by J. A. Lang
Chapter 12
The main auction room at Guthries was a hive of genteel activity. Chairs were laid out in rows all the way up to the dais at the front, but currently all the mingling was happening at the back of the room, where connoisseurs, collectors and various hangers-about were milling around, sizing each other up in preparation for the bidding battles ahead.
Arthur, the leading world expert in Things That Go Wrong When Maurice Is Around, had to forcibly restrain the chef from picking up an auction paddle. This was the kind of room in which a badly timed sneeze could easily result in your being the lucky new owner of a thirty-thousand-pound bottle of wine, along with a great deal of sudden debt.
PC Alistair had left them after The Hansdowne Club to go relay the news of Bertie’s sudden inheritance to PC Lucy, and to also go check out matinee show times for The Sound of Music.
“So tell me, Maurice,” said Arthur, “why are we at a wine auction?”
“Aha. In the solving of crime, it is important to know as much about the victim as you know about the murderer.”
“Well, that’s easy, given we don’t yet know the foggiest about the murderer.”
Chef Maurice ignored him. “There are many in this room who knew Sir William well. And also a possible suspect.” He nodded towards the dais, where Resnick was fussing about with his notes in preparation for his key role.
From over the other side of the room, Mr Mingleberry waved his paddle at Arthur and Chef Maurice and hopscotched his way through the crowd to meet them.
“Twice in one day, our stars must be aligning!”
“Our pleasure, Monsieur Mingleberry. You come to place a bid?”
“What? Oh no, I just come along to these things for the nibbles and a good old natter. It’s a good chance to meet face-to-face with my clients— Ah, speak of the devil, here’s one coming by just now.” Mr Mingleberry used his cane to hook the elbow of a large rotund gentleman in a pinstriped suit.
“Mr Norton, I didn’t know you were in town! Come, let me introduce you to Mr Wordington-Smythe and Mr Manchot. Arthur, Maurice, this is Mr Frank Norton, owner of the Terra Brava Vineyards in Oakville, Napa Valley.”
They shook hands.
“We happened to meet one of your fellow countrymen and winery owners the other day,” said Arthur. “I suppose you’re well acquainted with Chuck Paloni, given that you’re both out in Napa?”
Mr Norton’s pug-like features descended into a scowl. “Can’t say I like his type much. Bunch of johnny-come-latelies, if you ask me.”
“The Norton family have been winemakers in Napa since before the Prohibition,” explained Mr Mingleberry. “They have, ahem, views on the latest spate of celebrity-owned wineries.”
“We’ll run them out of town soon enough,” said Mr Norton, with some satisfaction. “Not that we need to, in that Paloni’s case. I heard Basking Buffalo’s not exactly rolling in funds at the moment. Investor troubles. Typical. Hype dies down and then what’ve you got left? Some actor playing winemaker, mismanaging the place left, right and centre, and a fancy label. That’s all.”
With a nod, Mr Norton resumed his travels through the crowd, tipping his hat and exchanging ribald jokes with various acquaintances.
Chef Maurice watched the large American depart. “Why do the winemakers attend the auctions? Surely they have no need for more wine?”
“Actually, you’ll find they rather do,” said Mr Mingleberry. “You’ll be surprised how often wineries, even the well-known ones, have to come to auction to buy back their older vintages, especially from the lesser years. Harder to find, you see? All this collecting business has only been going on for a short while. Back in the day, wineries used to simply sell off all the bottles they could. There was none of this keeping back of stock that happens nowadays.”
Mr Mingleberry tipped his hat and hurried off to politely accost another of his long-time customers, leaving Arthur in the grasps of a dowager-duchess-style lady who was, apparently, a great fan of Arthur’s restaurant column, and was not going to let him go until she got an invitation to accompany him on a review one day soon.
“I’m, uh, flattered, but I’ll have to check dates with my editor,” said Arthur, looking around desperately for backup, but Chef Maurice had drifted off in search of the source of the canapés.
Eventually, Arthur located his friend at the back of the room, standing by a set of swinging doors, ready to pounce as the waiters emerged with fully laden trays.
“Come on, old chap. We better get seats if we want a good view.”
A good view in this case was near the back of the room, where they would be able to watch the rise and fall of paddles and the fortunes that went with them.
They shuffled down the row until they found two seats next to a well-dressed silver-haired lady, with the kind of sharp angular features that called to mind a broody eagle.
“So what’s your poison?” she said, looking pointedly at the brochure in Arthur’s lap.
“Oh, we’re just here to observe. First time at auction and all that, don’t want to get carried away.”
She looked him up and down, then nodded. “You’ll have to do. Right, this is how it goes. If you see me bidding over fifty for the magnum of ’61 Latour, that’s Lot 212”—she held open her brochure—“you’re to break my arm, understand? Harold will have a complete fit if he finds me spending any more on wine this month.”
“Fifty . . . ?”
“Thousand, of course.” She peered around Arthur at Chef Maurice, who was working his way through a bulging napkin of smoked trout blinis. “Maybe I should ask your friend here instead. He looks more like the arm-breaking type.”
“Madam, I assure you I am more than capable in the destruction-of-limbs department, should the need arise,” said Arthur, who felt his manliness was being impugned. “Though, if I might suggest that my first course of action would be to relieve you of your paddle, rather than anything more . . . irreversible?”
“Oh, very well, if you must. And, please, call me Eugenia.”
A jigsaw puzzle of memory went click in Arthur’s mind. This was Lady Eugenia, wife of Lord Harold Mansfield, peer of the realm whose father had made his fortune in the manufacturing of instant stock cubes.
She gazed down at the brochure and ran a bejewelled finger over the glossy page. “Such impeccable provenance. Straight from the Vandergriff collection, who’ve had it since the ’40s. None of this ‘source unknown’ nonsense. Don’t drink anything if you don’t know where it’s been, that’s my motto. In fact, only last month, Lord Holland—a dear fellow, known him for years—served us up this bottle of ’59 Palmer he said he bought off a friend of his wife’s cousin’s father, some fellow with a long German name—fishy story, I said right away to Harold—and what a horror it was, pure vinegar, though of course everyone was too polite to say anything to the poor man. Well, I had a look at the bottle afterwards, and what do you know, it was an utter fake. They’d even spelt ‘Palmer’ wrong! That’s what comes, I said to Harold, of not buying your wines through the proper avenues.”
She paused to take a deep breath, while Arthur blinked, head spinning from the verbal onslaught.
“Yes,” Lady Eugenia continued, tapping the brochure again, “this will slot very nicely into my collection. For the right price, of course.” She tapped Arthur’s arm with her paddle. “Nothing over fifty, remember?”
“Madam, you have my word.”
“You make a collection of magnums, madame?” said Chef Maurice, leaning over Arthur. “We have a friend, the late Sir William, who also made a fine collection.”
“Oh, yes, of course I know about William’s collection. He outbid me on quite a few occasions, though he was ever so gallant about it. Now there was a man who knew how to raise a most apologetic paddle when he knew I was beaten. And he’d send me flowers to commiserate. God rest his soul. The nerve of some burglars nowadays! That’s why I keep my cellar key down at the bank, and I make sure to tell all and sun
dry. I tell them, even I can’t get at my wines without giving Mr Barclays a call.”
Lady Eugenia sighed. “Such a dashing man. And such a shame he never married.” She gave the pair an arch look. “Not that I didn’t try to stake my claim, back in the days before I met Harold. But William was simply hung up on Annabel Marchmont back then, and then she went and made a complete hash of the thing. Married the wrong man, everybody always said. It should have been William. But in those days, what could you do? He never got over it, if you ask me.”
Chef Maurice looked over at Arthur and mouthed, ‘A for Annabel?’
“Was Sir William still in acquaintance with this Madame Marchmont?” asked Chef Maurice.
“Oh, no. She died in a road accident—awfully tragic—why, almost ten years ago. Right, hush now, I think we’re starting . . . ”
The auction proceeded at a steady rhythm, Resnick leading the room like a seasoned circus ringmaster. International collectors rang in their bids, men in dark suits and darker glasses with wires in their ears raised paddles on behalf of their mystery employers, and new records were set for the prices of certain rare old bottles.
The magnum of ’61 Latour went for sixty thousand pounds.
“You tried your best, dear,” said Lady Eugenia, patting Arthur on the arm. He was massaging a spot on his temple, where the paddle had hit him repeatedly as he’d tried, in the most gentlemanly of manners, to wrestle it out of Lady Eugenia’s iron grip when the bidding hit over fifty-five thousand pounds.
“You have my profuse apologies for not succeeding in my duty,” said Arthur.
“Nonsense! Sixty was a bargain for that bottle. Even Harold will see that. Now, I’ve just seen Lady Harwick, I really must go say hello . . . ”
Arthur watched her shuffle away down the aisle, still rubbing his forehead.
“Do not worry, mon ami,” said Chef Maurice. “We have another auction to attend.”
“We do? I thought you were just saying that to annoy Resnick.”
“Non, non, it is real. But you will not be required to stop any bidding. Because, at this one, I intend to win!”
Patrick sat at the long kitchen bench. He was waiting for a batch of puff pastry to chill, while keeping an eye on the spinach-and-feta quiches in the oven, plus making sure Alf didn’t lose a finger while boning out a tray of quails. Given this relative lull in activity, it seemed the perfect time to indulge in a little online shopping, in preparation for what he was dubbing The Lucy Project.
“What do you think about this coat?”
Dorothy, who was ironing a stack of starched napkins, looked over. “Oooo, that’s a nice one. Reminds me of the one my granddaddy had. He used to practically live in it. Hid the tea stains like nobody’s business, it did, and it took three of us together to get him out of the thing to send it to the cleaners.”
“Right.” Patrick clicked onwards. “How about this one?”
“Ooo, that’s a nice one, too.”
“If you’re a flasher,” said Alf, wandering past.
“You know,” said Dorothy, tipping her head to one side, “I think you may be right.”
Click.
“Nah, mate, only plonkers wear coats like that. And it’s purple.”
Click.
“Now that’s a fancy coat, luv. Always thought frills would look good on you.”
Patrick turned to face his two co-workers.
“Are you trying to help me or not?” he demanded.
Alf, smirking, returned to his quail station.
“We are trying to help, luv,” said Dorothy, smoothing out another napkin. “But do you really think that stalking the poor girl is the right way to go about things?”
“I’m not going to stalk her. I’m just happening to turn up in the same place at the same time. I want to get a good look at this other guy.”
He didn’t dare mention the other part of his plan. He had a feeling that Dorothy would not approve, and Alf would tell him he was just being a plonker.
It was this part of the plan that necessitated a new wardrobe.
In a way, being a chef was a little like being in the army; you had a strictly dictated uniform, you didn’t get much of a social life, and there were always men with dangerously sharp objects in your vicinity. It also meant you didn’t develop much in the way of outside-of-work wear, seeing as most of your waking hours were spent in chefs’ whites.
Eventually, he selected a grey-brown wool blend coat, classically cut, with a dash of the debonair—or at least that was what he hoped.
It occurred to him he wasn’t thinking in an entirely rational manner. But everyone said that love was irrational. Therefore, thinking irrationally meant that this was love.
QED.
Heartened by this thought, he hovered over the ‘buy’ button.
Click.
“I suppose congratulations are in order,” said Arthur, as they joined the crowds spilling out of the Smithfield Annual Turkey and Goose Auction.
Chef Maurice, who was pushing a large styrofoam box on a trolley, beamed. “It is a most handsome goose. The Elmore Society will be honoured to have this goose for their Christmas table.”
“You do know you’re barely going to break even on that dinner.”
“Sometimes, mon ami, one must think of more than profit!”
“Wait until Patrick sees this monster.”
Patrick had long ago taken over doing the restaurant’s accounts, after realising that his boss’s approach to finances was exactly the same as his approach to making a perfectly seasoned steak tartare—you kept playing around with the amounts until it all balanced out. Unfortunately, this method did not generally sit well with Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs department.
“Patrick,” said Chef Maurice huffily, “is not head chef.”
He navigated the trolley over a particularly bumpy patch of cobblestones and turned up St John’s Lane, which had been recently colonised by several chic eateries and cafes.
He came to a sudden halt. “Arthur! Regarde. It is Monsieur Gilles!” He pointed across the road to a small, nondescript coffee shop. In the window, wearing a black coat and a furtive expression, was Sir William’s butler.
“Butlers are allowed days off too, I’m sure,” said Arthur. “Can you see who he’s with?”
But the bold lettering across the front window obscured the face of the man sitting opposite Gilles. Chef Maurice and Arthur watched as the butler reached into his coat and withdrew a rectangular item wrapped in brown paper, about the size of a photo album. He handed it over the table, where it was received by two gloved hands. The unidentified man then stood up and nodded at Gilles.
Chef Maurice gave a yelp and grabbed hold of Arthur’s arm.
“It is him! The man who attacked me at Bourne Hall, the night of Sir William’s murder!”
The tall man with the white-blond crew cut was now exiting the cafe, fiddling with the clasp of his briefcase. He then set off down the road at a brisk pace.
“Allons-y! We must follow him.”
“Well, I don’t know about must,” said Arthur, but Chef Maurice was already hurrying across the road, trolley bouncing along in front of him. A red double-decker bus blared its horn as it narrowly missed flattening the pursuing chef.
Up ahead, the blond man continued on, oblivious.
“What about Gilles?” whispered Arthur, as he struggled to keep up.
Chef Maurice stopped and turned around. The top of Gilles’s hat was just disappearing around a corner.
“Bah, we know where to find him. But this other one . . . ”
“Fantastic, let’s leave the butler and follow the heavily armed mystery man instead,” muttered Arthur as they hurried on.
Indeed, this would, later on, turn out to have been their first mistake.
Their target had now reached the main road and joined the queue to board a waiting bus. Thankfully, he climbed the stairs to the upper deck, while Arthur and Chef Maurice manoeuvred the goose t
rolley into the open bay next to the winding stairwell.
“Excuse me!” said a voice behind them, in tones that suggested imminent warfare rather than apology.
They turned to find a well-dressed grandmother, silk scarf knotted around her neck, with a pushchair full of two-year-old toddler.
“This space is for wheelchairs and buggies!” she said, moving forward an inch to suggest that the battle charge was about to commence.
Chef Maurice looked at her, looked at the little boy, then back up at her. “But this too”—he patted the styrofoam box—“is a buggy.”
“No, it isn’t,” snapped the grandmother, while her grandson gazed up at the big white box.
“Can I havva ride?”
“Certainement!”
Before anyone could object, Chef Maurice had scooped up the little boy and placed him atop the trolley’s little basket. The toddler looked around the bus, eyes wide at this chance to see the world from up above.
The grandmother opened her mouth, but Chef Maurice nodded at her and said, “See, madame, there is now space for you to fold the buggy.”
The nearby commuters were silent behind their newspapers, but Arthur could feel the tension of a dozen strangers waiting on tenterhooks for the grandmother to make her next move.
“Oooopla!” said Chef Maurice, grabbing the little boy as the bus came to a sudden stop. Passengers shuffled down the stairs and towards the exit, including the blond man, who stared out of the bus window impatiently.
“Sorry, mon petit, we must now go.” He dumped the boy back into his grandmother’s arms and hurried for the door.
It took the combined efforts of Arthur and Chef Maurice to lift the trolley to the ground, and by the time they were back on the pavement their target was a good distance ahead.
Chefs are used to making split-second decisions. After all, it only takes a second for a hollandaise to curdle, a duck breast to go from pinkly juicy to overcooked. In addition, head chefs, especially those in the mould of Chef Maurice, are used to having their words obeyed without question.
The two facts combined possibly explain Chef Maurice’s next move, which, incidentally, would turn out to be the second mistake of the day.