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straighten an errant fish knife. Arthur made an attempt to tally up the wine glasses on the table, but happily gave up after losing count twice.
    “The lake will most certainly be frozen over. Do either of you gentlemen skate?”
    “Not since I was a little boy. Nowadays, though, the thought of falling over, and those flashing blades . . . ” Arthur gave a little shudder.
    “I, myself, am an excellent skater,” said Chef Maurice.
    “You are?” Arthur looked his friend up and down. If you were the kind of person to describe body shapes via the medium of vegetables, Chef Maurice would most likely be an extra-large turnip. It was hard to imagine him doing anything as aerodynamic as ice-skating. Though, perhaps, he could be useful as an early warning system for detecting patches of thin ice . . .
    “You have not seen me do the skating?” said Chef Maurice with surprise. “Perhaps then we will ask Sir William if he will allow us onto his lake later this week.”
    Gilles, having probably shared the same vision as Arthur, looked visibly alarmed. “I hear that this cold weather is unlikely to last long. In which case I am not sure if the lake will freeze to a sufficient extent for skating. Perhaps for safety’s sake, it would be better to wait for a more opportune climate.”
    Like the next ice age, thought Arthur.
    “Have you been with Sir William a long time, Gilles?” he asked.
    “Fifteen years this January, sir.”
    “Golly, that long, eh? Still enjoying it? The butlering?”
    “Very much so, sir,” said Gilles, pulling one of the chairs a millimetre further out from the tablecloth. Down the centre of the table was a long row of wine bottles, each covered with a smart black cotton bag with a numeral sewn on. A few places were empty, presumably ready for the bottles Sir William had gone to fetch.
    “We’ve been especially busy this year with the expansion of the wine cellar, which brings the whole collection together in one place for the first time. Sir William has also had me assisting him with the update of the cataloguing system.”
    “Ah, a database and whatnot?”
    Gilles wrinkled his nose. “I’m afraid we’re not quite that modern, sir. It’s a simple cellar book. Name, producer, vintage, source, date acquired, that kind of thing.” He noticed Arthur’s expression. “It’s a significant improvement on what we had before, I assure you.”
    “Ah, and what was that?” said Chef Maurice.
    Gilles smiled faintly. “Scraps of paper, the odd receipt. One does marvel at the miraculous filing properties of an old shoebox.”
    “Indeed. So any chance of a hint about tonight’s wi—”
    Arthur stopped, as a huffing sound from the drawing room grew louder and a middle-aged woman in a blue gingham apron burst in. If Chef Maurice was turnip-shaped, then she was possibly a medium-sized radish. Her face, at least, was currently the right colour.
    “Gilles . . . the cellar . . . Sir William . . . ”
    “Breathe, Mrs Bates, breathe,” said Gilles, quickly sitting the panting cook down into a nearby chair. “Now tell me, what has happened?”
    She stared up into his concerned face.
    “He won’t unlock the cellar door! Oh, Gilles, I think something terrible’s happened to Sir William!”

Chapter 4

    The residents of Beakley were all tucked up warm in their cottages, though some of the older kids had taken the opportunity to start building snowmen and other icy sculptures on the village green.
    PC Lucy was particularly impressed with the life-sized Vauxhall Astra, which she’d tried to take down the number plate of—it was illegally parked in the middle of the green, after all—until she realised it was entirely made of snow.
    She hoped no one had seen her. The local kids would never let her live that one down.
    Policing duty done, she was looking forward to a nice glass of mulled wine in front of Le Cochon Rouge’s big stone fireplace.
    And seeing Patrick, of course. But