Treachery in Bordeaux (The Winemaker Detective Series)

by Alaux, Jean-Pierre

  All he had to do was turn his head a little to the right, toward the south, and Dr. Baldès’ overmantel appeared in turn, with the emblematic facade of the Château Haut-Brion, its two conical turrets transported to the wing as if to lighten the main central square of the building. The earth was combed as straight as a die, and not a single rebellious plant intruded. Benjamin paused for a moment. He already knew what he would discover but waited a few seconds to better enjoy the instant when he would find the landscape of the third painting.

  A quarter turn to the right toward the west, and he saw it by just looking toward the base of the hill. The Moniales Haut-Brion was there, yes, hiding behind the plants, but very much there. It was so obvious. He would have realized it earlier, had he taken the time to think about it. Benjamin kicked himself for not being more perceptive, and he felt gratitude toward Ferdinand Ténotier. The third painting was right there under his nose, and, unlike the other two, it had to be the only one that didn’t correspond exactly with reality. The Moniales château was now hidden by greenery the landscaper Michel Bonfin had planted at the beginning of the 19th century. The painter must have had a clear view, as the trees were less filled in and shorter, and he must have been able to make out the flow of the Peugue, the moss-covered stone fountain, the small pink marble chapel and the grapevines. With a little imagination, it was easy to picture the scene.

  Virgile was standing off to the side, but he quickly picked up on his employer’s speculation. He walked up and squinted, examining the landscape and forming a frame between the right angles of his thumbs and index fingers.

  “In my opinion, sir, if you pretend the strip housing, apartment buildings and suburban homes around the estate are not there, you can almost believe that …”

  Cooker imitated him, closing one eye to focus.

  “Indeed, all that’s missing are the grape harvesters,” he said, as he was sure that the third painting had workers in the vineyards, like the others.

  “So there you have it, your third overmantel. It’s the Moniales.”

  “Unfortunately, that is not so. Reality is just an illusion, my dear Virgile. Only the artist’s eye captures the truth, even if it seems distorted or interpreted. Do you see what I mean? I would really like to know where that piece of truth is hiding.”

  “We’re not really going to hit up all the antique dealers in the region, are we?” the assistant asked with a little too much familiarity.

  “Watch what you say. I’m perfectly capable of doing that,” Cooker replied. It was hard to discern any joking in his tone.

  Virgile rubbed his neck and felt it best to keep a certain distance. He regretted letting himself go and saying something that could have been interpreted as a lack of respect.

  “There is something bothering me, sir. What’s the link between the Moniales and the Haut-Brion estate?”

  “There isn’t one today, except that they share the same terroir on the Graves plateau. The Moniales estate belongs to the Fonsegrive-Massepain family, and it has since the beginning of the 19th century, when Aristide Fonsegrive, a wine trader in Bordeaux and a direct ancestor of Denis’ wife Thérèse, bought it. During the French Revolution, when all the land belonging to the Church was confiscated, the estate became state property, and the Moniales did not escape.”

  “It once belonged to the Church?”

  “To the Order of Our Lady of the Moniales, for two centuries. At first, there was nothing but a small watermill surrounded by prairie and vineyards. Toward the end of his life, Jean de Pontac, who was the true founder of the Château Haut-Brion, thought he would win his way into heaven by giving this parcel to a religious order. He was a bourgeois Bordeaux merchant and had bought the manorial rights. He was born in 1488 and died in 1589, was married three times and had 15 children. He was a busy one.”

  “He lived to be a 101?” asked Virgile.

  “Don’t you count fast. Jean de Pontac did, in fact, live under the reigns of kings Louis XII, François I, Henri II, Charles IX and Henri III. Some years are good and age exceptionally well,” Cooker sighed. “I have tasted some wines that have crossed the century and lived through a dozen French presidents.”

  The winemaker sat down on a small pile of stones at the foot of the water tower and invited his assistant to do the same. He then recited the full details of the Pontac family dynasty. Arnaud II, the fourth son of the centenary, was the bishop of Bazas, and his funeral procession was over nine miles long. Geoffroy, president of the Bordeaux parliament, lived in the Daurade, a private mansion overflowing in gold and mirrors. Arnaud III wallowed in the same luxury as his father and became the first president of the local parliament. And finally there was François-Auguste, who also headed up the Bordeaux parliament and was the last direct Pontac descendent to own Haut-Brion.

  “From then on, things became terribly complicated,” the winemaker continued. “François-Auguste lived in such luxury that the château was seized twice to pay his debts. When his sister Marie-Thérèse inherited the estate in 1694, the land was split up, and she managed to keep only two thirds of it. I’ll spare you the details of who slept with whom and who was the widow of whom.”

  “Too bad! That’s often the most interesting!” said Virgile.

  “You’d be disappointed. There is nothing very spicy, just stories of alliances and marriages for money. No light favors or pillow talk, I fear. At this stage, François Delphin d’Aulède de Lestonnac, Marie-Thérèse’s son—she had married the owner of Château Margaux—inherited both Haut-Brion and Margaux. And that explains a rather astonishing tradition. Haut-Brion, which is in the Graves, is still classified as a Médoc premier cru, in accordance with a very ancient formulation that did not take into account its geography, but rather its age-old noble codes of usage.”

  “And that’s still the case today?”

  “Don’t forget that Bordeaux is a land of traditions. Never forget that! So, stop me if it gets too complicated, OK, Virgile? This François Delphin, Marquis of Margaux and owner of Haut-Brion, died in 1746 and passed down his land to his sister, Catherine d’Aulède de Lestonnac, the widow of the Count François-Joseph de Fumel, who had a son named Louis who would die at a very young age. Are you still with me?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m closing my eyes to concentrate better.”

  “In the end, it was the grandson, Joseph de Fumel, who developed the estate, adding an orangery, operational buildings and very large grounds. He also contributed greatly to the renown of Haut-Brion wine abroad, trading with England and Sweden. He was guillotined in 1794. From then on, the same lot was reserved for the Moniales: The estate was sold as state property, and Charles-Maurice Talleyrand bought it in 1801. At the time, he was Napoleon’s minister of foreign affairs, as you know.”

  “Is he the one who limped? The one Napoleon called ‘shit in silk stockings’?” Virgil asked, knitting his eyebrows.

  “The description is terse but rather well summarized. Tallyrand was a grim man but brilliant. He is even said to have made a recommendation about Haut-Brion that some should follow more often: ‘Before raising such a nectar to one’s lips, hold the glass high, and look at it, sniff it at length, and then, set your glass down, and talk about it!’ Nice, isn’t it?”

  “Very perceptive and well formulated,” Virgile said, nodding.

  “Tallyrand did not stay in Haut-Brion for long. He sold everything in 1804. He had other things to do, and he didn’t have a farmer’s soul. You have to be a little bit of a farmer to love a land like this one, even if is your coffers are full of gold, and you’re chock full of honors. As was the Larrieu family, which was next in line. They were a dynasty of jurists with a number of more or less happy successors throughout the 19th century. After Joseph-Eugène Larrieu and his son Amédée came Eugène, who inherited in 1873 and went on to impose a near-military discipline on his winemakers. This was an important step, since the Larrieu family bought the third that belonged to the Countess of Vergennes and united the domaine ag
ain. They always had energetic stewards, and you have to admit that were it not for Eugène Larrieu’s authoritarian determination, the estate would have suffered more from the Phylloxera and mildew epidemics that ravaged all of Bordeaux’s vineyards. He managed the estate with an iron fist until 1896, but he had no heir. His vines were prolific, but he was dry.”

  Benjamin was in brilliant form, and the ups and downs of Haut-Brion’s history loosened his tongue. He enjoyed initiating Virgile into this world with its codes that were sometimes difficult to decrypt. He went on to talk about the various problems linked to the joint ownership of the property and the Compagnie Algérienne, a bank that owned the château for a time before selling it to the extravagant André Gibert. He was a stickler for rules but loved experimenting. He also lacked an heir, so the estate ended up in the hands of the American financier Clarence Dillon after several months of harsh negotiations. On May 13, 1935, the Château Haut-Brion was transferred to the Dillon family. Over time, the majority of its heirs were attached enough to the estate to forget the bustle of New York and show an interest in its operations. Some even settled there.

  “OK, I’ll stop there! I think I’ve overwhelmed you,” Cooker said, getting up rather carelessly.

  They returned to Bordeaux at dusk. Benjamin dropped his assistant off at the Place de la Victoire and drove down the Cours de la Marne to reach the Saint-Jean train station. He double-parked and ran to the departure hall to get some pictures made in a photo booth. The harsh flash surprised him as he tried to put on an impassive, dignified expression. The result was astonishing, to say the least. The four small pictures showed three-quarters of his face. He had raised eyebrows, one eye was half closed, the other red, and he had a splotch of white light running across his forehead. Benjamin was quite amused by his startled look. “Clearly, reality is nothing but an illusion,” he thought, slipping the photos into his inside jacket pocket. He was sure that Pascale Dartigeas would be talented enough to rework his portrait and reproduce his features accurately.

  The end-of-April evening breeze was warm. As he left the train station, he removed a parking ticket from under the windshield wiper of his Mercedes and tossed it onto the back seat. Benjamin Cooker had just spent an excellent day.

  9

  DO YOU THINK YOU can suffocate on your own vomit?” Virgile asked, folding the newspaper.

  “Spare me the details, please,” Cooker said, looking disgusted.

  The winemaker hadn’t read more than the first paragraph of the article in the latest edition of the Sud-Ouest before setting it on the edge of the table.

  It was late morning, still chilly, and there were only a few scattered patrons at the Régent’s outside tables. A handful of regulars, comfortably sheltered by a large red awning and ensconced in their rattan chairs, took in the city’s moods. Some were deep in their newspapers, not paying any attention to their neighbors, while others sipped their coffee in seats at the front to better observe the comings and goings on the Place Gambetta, with its buses swerving along the Cours Clemenceau and young women hurrying between stopped cars.

  Virgile had joined Cooker a little late. He sputtered an excuse and immediately started talking about the story in the paper. The headline read, “Pessac loses its living archives.” The story took up two columns but didn’t have any pictures.

  “The quiet Cité Frugès, a modern architectural jewel designed by Le Corbusier, is in mourning. Mr. Ferdinand Ténotier, a professor of medieval history at the University of Bordeaux for 30 years, was found dead yesterday morning by the postman. The latter came to deliver his pension payment when he found the old man slumped on his kitchen table, his face lying in the remains of a meal he had regurgitated. This solitary, sometimes extravagant man, once married to an aristocrat from Andalusia, was one of the top experts in Pessac’s history. Mr. Ténotier had studied at the École des Chartes and had a comparative literature degree from La Sorbonne. He spoke Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Armenian and several other languages, including 16th-century Spanish, which brought him many honors for his 1954 annotated translation of ‘Don Quixote.’ He was also the author of a popular pamphlet on the history of Pessac, which, unfortunately, is out of print. No stone in the town was a secret to him, and his tragic death at the age of 78 is a great loss for our region.”

  “It’s strange. There is no time or date mentioned for the funeral,” Virgile said.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “They’re not going to bury him like a dog, are they?”

  “You never know. I suppose they’ll do an autopsy to make sure his death was accidental,” Benjamin said, getting up from the table.

  “You think so?”

  “What I think is that it is high time we get to Moniales and check some things out. Don’t you agree, Virgile?”

  “If you say so.”

  ALEXANDRINE de la Palussière was already at work when they arrived at the cellars. She had checked the steel tanks, taking a few new samples before intervening to treat the contamination. She was wearing a pair of beige leather espadrilles, plain linen pants and a sky-blue cashmere sweater. She looked like she was off to a private golfing resort or some sailing club for spoiled teenagers. Her bob cut, held back by the never-changing mother-of-pearl hairband, brought out the best in her smooth face.

  She carefully descended the stepladder on which she was perched to join her employer, who was fretting at the door of the building, his face pale. Alexandrine put on a smile as she walked over to him with a light swaying step. She shook Cooker’s hand and gave Virgile a look-over. She thought he might actually be nice, but his good looks were a little too impertinent. Denis Massepain had just arrived from his office, where a phone call had tied him up for an hour.

  “Excuse me,” he said, uncomfortable. “I didn’t even have time to greet Mademoiselle de la Palussière. I was on the phone with some American buyers. Business must go on.”

  He said hello to the young woman, who excused him immediately and introduced herself with a respectable modesty. The owner apologized again and thanked her for coming. She thanked him for his trust and said she was sorry, in turn, for not introducing herself earlier.

  “Where are we, Alexandrine?” Benjamin asked, putting an end to the unproductive civilities.

  “I considered two different approaches. I didn’t have the time to discuss them with you, but I quickly abandoned the idea of using diethyl pyrocarbonate in its new dimethyl form. It is not stable enough, because it is too quick to hydrolyze into ethanol and carbonic gas. In my opinion, that could leave minor secondary products that might give the wine an overly fruity aroma. In addition, we would have to use over 200 milligrams per liter to totally destroy the infection.”

  “That’s unthinkable!” Cooker said. “It is absolutely impossible, and it’s forbidden by European regulations.”

  “In that case, I think that we should fall back on the more traditional sulfur dioxide treatment. It’s the only alternative.”

  Denis Massepain listened attentively. He was trained as an embryologist and spent years working in the pharmaceutical industry, so he understood what the alchemist was saying. Virgile, however, found it too esoteric for his taste.

  Alexandrine continued her presentation as if she were addressing only her employer. “It is very important that the barrels were cleaned and rinsed. Now the wood should be healthy, which will prevent any yeast proliferation in the cellars. We are now doing a residual analysis of the cleaned barrels, but if the work was done properly, there should be no problem.”

  Virgile did not falter.

  “I have no doubt about the results,” Cooker said dryly.

  “I hope not,” Alexandrine responded. “All we have left to do then is to add the sodium dioxide, and I think that will be done in an hour or two. I used the most recent readings to determine the pH of each lot to adjust the dosage. I won’t use wicks because they are not precise enough.”

  The biologist was referring to a technique dating from th
e 18th century that was still in use. Sulfur candles, introduced by the Dutch, were nothing more than wicks dipped in sulfur that produced a sanitizing gas when burned in wine barrels. Cooker had often used them to eliminate germs and minimize their effect. He knew the advantages and limitations of this system, which had been used to save some great wines while preserving their purity and aromatic characteristics.

  “What method do you suggest?” he asked.

  “I will use effervescent sulfur that allows for more precise dosing. It is easier, although the trouble with metabisulfite discs is homogenous distribution of the sodium dioxide. We’ll have to stir from time to time. Mr. Massepain can make sure the lees get in suspension on a daily basis.”

  “Virgile will stop by and do it, don’t worry,” Cooker said. “He will also take samples from the tanks and bring them to the lab so you can monitor the treatment.”

  “As you wish,” Alexandrine answered without looking at the assistant.

  Benjamin wished his biologist luck and then motioned to Denis and Virgile to follow him.

  “That woman is a gem,” he said softly. “But honestly, I prefer sparing you another presentation about yeast dosing, active ingredients, gauging antiseptics and all those damn molecules. They are enough to make you hate wine.”