorter than Patrick, and keeping up the pace was clearly exerting her. But it was equally clear that if he slowed down, she’d take it as a deadly insult and probably never speak to him again. “Oh, no, not much. I was on shift all of Saturday, so I had a lazy Sunday. TV, pyjamas, didn’t see a soul. Blissful, really.”
“So you didn’t go out at all?”
“No. Why, something wrong with that?”
“No! I just thought, um, you might have been seeing family, or something.”
“Family? You’ve got to be kidding. You’d need a crowbar to get my parents further than five miles from their farm. Plus I’ll soon be up there for Christmas.”
“What about your, uh, brother?” It was a stab in the dark, Patrick knew, but he refused to stew any longer over what might be a simple misunderstanding.
PC Lucy gave him a strange look. “I don’t have a brother. Only child, remember?”
Patrick didn’t remember, but he knew better than to admit to the crime of not having listened fully at some point on their last two dates.
“So, Mr Nosy Parker, what did you get up to at the weekend?”
“Me? Well, we had a few early Christmas parties at the restaurant, so we were pretty busy. Plus Alf was off all Sunday. I think he went into Cowton to do his Christmas shopping.”
He watc
hed her face carefully for any admission of guilt, but got no reaction.
“Didn’t think Alf was that organised. Just goes to show, eh?”
She halted suddenly, and pointed to a deep rectangular depression in the snow.
The stranger had stopped here to take something out of his briefcase.
Patrick’s heart started beating louder.
“Maybe he just got cold and wanted a hat and scarf,” said PC Lucy.
Even so, they both picked up the pace.
PC Lucy felt bad. Not from the snow slowly dripping into her faux-fur-lined boots, nor the biting wind that was threatening to freeze her nose off. But from the fact that she’d just lied.
She’d lied to Patrick.
And she liked Patrick. She really did. He was smart, and funny, and good-looking in that dark, wavy-haired Clark Kent way, minus the occasional urge to run around in tights and red underpants (as far as she knew).
But that was it. She didn’t know him that well, yet. Soon, she promised herself, she’d tell him the truth.
But not just yet.
They walked on in silence through the crunching snow.
After a quick search of the cellar, in case the attacker was still present, Gilles ushered the stunned guests up the stairs, then carefully locked the cellar door and pocketed the key.
Following some unspoken search for comfort—or perhaps because Chef Maurice had been first up the stairs and naturally gravitated towards food preparation areas—they found themselves huddled in the Bourne Hall kitchens.
“If the ladies and gentlemen will remain here,” said Gilles, “I will conduct a quick search of the building, in case the . . . perpetrator is hiding somewhere still.”
Mrs Bates gave a little wail from her rocking chair by the stove. Bertie was sat at the table with his arm around Ariane, talking quietly in soothing tones.
“I’ll come with you,” said Paloni, glancing around and snatching up a heavy-based saucepan to accompany them.