by Peter May
Fabien blushed again. Only now there was a defensive tone in his voice. ‘It was good enough for my father, so it’s good enough for me.’
‘Is that his outfit?’
‘No. His stuff would never have fitted me.’
‘Can I come with you?’
‘No, you cannot. It’s a private meeting.’
‘Oh, go on. I’ll wait for you in the car.’
‘No.’
‘I’ve nothing else to do all evening. I’ll just be sitting on my own in my room.’
‘You could sit with my mother.’
Nicole gave him a look, and the point was conceded without a word passing between them.
‘It could be a long wait.’
‘I don’t mind. I could take a wander around town.’ She put on her most appealing face. ‘Please, Fabien. It’s really depressing here on my own.’
‘What about your friends?’
‘Oh, they’re off tasting wine somewhere.’
Fabien straightened the collar of his shirt. ‘So how’s Monsieur Macleod’s investigation going?’
His enquiry was just too casual, and Nicole became suddenly guarded. She remembered Enzo’s admonition: ‘Fabien Marre has made it perfectly clear that he had nothing but antipathy towards Petty. And since both bodies were found on his vineyard, he has to be considered a suspect.’ Not that she believed it for a moment. But she was determined she would not commit any further errors of indiscretion. ‘Fine,’ was all she said. ‘So I can come with you, then?’
His sigh of resignation told her she had bullied him into submission.
***
It was more than twenty minutes since Fabien had disappeared through the arched gateway into the complex of offices, with its salle de dégustation and wine museum, that comprised the Maison du Vin. The abbey next door had lost its pink quality in the dying light and huddled darkly now on the banks of the river until floodlights snapped on to throw it into stark relief against the darkening sky in the east.
Nicole was bored. She watched the faithful coming and going to confession through a small doorway in the entrance to the abbey. Whispering dark secrets to a hidden listener behind a latticed screen, then emerging minutes later muttering Hail Marys, absolved of all responsibility for life.
It was a long time since she had been to church. It brought back memories of her childhood. Squirming on uncomfortable pews next to her mother and father, listening to the cants and criticisms of the curé. Words that meant nothing to her then or now. But it made her think of her mother, and she felt a sudden stab of guilt. For two days she had barely given her a second thought. Except for a call the previous night to her father to ask how she was. He had been his usual uncommunicative self, and their brief conversation had left her depressed, bringing back the memory of sunlight splintering around the closed shutters of her mother’s bedroom, the air hot and heavy with the scent of impending death.
She decided to go into the abbey to light a candle and say a prayer for her.
The vast, vaulted space of the Abbey Saint-Michel was gloomily lit. She passed down the central aisle and crossed to the Madonna and Child, where candles burned and spilled their wax. She dropped some coins into the box, took a fresh candle, and lit it from one already burning. Then she knelt in front of the Virgin Mary and closed her eyes. She had no idea what to do. It was so long since she had prayed, she had forgotten how. She concentrated her thoughts and hoped with all her heart that her mother would be delivered from her suffering quickly and without further pain.
When she stood up again, she realised she was alone in the church. The confessional was empty. And yet she could hear voices. A babble of them, some raised in what sounded like anger. Away to her right, on the curve of the apse, a door stood ajar, and she crossed the nave to listen at it. The voices were louder, though still distant, and so she was unable to hear what they were saying. She glanced around, self-conscious and indecisive. There was still no one else in the church. And so after a moment’s hesitation, she pushed the door open and stepped into an ante-room with coat hangers and an antique armoire. An old stone staircase spiralled down into darkness, to the vaulted cellars below.
The offices of the Maison du Vin, and the museum, were all part of the original abbey, interconnected by its cellars. And aware that she was probably hearing the assembled dignitaries of l’ Ordre de la Dive Bouteille in mid-meeting, she started tentatively down the stairs, drawn on by curiosity.
She felt the temperature drop as she descended into darkness, with only a rope handrail for a guide. The air was suffused with a smell of damp. Light bleeding down from the abbey above was quickly snuffed out and she became enveloped by an impenetrable black that swallowed all shape and form. It occurred to her that there was probably a light switch at the top of the stairs, and she stopped, wondering whether or not to go back. But the voices were louder now. And as her eyes adjusted, she became aware of a faint glow coming up from below. She pressed on, following the spiral curve of the wall, until the world took shape again in light, and she found herself stepping into a vaulted salle with freshly pointed brickwork and tiled floors. Black triangular uplighters on the walls echoed the flaming torches that once would have lit this underground place. An unlit corridor led off south, towards the river. The voices of the assembled dignitaries of the Order of the Divine Bottle echoed along it. Nicole took the first tentative steps towards them, leaving the light behind her again. Guiding herself with fingertips on rough brick, she turned left and then right and saw light again ahead of her.
It spilled through a glass door in a closed archway, and from the obscurity of darkness, Nicole could see through it into a large vaulted meeting room, where the crimson-robed members of the Ordre were assembled on chairs facing a top table. Most of the dignitaries appeared to be older men, although there were three or four younger ones, Fabien amongst them, and two women.
The dominant voice was Fabien’s. He was on his feet, red-faced again. Only this time, from anger and indignation. ‘I’ve worked damned hard all year. And then this. Just as I’m harvesting the fruits of my labour, some foreigner playing amateur detective comes snooping around my vineyard, disrupting my vendange, threatening my livelihood. You know, he even sent one of his spies to rent a room at my house!’ He stopped to draw breath. ‘I can’t take issue with an official police investigation. A man was found dead yesterday on my land. But Petty’s murder was years ago. This Macleod character is just reopening old wounds. And for what? I’ve read about him in the newspapers, like everyone else. This all started with a bet. He doesn’t care about Petty. He doesn’t care about us. All he cares about is his own reputation—and winning a wager. Well, he’s not going to do it at my expense.’
There was a chorus of murmured agreement, and Fabien pressed on.
‘We all have livelihoods at stake here. The reputation of the wines of Gaillac. The whole point of our Ordre is to protect and promote those wines. I don’t think we should be cooperating with this Macleod. It’s not in any of our interests.’
The wall at Nicole’s shoulder seemed to give just a little. There was a click, and the corridor was flooded with sudden light. She realised, to her horror, that she had leaned against a light switch. As heads in the meeting room swung towards her, she fumbled to switch it off again, and ran back the way she had come, training shoes squeaking on shiny tiles.
She reached the salle at the foot of the spiral staircase, and plunged herself again into darkness. Running up and round, burning her palms on the rope rail, stumbling on the stairs as profound blackness wrapped itself around her once more. And then there was light again, from above, and she emerged finally, gasping for breath, into the ante-room with the armoire.
She stood for a full minute, breathing hard, perspiring in the gloom, trying to regain her equilibrium. But her legs were like jelly, and her breath trembled in her chest each time she filled her lungs. Try as she could, straining to listen above the r
asp of her breathing, she was unable to detect any sound from below. There were no voices. Nothing. And she knew she had to get out of there.
With as much composure as she could muster, she peered out into the abbey. There were a couple of elderly ladies kneeling before the Virgin, but there was no sign of the curé, and so she slipped out into the whispering vastness of the nave and hurried towards the back of the church.
The night air felt soft and warm as she emerged into the cobbled square. She walked quickly amongst the parked cars until she reached Fabien’s four-by-four, and slipped into the passenger seat with a huge sigh of relief. In the reflected light of the abbey’s floodlamps, she saw that her hands were trembling, and she leaned her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes.
***
The members of the Ordre emerged into the abbey square from the light of the arched tunnel of the Maison du Vin, a flood of crimson and black, dispersing to their vehicles and swallowed by the night.
Fabien peered in at Nicole before opening the door and removing his hat to throw it in the back.
She did her best to smile naturally. ‘How did it go?’
‘Fine.’ He slipped off his gown to reveal that he was wearing jeans beneath it, and folded it carefully to place it on the back seat. He pulled his shirt out from his jeans, where it was stretched in tight around the waistband, and he seemed to breath more easily. In the glove compartment, he found a baseball cap which he pulled on over his shock of curls, and slipped in behind the wheel. He glanced at Nicole. ‘Not too bored?’
‘No.’
He started the motor and turned on the lights. But she knew she couldn’t pretend for much longer.
‘Why are you so much against Monsieur Macleod?’
His head snapped around, eyes full of sudden anger. ‘It was you down in the cellars.’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Spying.’ He almost spat the word at her.
‘Oh, yes, that’s what I do. I’m a professional spy for Monsieur Macleod. I’m spying on you at your house, I’m spying on you at your meeting.’
‘But you were.’
‘Not on purpose. It was an accident.’
‘Oh, so you’re an accidental spy?’
She gathered her indignation around herself like a cloak. ‘I was in the abbey saying a prayer for my mother, and I heard voices. I was curious, that’s all. I didn’t mean to spy on you, but I couldn’t help but hear.’
‘Then you know why I’m against him poking around my vineyard.’ He paused to gather his cool. ‘And he suspects me of some involvement in all this. I can see it in his face.’
Nicole stared at her hands in her lap for a long time, frightened to meet his eyes, before finally she said, ‘What happened to your father’s old costume?’
She heard his deep sigh of frustration, and turned to see him grasping the steering wheel, his knuckles white with tension. ‘So you think so, too?’
‘No, I don’t. But it’s a reasonable question.’
He turned and glared at her. ‘Is it?’
‘Yes it is, Fabien. And if you’ve nothing to hide, then you’ve no reason not to answer it.’
He looked away again. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t know what?’
‘What happened to my father’s outfit. My mother probably cannibalised it for her rag bag. Spending money on clothes has never been a big priority in our family. My mother’s handy with a needle and thread. She makes things last.’
They sat for several more minutes without saying anything. Then Fabien made a decision and slipped the vehicle into first gear and pulled out of the square into the street.
They drove up through the town in silence. The Place de la Libération was deserted, benches empty beneath the gloom of the chestnut trees. A bunch of teenagers stood smoking and laughing outside the DVD shop, the brightly lit interior of the pizza restaurant next door revealing that all its tables were empty. A bored chef leaned on the countertop in front of his oven reading a newspaper.
The outskirts of town, heading west, had a seedy, neglected air before they reached the commercial park with its gaudily lit stores and hypermarket. And then they were out amongst the vines, heading towards the hills that rose to the north, the dark shapes of pins parasols outlined against a sky awash with moonlight.
In the yard at La Croix Blanche, Fabien pulled up outside the house and cut the motor. Neither of them had spoken during the drive back, and now neither of them made any attempt to get out of the car.
Fabien said, ‘Why were you saying a prayer for your mother?’
‘Because she’s dying.’ She heard him turn to look at her.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I never prayed for her before. All this time I should have been praying for a miracle. That she wouldn’t die. And then when, finally, I do say a prayer it’s for an end to it. For death to come quickly and without any more pain.’ She turned to look at Fabien, tears brimming in her eyes. ‘What’s scary is, I’m not sure if I was saying the prayer for her or for me.’
He leaned over and put an arm around her, and she let her head fall against his shoulder, and they sat like that for a long time. Only now, the silence between them was easier, without tension. A gentle hand brushed the hair from her face, and she tilted her head to look at him.
‘Take me to the source,’ she said. ‘I know we’re not lovers or anything. But, well, maybe it would change our luck. Maybe it would be better than praying.’
He seemed embarrassed. ‘I don’t know, Nicole.’ He dipped his head to peer out of the passenger window towards the house. ‘She’ll know we’re back.’
Nicole looked, too. All the ground floor windows were shuttered, but she was certain that she saw a curtain twitch at an upstairs bedroom. She looked back at Fabien. ‘Are you scared of her?’
‘No!’ His denial was fierce.
‘Then don’t use her as an excuse. If you don’t want to take me to the source just say so.’
He responded by taking his arm from around her shoulders and leaning forward to start the car. The engine seemed very loud in the still of the night, and there was no doubting now the movement of curtains at the upstairs window.
Fabien accelerated out of the yard, and turned up towards the foothills of the Plateau Cordais, headlights raking across acres of silent vines.
III.
Enzo emerged unsteadily onto the steeply sloping cobbles of La Barbacane. He saw moonlight glistening on a surface slick with dew and felt his feet sliding from under him. Strong hands stopped him from falling. He turned to look into Bertrand’s smiling face, pointless pieces of metal glinting absurdly in the moonshine.
‘You’ve had too much to drink, Monsieur Macleod.’
‘No more than you.’ Enzo heard his words slurring, as if they were coming from someone else’s mouth.
‘Bertrand was spitting, Papa. You were drinking.’
‘You can’t spit out wine of that quality. That Cheval Blanc was probably about ten euros a sip.’
‘Some of us have to drive, Monsieur Macleod.’
‘And some of us can hold our wine better than you, Papa.’
Enzo shook himself free of Bertrand’s grasp. ‘I can manage perfectly well, thank you.’ And he promptly sat down heavily on the wet cobbles. ‘Merde!’
Bertrand helped him to his feet again and looked down the two hundred feet of incline they would have to negotiate to get to the van. The streets were narrow and dark and treacherous. He made a face at Sophie and shrugged.
‘Look, Papa, why don’t you stay here with Braucol. I’ll go with Bertrand to get the van.’
Enzo glared at her. ‘If you can get the van up here, why didn’t we bring it up in the first place?’
‘Because we didn’t know,’ Bertrand said. ‘Monsieur Domenech says there’s a back road up that’s easier.’
They helped Enzo up over the crest of the hill to the fortifi
ed battlements of the original thirteenth century enclosure at the Porte du Vainqueur. From here, there was a clear view out south over the dew-glistening layers of surrounding countryside. The autumn mist that old Domenech had spoken of earlier, was already gathering in the river valley, luminous and ghostly. Enzo sat on the stone retaining wall and shivered. ‘Be quick, then. It’s getting cold.’
When they had gone, he looked down at Braucol looking up at him and smiled at the absence of disapproval. Certainly, he had drunk too much, but Braucol wasn’t making any judgments. The wines had been wonderful. And now he had in his pocket the annotated outcome of old Domenech’s tasting. He was certain they had managed to marry three or four flavours to Petty’s lettered codes, so he was anxious to start looking for ways of deciphering the rest. But he was not so drunk that he didn’t realise he was in no condition to do it tonight. He closed his eyes and felt the earth move beneath him. When Braucol sighed he opened them again to find the puppy still staring at him. ‘It’s alright for you, Braucol. You don’t have a daughter who disapproves of your drinking. Or a lover who won’t commit to a relationship. Or a woman half your age who wants to take you to bed.’ He snorted. ‘Putain! I should be so lucky.’
He closed his eyes again and drifted off into an alcohol-induced torpor. He felt himself swaying, then heard the dangerous, throaty rumble of Braucol’s growl. A bark startled him awake. He opened his eyes in time to see Braucol disappearing into the shadows. Then nothing. Not a movement. Absolute silence.
He called out. ‘Braucol?’ But there was no response. To his right, the cobbles meandered unevenly between houses shuttered and dark. Clumps of grass and weed grew all along the stone gutter. The walls of the battlement rose steeply into the sky. Every gateway and alley was mired in the deepest shadow. To his left, the narrow road fell away to the west. Ahead of him, a tall archway opened into a tunnel devoured by darkness. Something moved. A fragment of something shiny catching the light. A sound, like the scuff of a leather heel on stone.
Enzo felt the perspiration gathered across his forehead turn cold. It was only three nights ago that someone had tried to kill him. But who would even know he was here? He stood up. ‘Who’s there?’
