The Coldest Case, Martin Walker [famous ebook reader txt] 📗

at St Chamassy. She was avoiding the woodlands, thought Bruno, perhaps nervous at the thought of fire. There wasn’t much chance of a decent gallop on this track. It was the long, straight firebreaks between patches of forest that gave the best chance of the kind of run that Hector and his rider most appreciated. Still, with Virginie in tow he should not indulge himself; there were limits to how long one could watch small girls parading past, each on her placid pony. Within twenty minutes, they were back at the riding school, and as they rubbed down the horses Bruno explained his bet with Gilles.

‘You!’ she exclaimed, laughing. ‘You’re cooking vegan? Wonders will never cease. If this works, I might have a whole new task for you at the cookery school – we can call you the vegan master-chef of Périgord, if that’s not a contradiction in terms. How on earth can you cook, my dear Bruno, you of all people, without your beloved duck fat, without your cherished bouillon from wild boar, your cheese and your cream?’

‘In the face of such a challenge, Pamela, I shall be inspired,’ he replied, grandly. He made a flourish with his hand and bowed low in the manner of some Renaissance courtier, and Pamela playfully threw her brush at him. At this point Virginie appeared at the stable door.

‘Am I interrupting something?’ she asked, her voice hesitant but she was grinning.

‘Not at all,’ announced Pamela. ‘It’s an old Périgord custom to throw a brush at your cavalier after an enjoyable ride.’ She paused as Virginie raised her eyebrows and then chuckled. ‘Oh, dear,’ Pamela added quickly. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me, I didn’t mean to phrase it like that.’ She giggled. Bruno laughed in turn and Balzac, not to be left out, jumped up. Virginie looked back and forth at them and then joined in the laughter.

‘It’s lovely to laugh like that even though it makes my nose hurt,’ she said, and burst into giggles again.

‘Now I have to cook,’ said Bruno. He looked at Pamela, who was smiling at Virginie, thinking how fond he was of this generous, warm-hearted Scotswoman who’d made her home in the Périgord.

‘And I’d better head for the shower,’ said Pamela. ‘Virginie, feel free to use the spare bathroom. Bruno, you should leave now if you’re cooking at Fabiola’s and I’ll bring Virginie along in my car.’

With Balzac back in his favourite place on the passenger seat, Bruno drove the route he knew so well to Pamela’s old house. After greeting his friends, he installed himself in the familiar kitchen with his basket of fruit and vegetables and the wines he’d brought. There was a bottle of Château Lestevenie white, which was certified vegan, which meant no egg whites had been used in the finings to clarify the wine. And then for the omnivores one of Château de Tiregand red and a bottle of Rosette from Château du Rooy, a slightly sweet white wine that was unique to the Bergerac and a perfect apéro for a summer evening. The white wines went in the fridge and the red wine he opened so it could breathe for a while before dinner.

First, he turned the oven on, set to a hundred and seventy degrees centigrade. He chopped the pumpkins into slices about an inch thick and put them into his biggest roasting pan with a small head of celery, equally sliced. He then mixed a cup of maple syrup into the same amount of olive oil, poured the mixture into the roasting pan and tossed the pumpkin and celery slices until they were all coated. He added salt and pepper and put the pan into the oven for twenty-five minutes. In that time, he made the soup, chopping four fat green peppers, peeling and then chopping two cucumbers, and tossing them all into a blender with two chopped onions. He added several cloves of garlic that he squeezed through a press, salt, pepper, olive oil, tarragon vinegar and two glasses of Bergerac Sec white wine. Once blended he put the soup into the freezer to chill.

Then Bruno washed the peaches, figs and apricots and put them into a bowl. Now he had just enough time to make the sauce for the pumpkins. He chopped a generous handful of fresh sage, put it into a bowl with a pound of walnut halves, added a pinch of sea salt and then poured in another splash of maple syrup and a tablespoon of olive oil and stirred them all together. He checked his timing. The twenty-five minutes were up. He took the roasting dish from the oven, poured the sage, walnut and maple syrup mixture over the pumpkin slices, tossed them again and put the dish to one side. When he served the chilled soup, he’d put it back into the oven. He then sliced the tomatoes he’d brought. He made a dressing with a little walnut oil and tarragon vinegar and tossed them with a couple of handfuls of shredded basil. He was washing his hands when Gilles appeared, handing him a glass of white wine and then loading a tray with plates and glasses to set the table in the courtyard.

‘All in order?’ Gilles asked. ‘Will your vegan feast meet our mutual expectations? This is a bet I truly wish to lose.’

‘Who knows?’ Bruno replied, as they heard the unmistakable sound of Pamela’s ancient Citroën deux-chevaux. ‘I’ve never done this before.’

They went out to welcome their guests and Fabiola appeared looking enchanting in a sleeveless dress of light-blue silk belted with a white sash. Pamela was wearing a kaftan of red and gold that set off the colours in her chestnut hair. Virginie had changed into something that Bruno recognized from Pamela’s wardrobe, an Indian-style garment of jodhpurs, tight on the calf, generously cut on the thighs, topped with an embroidered silk jacket. The bandage still covered her nose and tendrils of her pink hair splayed out from a white headband.

Bruno