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

“What could he have been doing here? I thought he lived in London. And with her?”
    “When exactly did he and Miranda break up?” asked Arthur.
    “I don’t quite know. I got the impression it was on and off for quite a while, but him being caught with that blonde motoring show presenter was the last straw.”
    “Could it be just a coincidence? Him being at the Fayre?” asked Arthur, though rather doubtfully.
    “The ex-boyfriend and the ex- collègue of Mademoiselle Miranda, together on the day of her murder? Mon ami , that is too much. Non , there must be a reason . . .”
    Angie looked down at her wristwatch and gave a little gasp. “My goodness, how time flies! I’m meant to be having a viewing of the cookery school site right now. It’s just down the road from here, and I didn’t have the heart to cancel. I suppose part of me wanted to have a look for the last time. It really was the perfect site.”
    “We will accompany you,” said Chef Maurice. “The school was an important plan of Mademoiselle Miranda, and it is important that we learn as much of her as possible.”
    “I’m sorry we didn’t find out much here,” said Angie, as she locked up the flat.
    “ Non , non , you must not say that. We only make a beginning. And it will not be over, I promise you, until the fat lady sings a song.”
    Or, at least until one amply fed head chef got to the bottom of who was responsible for the murder of Miranda Matthews.
    Because even if her cooking methods stretched the definition of ‘chef’ to its outer limits (and then some), she could still be placed on some outlying branch of the great cheffing family tree.
    And chefs, as Chef Maurice had declared at the start of that day, should not go around getting murdered.

    Mr Hathaway, of Cowton Country Property Lettings Ltd., was a self-satisfied young man in his thirties, consummate in the ability to deploy such choice phrases as: ‘benefiting from extensive renovation’, to describe a dilapidated Victorian mid-terrace where the toilet was now actually situated within the house; ‘brimming with character’, in relation to an alleged barn conversion that had yet to rehouse its previous bleating, woolly occupants; and ‘ideally located for the London commuter trains’, to depict the location of a farmhouse so remote that its inhabitants had developed their own regional dialect.
    “Mrs Gifford, what a pleasant surprise,” he said, stepping forward to meet them under the faded awning of the now-defunct Cauliflowers and Cupcakes Cookery School. “I wasn’t sure if you’d still be coming, what with the dreadful news about poor Miss Matthews. My deepest condolences.”
    “Thank you,” said Angie, as Mr Hathaway clasped her hands awkwardly in his own. It looked like a gesture he’d picked up from a much older man, and completely failed to suit. “I’d like to introduce to you Mr Manchot and Mr Wordington-Smythe, both part of the Beakley Spring Fayre Committee. You don’t mind if I show them around the site, do you?”
    “Not at all,” replied Mr Hathaway, contriving to smile with the corners of his mouth alone. He produced a big bunch of keys, and they stepped inside.
    The front room of the shop was set out with rows of worn-looking kitchen worktops, all facing the back of the room, which was a mess of plumbing and electrical wiring.
    “That’s where we’d set up the demo station,” said Angie, waving towards the back wall, “and we’d replace all these benches, of course. There’d be a row of fridges over on the side there, for the pastry classes. And pantry cupboards back here, for the ingredients for the day. Of course, most of the bulk supplies would have to be stored out the back.” She looked over to Mr Hathaway, who was standing by the door with the look of a man who’d heard this spiel a dozen times already. “Do you mind if we go through to the other rooms?”
    “By all means, take your time. In fact, if it’s all right with