Chef Maurice and a Spot of Truffle (Chef Maurice Mysteries Book 1) (8 page)

Chef Maurice jumped to his feet. “You must not drive,
mademoiselle
. Let me get my keys—”

A hand clamped down on his shoulder. “With respect, chef, not on your life. I’ll drive, uh, PC Gavistone where she needs to go.”

“It’s okay, you can call me Lucy.” Why was she grinning like an idiot? “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch—”

“Patrick.”

Patrick. Not Pat. She didn’t know why, but she rather liked that.

“Well, thank you, Patrick. I don’t know what got into me tonight. I don’t usually drink during the week.”

“Chef generally has that effect on people.” A wry smile passed over his face.

They found Chef Maurice standing by the front door, holding a tin of biscuits.

“You must eat more,
mademoiselle
,” he said sternly, staring her up and down. “It is not good for a young woman to, how do you say, have a look of hunger.”

She looked down at her waistline, surprised. She’d never considered herself at risk of sporting a waif-like look. Sure, the job kept her trim enough, though any beneficial result was possibly less due to exercise and more due to the Cowton and Beakley Constabulary’s minuscule budget, which stretched to cheap tea and one small box of assorted biscuits per week. And the Chief Inspector always nicked the chocolate ones before anyone else could get there.

He handed her the tin, then followed them outside, pulling on his hat and coat.

“Mr Manchot, this is an official police investigation,” she said, with as much gravity as she could muster on a full stomach of pasta and white Burgundy.

“This is my car, and that is my sous-chef,” said Chef Maurice, climbing into the front passenger seat. “Do we go or not?”

She sighed and climbed into the back.

“It’ll be okay,” said Patrick, revving up the engine of the little Citroën. “Chef can be quite unobtrusive when he wants to be.”

“And how often is that?”

“I’ll let you know if it ever happens.”

PC Alistair stood in the road at the bottom of Farnley Woods, shielding his eyes from the approaching headlights. He motioned them down a short dirt track to a scrubby field, hidden by dense vegetation from the main road and the small huddle of cottages that made up the hamlet of Farnley.

PC Lucy jumped out and strode over to the abandoned car, which was currently overrun with police constables wielding torches.

Chef Maurice and Patrick stood off to one side, far enough from the reach of PC Lucy’s sharp tongue, but near enough to hear everything going on.

It appeared that Ollie’s car was disappointingly bare of clues to its owner’s sudden demise. There were a few empty plastic crates in the back, presumably waiting for the day’s mushroom find, a pile of old newspapers, and yet another pair of muddy boots. There was also a half-empty box of dog treats in the glove compartment.

Chef Maurice brushed a few biscuit crumbs off his coat. “
Très intéressant
,” he said, glancing around the overgrown field.

“Yes, chef?” Patrick tried not to stare as PC Lucy bent all the way over to inspect the back seat of Ollie’s car.

“There is a free car parking on the main road, just twenty metres from this place, but Monsieur Ollie chooses to put his car here. I ask why?”

“Guess he didn’t want people to know he was foraging here?”

“But Farnley Woods is a permitted ground. A bag of mushrooms, a basket of herbs, what is there to hide?”

“Poaching, then?”

“Bah, there is no money in the poaching of game. The businessmen from London, they come here to shoot many birds, but they do not want to get their hands dirty after. How do you think we have such good prices for pheasant?”

PC Lucy had now finished with the car and was conversing in low tones with PC Alistair.

“Come, I cannot hear.”

They inched closer, staring nonchalantly at the moonlit trees around them.

“Been round to three of the Farnley cottages already, miss, just before you arrived. None of them claim to know anything about the victim’s car.”

“Did they happen to know Ollie?”

“Only by sight, they said. And I got the feeling they didn’t like him coming round here.”

“How come? Because of the foraging?”

“Suppose so, miss. Some people think just because they live near some woods, they’re the only ones allowed in them.”

PC Lucy hiccupped discreetly. “Do you think any of them might be responsible for those notes he received?”

“Doubt it, miss. They’re all pretty old folk, quiet like, most of them were in bed when I knocked.”

She sighed. “Well, let’s not keep the last ones waiting, then.”

The sole inhabitant of Grove Cottage was at least fifty years younger than her neighbours. She had the pale look of a natural redhead, and her carefully manicured fingers played nervously with the silver leaf pendant around her neck.

No, she didn’t know anything about the car in the field. No one went up that way; she didn’t even know who owned that land.

“What about Mr Meadows? Did you know him at all?”

Mrs Kristine Hart’s eyes flickered, then she shook her head. “Not very well. He used to come round knocking sometimes, selling mushrooms and herbs when he collected more than he expected.”

“And when was the last time you saw him?”

Another flicker. “I don’t know, at least a couple of weeks ago, I think.”

PC Lucy looked down at her notebook. “What about your husband, Mrs Hart? Did he know Mr Meadows?”

“I don’t think so. Nick’s away on business most of the week.”

“Can we speak to him now?”

A faint smile. “I’m afraid he’s in Cologne at the moment. He flew out last Friday.”

Chef Maurice nudged Patrick. “Most convenient,” he muttered. “Monsieur Ollie, he was last seen on the Saturday.”

Patrick gave him a puzzled look. “So, just because her husband wasn’t here on Saturday, he must be involved in the murder?”

“
Exactement!
”

They were standing up against the window to the front lounge. Through the open curtains, they could admire Mrs Hart’s tasteful, stylish furnishings. A bold canvas of modern art hung over the fireplace, and the shelves were sparsely decorated with abstract sculptures. The only jarring note was a vase of drooping wild flowers on the mantelpiece. Chef Maurice would have expected a single orchid, or an unusual cactus, perhaps.

“Well, thank you for your time, Mrs Hart,” said PC Lucy, pulling out a card. “If you think of anything else, please do give us a call.”

After the door clicked shut, PC Lucy spun around to face them. Patrick took a quick step backwards.

“Mr Manchot! I’d appreciate it if you didn’t stand there making completely baseless accusations at members of the public.”

“Ah. But if my accusations had a base—”

“Not then, either.”

They walked back to the car, PC Lucy two strides ahead.

“She lies,” murmured Chef Maurice.

“She wouldn’t do that,” said Patrick, aghast.

“Eh?
Non
, not Mademoiselle Lucy. The other.
La belle
Madame Hart.”

“I didn’t think she was that good-looking,” said Patrick, rather louder than necessary.

Back in the field, PC Lucy pulled out two more cards. “I need to head to the station now. I’ll get a lift with Alistair. Here’s my number, call me if you think of anything else.
Call
, Mr Manchot. Do not
do
. Please.”

Chef Maurice nodded affably. He was enjoying himself immensely. He had truffles to find, a new four-legged friend to train, and now a murder case to solve. Cooking was all very well, but he felt he could do with a little more mental stimulation at this point in life.

Besides, he thought, watching Patrick carefully place PC Lucy’s card in his wallet, he had his sous-chef’s love life to watch out for. If he could solve this case, it would surely raise his whole kitchen crew in PC Lucy’s esteem.

Autumn at Le Cochon Rouge was definitely looking up.

* * *

Early next morning, the truffle hunt resumed.

Chef Maurice left Patrick and Alf plucking the morning pheasant delivery out in the yard, surrounded by a slew of flying feathers, and loaded Hamilton into the back seat of his car. The little pig was once again kitted out in his anti-pig-walking-licence disguise.

They stopped in the village to pick up Arthur and Horace, who had been persuaded to forgo his post-breakfast snooze in order to protect his master from any murderous shotguns. Plus he’d heard there would be opportunity to chase, or at least lumber after, a few squirrels.

“Funny business, all this,” said Arthur, after Chef Maurice caught him up on the last night’s activities. “Abandoned cars, shootings, dead bodies in the woods. Not really what people come to the Cotswolds for. Visitor numbers will slump, mark my words.”

Chef Maurice waved a hand at the road. “Then why are there so many people here?”

The little clearing at the bottom of Farnley Woods was packed with cars, mostly of the type that rattled at over forty miles an hour and required a good thump to the bonnet to get started on a cold winter’s day.

The local pensioners were out in force.

It seemed there was nothing like a bit of murder to get the nearby villages’ older population out into the fresh air. Some of the more enterprising senior sleuths had even brought along magnifying glasses, while the others were relying on their spare pairs of varifocals. Walking sticks and plastic sandwich bags at the ready, the pensioners were busy in the woods, unearthing a variety of squashed cans and long-lost woollen gloves, and the odd piece of loose change. One old lady was diligently scraping some suspicious-looking red paint into a paper bag.

“Might be blood,” whispered her companion, looking around to check no one else had noticed their discovery.

Thankfully, the steep slopes, uneven ground, and lack of tea rooms and toilet facilities meant that the crowd hadn’t wandered too much further than shouting distance from the main road. Chef Maurice and Arthur struck out towards the depths of Farnley Woods, with Hamilton running ahead and Horace bringing up the rear guard.

A truffle-less forty minutes later, either by accident or unconscious design, they found themselves back at The Bear.

“Some people say the smell of truffles resembles the scent of male pigs, if you follow my meaning,” said Arthur, watching Hamilton sniff around the mossy rocks. “Maybe you should have got a female pig instead. Ouch,” he added, as Hamilton head-butted him on the ankle.

“It will take time,” said Chef Maurice, regarding his new colleague indulgently. “But he will prove himself. It is certain.”

There was a flash of neon yellow from between the trees on the far side of the clearing.

“
Bonjour!
” shouted Chef Maurice, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Is somebody there?”

Arthur, on the other hand, had ducked behind The Bear.

In the distance, there was the faint sound of snapping twigs, then silence.

“’Allo?” No answer. Chef Maurice picked up a large branch. “Stay here,
mon ami
, and guard Hamilton. Come, Horace.”

Horace looked up at him and decided he didn’t get enough dog biscuits for this. He lay down in the leaves and yawned theatrically.

Branch raised, Chef Maurice stepped quietly into the thick woods.

A strip of bright yellow peeked through some bushes up ahead.

“I can see you,” he shouted. “Come out!”

“Dammit,” a female voice whispered. “Alistair, I told you not to wear that thing up here.”

PC Lucy stepped out from behind a nearby tree, a smile of pleasant surprise plastered across her face.

“Mr Manchot, what a . . . pleasant surprise. Are you walking Hamilton again?”

PC Alistair crawled his way out of a bush. He was wearing a large high-visibility jacket and a sheepish look.

Chef Maurice looked past their shoulders with interest. A small flat area of trees had been cordoned off. Squirrels darted back and forth, acorns in paws, stopping here and there to dig frenetically. Horace would have had a field day.

“Ah, so you have discovered the location of Monsieur Ollie’s shooting?”

PC Lucy narrowed her eyes. “Please tell me that’s just a guess.”

Chef Maurice pointed at the clear plastic bag in PC Alistair’s hands, which contained a blood-and-mud-splattered grey cap, the type Ollie always used to wear. Too late, the young man tried to hide it behind his back.

“Honestly, Alistair!”

“Sorry, miss.”

“Good morning, officers,” said Arthur, struggling through the undergrowth, dragging Horace on his lead. “I thought I heard your voices. Sorry for the delay. I was just, um, tying a shoelace. Found anything interesting?”

“We have found the location where Monsieur Ollie was shot,” said Chef Maurice, beaming. PC Lucy rolled her eyes.

“Ah, capital work. So you were right, old chap. He
was
dragged into that gully. But the question is why?”

PC Alistair opened his mouth, then clamped it shut again, with a sideways look at PC Lucy.

“You can tell them,” she said wearily. “It’s all speculation at this point anyway.”

“We reckon we’re too near the road here, sir.”

“Road?”

“The A323 runs just along up there.” Alistair pointed behind him. “You can’t see it but you can hear the lorries go by if you listen. We reckon whoever shot Ollie was worried someone might have heard and come to investigate. And Crinklewood Lodge is only half a mile over that way, and Laithwaites Manor backs onto the woods not far up there.”

Chef Maurice perked up at the mention of Laithwaites Manor. “Have you spoken to those who live there yet? If not, I could perhaps—”

“Enquiries are proceeding, Mr Manchot.”

“Please, you must call me Maurice.”

“As you wish. Now if you gentlemen will excuse us . . . ”

PC Lucy and Alistair continued combing the ground. Chef Maurice and Arthur stood and watched for a while, but no further discoveries seemed forthcoming.

“Do you think the killer meant for the body to be found?” said Arthur, as they meandered back down the sloping woods, taking a different path to their ascent in the hope of covering more potential truffle ground.