The Critic

II

‘I made the initial identification at the morgue three years ago.’ Laurent de Bonneval was a man in his early fifties. He was, perhaps, a year or two older than Enzo. He was tall, and willowy thin, with thick, black, curly hair, shot through with an odd streak of silver. His friendly, liquid brown eyes, were melancholy now with the memory of the moment. ‘It was shocking. I’ve never seen a human being in a state like that. It was almost as if he had been pickled by the wine, like something preserved in a jar. I suppose the alcohol retarded the process of decay. He must have been completely submerged in it for most of the twelve months he was missing.’

Bonneval turned away from the window. The blood had drained from his face, leaving his tanned skin a sickly yellow. Beyond him, fifty feet below the battlement walls of the old abbey, the River Tarn continued on its stately route west from Albi, now thirty miles upstream.

They were in the offices of the Commission Interprofessionnelle des Vins de Gaillac in the Maison des Vins, part of the thirteenth century brick-built Abbe Saint-Michel in the millennium town of Gaillac. Enzo felt a thousand years of history encased in the redbrick walls around them. ‘Why wasn’t he identified by a relative?’

‘Because no one bothered to come over from the States when they found him. He’d been divorced for several years and estranged from his daughter, apparently.’

Enzo cleared his throat self-consciously. These were uncomfortable parallels with his own life. But, then Monsieur de Bonneval wasn’t to know that. ‘So why did they ask you?’

‘He’d been tasting my wines at Chateau Saint-Michel the week before he went missing. So I’d met him. But also, I suppose, because I was president of the CIVG. I represented all the winemakers of Gaillac. Still do.’

Enzo looked at his blue-ribbed pullover with its faded elbow patches, and his baggy cord trousers, and thought he looked like an unlikely representative of winemakers. But there was something attractive about him, an avuncular quality that made him instantly likeable. ‘Police reports said he’d been dressed up in the ceremonial garb of some local brotherhood of winemakers.’

‘Yes, the order of the divine bottle- l’Ordre de la Dive Bouteille. Quite bizarre, really. The order is a brotherhood of bon viveurs in the mould of Francois Rabelais.’

Enzo knew of the famous sixteenth century French writer’s predilection for wine, and also of his infamous one-line will: I have nothing, I owe a great deal, and the rest I leave to the poor.

Bonneval said, ‘The brotherhood is rooted in an ancient society that existed five hundred years ago called La Companha de la Poda. A poda was short hand-axe they used to use for pruning the vines. But nowadays it seems the confrerie has only two purposes. The promotion of wine, and the drinking of it.’

‘You’re not a member, then?’

‘Good God, no. I’m a serious winemaker, Monsieur. I don’t have time for dressing up in crimson gowns and pointed hats.’ Bonneval smiled. ‘I don’t mind drinking the stuff, though.’

Enzo nodded. He wasn’t averse to a glass or two himself. ‘So what was Petty’s connection to the organisation?’

‘He’d been inducted into the confrerie shortly after his arrival here. Made a chevalier of the order.’

‘Was that unusual?’

‘Not for someone of his standing. He was, after all, just about the biggest name in the world of wine, Monsieur Macleod. And he’d come to taste our wines. Maybe even put us on the map. Good ratings from Petty could have made some of our vignerons a lot of money.’

‘And bad ratings could have ruined them.’

Bonneval shrugged. ‘If you’re looking for a motive, then I suppose that’s true.’

‘So,’ Enzo said. ‘Do you think you can help me?’

‘Oh, I think so, yes.’ He took a business card from his wallet and handed it to Enzo. ‘Look, why don’t you come to the chateau this evening, have dinner with my wife and me. Are you familiar with wine-making, Monsieur Macleod?’

‘I understand the process. But I’m not familiar with all the mechanics.’

‘You do enjoy a glass, though?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Good. We’ll have a bottle or two, and then I’ll show you around. And in the meantime, I’ll see if I can’t get you placed for a little grape-picking.’ He smiled. ‘I hope you don’t have back problems.’