Chef Maurice and the Bunny-Boiler Bake Off (Chef Maurice Cotswold Mysteries Book 3) Read Online Free
hours.
Between the hook-a-duck stand and a purveyor of alarmingly pink candyfloss, he came across Alf standing behind a rickety-looking table. The young commis chef was fiddling with a big old-fashioned weighing scale, on which sat a soup tureen containing a small pig wearing a straw hat.
Above the table was the hand-painted sign: Guess The Weight Of The Micro Pig!
Hamilton, the pig in question, was staring around at the stalls nearby. This was his first year attending the Beakley Spring Fayre, and he appeared satisfied to find himself sitting in such a prime spot.
Arthur leaned over to sneak a glance at the needle on the scales. Even after deducting the weight of the average porcelain soup tureen, he was still more than a little surprised.
“My, he’s grown quite a bit since the winter, hasn’t he? Wonder what Maurice has been feeding him.”
Back in the autumn, when Hamilton had first turned up, he could have easily fit into a ladies’ shoebox; now, you’d have to at least order a pair of size 12 wellington boots to get him in.
“’Fraid I can’t let you enter now,” said Alf, stowing the weighing scale away under the table.
“Not a problem, I’m saving my pennies for the coconut shy. Knocked all four of them down last year in one turn—so much for all those people who say they glue the coconuts on. Did you know I used to bowl for my college cricket team?”
Limbering up his right shoulder in preparation for his signature top-spinner delivery, Arthur strolled off towards the Bake Off tent. Keen amateur bakers had already begun dropping off their icing-covered creations, and one table along the side of the tent was now colonised by a range of ambitious endeavours. There was a hedgehog cake covered in shards of white and milk chocolate, a four-tiered square genoise covered in bright yellow royal icing—reminiscent, in Arthur’s mind, of a giant Lego pyramid—several versions of the usual carrot cakes and Victoria sponges, and even a few attempts at the classic pink-and-yellow-squared, marzipan-wrapped Battenberg.
At the end of the table, PC Lucy was unboxing a large round cake covered in shiny dark chocolate ganache and decorated with white chocolate curls.
“Need a hand with that?” asked Arthur. “Ganache is always a fuss to transport, isn’t it? Always ends up touching the side of the box and getting smudged.”
“Not this one,” said PC Lucy morosely, sliding the cake onto a glass stand with surprising ease. “Watch this.” Before Arthur could stop her, she’d drawn her truncheon and dealt the offending cake a sharp rap to the surface. There was a dull thunk .
“I’m thinking of writing to the company that makes those bulletproof vests, to see if they want my recipe.”
“Ah, I see.” Arthur sought around for a suitably gentlemanly comment. “Well, I’m sure it will taste wonderful. And I don’t believe that ‘cuttability’ is one of the judging criteria, if that helps.”
“I tried elbowing it off the kitchen table earlier, when Patrick wasn’t looking,” said PC Lucy, a haunted look in her eyes. “It bounced .”
Arthur decided to leave the police officer to her cake-based woes and made his way over to the cookery demonstration tent next door.
Rows of white garden chairs had been laid out across the grassy floor and, up at the front, a small kitchen stage had been constructed, complete with two hobs, a portable oven, and a sink at the back.
A stick-thin woman in her early forties, with an orangeade tan, pink stilettos and caramel hair piled high in an elaborate beehive, was stalking back and forth on the stage, issuing commands to a pair of harried-looking young women who were putting the equipment through its paces.
“Eugh, gas ,” said the stiletto-ed woman, waving a red-taloned hand at the hobs. “I hate cooking on gas.”
“Most likely because it causes her hairspray to set on fire,” said a voice from Arthur’s right.
It came from Chef Bonvivant, the
Between the hook-a-duck stand and a purveyor of alarmingly pink candyfloss, he came across Alf standing behind a rickety-looking table. The young commis chef was fiddling with a big old-fashioned weighing scale, on which sat a soup tureen containing a small pig wearing a straw hat.
Above the table was the hand-painted sign: Guess The Weight Of The Micro Pig!
Hamilton, the pig in question, was staring around at the stalls nearby. This was his first year attending the Beakley Spring Fayre, and he appeared satisfied to find himself sitting in such a prime spot.
Arthur leaned over to sneak a glance at the needle on the scales. Even after deducting the weight of the average porcelain soup tureen, he was still more than a little surprised.
“My, he’s grown quite a bit since the winter, hasn’t he? Wonder what Maurice has been feeding him.”
Back in the autumn, when Hamilton had first turned up, he could have easily fit into a ladies’ shoebox; now, you’d have to at least order a pair of size 12 wellington boots to get him in.
“’Fraid I can’t let you enter now,” said Alf, stowing the weighing scale away under the table.
“Not a problem, I’m saving my pennies for the coconut shy. Knocked all four of them down last year in one turn—so much for all those people who say they glue the coconuts on. Did you know I used to bowl for my college cricket team?”
Limbering up his right shoulder in preparation for his signature top-spinner delivery, Arthur strolled off towards the Bake Off tent. Keen amateur bakers had already begun dropping off their icing-covered creations, and one table along the side of the tent was now colonised by a range of ambitious endeavours. There was a hedgehog cake covered in shards of white and milk chocolate, a four-tiered square genoise covered in bright yellow royal icing—reminiscent, in Arthur’s mind, of a giant Lego pyramid—several versions of the usual carrot cakes and Victoria sponges, and even a few attempts at the classic pink-and-yellow-squared, marzipan-wrapped Battenberg.
At the end of the table, PC Lucy was unboxing a large round cake covered in shiny dark chocolate ganache and decorated with white chocolate curls.
“Need a hand with that?” asked Arthur. “Ganache is always a fuss to transport, isn’t it? Always ends up touching the side of the box and getting smudged.”
“Not this one,” said PC Lucy morosely, sliding the cake onto a glass stand with surprising ease. “Watch this.” Before Arthur could stop her, she’d drawn her truncheon and dealt the offending cake a sharp rap to the surface. There was a dull thunk .
“I’m thinking of writing to the company that makes those bulletproof vests, to see if they want my recipe.”
“Ah, I see.” Arthur sought around for a suitably gentlemanly comment. “Well, I’m sure it will taste wonderful. And I don’t believe that ‘cuttability’ is one of the judging criteria, if that helps.”
“I tried elbowing it off the kitchen table earlier, when Patrick wasn’t looking,” said PC Lucy, a haunted look in her eyes. “It bounced .”
Arthur decided to leave the police officer to her cake-based woes and made his way over to the cookery demonstration tent next door.
Rows of white garden chairs had been laid out across the grassy floor and, up at the front, a small kitchen stage had been constructed, complete with two hobs, a portable oven, and a sink at the back.
A stick-thin woman in her early forties, with an orangeade tan, pink stilettos and caramel hair piled high in an elaborate beehive, was stalking back and forth on the stage, issuing commands to a pair of harried-looking young women who were putting the equipment through its paces.
“Eugh, gas ,” said the stiletto-ed woman, waving a red-taloned hand at the hobs. “I hate cooking on gas.”
“Most likely because it causes her hairspray to set on fire,” said a voice from Arthur’s right.
It came from Chef Bonvivant, the
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