Dying on the Vine (2 page)

“No possibility of gold or oil deposits?” I smiled to show that I wasn't really serious even though I was.

“We had a geological survey conducted recently, just in case modern techniques might show up something that had not previously been apparent. There was nothing—and even if there were minerals of any kind, under French law the right to exploit them doesn't have to be sold with the land.”

“Hmm,” I said, “I think I'm running out of ready answers.”

Sir Charles waved a deprecatory hand. “My dear fellow, perfectly reasonable suggestions, all of them. No,” he went on, “we've spent a lot of time, money, and effort trying to guess what's behind these offers. We've come up with absolutely nothing.” He glanced at me sharply. “Which is why we hope that you can do better.”

“When you say ‘we,' who does that—”

“Our board of directors. It consists of my son, Nigel; Richard Willoughby; Tommy Traynor, who recommended you; and myself.”

I had known Tommy Traynor for many years. He was a good businessman and a shrewd judge of wine—not to mention horses and women. Willoughby, I had heard of and knew to have fingers in many pies.

Sir Charles was still regarding me keenly.

“If I take this assignment, I would want to know how many people are aware of it,” I explained.

“Of course. When we hired Morel, we didn't impress upon him any particular need for secrecy. I know he didn't go around Provence trumpeting who was paying him—he is, after all, an experienced private detective. But when he asked questions, people knew who he was. With you, we want to use a different approach.”

“What exactly do you mean?” I wanted to know.

“One of Richard Willoughby's interests is a publishing chain, magazines and newspapers mainly. We propose to arrange a cover for you as one of their reporters—doing a series of stories on vineyards in Provence owned by Englishmen.”

“Oh, that's all right,” I said, relieved.

“So only the four of us on the board and Willoughby's senior editor will know about this.”

“Good.”

“So what are your terms?” he asked.

“A hundred pounds a day plus expenses.”

He nodded, but before he could speak, I added quickly: “Plus a bonus of five hundred for a satisfactory answer to the question ‘Why does Peregrine want to buy you out?'”

He hesitated, then nodded again.

“When can you start? The sooner the better as far as we're concerned.”

“Today's Tuesday. I have a few loose ends to clear up … I can do that tomorrow … I could leave Thursday morning.”

He pushed the brown folder over to me.

“There's a voucher for first-class return travel on British Midland, Heathrow-Nice in there. They'll exchange it for a ticket when you tell them which flight you want to take. Mildred will give you a week's advance in cash and she will make a reservation for you at Le Relais du Moulin. It's one of the better places in the area and convenient for both vineyards. She'll also reserve you a car at Nice airport.”

I don't have a car in London. I hate driving and in a metropolis like London, a car is more trouble than it's worth, but in a widely spread region like Provence, I knew I had no choice.

“I suggest you phone me in two weeks,” said Sir Charles. His tone implied that if I didn't have any results in that time, I wasn't going to get any. “We can decide then if we want to continue.”

It wasn't very long but it wasn't altogether unreasonable. I might not have solved the whole case by then but I should have some clues as to where the answer might lie.

I picked up the folder and we shook hands.

B
Y CHOOSING THE FIRST FLIGHT
departure of the morning for Nice, I hoped to avoid any “delays due to late arrival of incoming aircraft,” but it still didn't work out that way. We left twenty minutes late, but the breezy voice of the captain assured us that we would make up the time, and so we did.

The snowy masses of the Alps were slipping away to our left and the blue sparkle of the Mediterranean was straight ahead as we began the descent. We swung out over the water then turned in for the run to Nice airport which, despite its popularity, seldom seems crowded.

Passport control was a mere glance and a wave through to the glass doors into the baggage claim area. Next to it, the car rental desk was empty of customers and within ten minutes, I was on the Promenade des Anglais and edging into the autoroute lane marked Autoroute du Soleil, A8—direction Aix-en-Provence.

I had temporarily forgotten how traffic moves in the South of France. It's fast and furious, with little regard for the other driver and the devil take the hindmost. I was taking it carefully until I became readjusted and that meant I was attracting glares and squawking horns, a few shaken fists and—from the numerous convertibles—some choice epithets blended from bawdy provincial French and contemporary porno TV.

After an hour's driving, though, I was getting the hang of it all over again. My speed had crept up and though I wasn't zigzagging from lane to lane, I was no longer a target of abuse. I exited through a busy tollbooth and went north on a country road into Provence, leaving most of the vehicles to head south for the beaches.

The sun shone without hindrance from a cloudless azure sky. The road curled through fields of thyme, mustard, and sage while swifts hurtled over the car in ones and twos, suddenly uniting into orderly formations. I passed an ancient church with a grizzled old man in blue denim overalls repairing the gate. The inevitable half-finished houses dotted the landscape here and there, some old, some not so old, but each one hiding a story of heartbreak or unfulfilled dreams. The countryside dozed in the soft warm air and the road climbed steadily higher.

The village of Saint Symphorien straddled the junction of three minor roads, and it was evidently market day. Cars and people filled the streets; stalls lined both sides, occupying every inch. Each kind of merchandise had its own location. Cheap clothes and toys were set up in the square by the church. One street was ablaze with flowers and the next with fruit. A covered market was in a cast-iron frame building that must have survived World War I and it evidently sold food, for women were coming out with string bags and straw baskets, bulging and heavy. Music blared out from speakers attached to the lamp standards and half a dozen young men were setting up a platform, presumably for a show.

I edged the car cautiously through the melee and came upon D235, which the map in the car showed led to Ducasse, another village. The Relais was on that road and I found it without difficulty—a typical Provençal auberge converted from a weathered old stone farmhouse with a red tiled roof. It looked cozy and inviting and the cobbled courtyard in front had several rows of cars.

The entrance hall was cool and quiet, huge flagstones covering the floor and massive oak beams supporting the low ceiling. A fireplace of walk-in proportions was in one corner and the walls were festooned with farm implements. In contrast to these reminders of past centuries, behind the reception desk a fax machine, a small but efficient switchboard, and a computer with a color screen added touches of modern technology.

Madame Ribereau was lean and athletic with a strong-boned face and gray hair. She had worked in the local vineyards as a girl, she told me, and I supposed that must have been when Sir Charles's father owned one of them, later buying up the others. She and her husband had rebuilt the Relais from a shell and I congratulated her upon such a magnificent job. The smells coming from the adjacent dining room reminded me that it must be lunchtime and Madame said that today's specials included
soupe de poissons,
fillets of red mullet with raspberry butter, and leg of lamb with rosemary.

That decided it. I quickly checked into the room: small but adequate, immaculately clean, and with a view from the tiny mullioned window out over the hills. I headed for the dining room, was shown to a table, and ordered a Kir. They don't make them the same anywhere else, I reflected. The bishop of Dijon had done mankind an inestimable service when he had originated the drink, often copied but never improved. This one had just the right number of drops of Cassis and a good Montrachet had been used, rather than any old white wine the way so many bartenders make it.

I had the fish soup—I find it irresistible when heavy with garlic and liberally laced with
rouille,
the spicy red pepper sauce. The lamb was pink and succulent, the meat even redolent of the wild thyme and rosemary that the cattle of Sisteron love. Sisteron provides all the South of France with lamb, and in the past it must have been a spectacular sight when the huge herds were driven down to the coast to escape the Alpine winter.

A half bottle of wine from the Willesford vineyard went well with it, though I noticed that the label said St. Estephe, no doubt asserting to local consumers how French it was. A tiny cup of very strong black coffee helped me to feel very conscientious as I signed the bill to my room because I headed for the car and drove toward the Willesford vineyards. On the job already and only four hours in the country!

The roads were almost empty—every self-respecting Frenchman was eating lunch. The BMW that scorched past me leaving a trail of dust had German license plates, but otherwise traffic was sparse. The scent of lavender was in the air and the road still climbed. Then I saw the vineyard signs, proclaiming Tasting and Sales in French, English, and German.

I drove in slowly through the wooden gates. The road was unpaved but packed hard. It wound through groves of oak trees, on and on, finally opening into a big courtyard with winery buildings on two sides. A tractor stood next to an open-bed Renault truck. A heap of rusty iron parts was piled high, the metal bones of dead vehicles and equipment. Next to it was an ancient wooden cart with large wheels.

I could see no sign of people, but lunchtime explained that. Flying insects droned and whined, the only sounds etching themselves across the silence. It was warmer now and I could feel a prickle of sweat as I got out of the car.

It was then I saw that I was mistaken—the courtyard was not deserted. A man stood by the old cart, leaning against the wheel, staring at me.

“Bon après-midi,”
I greeted him. He didn't reply, just kept staring. I walked toward him. He was wearing ragged old gray pants and shirt with a floppy loose jacket, but what caught my eye was just how ragged they all were. Torn and ripped, soil-stained and dirty—they looked as if their owner had been in a fight.

“Where are the offices?” I asked him in French.

He said nothing. He had a slack mouth and a long jaw. His dark hair was untidy. His eyes were expressionless and his stare was almost insolent, as was his attitude. He leaned against the big wooden wheel of the cart, one arm draped over it.

It struck me that most French vineyards use a lot of foreign labor. Perhaps the man didn't understand French.
“¿Habla Español?”
brought no response and
“Fala Português?”
was equally unsuccessful. I was about to try German, the lingua franca of eastern Europe, when the bark of a dog split the silence.

It was loud and shattering, an aggressive, brittle sound. It was coming closer, then it burst into view—a large black animal of indeterminate breed. It bounded toward us and I told myself that it couldn't be dangerous, too many visitors came here to taste and buy.

The dog stopped, a few paces away, still barking furiously—but not at me, the stranger. It was barking at the man by the cart, who ignored it completely. I realized that he had not moved or changed his expression since I had first seen him. The dog sidled to him and nuzzled his leg.

The arm draped over the wheel fell slowly to his side. His knees buckled and he slid very slowly to the dusty ground. His eyes were still on me and his face didn't change.

It was then that I saw the smears of blood around the tears in his clothes. I put my fingers on his neck, against the artery. I could feel nothing and I tried again. The dog's barking was now hysterical. It had already known what I knew now. …

The man was dead.

“A
NNABEL!” IT WAS A
woman's voice and went on in French: “Stop it! Stop that noise and come in here!”

The dog stopped barking and looked back toward the voice. It looked at me, then at the body slumped on the ground, and resumed barking.

“Annabel!”

She came out of the nearest building, calling the dog's name, and saw me.

“Do you want something?” she called out, and further words drifted away when she saw the body.

“Who are you? What's the matter with Emil?”

“I don't know. I was coming to talk to you when I found him here—dead.”

She regarded me suspiciously when my accent identified me as English. In an earlier era, she would have been a fervent supporter of Joan of Arc. Kneeling by the body, she drew in a deep breath when she saw the bloodstains. She took his wrist and her fingers moved as she tried in vain to find a pulse.

She stood up. “He's dead,” she said. I just nodded.

A voice called out from the nearest building. “Over here, Marcel!” the girl called out sharply. “Quickly! It's urgent!”

Marcel was elderly and overweight. An accelerated ambling gait was the best he could manage and even that made him wheeze. He had a chubby face and thinning hair. He wore a pair of old black pants and a sort of smock with wine stains on it.

He looked with horror at the body. “What's the matter with Emil?”

“He's dead,” said the girl, matter-of-factly.

Marcel's eyes were roaming over the rips and tears, the smears and splashes of blood. “But how? What happened to him?”

The girl didn't respond to either question. “Call the police,” she said firmly.

Marcel looked appalled at the idea. “The police?”