Chapter 49
TWO DAYS LATER , AFTER an early morning trip to the newsagent, Maggie opened a copy of the Daily Mirror on Jamie’s kitchen table and smiled.
In front of her was a double-page spread with a large headline in capital letters: SECRET TRAGEDY THAT ALWAYS HAUNTED THE INFAMOUS ‘PARTY PALACE’ .
Underneath was a long story about the duc de Miradoux, which detailed his naval career, and his marriage and the construction of the chateau in the French hills for the large family he planned to have before tragedy struck, his wife died and he became a recluse for the rest of his life, supposedly haunting the chateau ever after. It also included a few quotes from Maggie.
‘My aunt always said the duc’s ghost haunted the chateau, and that she heard him at night,’ says Maggie Lemon, the 34-year-old niece of Phil Hemingway, who inherited the hotel after her aunt’s recent death. ‘Some say it was cursed too, and that those living there would meet with misfortune. But that’s why Phil worked so hard to make the hotel a place where people were happy, where they came to have a good time, to try and honour his memory, and I hope the new buyer will continue to do the same.’
Mrs Lemon said she couldn’t confirm that the London-based hotel group Boho House is taking over the hotel, which would make it merely the latest in a string of foreign acquisitions for billionaire businessman Bob Lacey, but added that she wishes the new buyer ‘the very best of luck’.
She also confirmed internet rumours that Hollywood actor Gray Hudson recently stayed at the hotel. ‘He’s a friend who needed some time out,’ Mrs Lemon clarified. ‘And I couldn’t be more excited for him and his wonderful baby news.’
She looked up at the sound of Jamie appearing from his bedroom.
‘Morning, Mags,’ he said, stretching his arms in the air. ‘Why you up so early?’
‘Had to get this,’ she said, nodding at the paper.
Jamie glanced at the headline. ‘Jesus, that tosser. How’d he dredge all this up?’
‘What d’you mean?’
He pointed at the article’s byline.
‘Exactly. Turns out our pal Mr Donovan wasn’t completely useless after all.’
‘Babe, you’re talking in riddles. Want a coffee?’
Maggie nodded and explained while Jamie faffed around with his fancy barista machine.
Two days earlier, having found his email address online, Maggie had contacted David Donovan. Smoothly, she’d apologized for the manner in which they’d left matters in France and offered him an exclusive line on her relationship with Gray, so long as he ran a story about the chateau and its sale in return. David Donovan agreed instantly and the pair spoke on the phone for over an hour.
‘Hang on, you planted the story in the hope that Bob Lacey pulls out because of his weird superstitious bullshit?’ Jamie checked, handing over a mug.
‘Exactly.’
‘I’m impressed. If you want a job in PR, you’re welcome to one.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘I have to hope it works and find another buyer.’
‘What if he doesn’t?’
Maggie blew over the rim. ‘Then I’ll go out there and chain myself to the gates.’
‘Practical. OK, and what if it works, this devious plan of yours?’
‘Then I’ll have to find someone else who won’t pull it down, so I might need a job with you at this rate.’
‘Any time.’
She closed the paper. ‘Am I all right to have a shower?’
‘’Course, I don’t have to leave for an hour. What’s your day like?’
‘I’m going to have a shower, then watch nine hours of television on the sofa while avoiding phone calls from my mother and trying to stop myself from jumping into the river. After that, dinner?’
‘Want to come to an opening with me?’
‘What is it?’ Maggie asked suspiciously.
‘Prune.’
‘A restaurant called Prune?’
‘Mmmhmm, on Dean Street. Vegan. Vegan food, vegan wine. But might get you out of the apartment? Put on a frock?’
‘I don’t know if I’ve got anything clea—’ She stopped as her phone flashed with an unknown number.
‘Answer it, might be about the story.’
She picked it up. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello?’ came a crisp, elderly English voice. ‘Hello, am I speaking to Maggie Lemon?’
‘Yup, that’s me. Who’s this?’
‘Maggie, good morning,’ the elderly gentleman said before clearing his throat. ‘Please excuse me.’
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Humphrey, Humphrey Bancroft. We met a few weeks ago when my wife and I stayed in your hotel.’
‘Oh, hello, yes, ’course I remember. Sorry I haven’t replied to your emails, I’ve just been, er, a bit busy.’
‘Not at all. I suspected you probably were. But now, listen, these books.’
‘Mmmhmm.’ Maggie took a sip of her coffee.
‘I took them to see a friend of mine, Thomas Heneage. Have you ever come across him?’
‘Er, no, no, I don’t think so.’ She took another mouthful of coffee. Lord Bancroft, she recalled from his stay at the hotel, liked to spin out a story.
‘Thomas Heneage, yes, he has a second-hand bookshop just off St James’s. Tends to specialize in medieval music and artistic manuscripts from Rome and Florence, that sort of thing. But I thought I’d show him your cookery books just in case.’
‘Mmmhmm.’
Maggie looked up as Jamie waved at her. ‘I’m going to get in the shower,’ he mouthed, pointing at the bathroom.
‘Or your aunt’s books, I should say,’ went on Lord Bancroft. ‘Although I suppose they are yours, now, if she left you everything?’
‘The books? Yes. And was this man, your friend, was he interested in them?’
‘Not in the first two I showed him. I’m sorry to say he doesn’t think they’re worth much at all. Probably a couple of hundred pounds online, if you could find the right buyer.’
‘Oh, well, that’s not bad, for a book.’
‘But he was very interested indeed in the third book. You recall that one?’
‘Remind me.’
‘The cover’s extremely faded so you can hardly make out the title, and the copy’s all in French, of course, but according to Thomas, it was written by a chap called Fran?ois Vatel. Now have you heard of him ?’
‘Nope, ’fraid not.’
‘Oh,’ said Lord Bancroft, sounding a little disappointed. ‘He was the chef to all sorts of French nobility in the eighteenth century, and the man who invented Chantilly cream.’
‘Fran?ois what?’ Maggie asked, listening more closely.
‘Vatel.’
‘He does sound interesting.’
‘Doesn’t he?’ said Lord Bancroft, a little perkier. ‘But he met quite a tragic end, because having cooked for a great, state banquet in honour of Louis XIV, apparently he was so distraught by the late delivery of the fish that he topped himself.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Quite so. According to Thomas, who’s much better on European history than I am, it was a great banquet for five thousand people, along with the king and his wife, but the fish arrived late and it tipped poor old Fran?ois over the edge.’
‘Right …’
‘Anyway, that’s all by the by. The book, according to Thomas, is full of all sorts of recipes once thought lost.’
‘And now they’ve been found? How amazing, I might try a few.’
Lord Bancroft made a little chuckle. ‘You could do that, or you could sell it.’
‘Sell the book?’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe. Although if it’s that special and it belonged to my aunt, I should probably hold on to it.’
‘Thomas says he’s got a buyer who’ll pay you two hundred and twenty thousand pounds for it.’
Maggie’s fingers tightened around the phone. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Lord Bancroft chuckled again. ‘I thought you might say that. But yes, that’s why I’ve been trying to get hold of you. Thomas has a buyer who’s already offered on it.’
‘Two hundred and twenty thousand for a book ?’
‘Yes, indeed, for a book. Big business, ancien régime books. There would, of course, need to be commission taken out of that but still, not a bad sum, eh?’
‘Pounds?’ Maggie bleated.
‘Pounds, exactly. So why don’t you have a little think and let me know how to proceed?’
When Jamie returned to the kitchen minutes later, towel wrapped around his waist, he found Maggie still sitting at the kitchen island, staring at her phone.