Free The Critic by Peter May

vivid red geraniums overflowed from their
bacs à fleurs
to discourage mosquitoes. Beyond the house, a roof sloped steeply over the entrance to a darkened tasting room, and huge windows gave on the
chai
, where men were at work pumping freshly pressed must
into stainless steel
cuves
.
    Opposite the house, on a
terrasse
shaded by ancient oak trees, a white table and chairs looked out over a retaining wall to the valley below, fields of golden stubble shimmering off into a hazy distance. An old man in dark blue overalls and a chequered shirt sat in the shadow of the trees, the remains of a meal on the table in front of him, a nearly empty glass in his hand, a nearly empty bottle just within reach. He seemed lost in contemplation, and only turned as Enzo shut the car door and started towards him.
    ‘I’m looking for Jean-Marc Josse,’ Enzo said.
    The old man grunted. ‘Then you’ve found him.’ His round face was covered with a fine, silver stubble, and in spite of nearly having finished a bottle of wine, his eyes were sharp and bright. ‘Who wants him?’
    ‘My name’s Enzo Macleod.’ Enzo held out a hand, and the old man reluctantly let go of his glass to shake it.
    ‘What kind of a name’s that?’
    ‘Half Italian, half Scottish.’
    ‘You’re not English, then?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘You sound English.’
    ‘I’m not.’
    The old man thrust out his jaw. ‘That’s alright, then. You’d better sit down.’
    Enzo pulled up a chair and seated himself opposite, placing his hands carefully on the table in front of him. In France it was considered bad manners to hide your hands from view, in your lap or below the table. A hangover, perhaps, from the days when a hidden hand might have held a weapon.
    ‘So what can I do for you, monsieur?’
    ‘I’m investigating the death of Gil Petty, and I wanted to talk to you about the
l’
Ordre de la Dive Bouteille
.’
    Jean-Marc Josse’s face darkened. ‘A damnable affair. Left a stain on the
Ordre
as impossible to remove as red wine on white silk. I wish he’d never come here.’
    ‘You made him a
chevalier
of the
Ordre
.’
    ‘He was the most influential wine critic in the world. The aim of our organisation is to promote the richness and diversity of the wines of Gaillac. Who better to make a
chevalier
?’
    ‘So you invited him.’
    ‘We invited him to apply.’
    ‘And what does an application entail?’
    ‘A letter asking to be inducted into the
confrérie
, and a complete
curriculum vitae
, leaving nothing out. To be accepted, you must reveal absolutely everything about yourself.’ He rubbed his stubble thoughtfully with the flat of a big hand. ‘You know, there are more than two thousand
chevaliers
around the world.’
    Enzo nodded and became aware of the hum of insects that filled the air around them. A slight breeze stirred the leaves above their heads and dappled sunlight danced across the table, a kaleidoscope of flickering light. ‘Do you take photographs at these induction ceremonies?’
    ‘Of course. Do you want to see them?’ The old man’s pride in his organisation was overcoming his initial reticence.
    ‘I’d like that. Thank you.’
    Jean-Marc Josse eased himself out of his seat, stretching stiffened limbs and headed off into the house with a slow, shuffling gait. He emerged some minutes later with a huge, hard-backed photo album, a thick manila file, and a bottle of red wine. ‘Have you tried our Mas Caussé reds?’ He dumped the album in front of Enzo, laid down his folder, and began opening the bottle.
    ‘I can’t say I have.’
    ‘This is our classic,’ the old man said. ‘Forty percent braucol, forty percent duras, and ten percent each of merlot and syrah to soften it.’
    ‘Aged in oak?’
    ‘Good God, no!’ Old Josse was shocked. ‘I don’t believe in oak. I want to taste the grape. Too many winemakers these days hide their shortcomings behind the big, buttery flavours they get from aging the stuff in oak barrels. With the