Free The Critic by Peter May Page B

who’s done something to promote or advance the wines of Gaillac?’
    ‘Monsieur, if you can find out who murdered Petty and put this thing to rest once and for all, you’ll have done more for the wines of Gaillac than Petty ever did.’ He took another mouthful of dark, seductive red, sunlight slanting through his glass to illuminate its limpidity. ‘I love this place. I love the wines we make. My father made wine here before me, and now it’s my son who’s the
maître du chai
. There’s poetry in the grape, you know. The essence of Man, of civilisation, of sophistication. We’ve done all manner of things. We have circumnavigated the globe, sent spaceships to Mars. But there’s no higher achievement than the making of a fine wine, no greater pleasure than to drink it.’
    He indulged in that pleasure once more and eyed Enzo with watery eyes. ‘When I was a boy, we had a contract with the railway, and we sent barrels of a wine called
vin bourru
every year to Paris where it was drunk in all the bars. It was white, and cloudy and sweet, and still fermenting. Maybe only three percent alcohol. But then after the war, the Europeans told us we couldn’t guarantee the consistency, so effectively it was banned.’ He grinned wickedly. ‘You want to taste it?’
    ‘You’re still making it?’
    ‘No, not really. But the white wines in our
cuves
have just begun their fermentation. And that’s the very stuff we would have sent by rail to Paris. A little taste of history, monsieur.’
    No one paid any attention to them as old Josse led Enzo through the
chai
clutching a couple of fresh glasses. He stopped at one of the
cuves
and peered myopically at the handwritten label attached to the tap, then muttered his satisfaction. ‘
Loin de l’oeil
.’ He opened up the tap and poured them each a half glass. The wine, still in its very early stages of fermentation, was indeed very cloudy, almost yellow. ‘Try it.’ He handed Enzo his glass.
    It fizzed on the tongue, sweet and sharp and yeasty, and still warm from the fermentation.
    ‘I love to have a glass or two at harvest time.’ The old man’s eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘It always feels like raising two fingers to the damned Europeans. They might be able to stop us selling it, but they can’t stop us drinking it.’
    The taste of it lingered in Enzo’s mouth as they walked back along the drive to his car. He shook the old man’s hand, and was about to get behind the wheel, when he had a thought. He stopped with one foot already in the car. ‘You said that an application to become a
chevalier
had to be accompanied by a full CV, nothing left out.’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘Do you still have Petty’s application and CV?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘I suppose the police must have asked to see them at the time?’
    ‘No. The police were only interested in the gown and the hat and gloves and whose they might have been.’
    Enzo was almost afraid to ask. ‘Would you let me see them?’
    Old Josse grinned. ‘Monsieur, we have drunk the
vin bourru
together. Of course you can see them.’
    II.
    Enzo followed Paulette Lefèvre up the broad stone staircase, sunlight spilling through arrow-slit windows to fall in zigzags across the steps of the old
château
. The swing of her hips was emphasised by the fullness of her calf-length skirt. There was something innately sexual and provocative in it. He wondered if she was aware of it and decided she probably was. In his experience, women were almost always aware of the signals they sent out. Her heels clicked sharply on the stone flags of the first floor landing, then she turned right, through a huge, studded, wooden door, into a vast salon filled with a clutter of old furniture and cardboard boxes. Some of the pieces were covered with dust sheets. An old rocking horse, its paint eroded by time and history, stood in front of an enormous, moulded
cheminée
, the centrepiece of which was a faded fresco in the process of