Crime Fraiche by Alexander Campion Read Free Book Online

puffing out his chest. “Even though I live in the remote countryside, I’m the official correspondent on mushrooms for the biggest newspaper in Rouen.”
    “The Fanal? ” Alexandre asked with a wry smile.
    Homais looked puzzled. “The Paris-Normandie, of course,” he said. “I’ve never even heard of a paper called the Fanal. ”

CHAPTER 6
    C apucine hadn’t been to the Elevage Vienneau since she was a child. At first she thought she might have taken a wrong turn, but as apple orchards turned into fields filled with chubby white steers as well groomed as if they had been children’s ponies, she knew she was on the right road. A few minutes later they came to a tall stone archway supporting an ornate wrought-iron gate. At the apex of the arch, foot-high flowing italic letters announced ELEVAGE VIENNEAU and smaller letters below boasted ETAB . 1821.
    Capucine shot the Clio through the gate, spitting gravel, and announced happily, “It all comes back to me now. You’ll see. It’s a fabulous place.”
    She turned hard left into a road lined with towering poplars standing as stiffly as soldiers on parade and emerged into the courtyard of a striking two-story, timber-faced manor house with a steeply-sloped thatch roof. The building had clearly started out life as the home of some modest Norman lord.
    Inside, the original great hall had been left intact. Despite an attempt on the part of the current occupants to create some coziness by cordoning off the area in front of the looming stone fireplace with sofas and chairs, the barnlike proportions of the room demanded exhausting loudness. In addition to the Vienneaus, only Bellanger was present, kitted out in another outfit so new looking Capucine half expected to see a price tag fluttering from the back of his jacket.
    As they walked in, the topic of conversation was Marie-Christine’s desire to take lessons on a shooting range in order to become an active participant at hunts.
    “It’s so humiliating sitting there on a stick like some sort of ornament,” she said.
    “But what a charming ornament,” Bellanger said with dripping unctuousness.
    “I myself am quite proud of the way my manly air embellishes Capucine’s station,” Alexandre said, rooting around on a long table behind the sofa so laden with cattle memorabilia it would have been at home in the Paul Bert flea market in Paris.
    “Marie-Christine, don’t listen to him. You really should learn to shoot,” Capucine said. “Women have a natural gift for it. It’s because we have a better sense of rhythm and we’re more supple than men.”
    “Shooting is very dangerous,” Vienneau said. “Just look at what happened to poor Philippe.”
    “That was so strange,” Marie-Christine said, tears welling in her eyes. “How could he have been shot accidentally ? The whole thing just seems so crazy.”
    Capucine noticed that Bellanger darted a particularly venomous look at her and seemed about to say something, but the cook, round and rosy as a turnip, opened the door to the kitchen and popped her head out, a tacit invitation to the luncheon table.
    Inevitably, it was steak. But it was nonetheless extraordinary : flawless tournedos wrapped in French bacon, perfect pommes soufflés, an impeccable béarnaise. Alexandre’s beatific smile was of a depth seen only in churches and in three-star restaurants. He breathed a deep sigh of contentment. “Loïc,” he said. “This is quite possibly the best fillet I’ve ever eaten. How on earth do you do it?”
    Vienneau laughed. “Well, you know we’ve been at it since the nineteenth century. My great-great-grandfather was a colonel in Napoleon’s Grand Armée. His leg was shot off at Waterloo. He was only twenty-seven at the time, can you imagine? He recuperated right here in this house, which had been in the family for generations, and he fell in love with Charolais cattle and my great-great-grandmother.
    “Our herd’s been refined for nearly two centuries,