Ollie hadn’t been seen since Saturday morning. And here he was, apparently picking up his lost dog on Sunday at the Pet Sanctuary. What had he been doing in the time in between? And more importantly, what had happened after?
“And the dog’s owner— I mean, our friend,” said Arthur. “Just to check, was he a tall, young fellow, with a bit of stubble, likes wearing hiking-type gear, generally looks a bit worse for wear?”
Tara tilted her head. “Sorry, I don’t quite follow . . . ”
“The man who came on Sunday?” said Chef Maurice. “For the dog?”
“Yes, I know, but he was nothing like your friend you just described. Tall, yes, but definitely not young. In his fifties, I’d say, big dark beard, had a bit of an accent though I couldn’t quite place it . . . ”
Arthur and Chef Maurice looked at each other in horror. Someone had beaten them to it.
“That man, madame , was not the owner of the dog.”
“Oh, he definitely was,” said Tara confidently. “He had all the paperwork, the dog passport, pictures of the two of them together. We take a lot of care about this kind of thing—” She noticed them staring at her. “Is something wrong?”
Chapter 8
They motored back to Beakley in a confused silence. Hamilton, apparently satisfied that they had not adopted a dog, or worse, a second pig, dozed happily in the back.
“This is very bad, mon ami .”
“It is? I still haven’t the foggiest what’s going on.”
“We are not the only ones to know about Monsieur Ollie and the truffles. Why else would someone steal his truffle dog?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it—”
“Snatched from below our noses!”
“It was three days ago, Maurice. Our noses weren’t even out of bed. What I can’t figure out is how the chap put together all the paperwork.”
“There are ways,” said Chef Maurice darkly. “But that is not the worst. Think, how would this man know to look for Monsieur Ollie’s dog?”
Arthur drummed his fingers on the dashboard. “Well, maybe—”
“ Non , not maybe. It is évident , mon ami . Who would know that Monsieur Ollie’s dog was lost in the woods? The man who shot Monsieur Ollie in the first place!”
Arthur turned to look at him. “You honestly think someone would bump off Ollie just to steal his dog?”
“And his patch of truffles, remember. A most valuable combination.”
“Seems a bit far-fetched to me. This is the Cotswolds, not Sicily, Maurice.”
“Ah, but the man, he had an accent, non ? That is suspicious.”
“Pot, kettle . . . ” muttered Arthur.
There were a couple of police cars parked outside Ollie’s cottage and a police cordon across the front door. A small crowd had gathered on the sidelines, just in case it turned out there was something worth seeing. Chef Maurice spotted Mrs Eldridge up at the front, arms crossed and foot tapping, peeved to have been denied inside access this time around.
He dropped Arthur off at the Wordington-Smythe cottage and headed back to Le Cochon Rouge. Hamilton jumped out of the car and ran back to his pen, presumably to catch the cows up on today’s adventures. In the kitchens, lunch service had been successfully concluded and dinner prep was quietly getting underway.
Chef Maurice rummaged around in the walk-in fridge and returned with a bag of apples, a large tarte normande and a small jug of cream.
He tossed the bag of apples at Alf. “Peeled, cored, thinly sliced. Patrick, a pâte sucrée for the base is needed. We will need a new tarte normande this evening.”
“I thought we already had—” started Patrick, then noticed the apple tart in Chef Maurice’s hand. “ Oui , chef. One tarte normande .”
Chef Maurice doused his impromptu late lunch with cream, then wandered over to the hobs. He stuck his nose over a pot of reducing stock, sniffed, then turned down the flame one notch.
The kitchen door burst open.
“You’ll never guess what!”
It was Dorothy, cheeks flushed from
“And the dog’s owner— I mean, our friend,” said Arthur. “Just to check, was he a tall, young fellow, with a bit of stubble, likes wearing hiking-type gear, generally looks a bit worse for wear?”
Tara tilted her head. “Sorry, I don’t quite follow . . . ”
“The man who came on Sunday?” said Chef Maurice. “For the dog?”
“Yes, I know, but he was nothing like your friend you just described. Tall, yes, but definitely not young. In his fifties, I’d say, big dark beard, had a bit of an accent though I couldn’t quite place it . . . ”
Arthur and Chef Maurice looked at each other in horror. Someone had beaten them to it.
“That man, madame , was not the owner of the dog.”
“Oh, he definitely was,” said Tara confidently. “He had all the paperwork, the dog passport, pictures of the two of them together. We take a lot of care about this kind of thing—” She noticed them staring at her. “Is something wrong?”
Chapter 8
They motored back to Beakley in a confused silence. Hamilton, apparently satisfied that they had not adopted a dog, or worse, a second pig, dozed happily in the back.
“This is very bad, mon ami .”
“It is? I still haven’t the foggiest what’s going on.”
“We are not the only ones to know about Monsieur Ollie and the truffles. Why else would someone steal his truffle dog?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it—”
“Snatched from below our noses!”
“It was three days ago, Maurice. Our noses weren’t even out of bed. What I can’t figure out is how the chap put together all the paperwork.”
“There are ways,” said Chef Maurice darkly. “But that is not the worst. Think, how would this man know to look for Monsieur Ollie’s dog?”
Arthur drummed his fingers on the dashboard. “Well, maybe—”
“ Non , not maybe. It is évident , mon ami . Who would know that Monsieur Ollie’s dog was lost in the woods? The man who shot Monsieur Ollie in the first place!”
Arthur turned to look at him. “You honestly think someone would bump off Ollie just to steal his dog?”
“And his patch of truffles, remember. A most valuable combination.”
“Seems a bit far-fetched to me. This is the Cotswolds, not Sicily, Maurice.”
“Ah, but the man, he had an accent, non ? That is suspicious.”
“Pot, kettle . . . ” muttered Arthur.
There were a couple of police cars parked outside Ollie’s cottage and a police cordon across the front door. A small crowd had gathered on the sidelines, just in case it turned out there was something worth seeing. Chef Maurice spotted Mrs Eldridge up at the front, arms crossed and foot tapping, peeved to have been denied inside access this time around.
He dropped Arthur off at the Wordington-Smythe cottage and headed back to Le Cochon Rouge. Hamilton jumped out of the car and ran back to his pen, presumably to catch the cows up on today’s adventures. In the kitchens, lunch service had been successfully concluded and dinner prep was quietly getting underway.
Chef Maurice rummaged around in the walk-in fridge and returned with a bag of apples, a large tarte normande and a small jug of cream.
He tossed the bag of apples at Alf. “Peeled, cored, thinly sliced. Patrick, a pâte sucrée for the base is needed. We will need a new tarte normande this evening.”
“I thought we already had—” started Patrick, then noticed the apple tart in Chef Maurice’s hand. “ Oui , chef. One tarte normande .”
Chef Maurice doused his impromptu late lunch with cream, then wandered over to the hobs. He stuck his nose over a pot of reducing stock, sniffed, then turned down the flame one notch.
The kitchen door burst open.
“You’ll never guess what!”
It was Dorothy, cheeks flushed from
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