Chef Maurice and the Bunny-Boiler Bake Off (Chef Maurice Cotswold Mysteries Book 3) (22 page)

Hamilton the micro-pig woke the next morning to the sound of rustling outside his kennel, which was located in what had previously been Le Cochon Rouge’s long-neglected vegetable garden. This overgrown field had been his home now for the last several months, and he was getting to be quite territorial about it.

His owner, the big fat man who gave him plentiful apples, had recently planted a small patch of carrots and crispy lettuce, and the local rabbit population had started dropping by daily to check on the patch’s progress. Hamilton, who had firm ideas about where these carrots and lettuces should end up—namely, in his own feeding bowl—had therefore taken to patrolling the vegetable bed at regular intervals throughout the day. Micro-pig he might have been, but he was still comfortably larger than the average rabbit—a fact that both species had come to appreciate after a few minor tussles.

He stuck his snout outside, ready to head-butt any presumptuous carrot-curious rabbit, then gave a loud squeal.

The rabbits had decided it was payback time, and gone recruiting.

Traipsing about the field was a ginormous pastel-pink rabbit, attempting cartwheels, falling over a lot, and pausing periodically to wiggle its buttocks against the gnarled old apple tree over by the fence.

Every now and then, it would twist its head around to inspect its big white bobbletail. “Aha! I knew it!” was its war cry, before launching itself into another forward roll across the grass.

Hamilton retreated into his kennel to consider his options.

He had a feeling that his usual routine of grunting loudly and running full tilt at any bobble-tailed behind might not work in this particular case.

Then again, perhaps there would be no need. Unlike its smaller relatives, his newest furry visitor seemed hardly interested in the carrots and lettuces at all.

The kitchen crew of Le Cochon Rouge had all but forgotten their morning duties as they stood in a line at the edge of Hamilton’s little field, watching the antics within.

Dorothy had rung up Arthur, on the basis that she’d never hear the end of it if he’d missed out on the current proceedings, and so he formed the end of their impromptu viewing gallery, taking the occasional sip from the tea thermos in his hand.

“How early did he start drinking?”

“I don’t think he has been, luv,” said Dorothy. “Came bouncing down the stairs first thing this morning and out into his car. Didn’t even stop for a coffee. And then he came back all like this.”

She waved an arm at the giant rotund rabbit still romping back and forth across the field, its pink fur rapidly turning to brown.

“If he thinks that pretending to go completely bonkers will make me choose to stay on here, he’s barking up the wrong tree,” muttered Patrick.

“Speaking of trees,” said Arthur, “did you see him trying to climb the apple tree just now?”

“I think I shut my eyes at that point, luv.”

They watched as the rabbit tugged once more at its tail, nodded with extreme satisfaction, then marched over in their direction.

“
Voilà!
I have gathered the necessary proof.” It turned around and pointed jubilantly with both paws at its now mud-encrusted behind.

“I’m never going to be able to forget this image, am I?” said Arthur, mostly to himself.

“Proof of what, luv?” said Dorothy, handing a cup of strong black coffee over the fence.

“That he’s lost every single one of his marbles?” said Patrick.

Chef Maurice reached around and tugged on the tail once more. “You see? It stays!”

“Please tell me you didn’t nick that rabbit suit from the Cowton Police evidence closet,” said Arthur.

“Eh?
Non
, this costume, it is my own. I made its purchase this morning at the Cowton Store of Fancy Dress. It is a little tight, perhaps”—he lifted two paws to the sky in demonstration—“but it has been sufficient for my experiment.
Regarde
, how firm the tail stays attached? It is impossible that Monsieur le mayor lost his own tail from a simple run through the woods.
Non
, his tail, it was not lost—it was stolen! Most likely cut away.”

“Surely he’d have noticed someone coming at him with a pair of scissors,” said Arthur.

“Ah, but remember what he said. That all day, the little children had come to pull at his tail. For someone then to come and cut it, without his notice, is not so difficult. In a big crowd, too, it could easily not be seen.”

“So you’re saying someone, the murderer presumably, cut off his tail and threw it into the woods, to put us off the real scent?”

“
Exactement!
I have thought much on this matter, and I am now certain that the true murderer will be caught. Today!”

“Cor. That’s brilliant,” said Alf, who was easily impressed.

“So who did it, then?” said Patrick.

“Ah, I cannot yet say. The situation, it is most delicate. And there are a small number of matters where I still make a guess. But, by the end of today, the answers will hide from me no more!”

He strode off towards the kitchens, but was headed off by Dorothy, waving a tea towel, who insisted he get out of the grubby suit before he trekked a line of mud across the just-mopped floor.

A while later, Hamilton emerged from his kennel and, after a quick look around the field, trotted over to sit down in the middle of the carrot patch, where he remained for the rest of the day.

There was a small phalanx of journalists occupying the pavement outside Miss Karole Linton’s terraced home, located down a narrow side road off one of Cowton’s main shopping streets.

They snapped a few desultory shots of Chef Maurice and Arthur as the two of them pushed their way through to the front gate and let themselves in. Chef Maurice was carrying a wide cakebox and a folded note—the latter of which, after liberally applying himself to the doorbell with no result, he shoved through Karole’s letter box.

“We also bring my most famous cherry clafoutis,” he shouted into the opening, lifting the flap to allow the smell of buttery almonds and sweet cherries to waft on through.

“What was on that note?” whispered Arthur, trying not to make eye contact with the press mob, who had been out here since the early hours, surviving on cold tea and cigarettes, and were now eyeing the cakebox with the look of a herd about to charge.

The door cracked open, treating them to an inch-wide slice of Karole Linton’s tear-streaked face. She looked them up and down, then swung back the door just enough to allow them to squeeze inside. (Given that one of her visitors was Chef Maurice, this required an opening of some considerable width.) Flashbulbs popped as the crowd of hungry journalists got in a few shots of Karole’s bare hallway.

She slammed the door shut and leaned against it. She wore a baggy knitted jumper, jogging bottoms and fluffy slippers. Her hair was mussed and her eyes belied a night of tears and lack of sleep. In her hands, she clutched a dark green mug with the logo of the Lady Eleanor School for Girls.

Miss Caruthers’ girls, thought Arthur, seemed to be making quite a name for themselves in the world. Though in Karole Linton’s case, her recent appearance in the news would probably not be making it into the Spring Term newsletter.

“Do you really mean what you said in your note?” she demanded. “That you believe Rory didn’t do it?”

“Well—” Arthur started, but was interrupted by a sudden elbow.

“
Oui
, that is correct. And you think the same, do you not,
mademoiselle
?”

She nodded fiercely as she led them through to her front room, dark from the tightly drawn drapes. Hot drinks were offered and politely declined. In Arthur’s experience, upset women were generally incapable of making a good cup of tea.

“So tell us,
mademoiselle
, how is it that you believe in the innocence of Monsieur le mayor, after all the evidence that is presented?”

“I just knew it had to be a setup. Rory doesn’t have a violent bone in his body. We visited a hospital once, and he practically passed out at the sight of a little bit of blood. He won’t even kill the spiders in the office. I have to do it!”

“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.”