fellow to fool around with another man’s wife. And Bertie’s practically family to him. You saw the way he talked.”
“But there are no other A’s present here in the house. Except for you, mon ami ,” pointed out Chef Maurice.
Three faces turned to Arthur, who spluttered:
“Well, I certainly didn’t write that note. If you ask me, it looks a lot like Maurice’s handwriting. Very French, I can see even from here.”
“Bah! I object! How could I—”
“Okay, gentlemen, enough,” said PC Lucy, holding up a hand. “And it goes without saying, you are not to mention this note to anyone, understand?”
There were vigorous nods all around, which meant, she knew from experience, exactly nothing.
She placed the lilac-coloured note in a plastic bag for safekeeping, and reached gingerly into Sir William’s nearest trouser pocket. Her fingers closed around something heavy and metallic.
It was a large brass key, hung on a thick woven cord.
She looked over at Chef Maurice.
“I thought you said the intruder locked the door behind him. Or her,” she added. Crime, after all, was an equal opportunities employer. “From the outside .”
“But it is true! It was most definitely locked when Madame Bates came for us. Unless . . . Un moment . Let us not jump on conclusions.” Chef Maurice grabbed the key and hurried up the stairs. A moment later, there was a whirring noise and a click.
“ Oui , this is the correct key,” he said, as he returned down the stairs.
“Then how . . . ?” PC Lucy looked around the room. The cellar was big by normal standards, but bottles and small wine crates lined every available wall. There was nowhere for anyone to hide. “What about a second key?”
Chef Maurice shook his head. “It was in wax. We saw Monsieur Gilles break it open before us. It could not have been used before.”
PC Lucy checked the other trouser pocket, but found only a clean white handkerchief. She pushed it back in.
“Right, let’s get back upstairs,” she said.
Chef Maurice remained squatted down for a moment, then reached out and laid a gentle hand on Sir William’s shoulder.
“Do not worry, mon ami . We will find who did this. It is my promise.”
Uh oh, thought PC Lucy, who’d experienced Chef Maurice’s first attempts at impromptu sleuthing earlier that year.
He just said ‘we’.
Back in the Bourne Hall kitchens, Mrs Bates was serving up cold beef sandwiches from the remains of what would have been the evening’s dinner.
Chef Maurice would have preferred the slices a little pinker, but he allowed that Mrs Bates had suffered quite a shock today, and in her defence, the horseradish cream was both excellent and liberally applied.
PC Lucy entered the kitchen with a small police radio in her hand.
“My colleagues will be here shortly,” she said. “In the meantime, if you wouldn’t mind, Mr Gilles, I’d like to ask you some questions about Sir William?”
“Of course, madam,” said Gilles, who’d been standing by the door, holding a cup of tea in the awkward manner of a man unaccustomed to social gatherings. He seemed quite relieved as he led PC Lucy down the hallway into Sir William’s study.
It was a good-sized room, decorated to male tastes, with old oil paintings on the walls depicting historic battles, an abundance of oak panelling, and several firm, leather-studded armchairs.
“Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer this interview to be conducted in private?” said PC Lucy, throwing an exasperated glance at Chef Maurice and Arthur, who’d followed them in and had settled themselves into the two armchairs by the small fireplace.
Gilles folded his hands neatly before him. “If the gentlemen wish to be present, I certainly have no objection. There is nothing I can tell you that would be in any way inappropriate.”
“As you wish,” said PC Lucy. “So walk me through the events of this evening.”
Gilles cleared his throat. “From which point in the
“But there are no other A’s present here in the house. Except for you, mon ami ,” pointed out Chef Maurice.
Three faces turned to Arthur, who spluttered:
“Well, I certainly didn’t write that note. If you ask me, it looks a lot like Maurice’s handwriting. Very French, I can see even from here.”
“Bah! I object! How could I—”
“Okay, gentlemen, enough,” said PC Lucy, holding up a hand. “And it goes without saying, you are not to mention this note to anyone, understand?”
There were vigorous nods all around, which meant, she knew from experience, exactly nothing.
She placed the lilac-coloured note in a plastic bag for safekeeping, and reached gingerly into Sir William’s nearest trouser pocket. Her fingers closed around something heavy and metallic.
It was a large brass key, hung on a thick woven cord.
She looked over at Chef Maurice.
“I thought you said the intruder locked the door behind him. Or her,” she added. Crime, after all, was an equal opportunities employer. “From the outside .”
“But it is true! It was most definitely locked when Madame Bates came for us. Unless . . . Un moment . Let us not jump on conclusions.” Chef Maurice grabbed the key and hurried up the stairs. A moment later, there was a whirring noise and a click.
“ Oui , this is the correct key,” he said, as he returned down the stairs.
“Then how . . . ?” PC Lucy looked around the room. The cellar was big by normal standards, but bottles and small wine crates lined every available wall. There was nowhere for anyone to hide. “What about a second key?”
Chef Maurice shook his head. “It was in wax. We saw Monsieur Gilles break it open before us. It could not have been used before.”
PC Lucy checked the other trouser pocket, but found only a clean white handkerchief. She pushed it back in.
“Right, let’s get back upstairs,” she said.
Chef Maurice remained squatted down for a moment, then reached out and laid a gentle hand on Sir William’s shoulder.
“Do not worry, mon ami . We will find who did this. It is my promise.”
Uh oh, thought PC Lucy, who’d experienced Chef Maurice’s first attempts at impromptu sleuthing earlier that year.
He just said ‘we’.
Back in the Bourne Hall kitchens, Mrs Bates was serving up cold beef sandwiches from the remains of what would have been the evening’s dinner.
Chef Maurice would have preferred the slices a little pinker, but he allowed that Mrs Bates had suffered quite a shock today, and in her defence, the horseradish cream was both excellent and liberally applied.
PC Lucy entered the kitchen with a small police radio in her hand.
“My colleagues will be here shortly,” she said. “In the meantime, if you wouldn’t mind, Mr Gilles, I’d like to ask you some questions about Sir William?”
“Of course, madam,” said Gilles, who’d been standing by the door, holding a cup of tea in the awkward manner of a man unaccustomed to social gatherings. He seemed quite relieved as he led PC Lucy down the hallway into Sir William’s study.
It was a good-sized room, decorated to male tastes, with old oil paintings on the walls depicting historic battles, an abundance of oak panelling, and several firm, leather-studded armchairs.
“Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer this interview to be conducted in private?” said PC Lucy, throwing an exasperated glance at Chef Maurice and Arthur, who’d followed them in and had settled themselves into the two armchairs by the small fireplace.
Gilles folded his hands neatly before him. “If the gentlemen wish to be present, I certainly have no objection. There is nothing I can tell you that would be in any way inappropriate.”
“As you wish,” said PC Lucy. “So walk me through the events of this evening.”
Gilles cleared his throat. “From which point in the
Similar Books
