Devil Take The Hindmost

Chapter Fourteen

Saturday night at Maison Noir is quite the scene, let me tell you.

The place itself took a while to find, tucked away in an unlit back alley just behind St. Peter's Church in the city centre. The black marble façade on the exterior is adorned with a tiny and understated logo of the monogram MN nestled in the centre of an eight-pointed star in silver. So understated, in fact, it would be easily missed by the uninitiated who might be heading for a far more prosaic balti and beer session elsewhere. I suspect that this is intentional and that the good people at Maison Noir didn't want to be stumbled upon by the drunk or the hungry.

Once I made it past the sourpuss check-in desk attendant, who eyed me up, down, and back up again with a face on her like a slapped arse, I passed through a gap in heavy velvet drapes and into the interior.

Maison Noir was packed.

The Great and the Good filled every table and every booth. It took some time for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, the entire restaurant being lit solely by candlelight emanating from clusters of burning wicks adorning every flat surface.

As I looked from face to face in search of my dinner companion, I was surprised to note that I even recognized several of the diners. Councillors, the owner of a large law firm with whom I had suffered a number of run-ins, and a couple of footballers and their flamboyant dates were nibbling, supping and paying me no heed whatsoever.

It didn't take long to locate Tish.

She sat at what I judged to be a prime table, centrally placed but against the wall. It offered a modicum of privacy from being overheard but commanded a view of the entire restaurant from which one could both see and be seen.

Letitia Banton-Smith was most assuredly a sight worth seeing. I picked my way across the room toward her, and she stood to great me, revealing a sheer black dress that fit her like the sheath on a dagger, giving the clear impression that what lay beneath was just as dangerous.

I reached the table, and she held out a hand in greeting, palm tilted down, in the manner of a medieval princess offering her fingers for a knight to kiss.

I almost did so but demurred at the last moment into an awkward upside-down handshake.

"Satchmo!" she trilled with more enthusiasm than I think I warranted. "It's splendid that you made it!"

"I wouldn't miss it, how on Earth did you manage to get a reservation at such short notice?"

"Oh, I know the chef," Tish giggled, taking her seat, and waving me downwards. "Abby's on old school pal, she's officially the best chef in the West Midlands. Quite a marvel, actually."

"Old Girl's Network, eh?" I joked.

Tish paused at this and gave it a moment's serious thought before replying "Yes, I suppose so."

Menus came and went. Tish removed her heavy-framed glasses and swept her auburn curls up and over her head with her trademark manoeuvre. I became lost in the intoxication of the wine and the candlelight flickering in her eyes and dancing in her hair, making it seem like an extension of the living fire lighting the entire restaurant.

The food was indeed incredible.

My tastes had certainly changed since moving to Pebble Deeping permanently. I had reached the point where I genuinely began to believe there could be no finer sustenance than a brace of eggs, fresh from the chicken's bomb bay. The procession of intricately crafted morsels presented that evening forced me to admit that, in fact, there was.

We talked over several courses of small plates about all manner of things relating to life, the past, previous cases, and a welter of other topics. Tish laughed and asked me to expand on every anecdote with such insistence that it was not until dessert I realized that we spent the whole evening up to that point without a mention of the case or the clock. Furthermore, the entire conversation had been by, or about, me.