Chef Maurice and a Spot of Truffle (Chef Maurice Mysteries Book 1) (18 page)

“Indeed.” Chef Bonvivant raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“May I ask how long Monsieur Ollie was supplying your kitchens with these new truffles?”

Chef Bonvivant glanced down at his watch. “Well, I cannot see what use it is to you. But he had been supplying these ‘new truffles’, as you call them, for three weeks prior to his disappearance.”

“And he assured you he picked them himself, here locally?”

“The aroma was quite obvious, I felt.
Mon cher
Maurice, do not tell me you are planning to take up the truffle hunt yourself? Although, I can see that one has more free time in a village restaurant . . . ”

“In fact, I am training a truffle pig of the highest calibre.” Chef Maurice watched the other chef’s face carefully, but he saw no sign of anything but mild disinterest.

“Very good,” said Chef Bonvivant, inspecting his fingertips. “Though it may interest you to know that even Mr Meadows was not able to find the patch without assistance. At least that is what I understood, from under all his usual, ahem, braggadocio, shall we say.”

“He actually admitted to stealing the patch from another forager?” said Arthur.

“Not according to him, though of course this was Mr Meadows speaking. No, he claimed someone had tipped him off.”

“Why would anyone do that? It’s like giving away the keys to the plantation—”

“To a particularly rapacious monkey, yes,” said Chef Bonvivant. “I believe there was some question of settling a debt . . . ” He looked down at his watch again. “I am afraid, gentlemen, that I will have to end our conversation here. Mademoiselle Karista should be arriving shortly.”

As Chef Maurice and Arthur walked back to the car, a dark limousine pulled up in the yard and a raven-haired starlet swung her long legs out onto the path.

Chef Maurice stopped and bowed. “
Bonjour
, Mademoiselle Karista. You are here for a masterclass with Monsieur Bonvivant?”

“That I am,” she drawled, adjusting her sunglasses.

“
Très bien
. You will find him in the glass building if you follow this path around here. One word of advice,
mademoiselle
. Be sure to address him as Monsieur Bon-Bon. He is most partial to that.”

“That was a cruel and unusual punishment,” said Arthur, as they drove away.

Chef Maurice didn’t answer. He was thinking about what Chef Bonvivant had said.

* * *

It was dark outside and raining again.

Mrs Kristine Hart, of Grove Cottage, Farnley, opened her front door to the smell of lemons.

“
Bonsoir
, Madame Hart, we bring you lemon poppy seed cake,” said the large red raincoat standing in the doorway.

“Oh. How kind . . . ”

“We met the other night, you might remember, when the police found the car of Monsieur Ollie Meadows.”

“I don’t quite—”

“It was a trying time, I am sure,
madame
,” said the sympathetic voice. “It is in fact about Monsieur Ollie, that we come to speak to you.”

“Oh! Well, there’s not much to tell you, Mr . . . ?”

“Please, call me Maurice. And this is Arthur, my—”

“Chauffeur, apparently.”

“I told you,
mon ami
, I could come myself.”

“After two glasses of cognac? Have you forgotten about the pheasant incident?”

“I was waiting for the lemon poppy seed cake to finish,” said Chef Maurice, and handed Kristine the tinfoil-wrapped parcel, still warm from the oven. “And I became thirsty.”

Mrs Hart looked back and forth between the two men. “Are you with the police?”

“There have been new developments in the case that we thought we should speak to you about,
madame
. Is Monsieur Hart also here?”

“He’s in Amsterdam at the moment. What—”

“Perhaps it would be better if we spoke inside?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry, do come in.”

She led them into the living room, where a stylish fake log fire was burning cheerily. The mantelpiece displayed several golfing trophies, a framed wedding photo of the couple—her in a trailing white lace dress, bouquet in hand, him in full morning suit, blond hair slicked back and white teeth flashing a smile—and a wilted vase of wild flowers.

“Ah, I see you still keep the flowers. As a token of remembrance, perhaps?”

Kristine’s eyes narrowed. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do,
madame
. But do not worry, we will not speak to anyone. I assume that your husband did not know of your . . . friendship with Monsieur Ollie?”

Mrs Hart stared at them for a moment, then her eyes started to glisten. “No, he didn’t. He doesn’t. At least, he’s never said a thing . . . we were in love, you know,” she added suddenly. “Me and Ollie. Things had been bad with me and Nick for a long time, long before I even met Ollie.”

Chef Maurice nodded understandingly, while privately impressed that there was enough love in the world left to make it go round, if so much was wasted on scoundrels like Ollie Meadows.

“You say that Monsieur Hart was unaware of your
affaire d’amour
. But there was a note found at Monsieur Ollie’s cottage. It said something like: ‘Keep away from things that don’t belong to you. Or else.’”

Kristine’s lips twisted. “That sounds like the kind of thing Nick would do. He likes threatening people. But wait . . . ” Her knuckles tightened on her chair. “You’re not saying you think Nick was involved in—”

“Monsieur Ollie’s neighbour told us that a tall man with blond hair visited Monsieur Ollie’s cottage last Thursday, and that they had a loud argument.”

“But Nick wouldn’t— He was out of the country that weekend, I swear. He flew off Friday morning, I took him to the airport myself. And I— I saw Ollie that night. Nick couldn’t have had anything to do with it. Swear on my life!”

“Did you ever go to the home of Monsieur Ollie?”

“No. He didn’t want me visiting there, he said people would talk.”

Chef Maurice thought about Mrs Eldridge and her binoculars. “I think he was right,
madame
. And when was the last time you saw Monsieur Ollie?”

Lipstick in the bathroom cabinet, he thought. Definitely a scallywag.

“That morning. The Saturday he . . . went missing. He went back home early in the morning, but he came back later and brought me these flowers”—she glanced with wet eyes at the mantelpiece—“then went up to the woods. And never came back. I went out looking for him, but . . . ” She reached in her pockets for a tissue.

“Did Monsieur Ollie have his dog with him when he left?”

Kristine looked up. “Tufo? Yes, I’m pretty sure he did.”

“Do you know for how long he had kept the dog?”

“Just a month or two, I think. Said he was looking after it for his uncle. He was kind like that. Do you know he called his mother in Italy, every day?”

“Quite an example, I am sure,
madame
,” said Chef Maurice. “He did not say anything about this dog and some new, how do we say, line of business he was conducting? One that was perhaps quite lucrative?”

“I don’t know much about his business. He didn’t like to talk about it.”

“Because of something illegal, perhaps? Like what they call the mushrooms
magique
?”

“Magic mushrooms?” said Kristine in surprise. “I asked Ollie about that once, but he said he didn’t deal in them anymore, it wasn’t worth the risk. No, in fact, I remember he was on about how his new venture was completely legal. Something top chefs would pay a fortune for, he said. He talked about how he’d dug himself up a pension.”

Chef Maurice and Arthur exchanged looks.

“But he never showed you what he was selling?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“And did he tell you how he came about such a venture?”

Kristine fingered the silver chain around her neck. “I got the feeling that someone had told him something they shouldn’t have. He kept talking about someone giving away the family heirlooms. But, that’s not to say it was easy. Whatever he had found, he worked hard for it,” she added defensively. “He was doing a lot of research. He was down at the library at all hours.”

“Do you know what for?” said Arthur.

“No idea. But he came round one day, pleased as a new puppy. Gave me this.” She lifted up the silver chain. “Gave me lots of things, the last few weeks,” she sniffed.

They left Mrs Kristine Hart with her wilting petals and flowery memories.

“So it all comes back to the truffles,” said Arthur. “Black gold, they say. Or white gold, in this case.”

“‘Top chefs’!” fumed Chef Maurice. “And he never offered them to me!”

“So what do we make of all this?” said Arthur, as they drove on past Farnley Woods.

“Hmmm, it is most interesting. I start to see a shape, under all that we find. The map that goes missing, the dog who runs away, the debts that must be paid— Wait, what is that on the side— Stop, stop the car!”

Chef Maurice tugged open the door and ran out into the road.

“Maurice, what the heck—”

But Chef Maurice was back in a moment, his scarf wrapped around what looked like a wet bundle of rags. The rags wriggled, and a little snout poked out and sniffed the air curiously.

It was Hamilton.

The Welcome Back Hamilton party was set for the following evening. They hung up Le Cochon Rouge’s ‘Closed’ sign, and any hungry visitors to the Cotswolds would have to find another village to stop off in for lunch.

Patrick was browning some beef ribs in preparation for several hours of slow braising, while Alf had been turned loose on the task of creating a sow nut pie, sow nut soup and sow nut trifle for the guest of honour.

Dorothy was at the kitchen table with a large pile of pink napkins, struggling to evolve an origami pig out of the stiff starched squares.

Patrick wandered over, tongs in hand. “Looks like a pink bomb,” he offered.

“It’s got a curly tail,” said Dorothy, a tad defensively.

“It’s funny how everyone thinks pigs are pink,” said Alf. “Then you meet one, and they’re a light brown, or black, or white with spots.”

“I’ve never seen a bomb-shaped one, though.”

“You just need a little more imagination, luv.”

“Quite a bit more—”

Dorothy swiped at Patrick with a spare napkin. He jumped out of the way and went to check on his caramelising vegetables.

Arthur dropped by mid-morning, carrying an expensive-looking paper shopping bag—the type with the little string handles and dissolvable tissue paper wrapping, from the kind of store that assumes you’d never do something as crass as walk around in a downpour.

“Meryl sends her regards, via the medium of shopping.” He pulled out a little knitted jumper, embroidered with the words: Little Porker.

“Ooooh, isn’t that adorable,” cooed Dorothy.

“Indeed,” said Arthur. “So where’s the pig of the moment?”

Patrick held back the temptation to ask ‘which one?’—Chef Maurice having caused the sudden disappearance of their entire Stilton cheese stock overnight—and pointed to the backyard.

“Out in his field, happy as a pig in mud.”

Arthur peered out of the window. Hamilton was running around his enclosure, squealing and leaping, while the two cows in the next-door field chewed their cud and watched this display with mild interest.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s been like that all morning. Happy to be out in the fresh air, I guess, after being cooped up who knows where.”

“All fit and present then?”

“Well, the vet came round first thing this morning, said he couldn’t see anything to worry about. He’s lost a little weight, but I think he’ll put it back on pretty soon.” Patrick nodded towards Alf, who was sorting sow nuts by size for his trifle.

“No doubt. So where’s Maurice got to today?”

“Funny you should say that, luv,” said Dorothy, who’d now moved on to pink swans. “We’ve not seen him all morning.”

Arthur groaned. “That cannot be a good thing.”

* * *

Despite the appearance of mindless gallivanting, Hamilton was in fact in the middle of a serious re-enactment of his imprisonment for the benefit of his enthralled bovine audience, who found the whole thing fascinating.

There was shock (a pignapping!), torture (or at least, a serious lack of apples), a heroic escape, and finally a most fortuitous ending, being reunited with his owner as he trudged his way back home.

It was, all in all, a cut above the usual stories the cows heard down at the milking parlour, though occasionally one of the sheep turned up with a pretty good yarn.

They were particularly interested in the identity of Hamilton’s pignapper. (Cows being, by nature, very law-abiding creatures, they were looking forward to getting some righteous stampeding done should they come across the pignapper in future.)

But that question was easily enough answered. All you had to do, according to Hamilton, was look for the human with the big piggy-bite mark on their arm.

* * *

Chef Maurice was also having a busy morning.

Come daybreak, he spent a good hour stomping up and down the fields behind Ollie’s cottage, prodding at the dewy grass with a long stick. Eventually, he found what he was looking for.

Next, he drove over to Oxford to pay a visit to the University Department of Plant Pathology and received a guided tour from the gratified but rather puzzled Deputy Head of Department.

On his way back to Beakley, he stopped at Laithwaites Manor to invite Brenda to Hamilton’s homecoming party and to twist her arm for her walnut-and-coffee-bean cake recipe, which she scribbled down after extracting a promise that it would not turn up on the restaurant’s menu.

Rejuvenated by a large cup of tea with four sugars, he headed for the Beakley library and sweet-talked the librarian into letting him down into the archives by means of a tray of caramel fudge brownies.

One dusty hour later, he was on the move again, this time to see a pheasant broker over near Cowton, who bought pheasants from local landowners and game-shooting companies to sell to the high-end restaurants and gastropubs, where people were apparently willing to pay a premium to pick lead shot out of their teeth after dinner.