Chef Maurice and the Bunny-Boiler Bake Off (Chef Maurice Cotswold Mysteries Book 3) (5 page)

Chef Maurice shook his head. “There is a time for haute cuisine,” he said, waving his third ‘just for testing’ hog roast roll, “and there is not. A good chef must consider his audience. Once we have finished serving up Arnaud”—he patted the curved oven lid—“there will be no question as to who is the greater chef!”

“I wish you’d stop naming our hog roast each year,” said Patrick, brushing a generous daub of slow-cooked onion mayonnaise onto the inside of each roll. “It’s starting to freak the kids out.”

“Bah, they must learn about their food. Last week, there was a little girl in the restaurant who did not know where eggs came from. Can you believe this?”

“Was that the table who Dorothy said left straight after their starters? And hardly touched their
omelette aux herbes fines
?”

Chef Maurice puffed out his chest. “It is not my fault that the parents of today do not inform their children of the key facts of food production.”

“I think it was the hand gestures you made when explaining it all, more than the facts, that did it, according to Dorothy . . .”

“Hi, guys. I thought I’d come get our order in before the lunch rush,” said PC Lucy, strolling up to the stand. She was in normal uniform, but had managed to pin a daffodil to her walkie-talkie pouch to show willing. “Three jumbo rolls and two regular ones, all with the special mustard, please.”

“How’s the competition for the Bake Off looking?” asked Patrick, as he readied five waxed-paper wrappers for her order.

“Don’t talk to me about it. Your mother is never going to speak to me again after she tastes my entry. How did the fish demo go?”

“Good. We ran out of recipe cards. Though it turned out one of the audience had an undiscovered allergy to lemon sole. They had to take him off to the first-aid tent.” He handed her a paper bag, heavy with hog roast rolls. “Have you seen my mum anywhere? She wanted to try our special mustard sauce.”

“Last I saw of her was in the demo tent, talking pastry with Bonvivant. Out of interest, what would I have to do to get you to steal or destroy my cake before your mother gets to taste it?”

“Sabotage?” Patrick raised an eyebrow.

“Think of it as for a good cause.”

“No can do, I’m afraid. It’s against the cheffing code. Thou Shalt Not Destroy Food.”

PC Lucy sighed, took the bag in her arms and went off to feed her fellow constables.

Lunchtime was now in full swing, and Chef Maurice and Patrick had their hands full trying to keep up with the ravenous crowd, which was mostly made up of young families, retired residents from the nearby Cotswold villages, and a few couples on a romantic day out in the countryside. One couple in particular, her with flame-red hair, him with dark glasses and neatly groomed stubble, were currently drawing the crowd’s attention by their prolonged make-out session in the hog roast queue. Such antics were met with disapproving stares from their fellow queuers, along with Chef Maurice, who felt that this behaviour did not display sufficient anticipation about their upcoming meal.

The sautéed scallop stand was also doing a brisk trade, but as Patrick had predicted earlier, their patrons had soon run up against the conundrum—common to many a buffet party—as to how to support a plate, wield a fork
and
hold on to your drink, which in today’s case took the form of a large paper cup filled with the local pear cider.

“Has anyone seen Edith— I mean, Miss Caruthers?” said Angie, hurrying up to the hog roast stand, her round face flushed. “Or Rory? It’s one o’clock now, and they’re meant to be in the Bake Off tent getting ready, but the only judge I can find is Chef Elizabeth— Oh, wait, I tell a lie, there’s Arthur over there . . .”

Arthur, who had been quietly shuffling his way along the sautéed scallop queue with his jacket collar turned up, looked over at Angie in annoyance.

“Traitor!” shouted Chef Maurice, brandishing the applesauce ladle. “No extra hog roast for you!”

“Ah, Angela, there you are,” said Miss Caruthers, striding up behind Angie. There were splash marks on her long tartan skirt and she wore an expression of mild displeasure. “There are children playing unsupervised in the creek. I’m aware it’s not deep up here, but even so, we roped off that area for a reason. Where
are
their parents?”

She appeared to notice Chef Maurice and Patrick for the first time. “Excellent work, gentlemen,” she said, nodding at the long queue. “We really must get you up to the school for a demonstration and career talk, let the girls know what being a chef is all about.”

“It would be a pleasure,
madame
,” said Chef Maurice, though he had private doubts as to the sincerity of her request. The parents of Miss Caruthers’ pupils paid hefty sums to send their offspring to the Lady Eleanor School for Girls, and would likely react with horror at the thought of their carefully nurtured daughters taking up the long hours and low pay of a career chef.

Miss Caruthers dipped a teaspoon (clean, Chef Maurice noted) into the bowl of Le Cochon Rouge’s special mustard sauce. “Exquisite. My sister, Deirdre, took up mustard-making and pickling last year when she retired. I must send her a jar of this sometime. Now, come along, Angela, shouldn’t we all be getting ready for the Bake Off?”

“I was just saying that I couldn’t find the rest of— Ah, I see Rory over there,” said Angie, waving frantically as she spotted her husband over on the far side of the field, deep in conversation with the M.P. for the Beakley and Endleby area. Karole the Research Rabbit stood nearby, shifting her weight from foot to foot, clearly regretting the choice of four-inch heels in a soft springtime field.

Eventually, Miss Caruthers and her team managed to corral all the judges into the Bake Off tent—all, that was, apart from Miranda Matthews. Angie and Tricia, the frizzy-haired treasurer of the Beakley Ladies’ Institute, were dispatched to carry out a thorough search of the stalls and tents for the missing celebrity chef.

Every seat in the Bake Off tent was taken, and there was a sizable crowd milling around the edges. Chef Maurice shuffled his way over to the judges’ table, where Miss Caruthers was surveying the crowd with pursed lips. They were already running three minutes behind schedule, and a few babies were getting fractious in the stuffy confines of the tent.

“Perhaps,
madame
, if you require a judge to stand in until Mademoiselle Miranda arrives?”

You could see the well-polished cogs turning beneath Miss Caruthers’ smart grey curls. The recent surge in the popularity of baking television had led to a bumper crop of Bake Off entries, which were currently jostling for space on the creaking trestle table. It was a warm day, too, and Mayor Gifford in particular was already starting to look a tad overheated in his bunny suit. Perhaps there could be no harm in at least—

“Police! Someone call the police!” The cry came from the back of the tent, and Tricia stumbled into view, closely followed by Angie, her usual rosy complexion now milk white.

“What’s happened?” said Miss Caruthers, rising magisterially and hurrying down the aisle.

“It— It’s Miranda,” spluttered Angie, running to meet her. “We just found her down by the creek. She— She’s been drowned!”

There was uproar in the Bake Off tent. Parents leapt to their feet, clutching their offspring, while the gaggle of local journalists threw aside their coffee cups and sprang into action.

PC Lucy, with a quick nod at PC Sara to follow her, made her way over to Angie and Tricia, who were both descending into babbling hysteria. A couple of the other constables, who had been standing at the back of the tent with hog roast rolls in their hands, stepped forward to calm the crowd back into their seats.

“Why? Why would someone do this?” cried Angie, while Tricia collapsed into Miss Caruthers’ arms.

Near the front of the tent, there were gasps and shouts as a little girl, set off by the panic, ran head first into the long white tablecloth hanging off the Bake Off entries table, pulling the material with her as she went. Cakes, tarts and pastries came sliding over the edge, like a sugar-laden Niagara Falls. PC Lucy watched as her own cake executed a gentle forwards roll, then landed, seemingly unscathed, on the grass.

Drat, she thought, then shook herself. Now was not the time for worrying about baking. She turned her attention to the task of ushering Angie, Tricia and Miss Caruthers out of the tent.

“It was horrible,” gulped Tricia, as PC Sara led her out into the open air. “How— How—”

“You better show us where you found her,” said PC Lucy. “The rest of the team will be on their way. Miss Caruthers, if you’ll let the others know where we’ve gone . . .”

The headmistress nodded and disappeared back into the tent.

“How could something like this happen?” Angie, still white, clutched at PC Lucy’s arm. “Who would do something like this?”

PC Lucy opened her mouth to reply that it might just have been a terrible accident, they couldn’t know anything yet, but a dull weight in her gut was telling her otherwise.

Either that, or she really shouldn’t have ordered that second jumbo hog roll.

It was a fraught five minutes’ walk along the tangled, overgrown path that led downstream alongside the drifting waters of Warren’s Creek. This section of the woods, bordering on the Fayre-ground field, was marked as private property—though from the sight of the occasional crushed drinks can and chocolate bar wrapper, the moss-covered signs were not always obeyed by the local population.

There was a low higgledy-piggledy fence lining the edge of the woods, but even Angie, the shortest of the group and wearing a knee-length tweed skirt, was able to climb over without major fuss.

Following the stream, they eventually emerged into a clearing where a small jetty stood, poking out over the placid waters. It was an idyllic spot, sheltered by tall elms, with the grass spotted with white and purple crocuses, and bright daffodils lining the water’s edge.

Idyllic, that was, save for the body floating face down in the shallow waters by the jetty.

Tricia and Angie quickly turned their backs, clinging together on the edge of the clearing.

“There’s blood on the back of her head,” said PC Sara in low tones. PC Lucy nodded.

“Did either of you touch or move the body?” she asked.

Angie shook her head, from behind a lace-edged handkerchief. “I tried to lean over and reach her, in case . . .” Her voice faltered. “But she was too far, and her head . . .”

“So then we ran all the way back to get someone,” said Tricia.

“Did you pass anyone on your way, here or back? Anyone in the woods at all?”

Both women shook their heads.

Twigs cracked and leaves rustled as Mayor Gifford, looking as severe and authoritative as possible for a man wearing a pink bunny suit, appeared out of the woods, closely followed by Miss Caruthers and PC Alistair. Miss Caruthers’ thin-lipped frown and the pained look on PC Alistair’s freckled face suggested that both had tried, and failed, to prevent the mayor from stomping down into the crime scene.

Mayor Gifford ran his gaze swiftly around the clearing, then turned on PC Lucy.

“Why have you dragged my wife down here? She could have just told you where to find the . . . this spot, no need to bring her down here to see it all again.”

“It was best that Mrs Gifford and Mrs Walters showed us the site themselves. There’s no need for the two of you to stay here now,” she said, turning to Angie and Tricia, “but we’d please ask that you stay around at the Fayre so we can take your witness statements.”

“Statements? Angie, don’t you go answering any of their questions without me present, you hear?” growled Mayor Gifford.

“You’re more than welcome to be there as well, Mr Gifford. It will just be some routine questions. Nothing out of the ordinary,” she added, as Mayor Gifford’s furry ears started to vibrate ominously.

Accompanied by PC Sara, the Giffords made their way back up the path, followed by Tricia and Miss Caruthers, leaving PC Lucy and Alistair to examine the scene before the rest of the team arrived.

“Could she have slipped and hit her head?” said PC Alistair, crouching down on the edge of the jetty.