three potential suspects.”
“Elisabeth, Georges, and Anne herself.”
“Exactly.”
“And you never had a single suspect, did you?”
She shook her head. “No we didn’t. No motive, no suspect.” Her eyes darted cautiously around the room, and she leaned, if anything, a little closer. “But were they? Having an affair, I mean. Marc and Anne.”
Enzo sighed. “I don’t know. I confronted Georges with it this morning, and he reacted pretty fiercely. He denied it absolutely, of course, and threatened me with violence if I were to repeat it.”
Dominique looked thoughtful. “And Anne?”
“Haven’t spoken to her yet. Although I do get the feeling that she might be trying to avoid me.”
“But there is no evidence that they were having an affair?”
“None at all.”
“So it’s just some gossip passed on to you by your ‘source’.”
“Cliches become cliches, Dominique, because they are oft repeated universal truths. And here’s one that I always pay attention to. No smoke without fire.” He drained his champagne glass. “A hotel-restaurant like this is a particularly tight, insular world. I can’t imagine that there’s much goes on around here that pretty well everyone doesn’t get to hear about. If Marc and Anne really were having an affair, how could it possibly have been anything other than an open secret?”
“An open secret that nobody chose to tell the police about.”
“Why would they? The police are outsiders. And unless somebody thought that it had anything to do with Marc’s murder, I can see how everyone would just close ranks.”
Their server arrived to remove their plates and glasses, passing the debris tray to an assistant. “Your table is ready whenever you are,” he said.
Dominique nodded, and they both stood.
“Follow me, please.” The server led them from the lounge to the south-facing conservatory, and Enzo was disappointed to see that the flat quality of the light spawned by a pewtery sky overhead had stolen the depth from the view that was spread out below them. Its detail was smudged and lost in the grey yellow of the early afternoon.
White linen napkins were draped on their laps, and the sommelier arrived to open a bottle of 2005 Domaine de la Pepiere, Muscadet Granite de Clisson, which he placed in an ice bucket on a stand by their table. “Monsieur Fraysse will be with you in a moment.”
And true to his word, Guy arrived smiling at their table after less than a minute. He lifted the bottle from the ice, wiped it down, and poured half an inch into Enzo’s glass. “Now, this,” he said, “is much more modestly priced than the Krug. But you can rest assured that I wouldn’t serve it to you if I didn’t think it was a bit special. The winemaker is a lovely, biblical character called Marc Olivier. He has recently gone organic, the terroir is granitic, and this particular vintage was left to age for two years on the lees. It’s not a classic Muscadet, but it’s a classic Loire white. Creamy, aromatic, herbaceous, with wonderful complex acidity. It will go superbly well with the frogs’ legs.”
He waited with excited anticipation for Enzo to taste the wine. Enzo rolled it slowly around his mouth. “Wow! Honey and cream. Wet stone. Lime, tarragon. A hint of smoke, and pepper.”
Guy’s eyes lit up with delight. “My God, man, you really do have a good palate.” He filled both their glasses and put the bottle back on ice as their starters arrived.
They came on large, round, white plates. Circular pools of pureed spinach, with smaller ponds of creamy white garlic at their center. The frogs’ legs, crisply fried in the lightest of batters, were arranged all around the edges of the plates, fanning out from the middle.
“You eat these by hand,” Guy said. “The calves have been removed, leaving the bone to act as a stick for you to hold them by. Just dip them in the spinach, and then the garlic, and eat. Like savoury lollipops.” He beamed broadly. “ Bon appetit.”
Enzo and Dominique glanced at each other across the table, and shared a moment of smiling anticipation before commencing their journey into three-star heaven. Enzo closed his eyes as his palate was suffused with the flavours of his plate. The soft, meaty thighs all but dissolved on his tongue. The spinach was sweet and sharp, the garlic creamy and mild. The combination of flavours was exquisite. He lifted his glass and washed the residue over with the delicious Loire blanc, and savoured its after-taste for thirty seconds or more, before its long, long finish finally began to fade. He opened his eyes to find Dominique’s shining back at him. He raised a single eyebrow, in search of her opinion.
But all she did was laugh. “Do I really need to say?”
He returned the laugh and shook his head. “No.” And they lapsed once more into silence as they succumbed to the inheritance of a dead man’s genius.
Enzo mopped up the last of his spinach and garlic puree with soft, crisp-crusted bread fresh-baked in the kitchen, and washed it over with another mouthful of wine. An attentive wine waiter quickly replenished their glasses. “So…” Enzo said. “Are you Thiers born and bred, Dominique?”
“I am. A real country girl, actually. Probably not very sophisticated by your standards, and certainly not accustomed to eating in a three-star restaurant.” She ran a slender finger around the rim of her glass. “My dad was a farmer. We ate wholesome French country cuisine that my mom prepared in a kitchen that would probably seem mediaeval to you. Certainly to the Fraysse brothers.”
Enzo shook his head. “Don’t do yourself down, Dominique. The Fraysse brothers were just country kids, too, learning to cook at their mother’s apron in a cramped little kitchen. And the family relied on their dad’s income as a travelling shoe salesman to pay the bills.” He took another sip of wine. “As for me, I came from a working class family in the east end of Glasgow. No silver spoon in my mouth. I’ve never considered myself better than anyone, or thought anyone better than me. We’re all cast from the same mould.”
Pursed lips concealed her amusement. “Sounds like socialism to me.”
“It’s not really. I take my inspiration from a Scottish poet called Robert Burns. A marvellous poem called A Man’s a Man For a’ That.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, let me quote the last two lines of the first verse: The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, The man’s the gowd for a’ that. ”
Dominique laughed. “I’m afraid I’m not any the wiser.”
Enzo smiled. “A guinea was a gold coin worth one pound and one shilling. What Burns meant was that the design stamped on the gold coin might denote its value, but it’s real worth was in the gold. And that by implication, regardless of a man’s office, or reputation, or ancestry, his real value is in himself. Or not.”
Dominique thought about it for a moment, then slowly nodded. “I like that.” She looked at Enzo. “I didn’t know you were Scottish. The newspapers just call you Britannique. Is Enzo a Scottish name?”
“No, it’s Italian. Short for Lorenzo. My mother was Italian.”
She raised her hand to her forehead and flicked it back over her head. “And the stripe. Is that an… affectation?”
He grinned. “No, it’s a syndrome.”
“Oh. Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Well, I haven’t died from it yet.” It was his standard response.
Her smile was a little perfunctory, as if she didn’t quite get his flippancy. “You used to be a forensics expert.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you quit?”
“I fell in love with a French woman.”
“Oh.”
He wondered if he detected some disappointment in that.
“And the two are not mutually compatible?”
He laughed. “When I first came to France my French wasn’t good enough to pursue my career in forensic science. So I ended up teaching biology at Paul Sabatier University in Toulouse.”
“Where you’ve opened a department of forensic science.” It wasn’t a question. She had done her homework
