Chef Maurice and the Bunny-Boiler Bake Off (Chef Maurice Cotswold Mysteries Book 3) by J.A. Lang

standing up a little straighter even so.
    “And, well, I didn’t really know what I could say to you, to— to—”
    “Make us take up the enquiry, perhaps?”
    Angie nodded.
    “In fact, this is what you wished to speak to us of, the day of the Fayre, n’est-ce pas ?”
    Angie nodded again. “I’ll help with whatever I can, of course. And if we find out anything, we’ll be sure to tell the police straight away, it won’t be like we’re going behind their backs. I’m sure they won’t mind, really—”
    “Hah,” muttered Arthur.
    “You know,” she sighed, “even just saying this, I feel such a whole lot better. Being able to do something about it all, instead of just sitting around waiting to hear of any more news.”
    Chef Maurice placed a hand on Angie’s arm. “Come, madame , you must tell us more,” he said, leading them back into the living room. “If Arthur will make us some tea—”
    “Pot wash and tea lady,” grumbled Arthur.
    “—you must tell us all you can of Mademoiselle Miranda. You have been, how do they say, firm friends for a long time?”
    “Oh, yes. We were in the same class at Lady Eleanor, from the first year all the way up to Sixth Form. But then we mostly lost touch when I went to do my teacher training down in Bournemouth, and Miranda got sent off to Paris to study at Le Cordon Bleu. We exchanged a few letters at the start, but I hadn’t seen her for years until she moved back to these parts.”
    “When was this?” asked Arthur, from over by the kettle.
    “About six months ago. She quite surprised me. I mean, I’d seen her on all her cookery shows, of course, but I never got round to getting in touch properly. I thought she’d be much too busy with all her shows and cookbooks and all.”
    “Do you know what brought her back to the area?” asked Arthur. “Does she have family nearby?”
    Angie shook her head. “It’s quite sad, but I don’t think she had much family to begin with. She lived with her aunt after her parents died when she was little—a boating accident, I think—then she got sent here to Lady Eleanor. I suppose her aunt thought it was best for her to spend time around other children, instead of living up in the middle of nowhere. I think Miranda just liked this area. She had good memories here, I suppose. She said the Cotswolds were so peaceful, after all her years in London and Paris.”
    “And Mademoiselle Miranda was happy here in Cowton? She made no mention of any trouble in her life?”
    “I’ve been thinking about that,” said Angie, absent-mindedly arranging the coasters on the coffee table. “She never said anything, but I could tell something was bothering her. I tried asking her about it a few times, but she said I’d be better off not knowing, that she’d tell me once it was all ‘sorted’.” Angie bit her lip. “If only I’d managed to get it out of her.”
    “One cannot think too much on the past. Now, I must ask a question of some delicacy,” said Chef Maurice, who personally had no qualms in such matters. “Who is it who benefits from the death of Mademoiselle Miranda? You said she has little family, non ?”
    “Yes, just her aunt, as far as I know. I guess Miranda would have left everything to her.”
    “Ah, that is most interesting,” said Chef Maurice, with a significant look in Arthur’s direction.
    “Oh! But surely you can’t be implying her aunt has anything to do with all this?” Angie looked aghast. “She must be well into her eighties by now. And she lives up in the Inner Hebrides. I don’t know if the police have even been able to contact her yet. Miranda said she didn’t even have a phone line.”
    “Even so, one must leave no stone upside down.” Chef Maurice accepted the brimming cup of tea from Arthur and spooned in three sugars. “You said you came to check that the appartement was properly locked. There are, therefore, many items of value in here?”
    “Well, there’s the furniture, of