Bruno shook his head and pointed to the cluster of rose bushes at the corner of his driveway, pleased that she had noticed the roses in their room. He then told them of their booking for Lascaux in the morning and of his own police business.
‘I have to leave here soon after nine,’ he said, ‘and I need to make my usual patrol of the Saturday market tomorrow morning at about eight so I suggest we go down to St Denis for coffee and croissants in my favourite café, then you can go to Lascaux and I’ll head for Bergerac. And I really recommend you take a canoe ride on the way back from Lascaux. Tomorrow evening we’re having drinks at a lovely small chateau that belongs to a good friend and then we’ll head to a tiny village with some more friends to have dinner at a night market.’
He explained that they could park at Beynac and the canoe rental people would drive them upstream to Castelnaud, from where they could launch their canoe into the river and paddle gently downstream to Beynac with the current. Two formidable medieval castles, Castelnaud and Beynac, had changed hands several times but usually one was held by the English and the other by the French.
‘If you have time, it’s worth visiting Castelnaud and the museum of medieval warfare there,’ Bruno said. ‘At this time of year they have fencing exhibitions and you might see them fire one of the trebuchets, the heavy artillery of the middle ages. Amazing machines, they can toss an eighty kilo rock as far as two or even three hundred metres. The Crusaders learned to use them from the Saracens and brought them back to Europe.’
Aware that he was prattling, Bruno gave Rosalie a rueful grin. ‘Sorry, but this kind of thing captivates boys of all ages and I think Alain might like it.’
‘Not just boys,’ she said, returning his smile. ‘Why do you think I joined the military? That sounds great and thank you for arranging all this.’
As Bruno refilled their glasses she asked, ‘How far does your land go?’ He pointed to the top of the hill behind the house and said it ran from there down to the hedge in the lower field, where some cows were grazing.
‘Do those Blondes d’Aquitaine belong to you?’ she asked.
‘You know your cows, Rosalie. No, they belong to a neighbouring farmer. He uses my pasture and gets a dozen of my eggs each week and I get a lot of free veal in return.’
‘Are we eating veal tonight? Alain tells me you’re a good cook.’
‘No, I thought in this heat we should have something light but a lot of it will have come from this garden.’
‘I can’t wait until Alain and I have a garden of our own but I think we’ll be turning to you for advice. And what are we eating?’
Bruno suggested they move to the larger table he had laid for dinner and brought out on a tray the bowls of chilled vichyssoise to which he’d added some fresh parsley. He poured out glasses of the cuvée Quercus, cut some bread from the tourte and said, ‘Bon appetit.’
‘Delicious, and I suspect these are your vegetables,’ she said. Bruno thanked her for the compliment, aware that she was working hard to make friends with the cousin of her future husband. This was an interesting aspect of etiquette. Here were two people who might in other circumstances have been attracted to one another, each trying hard to please the other out of their mutual affection for Alain. Bruno could foresee many Christmases, birthdays and New Year’s Eves being spent together. The thought of such shared family events pleased him.
‘Would you like to come into the kitchen while I finish the next course?’ he asked, and they joined him with refilled glasses once the plates had been cleared.
He boiled a kettle, put the julienne of carrots and celery into boiling water and reheated the white wine sauce, adding the crayfish once it began to simmer. He drained the julienne, thoroughly mixing the carrots and celery together and spooned a generous portion into each of three warm bowls, added the crayfish, and then offered Rosalie a teaspoon of the sauce to taste. She nodded her approval and he poured the sauce into the bowls.
The evening was still light enough for them to eat without candles and, with the odd word and murmur of appreciation, they devoted their attention to the food and wine. When the écrevisses à la nage had gone, Bruno brought out the chilled Monbazillac to go with the Roquefort salad. Finally, Rosalie pushed back her plate, wiped a last chunk of bread around the bottom of her salad bowl, popped it into her mouth and closed her eyes.
‘That was bliss,’ she said. ‘I’d never have thought of a dessert wine with the salad, but the Roquefort made it just right. Brilliant, Bruno, altogether a lovely meal.’
‘There’s a small dessert to come,’ Bruno said, smiling as Rosalie gave a mock groan of pleasure. ‘I’m delighted that you enjoyed it.’
He lit the candles as they enjoyed their peaches, topped with Stéphane’s cream. Alain and Rosalie declined coffee and they sat with the Monbazillac until the last glow had faded from the distant ridge. Bruno blew out the candles in the lanterns and the stars all seemed to explode into view overhead, so they watched them, trying to trace the more familiar galaxies until the moon rose and it was time for bed.
13
Before seven the next morning, Bruno stepped out of his front door in his running gear and was surprised to see Alain and Rosalie, similarly dressed, limbering up in the garden.
‘I told Rosalie you were a jogger,’ said Alain, embracing Bruno. ‘So are we, along with most of the airbase.’ Rosalie embraced him in turn, saying that after the dinner of the previous evening she felt she really needed to run. Airbases were flat places, thought Bruno. Perhaps he should spare them the path up the hill through the woods. He led the way at a moderate pace down the driveway and into the lane that led up a gentle slope, starting to lengthen his stride on the long ridge that stretched for three – usually windswept – kilometres until the land dropped to the Vézère valley below.
The earth was so dry that Bruno saw small puffs of dust rising with each step. They ran side by side, Rosalie between him and Alain, each of them moving easily and running well within their limits but still outpacing Balzac. It was, thought Bruno, even more companionable than the dinner they had shared the previous evening. The only animals up here were sheep with their lambs. Balzac had been taught not to bother them and the sheep in turn ignored the visitors but edged away from the ridge itself, seeking some shade on the western side of the hill while the sun was still low in the sky.
Bruno increased the pace on the way back and the two others stayed with him. Balzac, who was by now way behind, stopped in his tracks as they approached and gave a happy bark of greeting until they raced past him and he had to start chasing them all over again. Bruno glanced at the others when he trotted the last fifty metres up his driveway to the terrace. Like him, they were sweating only slightly, their chests not heaving. They obviously ran as much as he did.
‘I’ll put some coffee on, then take a shower before we head down for the best croissants in the district,’ he said, as Balzac finally trotted up the driveway to rejoin them. ‘By the way, do either of you like riding horses?’
‘I do,’ said Rosalie. ‘But then I grew up on a farm near Lisieux, which is why I recognized those cattle last night. We didn’t have horses but some of my friends did. Alain told me you have a horse of your own. Where do you keep him?’
‘He’s called Hector and he stays at a nearby stables, a riding school run by friends of mine,’ Bruno said. ‘ I only started riding quite recently and I love it.’
Alain was making friends with Balzac, who was lying on his back, the flesh of his lower jaw hanging down from his teeth in what looked like an extremely happy grin. Alain was running both hands over his chest and flanks. He looked up. ‘Didn’t you tell me you were breeding him?’
Bruno nodded. ‘The first litter of his pups was born just a few days ago. I went to see them and they’re enchanting.’
Alain looked at Rosalie, who was smiling broadly. ‘We’ve been thinking about get
ting a dog when we’re married,’ he said.
‘That solves the problem of your wedding present,’ said Bruno. ‘Tell me the date and I’ll not only be there, I’ll time Balzac’s future matings so you get a puppy once you’re hitched.’
‘That’s far too generous,’ said Rosalie. ‘I know how much a basset like this one can fetch.’
‘Alain is the only real family I’ve got. And I think the two of you would count as a very suitable home for one of Balzac’s pups.’
Twenty minutes later, fresh from their showers and coffee mugs in hand, Bruno was introducing them to his chickens and his cockerel, Blanco, named after a legendary French rugby star. They were suitably impressed by the two geese, Napoleon and Joséphine and their latest brood of half-grown goslings. He explained the three kinds of truffle trees and the different varieties of mushroom he found in the woods that rose up the slope behind the cottage.
‘I see you have apple trees, pears, plums and cherries,’ Rosalie said, looking at his small orchard behind the chicken run. ‘Where did you get the peaches we had last night?’
‘Come see.’ He led them to the back of the house where he had a peach and an apricot tree espaliered against the rear wall with a fig tree at each end. Rosalie nodded approvingly and then looked into the barn where he kept his tools, a big freezer and shelves filled with glass jars of his various preserves of jams and pâtés, confits of duck and enchauds of pork.
‘The only thing you’re missing is beehives and goats,’ she said thoughtfully but in her good-natured way. ‘Then you could be entirely self-sufficient.’
‘I’m not sure I’d want that,’ Bruno replied. ‘Not having them means I can swap my jams and confits for someone else’s honey, or for their fresh trout from the river. And I prefer cheese made by people who really know what they’re doing, like my friend Stéphane whom you’re about to meet in the market.’
After enjoying Fauquet’s croissants and some of his gossip about the strange business of J-J and the reconstructed skull, Alain and Rosalie joined Bruno on his tour of the market. They bought some cheese from Stéphane, Mara des Bois strawberries from Marcel and fresh foie gras from the stall of the Lac Noir farm. When Marcel asked why he was in civilian clothes, Bruno explained that his cousin’s visit was the reason. After briefly showing them his office, he waved them off on the road to Lascaux, then set off in his Land Rover in the other direction for Bergerac.
Henri’s vineyard, Le Clos de Bazaine, was south of the city, mostly on the plain. But part of it was on rising ground on the far side of the road that ran along the flank of the north-facing slope dominated by the tall towers of the castle of Monbazillac. Despite the conical roofs that topped the towers, the place looked like a medieval fortress until one was close enough to see the Renaissance windows. Bruno drove slowly past the entrance to Henri’s traditional farmhouse with its outbuildings and barns. One of them must be the chai where he made his wines and another where he stored it.
Henri’s vineyard looked old-fashioned to Bruno’s eye. Well-drilled rows of vines, separated by strips of mown grass and gravel, were all of the same height and bulk. That meant the vineyard wasn’t organic. Bruno wondered just how many chemicals Henri used to get that disciplined but unnatural effect. Few of the Bergerac vineyards looked like this any more as more and more winemakers joined the organic revolution. He glanced up the slope, where most of the vines straggled and looked wilder, as nature intended. He wondered whether Henri’s better wines came from these slopes, although they would have little protection from the chemicals that were pumped over the vines on the flat side of the road.
Outside Henri’s farmhouse were a dusty Toyota Land Cruiser, a Mercedes saloon that looked new and an older Renault Twingo. Bruno parked in the entrance to a farm lane and kept an eye out for the grey Renault Sabine would be driving. His phone buzzed.
‘Is that you, Bruno?’ came her voice. He explained where to find him. She had just turned off at Gardonne, on the main road from Bordeaux to Bergerac. She’d be with him in little more than five minutes. While waiting he tried to work out how best to handle the coming confrontation. It would have to be fast, just a simple and friendly question about his wine to ensure the real prize, a chance for Tante-Do to get her eyeballs on him. She should stay by the car while Yves and Sabine knocked on the front door and Bruno tried the barns in case Henri might be there. He’d better stay in the background since Henri might possibly remember him wearing police uniform at the wine fair in St Denis.
When Sabine’s car arrived, Bruno waved her down, got into the back seat and explained his plan. They drove into the courtyard and parked. Sabine and Yves walked slowly to the main door while Tante-Do leaned against the car. Bruno tried the barn on the left, which had double sliding doors, slightly open. He squeezed through, calling out Bazaine’s name, and saw that this must be the chai. Six tall stainless steel vats stood on one side, four on the other, everything spotlessly clean. There was no reply to his calls. A locked door on one side of the barn had a glass panel and seemed to lead into what looked like an empty office. He went across to the other barn, which was locked, before walking back to the car. Yves and Sabine were still waiting at the front door until it was opened by an overweight young woman with short blonde hair, who said, politely and loud enough for Bruno to hear, ‘We don’t take visitors here at the vineyard.’
‘We heard from Hubert de Montignac in St Denis that you make a very good reserve wine and we’d like to buy some,’ Sabine said. ‘He told us you only sold it here.’
‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Bazaine?’ said Yves, smiling and with a hand outstretched. ‘We’ve come here specially because Hubert told us your wine was worth the trip. Is Monsieur Bazaine here?’
‘Sorry, but we don’t—’ she began and then a tall, well-built young man with fair hair appeared behind her.
‘I’m Monsieur Bazaine the younger and my sister is right,’ he said. ‘We don’t sell from here, only from the cooperative, and you can find our wines in most supermarkets.’ He began to close the door.
‘Excuse us for interrupting your day,’ Sabine said in friendly tones. ‘But it’s not the co-op wine we want, rather your special reserve. Perhaps your father could help us. Is he here? Monsieur de Montignac told us your father was very proud of his reserve.’
‘We’re all proud of it,’ said the young man. ‘Dad’s not here right now.’ He paused, looking uncertainly from Yves and Sabine to Tante-Do and Bruno waiting by the car. Then he seemed to make a decision. ‘I’m sorry you had a wasted journey. Just wait here a moment.’
He ducked back inside, leaving his sister on the doorstep, and Sabine asked her brightly, ‘Are you a winemaker, too?’
‘I’m learning,’ she answered curtly. Her brother reappeared, a bottle of red wine in his hand. He thrust it at Sabine and said, ‘Here, sorry, we’re busy, but this is the wine.’
‘How much do we owe you?’ Yves asked, pulling out his wallet.
‘Ten euros will do it,’ said the young man, and almost snatched the note from his hand, pulled his sister back and began to close the door.
‘If it’s as good as I hope, how do we buy more?’ Sabine asked.
‘Write to us. We sell mainly by mail. Thanks for coming.’ The door closed.
Yves and Sabine stared at one another, shrugged and returned to the car, displaying the bottle. It was labelled as a Special Reserve from four years earlier. Bruno knew it had been a decent year.
‘That’s a very strange way to treat customers,’ Bruno said loudly but there was no reaction from the house. Tante-Do was already back in the passenger seat and, as Sabine drove out, she turned to Bruno.
‘That young man is the spitting image of his father thirty years ago. I’m sure of it,’ she said.
‘Look at this,’ Sabine said, handing Bruno a photocopy of a newspaper article with the headline, ‘Love blooms among the vines.’ It
showed a photo of a bride and her new husband, who was very clearly Henri but it could have been the son they’d just met.
‘I spent hours at a microfilm reader yesterday going through old newspapers for the relevant time period,’ Sabine went on. ‘I started searching from three months after the murder and the first six months of the following year. That’s what I eventually came up with.’
‘Well done,’ said Bruno, impressed, knowing that he should have thought of that. The caption to the photo gave Henri’s original name, before he changed it: Henri Zeller. The name reminded Bruno of one of the Alsatian brasseries in Paris where he’d eaten a fine choucroute royale.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Tante-Do.
‘We find J-J and check with him. It’s his inquiry,’ Bruno said, wondering if the radio news story the previous evening had alerted Henri and induced him to disappear again. Yves called J-J, who told them he was waiting in the car park at Monbazillac. Yves explained what had happened and J-J suggested they meet up. Bruno gave Sabine directions.
‘D’you think he’s done a bunk?’ J-J asked once they’d joined him.
‘I don’t know. He could have been inside the house or just out shopping. I didn’t see anyone working in the vines,’ Bruno said. ‘What did you learn at the co-op?’
‘They confirmed that it was him in the photo but that was all. He’s a member of the co-op in good standing but seldom appears at meetings, and he refused all requests to go on the board or take any part in management. They called him a bit of a loner and said they used to deal with his wife. Now they deal mainly with his son who’s well-liked and respected and knows the business – he did the wine course at Bordeaux university. Apparently, Henri travels a bit as a wine consultant, they call it an oenologist. Maybe that’s how he earned the money to expand the vineyard.’
‘Unusual for people to pay for a wine consultant who mostly makes wine for a co-op,’ Bruno said. ‘Customers usually want better credentials than that. Did they say where he consults?’
The Coldest Case Page 14
