Chef Maurice and the Bunny-Boiler Bake Off (Chef Maurice Cotswold Mysteries Book 3)

by J. A. Lang

  “That’s my job, too,” said Arthur, who operated a swift and deadly arachnid-removal service in his own home. (In truth, Meryl was more than capable of dealing with their eight-legged intruders herself, but felt it her wifely duty to allow her husband to have the first turn, in the name of male ego maintenance. The same applied to jam-jar lids, the Sunday crossword puzzle, and any flat-pack furniture.)

  “Did you know at the time that Mademoiselle Miranda was involved in the blackmail of Monsieur Rory?”

  Karole shook her head. “I told Rory we should be more careful, that someone could have easily noticed us. We weren’t exactly discreet, sometimes. He told me I worried too much, and anyway it wouldn’t matter once . . .” She stopped, breaking down into a series of hiccuppy sobs.

  “Once what, mademoiselle?”

  “Once . . . we got married. He was going to leave his wife. He was, I swear,” she said, glaring at them. “I know everyone thinks I’m an idiot, but it wasn’t some tawdry affair like they all think. Rory’s a good man. He just married the wrong woman, and didn’t realise it until he met me.”

  Arthur nodded, recalling the various middle-aged men of his acquaintance who’d laboured for many years under the false notion of being in love with their wives, until a nubile young female showed them the error of their ways.

  “And he had already told this to Madame Gifford?”

  “I told him it’d be best to get it over with, before the campaign kicked off properly. He promised he’d tell her last week—but you saw them together at the Fayre, right? He clearly hadn’t said a thing.” Her fists clenched. “We had a big fight about that. He kept up this ridiculous pretence that he’d told her, that maybe she just hadn’t understood. As if!”

  “Ah, so you feared, then, that Monsieur Rory may have changed his mind?”

  Karole looked down at the crumpled tissues in her fingers. “I don’t know,” she said in a small voice.

  “Have you any idea why Monsieur Rory would have chosen to meet Mademoiselle Miranda at Warren’s Creek? During the hours of the Fayre? It was a big risk to take, non, with so many people around?”

  “Rory liked a bit of risk. But, no, I don’t know why he had to meet her then. Maybe she’d asked for more money, and he wasn’t going to pay up.”

  She shifted position on the sofa, causing a crackling sound from beneath the purple throw rug. She looked puzzled, thrust her hand under for a moment and came up with a box of expensive-looking chocolates, which she offered to Arthur and Chef Maurice.

  “Scübadiva & Co.,” said Arthur appreciatively, who knew his chocolates almost as well as Meryl did. “I remember the first time I visited their shop in Brussels. Nearly bankrupted myself on their eighty per cent Dark Blend.”

  “Pah, eighty per cent is too high,” said Chef Maurice, who had a personal preference for a cocoa content of sixty-eight and a half. He selected a wild strawberry praline and held it up before him. “Monsieur Scübadiva, he is a craftsman of the highest level. You have excellent taste, mademoiselle.”

  “Oh, these came from Paul. You know, Paul Whittaker, Rory’s deputy? He came over earlier, said he wanted to check I was okay. I guess everyone down at the Town Hall must have heard about it all by now, but he didn’t say anything. Just told me to take my time, that there wasn’t any rush to get back to work. I suppose given that Rory’s down at the police station right now, that’s no surprise.” She blew her nose. “You know, I used to think Paul was . . . well, a bit sweet on me, but I guess the scales must have fallen from his eyes now . . .”

  She gave a little laugh, with an edge of eighty per cent bitterness.

  “So, what do we make of Little Miss Linton, then?” said Arthur, once they were safely ensconced back inside Chef Maurice’s car, which still contained the lingering smell of cherry clafoutis. “Apart from her insistence that Rory Gifford isn’t the murdering type, there’s still not much in it to suggest he’s not the guilty party. We know Miranda had the dirt on him, we know he had plans to meet her that Saturday. It’s only his word against a bucketload of evidence. Not the most promising of scenarios, old chap.”

  “Non, non, do you not see? An idea, it begins to take shape. The camera that Mademoiselle Miranda carried with her, the pipe thrown in the bushes . . . A thought comes to me. Arthur, your diary. Pass it to me!”

  “A man’s diary is a rather private item,” said Arthur, but handed it over nevertheless. It was an old-fashioned leather affair, complete with a section at the back containing a world map, a diagram of the London Underground, and a list of British sunrise and sunset hours—presumably so that if you found yourself deposited on some foreign shore, you would be able to a) navigate yourself home and b) do so by sundown.

  Even so, it was fair to assume that Oscar Wilde, when speaking of the importance of something sensational to read in the train, had not been referring to the back section of Drayton’s Pocket-Sized One-Week-To-View Double-Page-Spread in Dark Brown Leather.

  It was, however, to this very section that Chef Maurice turned—in particular, the list of full and new moon dates for the current year.

  “It’s still a few days to full moon,” said Arthur, peering over Chef Maurice’s elbow. “So I’m afraid the werewolf attack theory is rather out, old chap. It was gibbous, if anything, on the day of the Fayre.”

  But Chef Maurice was not listening. He merely closed his eyes and nodded to himself. “Oui, if I am correct in my ideas,” he muttered, “then it is certain that Monsieur Rory is an innocent man.”

  “In the eyes of the law, at least,” said Arthur, still thinking about the grainy hotel photographs, which were proving disturbingly difficult to wipe from his mental library. “I don’t suppose you’ve managed to dream up any evidence to prove your theory?”

  Chef Maurice shook his head. “But, I have thoughts of a plan to prove the guilt of the true murderer, and so the innocence of Monsieur Rory. For this, we will require the help of many . . .”

  Chapter 14

  That afternoon, the newly formed Free Mayor Gifford campaign team met in the living room of the Giffords’ Cowton residence.

  Angie, of course, had been the first to sign up. “I never believed for a moment that Rory could have laid a finger on Miranda,” she declared as she bustled around, plumping the cushions and straightening the tea coasters. “There’s no crime in being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was just lazy policing, if you ask me, the way they just turned up and took him away.”

  No mention of Karole Linton had been made thus far, and Angie’s ready agreement to allow her home to host the campaign headquarters suggested, as Arthur had predicted on their drive over, that she was quietly prepared to stand by her man, come what may.

  She had, however, looked less than convinced when Chef Maurice had declared his commitment not only to freeing her husband from behind bars, but also unmasking the true culprit in due course. Unperturbed, he put her lack of faith down to the fact she had never seen the Maurice Manchot Detective Squad in full action before.

  It was now four in the afternoon, and two china teapots and an antique cake stand loaded with petit fours stood ready to welcome their visitors.

  Miss Caruthers was the first to arrive. She embraced Angie, then turned to face Chef Maurice and Arthur.

  “I don’t approve of you raising the poor girl’s hopes like this,” she said, after Angie left to fetch another tray of scones. “She’s got enough troubles as it is, without you giving her all these false expectations.”

  Nevertheless, she took up her seat at the end of the sofa. Soon the bell tinkled again, and Gaby Florence and Adam Monroe appeared at the living room door. Gaby’s hair was arranged in wide, shiny curls and she wore a green-and-white cotton dress, while Adam Monroe looked like he’d just rolled out of bed and into the Fonz’s wardrobe.

  They settled themselves onto the chairs by the window, Adam’s arm draped casually over Gaby’s shoulder. Her India experience must have also prompted a sudden change
of heart in Adam’s direction.

  “Why did you invite them?” whispered Angie to Chef Maurice, shooting Gaby a disapproving look. Clearly her loyalty to Miranda still ran deep.

  “Mademoiselle Gaby and Monsieur Adam have both important knowledge of Mademoiselle Miranda’s character. This is useful to us, in the discovery of the murderer. Remember, you agreed that the campaign must include all who may have knowledge to help us liberate Monsieur Rory. Oh, and I must mention,” he added, “that in order that Mademoiselle Gaby would attend today, I told her you will consider her for a teaching role at your new cookery school.” He moved away before Angie could muster up a reply.

  Next to arrive was Karole Linton, pale but neatly turned out in grey trousers and a white blouse, accompanied by a solicitous but sombre Paul Whittaker. Karole sat down in the armchair furthest from Angie, who studiously ignored her presence, and struck up a hesitant conversation with Miss Caruthers about the headmistress’s upcoming retirement plans. Paul Whittaker gave Angie’s hand a brief squeeze, and assured her in low tones that everything was running smoothly down at the mayoral office, ready for Mayor Gifford’s no-doubt imminent return.

  “Are we waiting on someone else?” said Arthur, gesturing to the last empty chair.

  “Our last guest will make a later appearance, I believe,” said Chef Maurice, smoothing down his moustache. “For now, I think we make the start.”

  He turned to face the waiting group, who were sat in a semicircle around the coffee table, china teacups balanced on their knees.

  “Thank you, mesdames et messieurs, for agreeing to come here today. We are all united, oui, in believing that Monsieur Rory Gifford, whatever his other crimes may be”—here everyone looked around at Karole Linton, who stared down into her tea—“is not responsible for the murder of Mademoiselle Miranda Matthews.”

  Miss Caruthers pursed her lips at this statement, but remained silent.

  “And so, we must ask, if Monsieur Rory is not guilty of the crime, then who is?”

  He paused here to take a dramatic sip of sugary tea.

  “To discover this, we must make an examination of the personality of Mademoiselle Miranda. We learn from Madame Caruthers that Mademoiselle Miranda was in the habit of discovering the secrets of those she wished to influence. And from Mademoiselle Gaby, we know that there was little to stop her when she wished to get her way.

  “It is a certain fact that Mademoiselle Miranda had many enemies. Yet, she always trusted that the secrets she discovered would keep her safe. She did not, I think, ever meet a person she could not control. Until, that is, she made her return here to the Cotswolds, and came again into the contact of a personality most formidable.

  “Is that not right, Madame Caruthers?”

  The room was still and silent as a bowl of setting jelly.

  Miss Caruthers laid down her teacup with a gentle clatter. “Excuse me?”

  “I believe that you take your retirement this year, is that correct?”

  “It is, but I wasn’t aware it had any bearing on our purpose here today.”

  “Ah, but this I will explain. It was at the Fayre, I remember, that you made a most interesting statement. That your sister, Madame Deirdre, began the making of pickles last year, in her own retirement. But you told us yourself, madame, on another occasion, that Madame Deirdre is the oldest of your sisters. Six years older, in fact. And yet you now look to retire, only a year later than your oldest sister? Non, this cannot be.”

  “I’m afraid that at what age I choose to retire from teaching is entirely my own affair, Mr Manchot.”

  “One may say so,” agreed Chef Maurice, “but in this case, I believe your choice to have much significance to the discussion today. Because, I think, it was not just Monsieur le mayor who Miranda had looked to gain from in the last months. She came to you also, n’est-ce pas? A move that, how do you say, made a force of your hand?”

  Miss Caruthers gave Chef Maurice a long look, then nodded. “Very well, I see you are quite set on dredging up the past. If that is so, I may as well be the one to put the facts on record. There is nothing in them that I am ashamed of. I take full responsibility for my actions.

  “I had been in the employment of the Lady Eleanor School for some fifteen years when my sister Caroline, only a year older than me, was diagnosed with an acute form of leukaemia. In those days, successful treatments were few and far between, but I had heard news of an Austrian doctor who was producing some astounding results in his patients. However, his fees were not inexpensive, and our parents had left us little money on their passing.

  “I was more than familiar with the financial situation at Lady Eleanor, having served as the temporary bursar for two terms when Miss Lovelace, may she rest in peace, was taken ill with a bad bout of influenza. The school funds were—and still are, I might add—in an extremely healthy state, and so I made my private case to Miss Lovelace. I might add here that she must have felt a degree of gratitude towards me, for having stepped in to keep her position open while she was in convalescence. My proposition was a simple one: I would borrow a sum of no little significance from the school accounts, to be paid back over several years at an above-average level of interest. It was not a loan a bank would have given to a man of my income, let alone an unmarried woman back in those times, and as such, I have no regrets in my actions. To see my sister celebrate her fiftieth birthday, something the doctors said at the time would be impossible, was worth any penalty I would have to pay in the future.”

  “But how does this involve Miranda Matthews?” asked Arthur.

  “Ah, yes. Miranda. She was a pupil at Lady Eleanor during this time. In the Fifth Form, I believe. Miss Lovelace and I had believed our arrangement to be quite private to anyone apart from ourselves, but I imagine Miranda must have applied her skills of eavesdropping, and possibly lock-picking, to great effect during that period. Nonetheless, I had not the slightest idea that she had been privy to our discussions, until spring this year when Miranda came to me, quite out of the blue, with a simply ludicrous request.

  “She wanted fifty thousand pounds in fees to appear at the Beakley Spring Fayre, which I told her was completely out of the question, especially with the Fayre being an entirely charitable venture. She then, as you may now have guessed, threatened to expose my unofficial financial dealings to the School Board of Directors.”

  “And you let her tell them?” gasped Angie, staring at Miss Caruthers in horror. “I mean, she had no right. What did it matter what—”

  “Calm yourself, Angela.” Miss Caruthers patted her hand. “In the end, I went to the School Board and told them myself. I put it to them that they should of course demand that I go, and they agreed, but said it would be publicly announced as an early retirement, in light of my service over the years. I did not quarrel on this point. I suppose I have a little vanity left in me yet.” She turned to Chef Maurice. “I trust that assuages your curiosity in the matter?”

  “For now, oui, your explanation has been most suitable,” said Chef Maurice, with a little bow.

  Yet, thought Arthur, was it? An eminent career ruined by the greed of one ex-pupil. Could Miss Caruthers really be so disimpassioned about the loss of a position to which she had dedicated her whole life? From his memory, there floated up a vision of beads of water on a long tartan skirt . . . And something about children, playing down by the creek . . .

  Chef Maurice appeared to glance at something outside the front window, then nodded. “But enough of the telling of stories to pass the time,” he said, standing up in a flurry of cake crumbs. (Arthur saw Angie give a little wince.) “We come now to the reason that brings us here today. Because there are now not just one, but two victims in this crime. The first, of course, is Mademoiselle Miranda. And the second, if we do not succeed in our task, is Monsieur Rory Gifford, arrested for a crime that we all agree he did not commit.”

  “Well, when you say we all—” started Arthur, but he was quickly silenced by the combin
ed death stares of Angie, Karole and Chef Maurice. “Never mind. On you go.”

  “So, we must ask the question, how did such a situation come to be? When we look at the clues, they point most strongly to Monsieur Rory. Too strongly, I say. The pipe from his own garden? The rabbit tail left for all to find? These, I think, were not a matter of coincidence.”

  “You think someone was framing him?” said Gaby, who seemed to be enjoying the current intrigue. Cowton was turning out more exciting than any ashram, and there was more cake too.

  “Oui. Which leads us to the second question: was Monsieur Rory presented as a distraction, to simply throw the scent from the true criminal, or was there an aim more sinister? An aim to not just carry out murder, but, at the same time, destroy the career of a politician with much promise?”

  “Surely not,” said Angie staunchly. “Rory’s a pillar of the community. Who could possibly want to do that to him?”

  “Ah, a good question, madame. One, perhaps, that he can answer himself.”

  As if on cue, there was a knock on the living room door.

  “Un moment, s’il vous plait.” Chef Maurice scooted over to the door and flung it open with a flourish. “Ah, it is our final guest. Welcome home, monsieur.”

  The doorway was filled with the tall frame of Mayor Rory Gifford. PC Lucy hovered behind him, handcuffs swinging from her belt.

  “So they’ve finally let me out,” he announced, upbeat for a man who’d just spent the last night down in Cowton Police Station’s clean but spartan cells. “Said some new evidence had come up, and I was free to go home. All due to Mr Manchot here. Boggled me good, he did, with his explanation, but I got it all by the end. Got brains coming out of his ears, this man.”

  Chef Maurice frowned, unsure if he liked this particular epithet.