The Critic (18 page)
I.
The old man shuffled slowly across the
grande salle
. Ancient wooden floorboards, supported on centuries-old oak beams, creaked and dipped beneath his feet. An enormous
cheminée
of white sandstone was set in a blackened wall, rising to a ceiling transected by yet more oak beams.
The last golden light of the day was fading to pink, seeping in through
porte-fenêtres
that opened onto a covered
terrasse
perched high up on the gable elevation of this fifteenth century gothic residence. Enzo and Bertrand and Sophie followed the old man out on to the
terrasse
, Braucol trotting obediently at their heels.
The climb, in fading light, up through the steep, cobbled streets of the thirteenth century
bastide
town of Cordes en Ciel, had left Enzo breathless and perspiring. What little breath remained was taken away completely by the view that opened out before them from the
terrasse
. To the north, Puech Gabel rose high above the valley of the silver-pink Cerou river. To the east and west, the Saint Marcel heights extended towards the horizon and the brooding dark line of the Forest of Grésigne. A patchwork of green fields smudged dark by trees and villages, lights twinkling sporadically in the fading day. Immediately beneath them, a jumble of tiled roofs fell away to the market square two hundred feet below. Woodsmoke rose in the still air, carrying with it the first portents of winter.
Shortly before his retirement, Jacques Domenech, had been awarded
l’ Ordre National de la Légion d’Honneur
, by Président Chirac, for his services to the French wine industry. In his day he had been, quite possibly, the best known
sommelier
in France. When, finally, he had sold his string of Michelin-starred restaurants and bought this extraordinary house, he retreated here to gothic retirement, perched high up above the rolling hills of the southwest.
‘For centuries,’ he said, ‘this town was known only as Cordes— a word of Indo-European origin, by the way—meaning rocky heights. It was only recently that they changed the name to Cordes in The Sky. But it’s not until you live here that you see why. In spring and autumn the surrounding valleys fill with mist, and one wakes to the illusion of floating in the sky above the clouds. It is almost as heady as good wine.’
He regarded Bertrand with affection, and put a hand on his shoulder.
‘My boy, you haven’t changed a bit. Except for those bits of metal in your face. Is this your girlfriend?’ He peered at Sophie.
‘My daughter,’ Enzo said.
He looked at Enzo and nodded. ‘Lucky man.’ Then turned towards Bertrand. ‘Best pupil of his year, you know. Could have been a professional
sommelier
, had he chosen to.’ He sighed. ‘But that would have been a long, hard road, Bertrand, eh? And you were too impatient.’ And to Enzo, ‘He’s like all the youngsters these days. They want everything now. And who knows, maybe they’re right.’ He raised a finger in the air and quoted, ‘All things come to those who wait, I say these words to make me glad, But something answers soft and sad, They come, but often come too late.’ He chuckled. ‘I had a long and very successful career as a
sommelier
. But it wasn’t until I retired and got bored and agreed to do a little teaching at Toulouse, that I discovered the rewards of imparting wisdom to others. Too late.’ He waved a hand towards the chairs set around a long, wooden table. ‘Take a seat.’
Half a dozen bottles of fine Bordeaux were set out with a dozen or more tasting glasses. A Château Cheval Blanc, Enzo noticed, and a Château Lafite Rothschild. His eyes widened. These were wines you tasted rarely in a lifetime, if ever. There was a large basket of hard-crusted bread cut into thick chunks, and three bottles of still mineral water. Several yellowed and well-thumbed editions of Petty’s
The Wine Critic
, lay open, pages separated by pink Post-its.
‘Have you brought the Gaillacs?’
Enzo put his carrier bag on the table and lifted out the three bottles.
Old Domenech examined them each in turn. ‘Syrah, eh? Classified as a
vin de pays
because it doesn’t contain the minimum quantities of the proscribed grapes to qualify for the Gaillac
Appellation Contrôlée
. Stupid system. Making French wines uncompetitive in a changing world.’ He looked at the faces turned towards him in the twilight. ‘You know, ten years ago France exported three times as much wine as the so-called New World countries. Today we sell fifteen percent less than they do. We’re making wine we can’t sell. Even in Bordeaux there are tankers queuing daily outside distilleries to take advantage of government subsidies for turning unsold wine into industrial alcohol. What a waste!’
He moved on to the next bottle. ‘Domaine Vaysette. Cuvée Lea 2001. Don’t know it.’ And the next. ‘Château Lastours, Cuvée Special 2001. Ah, yes. A fine wine. You have Petty’s codes?’
Enzo placed the computer print-outs on the table. ‘It’s a matter of trying to identify flavours and smells and cross-referencing them between different reviews.’
‘I understand the principle, monsieur. But I can’t make any promises. I met Petty a few times. Didn’t know him well and didn’t like him much. His tastes and mine were somewhat different. But it’s a challenge. Since young Bertrand called, I’ve been going through some of Petty’s old newsletters from my files, and I went down to my cellar to dig out some of the Bordeaux he reviewed. That way we can make a direct comparison between what I taste and what he’s already described.’ He beamed. ‘But first, a few glasses of wine amongst friends for pleasure, eh?’
He reached for the Cheval Blanc, and Enzo’s heart nearly stopped. It was a 2005, and probably cost somewhere in the region of five hundred euros.
As old Domenech went through the ritual of opening the bottle and pouring a little of the wine into each of their glasses, he said, ‘You know, it’s odd how few female
sommeliers
there are. Most wine critics are men, too. Yet, all the research shows that women are better tasters than men and have a particularly heightened sense of smell during ovulation.’ He passed a glass to Sophie. ‘So our young lady should have the honour of tasting first.’ He grinned. ‘Although it’s not compulsory to tell us whether you’re ovulating or not.’
Sophie blushed deeply, and took a sip of the wine to cover her embarrassment. In an evolution of only two or three seconds, her expression changed completely. ‘Oh, my God!’ Her voice was almost a whisper. ‘I’ve never tasted wine this good.’ She immediately revised her statement. ‘I’ve never tasted
anything
this good.’
Domenech beamed his pleasure.
II.
Nicole tried to avoid the scowling face of Madame Marre as she used her bread to mop up the last of her sauce. Roast veal sliced and served in its own
jus
, accompanied by sliced potatoes fried in duck fat and garlic and lathered in cream. What Fabien’s mother lacked in the social graces, she more than made up for in culinary skills. Nicole had been disappointed to discover that Fabien was not eating with them tonight, and so they had partaken of dinner in a depressing silence surrounded by floral wallpaper and lace doilies and large pieces of dark, antique furniture squeezed into a room too small to accommodate them. Madam Marre, it seemed, was intent on perpetuating the tastes of a generation long since passed away.
Ten minutes before, Nicole’s spirits had lifted briefly as Fabien came in from the
chai
. But he had merely nodded before heading on up the stairs. She had heard him moving about in his bedroom, the floor creaking overhead, like footsteps in wet snow.
‘Is Fabien not eating with us?’ she’d asked.
Madame Marre had glared at her. ‘He’s going out.’ Conversation over.
Nicole sighed, and wished she had gone with the others to the
sommelier’s
house at Cordes en Ciel. As soon as she was finished, she excused herself from the table and hurried upstairs to her room, in the hope perhaps of bumping into Fabien in the hall. What she had not been expecting was the sight that greeted her through the half-open door of his bedroom.
Fabien stood in front of a full length mirror, flowing crimson and black robes draped from the shoulders of his ample frame almost to the floor. He was adjusting his red triangular Rabelaisian hat with white-gloved hands. Nicole was unable to suppress a gasp of astonishment, and he turned at the sound, only for his face to flush as red as his robes. They stood staring at each other for several long moments.
Nicole finally found her voice. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m going to a meeting of the
Ordre.
A
chapitre
at the abbey.’
‘I didn’t know you were a member.’
Fabien shrugged, still cowed by the weight of his embarrassment. ‘It’s a family tradition.’
Nicole smiled. ‘Have you any idea how ridiculous you look?’
Fabien blushed again. Only now there was a defensive tone in his voice. ‘It was good enough for my father, so it’s good enough for me.’
‘Is that his outfit?’
‘No. His stuff would never have fitted me.’
‘Can I come with you?’
‘No, you cannot. It’s a private meeting.’
‘Oh, go on. I’ll wait for you in the car.’
‘No.’
‘I’ve nothing else to do all evening. I’ll just be sitting on my own in my room.’
‘You could sit with my mother.’
Nicole gave him a look, and the point was conceded without a word passing between them.
‘It could be a long wait.’
‘I don’t mind. I could take a wander around town.’ She put on her most appealing face. ‘Please, Fabien. It’s really depressing here on my own.’
‘What about your
friends
?’
‘Oh, they’re off tasting wine somewhere.’
Fabien straightened the collar of his shirt. ‘So how’s Monsieur Macleod’s investigation going?’
His enquiry was just too casual, and Nicole became suddenly guarded. She remembered Enzo’s admonition: ‘Fabien Marre has made it perfectly clear that he had nothing but antipathy towards Petty. And since both bodies were found on his vineyard, he has to be considered a suspect.’ Not that she believed it for a moment. But she was determined she would not commit any further errors of indiscretion. ‘Fine,’ was all she said. ‘So I can come with you, then?’
His sigh of resignation told her she had bullied him into submission.
***
It was more than twenty minutes since Fabien had disappeared through the arched gateway into the complex of offices, with its
salle de dégustation
and wine museum, that comprised the Maison du Vin. The abbey next door had lost its pink quality in the dying light and huddled darkly now on the banks of the river until floodlights snapped on to throw it into stark relief against the darkening sky in the east.
Nicole was bored. She watched the faithful coming and going to confession through a small doorway in the entrance to the abbey. Whispering dark secrets to a hidden listener behind a latticed screen, then emerging minutes later muttering Hail Marys, absolved of all responsibility for life.
It was a long time since she had been to church. It brought back memories of her childhood. Squirming on uncomfortable pews next to her mother and father, listening to the cants and criticisms of the
curé
. Words that meant nothing to her then or now. But it made her think of her mother, and she felt a sudden stab of guilt. For two days she had barely given her a second thought. Except for a call the previous night to her father to ask how she was. He had been his usual uncommunicative self, and their brief conversation had left her depressed, bringing back the memory of sunlight splintering around the closed shutters of her mother’s bedroom, the air hot and heavy with the scent of impending death.
She decided to go into the abbey to light a candle and say a prayer for her.
The vast, vaulted space of the Abbey Saint-Michel was gloomily lit. She passed down the central aisle and crossed to the Madonna and Child, where candles burned and spilled their wax. She dropped some coins into the box, took a fresh candle, and lit it from one already burning. Then she knelt in front of the Virgin Mary and closed her eyes. She had no idea what to do. It was so long since she had prayed, she had forgotten how. She concentrated her thoughts and hoped with all her heart that her mother would be delivered from her suffering quickly and without further pain.
When she stood up again, she realised she was alone in the church. The confessional was empty. And yet she could hear voices. A babble of them, some raised in what sounded like anger. Away to her right, on the curve of the apse, a door stood ajar, and she crossed the nave to listen at it. The voices were louder, though still distant, and so she was unable to hear what they were saying. She glanced around, self-conscious and indecisive. There was still no one else in the church. And so after a moment’s hesitation, she pushed the door open and stepped into an ante-room with coat hangers and an antique
armoire
. An old stone staircase spiralled down into darkness, to the vaulted cellars below.
The offices of the Maison du Vin, and the museum, were all part of the original abbey, interconnected by its cellars. And aware that she was probably hearing the assembled dignitaries of
l’ Ordre de la Dive Bouteille
in mid-meeting, she started tentatively down the stairs, drawn on by curiosity.
She felt the temperature drop as she descended into darkness, with only a rope handrail for a guide. The air was suffused with a smell of damp. Light bleeding down from the abbey above was quickly snuffed out and she became enveloped by an impenetrable black that swallowed all shape and form. It occurred to her that there was probably a light switch at the top of the stairs, and she stopped, wondering whether or not to go back. But the voices were louder now. And as her eyes adjusted, she became aware of a faint glow coming up from below. She pressed on, following the spiral curve of the wall, until the world took shape again in light, and she found herself stepping into a vaulted
salle
with freshly pointed brickwork and tiled floors. Black triangular uplighters on the walls echoed the flaming torches that once would have lit this underground place. An unlit corridor led off south, towards the river. The voices of the assembled dignitaries of the Order of the Divine Bottle echoed along it. Nicole took the first tentative steps towards them, leaving the light behind her again. Guiding herself with fingertips on rough brick, she turned left and then right and saw light again ahead of her.