Chef Maurice and the Bunny-Boiler Bake Off (Chef Maurice Cotswold Mysteries Book 3) (17 page)

“So, the money, does it mean you may now continue in the bid?”

Angie nodded. “It’s enough to pay the rent for the first two years, and for most of the refurbishment work. I might still need to take out a loan, but it means I’m definitely not withdrawing the application now.” She spoke brusquely, as if not wanting to dwell on nor sound too happy about this unexpected silver lining.

The next twenty minutes were spent combing the ground, or at least peering intently at it and prodding it with long sticks. Angie set to work along the downstream bank, towards the school, with a remit to look out for further clues that may have washed up over the last few days, while Chef Maurice and Arthur took the westward path—the path that Miranda had presumably walked that last fateful Saturday.

“I still can’t understand,” said Arthur, “why our attacker decided to throw away the murder weapon into the bushes. I mean, they could have just as easily thrown it into the creek.”

“Ah, but the crime, perhaps it was the thought of the moment. In a panic, the murderer throws down the pipe and runs fast away.”

“Possible. Though that rather suggests our soon-to-be murderer just happened to be strolling along here, carrying around a handy piece of iron piping. A bit too much coincidence there, in my opinion.” Arthur stopped and cocked his head. “Did you hear that?”

“
Comment?
”

“Sounded like a car starting up. Over that way.” He waved a hand towards the wooded slope, which led up to the road.

“And so? Cars, they must start, before they can go. You must learn to concentrate more,
mon ami
.”

Arthur thought about explaining that the car they had just heard had been a jolly interesting car to hear, sounding a good deal like a 1960s Jaguar E-Type—a car that Arthur had insisted would be a rock-solid investment, but that Meryl had dismissed as ‘far too windy for the motorways’. However, given that Chef Maurice only cared about vintage when it came to matters such as wine and, occasionally, tinned sardines, he decided to let the matter drop.

“Never mind. So you agree that the crime was most likely premeditated?”

“
Oui
, I think you have reason. I have thought for some time, too, that this was no accident or sudden act. It is too clean. That no one, at an event of hundreds, saw anything of suspicion? Much planning had to be made. Perhaps long before the crime itself.”

By now they had strayed quite far from the creek, lost in the criss-cross of tiny woodland paths.

“It’s no good,” said Arthur, stopping and looking around. “There’s too many paths. Anyone coming from the Fayre could have climbed over that joke of a fence at any point along here. It’ll take days to go over this whole area.”

“Ah, then it is good that we will not have to. See this. Our prey, they have left us a trail.” Chef Maurice turned around from his examination of a prickly gorse bush, and held up something white and fluffy in his hand.

It was a fake rabbit tail.

By unspoken agreement, neither Chef Maurice nor Arthur mentioned the discovery of the rabbit tail to Angie. Until they identified the bunny it belonged to, it seemed cruel to put her through any unnecessary worry.

Chef Maurice, for his part, already had ideas as to his preferred guilty party. Mayor Gifford had recently hosted a small dinner at Le Cochon Rouge for some local business owners, a dinner at which Miss Karole Linton had also been in attendance. The research assistant had shown great taste in her menu choice, eschewing some of the more prosaic offerings in favour of a dish of
andouillettes
in a mustard sauce, paired with a creamy white Burgundy of her choosing from one of the lesser-known communes.

No woman, he said to Arthur, with such a discerning palate would choose to commit murder with the aid of a length of iron pipe.

Mayor Gifford, on the other hand, had ordered the rump steak with matchstick fries, and accompanied his entire meal with several pints of run-of-the-barley-mill beer. And he’d ordered his steak
extremely
well done. Here was a man capable of the most heinous of crimes.

“I don’t know, old chap,” said Arthur, as they stood outside the Cowton Police Station, waiting for PC Lucy to turn up for her morning shift. “Chops to the lady for ordering the offal sausage and all, but it’s not what I’d call conclusive evidence.”

“Bah, you will see,” said Chef Maurice, sipping on his extra-large cup of coffee. He gave a little shudder. The memory of the mayor sawing away at what had once been twelve ounces of prime Aberdeen rump still haunted him on bad nights.

PC Lucy was not in a good mood when she rounded the corner to find two early morning visitors waiting on the steps.

“Look, this isn’t like the doctors,” she said, unlocking the door to the main office. “You can’t just turn up and expect to be seen. We’re really busy this week, you know.”

Unfortunately, her point was not much helped by the complete absence of her other colleagues who, revelling in the fact that Chief Inspector Grant was still on his Easter holidays and that the weather continued to be unseasonably fine, had all decided that Cowton’s picturesque High Street could do with some gentle patrolling.

“We are in need of the photographs from the Spring Fayre,” said Chef Maurice, bouncing up and down on his feet with an urgency not usually seen, apart from first thing in the morning as Le Cochon Rouge’s coffee machine spluttered to life.

“And what exactly do you need them for?”

Chef Maurice thrust out a paper bag printed with the logo of the coffee shop round the corner.

“Look, you can’t just sweet-talk me into helping you with a blueberry muffin—” PC Lucy stopped, frowning at the contents of the bag.

“We found it caught in a bush, in the woods near where Mademoiselle Miranda was found,” explained Chef Maurice. He sat down in PC Alistair’s chair and gave her an expectant look.

Wordlessly, PC Lucy booted up her own computer. While she waited, she transferred the tail into a more suitable bag. It appeared to be a cheap costume item, its synthetic fibres already starting to moult.

Chef Maurice and Arthur drew their chairs up either side of her.

“They’ve all been sorted into time order,” said PC Lucy, clicking through the folder and stopping at every photo of Mayor Gifford or Karole Linton. There were quite a number of each, owing to the mayor’s upcoming political campaign and Miss Karole Linton’s aforementioned photogenic assets.

One photo showed both bunny-eared parties from behind, deep in conversation with a local magistrate.

“Eleven fifteen,” said Arthur, pointing at the timestamp. “Both tails still present.”

They continued onwards through the photos of Miranda’s cookery demo, the long queues for lunch, and then the sight of the eager crowds converging on the Bake Off tent. There were, however, no rabbit costumes in sight.

“Maybe we should try the videos,” said PC Lucy. “We’ve had members of the public sending in their recordings. There might—”

“Wait, go back!
Regarde
.” Chef Maurice jabbed a finger at the screen, which showed a pair of boys with faces painted, one as a lion and the other, who presumably had drawn the shorter straw, as a wardrobe. But in the background, leaning over to paint more swirls onto a little girl sitting on a stool, was Miss Karole Linton and her pert behind.

Missing one fluffy bunny tail.

There was a minor kerfuffle as both PC Lucy and Chef Maurice attempted to get out through the main office door at the same time. A few moments later, passers-by were treated to the sight of a blonde policewoman chasing a large, walrus-moustached gentleman down the street and all the way into the Cowton Town Hall.

The pair’s progress, however, was impeded by the stout security-guard-cum-receptionist, whose job it was to deter unannounced visitors from pushing their way through into the offices of the mayor and his staff.

“But it is of a matter of the most urgency!” insisted Chef Maurice, thumping his hands on the desk.

The man inspected PC Lucy’s badge, then grudging allowed her to pass. She was ushered into the mayor’s offices, panting but triumphant, while Chef Maurice and Arthur—who’d turned up a few minutes later, cup of coffee in hand—were left in the foyer, to argue their case with the Hulk at Reception.

Mayor Gifford’s outer office was a sunny room on the ground floor, filled with mismatched desks and a maze of filing cabinets.

“Can I help you?” said a grey-bunned lady to PC Lucy’s left. She had a raspy voice, and was engaged in stuffing election flyers into a stack of printed envelopes.

“I’m looking for Miss Karole Linton.”

Karole, sat at a desk half-hidden behind a nest of filing cabinets, looked up in surprise.

“Yes?” she said, standing up. She was wearing a royal-blue shift dress, cut in that straight-up, straight-down fashion that only looks good on the extremely slim, and her hair was pinned back in an elegant chignon.

“Is there somewhere we can speak in private?”

A few nearby heads tilted up in interest. Karole nodded, still looking politely puzzled, and led PC Lucy across to a door on the far side of the room. “We can use the meeting room here. Rory doesn’t need it until one.”

The mayor’s meeting room was small but lavishly appointed, hung with sombre oil paintings and furnished with a heavy mahogany table. High up on a corner shelf, a marble bust of some notable Cowton personage glared blindly down at them.

“Do you mind if I open a window?” said Karole. “It gets rather stuffy in here with the sun coming in all morning.” She walked over to one of the sash windows and lifted it open with both hands, with surprising strength for a girl who looked like she ate celery sticks for all three meals, noted PC Lucy.

“How well did you know Miranda Matthews, Miss Linton?”

“We’d never met properly,” came Karole’s prompt reply. “She came here once for a meeting with Rory. About an application for the old cookery school site on the High Street. Other than that, I don’t think we—”

There was a knock at the door and Mr Paul Whittaker stuck his long face around.

“Good afternoon, Constable,” he said, nodding at PC Lucy. “I understand you wished to speak to the mayor on some matter? I’m afraid he’s still in meetings, but if there’s anything I can do instead?” He glanced over at Karole, clearly displeased at the sight of one of his mayoral staff in conversation with the police.

“I’m afraid it’s something I need to speak about in person with the mayor, but thank you.”

Mr Whittaker sniffed, then nodded and retracted his head.

Karole Linton folded her hands in her lap. “As I was saying, that was the only time I properly met her. If you want to know more about the cookery school bids, you probably should speak to Mr Whittaker. He’s the one who dealt with all the applications.”

“I came to speak to you about this,” said PC Lucy, pulling out the clear bag containing the fluffy rabbit tail.

“May I?” Karole picked up the bag and turned it over in her hands. “This isn’t mine, if that’s what you came to ask me,” she said finally. “Mine was a little more cream-coloured, and came with a big white pin. This one’s the type that sews on, you can see the threads there.”

PC Lucy peered at the bag. True, there were a few short threads poking out from the seam of the tail . . .

“Anyway, I know where my one is,” continued Karole. “Rory has it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s now on Rory’s costume. He lost his during the Fayre. I remember, it was when I was helping out in the face-painting tent at lunchtime, and Angela, Rory’s wife, came up to me and said I’d better give him the tail from my costume, because it was more important for his to look proper than mine.”

PC Lucy looked at Karole Linton’s smooth expression. Either the girl was an experienced liar, or she was actually telling the truth. No matter either way; her statement would be easy enough to check up on.

“It was a terrible costume anyway,” Karole added. “I mean, my one.”

“Why did you choose it, then?” said PC Lucy, vaguely curious.

“Let’s just say it was a drunken bet gone wrong.”

“Oh.” PC Lucy had trouble imagining Karole doing anything on a dare, let alone getting sloshed enough to agree to it. “Well, thank you for your time. You’ve been very helpful.”