The Resistance Man (Bruno Chief of Police 6)

whether Yves was being genuine or just acting.
    When he returned to his guests, Valentoux had opened a bottle of Clos d’Yvigne, the dry white Bergerac that Fabiolaloved. She must have brought it. Knowing his fondness for Pomerol, Annette had brought a bottle of Château Nenin from 2005, which he decanted at once since they were to enjoy it that evening. He opened it to let it stand awhile. Pamela had brought a Monbazillac from Clos l’Envège, which would go perfectly with the strawberries, and he went back to the kitchen to put it in the fridge to stay cool. He put the marinaded duck into the oven, sliced some ham from the haunch that hung from the main beam and put a plate of ham and his fresh radishes at each place on his dining-room table. He added a slice of unsalted butter to each plate and sliced a big
pain
from the Moulin bakery.
    ‘
À table
,’ he called from the kitchen window, ‘and bring your wine glasses with you.’
    He steered Annette to the head of the table, he and Valentoux to her left and right and then Fabiola and Pamela, and explained to the table how the ham on their plates came from a pig that had been treated since the previous summer to a regular diet of acorns and chestnuts.
    ‘And I saw him pick the radishes from his garden today,’ added Valentoux. ‘This is an amazing way to live, I think I shall become exceedingly fat.’
    ‘Bruno isn’t fat,’ said Fabiola.
    ‘And nor are any of you,’ Valentoux replied, looking at each of the women. ‘How do you do it?’
    ‘Riding,’ said Pamela and Fabiola in unison.
    ‘I’ve gained three kilos since I came here,’ said Annette. ‘I blame the cheese.’
    Valentoux copied the way Bruno smeared a little butter onto each of the plump, red radishes, dipped each one in salt andthen alternated a bite of bread, a radish, a piece of ham and then a sip of the white wine.
    Pamela helped him clear away the plates. She prodded the potatoes and declared them ready as he removed the duck from the oven using bright red gloves emblazoned with a white Swiss cross that Fabiola had given him for Christmas.
    ‘
Aiguillettes de canard au miel et moutarde à l’ancienne
,’ he announced as they brought the dishes to table.
    ‘I thought that was honey I could smell,’ said Annette, as Bruno darted back into the kitchen to fetch the carafe of Pomerol. ‘I never heard of that with duck.’
    ‘It should go well with this wonderful wine you brought,’ said Bruno, pouring it out.
    ‘Tell us about the festival,’ said Pamela. ‘What can we expect?’
    ‘For a start, you can expect some complimentary tickets,’ Valentoux replied, and went on to describe the plays he planned, a mix of old classics and experimental new theatre, of French and foreign drama. The plates were cleared away, the cheese and salad brought, and then Bruno opened the Monbazillac.
    ‘Do you know where you’ll be staying while you’re in Sarlat?’ Annette asked.
    ‘Not yet, I was going to look for an apartment to rent in the next few days. As long as it’s fairly central, I‘m not looking for anything grand.’
    ‘I rent an old house with some friends on the Rue des Consuls, just around the corner from the festival office. We each have a floor to ourselves, two rooms and small bathroom, and we all share the kitchen, living room and garden. One of thetenants leaves this weekend for a summer school in Italy so his floor is free until the end of August.’
    ‘It sounds perfect. Let me come and visit and then take you to dinner,’ said Valentoux, and the two of them agreed to meet at her house in Sarlat the following evening. Bruno brought coffee, and as the dinner drew to a close, Valentoux proposed that he might cook and play host at a similar event. Pamela was the first to agree, placing her foot firmly on Bruno’s beneath the table; as usual, she’d slipped off her shoes as she dined. When they all rose from the table, she made it clear that she intended to stay the night, so Fabiola and Annette left together. Valentoux marched into the kitchen declaring his intention to do the washing up.
    ‘I meant to ask you, did Fullerton ever mention the name of Paul Murcoing, a young man from this area who seems to have been involved in antiques?’
    Valentoux suddenly went still at the sink. ‘I never heard that name. Is he somebody who might be a suspect?’
    ‘Could be. Did you meet any of Fullerton’s friends?’
    ‘Only when we were in England, and none of them was