The Critic

II

This was wine country. So it was not unnatural that Gil Petty would have stayed at a chateau. Except that he hadn’t. He had rented a small country cottage in the shadow of a restored castle that dated back to the eleventh century. A tiny, cramped estate-worker’s house with a single room serving as kitchen, dining and living area, and just one bedroom. It was a beautiful cottage, though, covered in autumn-red ivy. A small terrasse looked out over a fifteenth century pigeonnier that stood on stilts of stone in the dappled shade of three massive chestnut trees. The towering walls and turrets of the imposing Chateau des Fleurs were a stone’s throw away, catering for wealthy tourists in sumptuous chambres d’hotes off the open gallery that ran all around the top of the building. The lady of the house was renowned for her cuisine. As Enzo drove up the long drive to the castle, he wondered not for the first time why a man of Petty’s means had chosen to spend a month in a cramped and inexpensive gite when he could have opted for the comfort and fine cuisine of the chateau.

A worker’s white van was parked at the foot of the steps to the gite, and as Enzo got out of his car, Pierric and Paulette Lefevre hurried out from the tiny estate office they had made in its cellar. Paulette had struck Enzo as a tall, attractive, older woman when they first met. And then he realised she was probably the same age as he was, and wondered if that made him an “older man”-attractive or otherwise. Certainly, it had been clear from Paulette’s warmth, that she had found him attractive. Something of which Pierric had not been unaware. He had ill-concealed his irritation. A beanpole of a man with a loping gate, and thinning, grey hair, he had deeply etched lines on either cheek which gave him a somewhat simian look. He was irritated again now. He waved an arm towards the worker’s van.

‘I’m not at all sure about this, monsieur. There’s bound to be damage to the wall.’

‘I’ll pay to have it fixed,’ Enzo said. ‘But I need my whiteboard. I think visually, you see.’

When he had first come to arrange the let, he had thought it might be useful to let them in on why he was here. It helped to have local knowledge on tap. And they had met Petty. They had been enthusiastic and helpful, anxious that the stain of the wine critic’s disappearance and murder should be removed once and for all from their castle and cottage. Now, perhaps, Pierric at least was having second thoughts. Paulette stood anxiously in the background, gently wringing her hands. She gave Enzo a pale smile when he caught her eye, then winced as the sound of hammering reached them from inside.

‘Petty’s daughter is here,’ Enzo said, as a way of distracting them. ‘She’s staying at Chateau de Salettes.’ It worked. The whiteboard was suddenly forgotten.

‘What has she come for?’ Pierric wanted to know.

‘Her father’s things.’

‘Some of his stuff was here for ages after he vanished,’ Paulette said. ‘The family never showed any interest at the time.’

‘Maybe she’ll want to come and talk to you.’

Neither of them seemed happy at the prospect. They were an odd couple. Parisians. He had been something big in insurance. Then twenty years ago they had given up everything to buy and restore what had been little more than a ruin when they bought it, living in the little cottage while the work was carried out on the chateau. Now they catered to wealthy tourists and made organic wine from fourteen hectares of vineyard they had planted themselves. They had given Enzo a bottle of their red and it wasn’t bad.

Now he bounded up the steps to the door as the joiner emerged carrying his bag of tools. ‘All done, Monsieur Macleod. I’ll send the bill to the chateau, shall I?’

‘No, I’ll settle in cash. How much do I owe you?’

The menuisier thought for a moment. ‘Two hundred.’

‘Euros?’

‘Well, it would hardly be francs now, would it?’

Reluctantly, Enzo counted out the notes. It was more than he had expected, and he only had a small, unofficial budget from the university.

When the joiner had gone, Enzo stood and surveyed his board, mounted squarely on the far wall. The Lefevres appeared at his back, anxious to see what damage had been done. But the menuisier had been tidy and left no mess, and whatever damage there was to the wall was hidden from view. Enzo strode across the room, took out a blue marker pen and wrote “Gil Petty” in the top left corner. In the middle of the board he wrote “Ordre de la Dive Bouteille,” circled it and drew an arrow to it from Petty’s name.

It was a start. But he needed help.

He fumbled in his trouser pockets for his cell phone and cursed softly when he saw that the battery indicator was flashing. He turned to Paulette and Pierric. ‘Is there any chance I could use a phone in your office?’