Free Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives by Michael Bond

deficient in waste buckets. Perhaps the kind of guests they catered for didn’t handle waste.
    Seeing nothing remotely suitable near at hand, he dropped the tablets one by one into the water bowl where, in a series of plops, they sank like the proverbial stones.
    ‘Bravo!’
    As he turned he realised to his surprise that Mrs Beardmore was standing without the aid of her frame. All of a sudden she appeared to have shed a few years.
    ‘I love it when you’re cross, Aristide. You don’t mind if I call you Aristide?’
    Moving to the sofa, she sat down. He waited to see how she ended up. Was it to be the swinging leg routine? Legs crossed, with the outer one pointing towards him indicating friendliness, or away from him indicating lack of trust? Or even, heaven forbid, enticing; knees pressed together and feet splayed out sending a ‘come hither’ signal. In the event it was none of them. Perhaps she didn’t bend that easily.
    ‘Listen.’ She gave the cushion next to her a pat. ‘Come here. I like to know who I’m working with, that’s all.’
    Sensing that he had passed some kind of test, Monsieur Pamplemousse wasn’t sure whether to feel pleased or sorry.
    Pommes Frites, on the other hand, recognising the signs, seized the opportunity to go on a voyage of exploration. Following his nose, he went into the adjoining room. Being deprived of lunch was bad enough, but nobody had even thought to offer him any of the cheese on toast. It would have been better than nothing.
    He was gone all of ten seconds. Following another bout of sneezing he came back into the room.
    ‘You know what Lyndon Johnson used to say when he was president?’ said Mrs Beardmore.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head as he settled himself down a respectable distance away from her.
    ‘“I never trust a man until I’ve got his pecker in my pocket”.
    ‘Me? I take the opposite line. I trust everyone so long as I get to cut the cards. You can’t be too careful in this business.
    ‘What gives with the Zimmer? It stops people getting in your hair. They see you coming towards them holding on to a frame, they keep out of your way in case you ask for help. Keep ’em guessing – that’s my motto. Besides, they say things in front of you they wouldn’t do otherwise, like they think you’re deaf and dumb or something.
    ‘Anyway, let’s get down to business. We got things to talk about.’
    Reaching across to the small table she picked up the box of chocolates.
    ‘Try one of these. You’re a food inspector. I’d like to know what you think of them.’
    Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at the box first. Although the name was new to him he saw they had an address in Lyon; once upon a time the chocolate centre of France. As far as he knew only Bernachonof the big names was still going strong, dating back to the days when members of the dynasty travelled the world in search of the finest cocoa beans. Nowadays, more and more artisan chocolatiers simply assembled materials others had sourced.
    There was a note inside, printed in gold copperplate.
    ‘In our never-ending search for perfection these creations are handmade from cocoa beans grown especially for us in the foothills of the Venezuelan Andes. No stone has been left unturned in our search for the finest ingredients that go to make up the fillings. Please note: In order to marry the exquisite tastes of the one with the other the flavour of the enrobing chocolate may vary.’
    It sounded like serious stuff.
    ‘Chocolate has a lot in common with wine,’ he said. ‘First you smell it, then you look at the colour, then you taste it. Professional wine tasters spit it out before going on to the next. Chocolatiers , on the other hand, leave a small piece on their tongue to melt.’
    He popped one of those on offer into his mouth.
    ‘You think they’d make a good present?’
    ‘I have no doubt of it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘They are, if I may so, very French. That is to say they are