by J. A. Lang
“My apologies, madame,” said Chef Maurice quickly. “I thought perhaps you had chosen to speak to Sir William on a, how shall we say, delicate topic. I had heard rumours, only rumours, you understand, that Sir William had become involved with a lady of an age much younger than him—”
Lady Margaret started spluttering into her tea. It took a moment for Arthur to realise she was laughing. “William? At his age? Positively not! Everyone knows he never got over Annabel.”
“Yes, we had heard it mentioned,” said Arthur. There was a thought niggling him . . .
“Un moment, madame. You said that Monsieur Bertie was the son of a Lady Annabel. This is the same Annabel?”
“Certainly. His mother was Annabel Marchmont, quite the society beauty of her time, as they like to say. A silly girl, though, married the wrong fellow and never did a thing about it. And her boy is no better, going and marrying that French fancy of his. She might act like she has all the airs and graces in the world, but winemaking? It’s just a fancy name for grape farmers, if you ask me.”
“Very good, madame.” Chef Maurice paused. “I wondered also if we should be able to visit the gallery here at Cleethorpe Park? Sir William spoke most highly of the family portraits that his brother had collected together. It would be a pleasure to view such distinguished history.”
“Of course,” said Lady Margaret, with a benevolent smile. “I’ll have Mrs Pollock show you up there. I’m afraid the gallery is rather drafty, and my doctor has strictly forbidden me from such exertions.”
A few minutes later, having been deposited there by the surly Mrs Pollock, Arthur and Chef Maurice found themselves tracking dusty footprints along the floor of Cleethorpe Park’s Long Gallery. Various stately portraits of past Burton-Trents stared down from the walls above them.
“So what exactly are we doing up here?” said Arthur, stopping in front of a portrait of a moustached gentleman in full army regalia.
“Aha. Regarde, mon ami, and tell me what you see.”
Arthur looked around at the staring faces of Sir William’s ancestors. Many were wearing military uniform, and occasionally perched atop a horse—which was a feat in itself, as Arthur had never seen a horse voluntarily stand still long enough for a decent portrait session.
“Let’s see . . . Well, Sir William’s forbearers certainly fought valiantly for home and country. And sideburns were eminently more in fashion back in those days.”
“Pah, you do not use your eyes. Regarde, the ears.”
Arthur swept his gaze from painting to painting. Now that his friend mentioned it, there was a certain sticking-out-ness common in that particular feature of many of the male Burton-Trents.
“And now, see this.” Chef Maurice pulled out the copy of The World’s Hundred Greatest Wines that Alf and Patrick had been looking at earlier.
The resemblance, now pointed out in all its glory, was impossible to miss. If you ignored the weak chin and floppy fair hair, all the other signs were there. The dark eyes, the set of the nose, and of course, those jutting-out ears.
Arthur looked down at the book again. “The ears have it,” he breathed.
There could be no doubt.
Bertie Lafoute was Sir William’s son.
“Well, that explains a lot,” said Arthur, a while later after they’d returned downstairs and managed to disentangle themselves from Lady Margaret’s wide-ranging and voluble complaints about her neighbours, her housekeeper, and all of modern society in general. “Makes sense now, Sir William being so attached to young Bertie, the inheritance, and all that. Do you think he knew? Bertie, I mean?”
Chef Maurice shook his head. “I do not think so. Sir William was an uncle figure to him, no more. There was no conflict in his manner with him, as one would expect if he had known the truth of, how do you say, his birth illégitime.
“Non, the more important question is, which of the other guests had this knowledge? See, mon ami, as Sir William’s son naturel and so the most likely inheritor to his fortune, Monsieur Bertie presents a perfect space-goat.”
“Scapegoat, I think you’ll find.”
“Exactement! The murderer, knowing of this, seeks to throw us off the scent once more. In the case that the story of the broken window is not believed, they pick one of the many handkerchiefs lost by Monsieur Bertie, and leave it in the hidden stairs where it will be found.”
“Or maybe, just maybe, we’re missing the obvious answer here. That Bertie Lafoute is our murderer.”
“Bah! This, I cannot believe. Unless Monsieur Bertie is much a better actor than we can expect. You saw how the night of the murder overturned him completely.”
“Mmm, yes, rather hard to imagine Bertie up on the stage,” said Arthur. “But what I don’t understand is, if Lady Margaret is right and Ariane knew about the contents of Sir William’s will all along, why wouldn’t she have told her own husband?”
“Les femmes,” said Chef Maurice, waving his hands to suggest all enigmas could be easily understood if only one could figure out the inner workings of the female mind.
“And what was that she said about Paloni being after Sir William’s money? I mean, if he was looking to raise more funding for his winery, bumping Sir William off was hardly going to help his cause.”
“One can never be sure of the artistic type,” said Chef Maurice darkly. “He is unstable, capable of anything.”
“Says the man who threw a hissy fit the other day because his macarons came out ‘too round’,” muttered Arthur.
“One does not eat in a place of fine cuisine to have a dessert that appears made by a machine,” grumbled Chef Maurice. “But I think we should speak once more with Monsieur Paloni. Lady Margaret gave mention of one thing I found most interesting . . . ”
“And how are you planning to swing that one? I don’t think one just drops in on Hollywood directors. In fact, they hire hordes of personal assistants just to keep you away from them.”
“Ah, but not every person has a famous food critic as his friend,” said Chef Maurice, clapping Arthur on the shoulder.
Arthur gave him a dubious look. Like many other chefs, his friend was more than vocal in his opinion that the role of a food critic was to be found several rungs below that of a chocolate teapot tester, in terms of use to society.
So, if Chef Maurice was bringing it up, it could only mean one thing: there was something he wanted, and he needed Arthur to get it.
As Arthur had predicted, Paloni’s schedule was packed tighter than a jumbo tin of sardines. But thankfully, when it came to the world of public relations, there were always plentiful strings to be pulled, if you knew how it all worked. The necessary one was identified, and duly tugged upon . . .
It was lunchtime at La Sobriquette, Piccadilly’s long-standing dining room of note, and various media types, celebrities and platinum-card-carrying shoppers were tripping through the brass-edged rotating doors, staring with unchecked curiosity at the odd pair currently occupying Table Sixteen, generally agreed upon to be the best table in the house.
Table Sixteen was a circular leather banquet on a raised dais, set just off to the side of the central dining area, affording it a direct view of the entrance (necessary for keeping an eye out for any A-list friends swinging through the doors), along with a sweeping view of the rest of the room (in case you missed a few acquaintances when you were busy admiring your reflection in the polished mirrors around the walls). Lastly, sitting at Table Sixteen granted everyone else in the room the generous opportunity to gaze upon you and your guests in adoration and envy.
The fact that none of today’s diners could put a name to the two men up on the dais was currently causing major consternation amongst this veteran crowd of stargazers.
“The tall, thin one,” whispered someone at Table Eleven, “I think I’ve seen him in the papers somewhere. A foreign politician, maybe. Moldova, yes, Moldova, I’m sure of it.”
“I don’t think tweed and leather elbow patches are quite the look
over in Moldova,” sniped his dining partner. “Maybe he’s one of the minor Royals?” This caused her a worried look, because snubbing a member of royalty, no matter how minor, was just not the done thing. “The big, fat one, though, he’s an actor, for sure. Why else would you grow a moustache like that? He must be in the middle of shooting . . . ”
Such was the state of affairs when Paloni came strolling through the doors to find Chef Maurice and Arthur sitting at his usual table.
“Quite a coincidence,” he drawled, handing his coat to an attentive waiter.
“Not at all,” said Arthur, waving Paloni to the seat across from him. “When my editor heard we’d met before, she thought I’d be the best one to meet you for the paper’s ‘Lunch with . . . ’ piece.”
In truth, Lisa, Arthur’s blond-highlighted, talon-nailed editor at the England Observer had been less than thrilled to give up her chance to hobnob with one of Hollywood’s major heart-throbs, but Arthur had sweetened the deal by agreeing to take Lisa’s parents along on his two-star Michelin review next week—thus freeing her for a date with Liverpool’s bad-boy rock star du jour.
Plus Meryl had been less than impressed yesterday evening when her husband had returned late from London, not only having missed dinner but making his arrival in the back of a police car. Arthur therefore surmised that a signed photograph from a Hollywood legend would go some way to soothing the current marital friction.
“Maurice, good to see ya again,” said Paloni to the chef, who was deep in a critical analysis of La Sobriquette’s à la carte menu.
“Horseradish with the turbot, non, that I do not approve of,” muttered Chef Maurice.
“So,” said Paloni, clasping his tanned hands together as the waitress swanned off with their drink orders, “I guess we better get down to business and talk about The Dark Aquarium?”
Arthur and Chef Maurice blinked at him politely.
“That the fish, they bump into the wall a lot?” suggested Chef Maurice.
“Ha ha, that’s a good one,” said Paloni. “No. So, I like to start with the moment the idea for this film—the nucleus of the thought, I like to say—came to me. I was snorkelling down in New Mexico, I have a little place down there, and I saw this amazing angelfish, which turned out, according to my guide, to have the most amazing defensive properties”—he paused to check Arthur was getting this all down—“so, what they do is, if they see a predator coming toward them, they angle their scales in a way that reflects the light around them and makes them completely invisible. Poof! Then I thought, what would happen if a mad scientist crossed this fish with a rogue ultra-elite military unit?”
“A very dangerous plate of fish and chips?” suggested Arthur.
Paloni, clearly unaccustomed to anything but fawning praise, ignored this. “The most lethal soldier ever imagined. One that can disappear with just a moment’s thought!”
“Ahh, magnifique!” said Chef Maurice, with grand theatrical awe. “To disappear and reappear, just like that!”
“Yeah, you got it!” said Paloni, gratified to finally have an appreciative audience. “And then I thought, what would be the first thing—”
“But there is another way to disappear and reappear,” continued Chef Maurice. “You are familiar with the idea of secret passageways?”
Paloni stopped and looked at Chef Maurice with an aggrieved air. “What?”
“You have not yet heard of the secret passageway between the cellar of Sir William and the bookcase outside the guest bedrooms upstairs at Bourne Hall?”
Paloni threw Arthur the now familiar ‘what the heck is this chap on about’ look, who responded with his usual ‘don’t ask me, he just followed me here’ shrug. Arthur gave Chef Maurice a little kick under the table. He’d have quite liked to get his photo autographed before Chef Maurice started giving the director the third degree.
“I haven’t a damn clue about secret passageways. Now, can we get back to my—”
“Then you deny that after you went upstairs after speaking to Sir William, you used this passageway to descend to the cellar to commit murder?”
“What? Of course I didn’t!” said Paloni hotly.
“Yet you were most insistent to speak to Sir William when he went downstairs, and you returned in a most angry mood. May I ask what it was you spoke of?”
“It’s none of your damn business!”
“Ah, that is a good word, Monsieur Paloni. Because I think it is because of business that you wished to speak with Sir William, n’est-ce pas? The business of the Basking Buffalo vineyards.
“You told us Sir William was one of your first investors. In fact, he was to give the after-dinner speech at your next meeting of shareholders. But then his attendance was cancelled. Why? Perhaps he did not approve of the recent bad management of the winery and wished to take away his support? It is known that Sir William was most careful with his investments.”
“And if he was, what’s it to you?” said Paloni, his face now contorted in an effort to appear cool and contemplative in front of the watching crowd below. “Not a reason to murder a man, just because he doesn’t like your balance sheet one year.”
“It might be,” said Chef Maurice. “If the man holds the respect of much of the wine world. There was every chance that such a blow to, how do you say, the confidence of your investors, might be fatal to the vineyard. So perhaps you took steps, to ensure that he would not have the chance to withdraw his funds . . . ”
“What a load of—”
“But what if I tell you,” said Chef Maurice, leaning forwards, “that I hear it said you were seen coming out from behind the bookcase on the night of the murder. No, I cannot say by who . . . ”
Arthur looked at his friend. This, he was sure, was pure fabrication. The question was, to what end?
“Lies! Some crackpot talking garbage to please the press, I see it all the time. And there’s nothing they can pin on me, anyway, because if it comes to it, I’ve got a watertight alibi!”
“Oui, you may have, but can you trust Madame Ariane to tell the truth on your behalf?”
There was a moment’s shocked silence.
“Wha— How— What did she tell you?” spluttered Paloni, his composure melting away like a summertime snowman.
“It was only a matter of deduction, to know that you and Madame Ariane were involved in une liaison, as we say,” said Chef Maurice, leaning back comfortably. “You returned from speaking to Sir William in a black mood, and so, of course, she follows her lover upstairs to offer comfort.”
“Damn fool of her too. When a man wants to be alone, you should leave him well alone,” fumed Paloni.
“But still, you told the police you were in your room by yourself, n’est-ce pas? To save the reputation of the lady?”
“Ha! She didn’t even give me the chance. Even before the cops turned up, she told me she was going to insist she was with that damp rag of a husband of hers, instead. She’d already made one of those big heartrending confessions to him, promising to go on the straight and narrow—ha, if I had a dollar every time I’ve heard a gal say that . . . Anyway, she said at the end of the day, it’d be their word against mine. And what’s a fella to do then?”
“Hmmm, très intéressant,” said Chef Maurice, staring up at the gilded ceiling. “But in truth, she was with you all the time? She did not leave the room?”
“Not for a moment,” said Paloni. “But, hey, what’s this all about? Are the cops trying to put the finger on Ariane? Because if they are, I don’t care what she says, I’ll make sure they know everything. It’s no skin off my nose!”
“Non, non, do not exert yourself, monsieur, the police are not to be worried about. For now, that is.” Chef Maurice grabbed a bread roll, picked up his hat, and stood up. “I thank you for your time, and wish you a success with your film of the dangerous poisson.”
With that, Chef Maurice left the restaurant, his progress followed by a dozen curious gazes.
Arthur looked
over at Paloni, who had the haggard look of a man who’d just run into the Maurice Manchot Questioning Squad. Time to get matters back on track, before Paloni decided to bolt. He pulled a shiny square of paper out of his briefcase.
“I don’t suppose I could trouble you for an autograph? My wife, Meryl, she’s a huge fan . . . ”
Half an hour later, Arthur located Chef Maurice in a little Italian cafe around the corner, polishing off a plate of tiramisu and a double espresso.
“Okay, spill,” said Arthur, pulling out the chair opposite.
Chef Maurice lifted up his coffee cup and looked underneath.
“No, I didn’t mean— How in the foggiest did you know all that stuff about Paloni?”
“Ah, when one is trained to observe the smallest of details, it becomes the first nature—”
“—second nature, you mean—”
“—to watch and see what one can learn, in the things that people do not say, the things they do not do.”
“So, what you’re saying is—it was all guesswork?”
Chef Maurice looked affronted. “Mon cher Arthur, you have so small a regard for me?”
“How did you know all that stuff about Paloni’s business? Don’t tell me you’re a sudden expert in wine investments.”
“D’accord, I will admit that that part was a task of speculation. But it seemed clear that the only matter of interest to both Sir William and Monsieur Paloni was the question of the investments in his vineyards, which, we learn from Monsieur Norton at the auction, does not go well.”
“Okay. And what about him having an affair with Ariane Lafoute? Don’t tell me that was all serendipitous guessing too?”
“Ah,” said Chef Maurice, looking pleased. “Non. Here, we must use the head.” He tapped a finger against his own. “We had made the assumption that the note we found in Sir William’s pocket was meant for him and written by Madame Ariane. But what if we were wrong in our first thought? Madame Ariane has already admitted to a private conversation with Sir William in his study, on the history of Chateau Lafoute, she tells us. Why then would she need to leave him a private note? Non. The note was written by her, yes, but it was not intended for Sir William.