“YOU’D KNOW MORE ABOUT that than I would,” I told him. “I believe the police have spent a lot of time there at the vineyard.”
“Poking and prying. Asking silly and unnecessary questions.”
“Have they reached any conclusions?”
“The wild boar theory seems to be holding.”
I decided that his bored tone was normal and natural to him, not confined to this conversation.
He glanced slyly at the Welshman. “Pity your supernatural powers don’t stretch beyond dowsing. You might be able to help the police find out exactly what happened.”
“Emil was gored by a wild boar,” Fox said and took another large swallow of beer.
“I knew that there are sangliers here in Provence but I didn’t realize they were this dangerous,” I said, keeping the conversational focus on this point.
I looked at Arundel. “You’ve been here a long time, haven’t you?”
“Two and a half years.”
“Heard of any sanglier deaths in that time?”
“You hear warnings on Riviera Radio when it’s the mating season. Somebody must think they’re dangerous.”
“But they don’t usually come so close to human habitation, do they?”
Arundel gave me one of his supercilious looks. “Going to write an article on sangliers too, are you?”
I hadn’t thought of that as an additional cover story but I accepted the contribution gratefully. “I was thinking one of the English sporting magazines might be able to use it. There’s a hazardous angle that would be novel to readers in the UK.”
Arundel grunted. “Better be careful asking questions. You’re under suspicion already, you know.”
Fox looked at him sharply. So did I.
“Suspicion?” I said. “Of what?”
Arundel drank beer, slowly, savoring the moment. “Some people believe that you are not what you seem.”
I laughed nonchalantly. I hoped it came out that way. “Me? Not a journalist? Then what am I?”
Fox was taking all this in, his eyes flickering from Arundel to me and back like a spectator at a tennis match.
“There are those …”—Arundel said slowly and with a deliberate pause—“who think that you’re here to scout out the land for the homes.”
“Homes?” I certainly must have looked innocent of this charge. “What homes?”
Arundel drank more beer, keeping me in suspense as long as he could. It was Fox who answered. “There’s a story going through the village that a colony of retirement homes is going to be built somewhere near here.”
“And they think I’m connected? That’s ridiculous,” I said firmly. “I came here to do a story, that’s all. Naturally, I’m always looking for new ideas.”
Arundel looked at me with that same arrogant stare. Fox said nothing.
The waitress came with my gambas at that moment and the flambéing operation at the table proved to be a convenient hiatus. We all watched the flames flicker and die.
“Bon appetit,” said Fox ritually.
“I must be off,” Arundel said. He threw some coins on the table, drained his beer, and left.
Fox watched me start eating. “Okay are they?”
“The gambas? Yes, fine.”
“They’re pretty good here,” he said conversationally. “They use fresh stuff—well, not all the time but mostly.”
“No excuse with gambas,” I commented. “With the Med only a few miles away.”
“Aye, but that doesn’t bother some of the places. They’ll still serve frozen fish.”
“I’m surprised that water’s a problem here though. Are you having any luck?”
He didn’t answer right away, then he said abruptly, “It’s that film.”
“What film?”
“Two of them really—that Manon des Sources and … what was that other one?”
“Oh, Jean de Florette, you mean? Yes, they were about Depardieu’s flower gardens, weren’t they? And Yves Montand, the villain, blocked off his water supply so all his flowers died.”
“Yes, well, everybody thinks it’s like that down here.”
“And it’s not?”
“No—I mean, not that dramatic, anyway.”
“So there’s plenty of water?”
“The water table’s fairly high. After all, Provence borders on the Mediterranean. But it doesn’t always come up to ground level exactly where you want it.”
“But there’s plenty of irrigation, isn’t there?” I didn’t understand what he was telling me. What I wanted to know was, why was he dowsing?
“Oh, there’s irrigation, of course.”
“Then there must be plenty of water; people have been growing grapes here for centuries.” I was going to give up but he wasn’t making it easy for me.
“They still get droughts occasionally,” he said doggedly.
“Well, water’s a valuable commodity,” I admitted, “and I suppose with the accountants always looking for lower costs, it’s vital to have it available at the right place at the right time.”
“That’s it exactly,” he said, pleased.
Except that wasn’t it and there was something he wasn’t telling me, something he was hiding. I returned to the gambas and he seemed relieved that I had let him off the hook. I hadn’t though—not completely.
“As I get into this article, perhaps we can talk about this some more. Readers will be fascinated to hear about how you find water under the ground.”
“It’s a hard thing to explain. It’s a gift, ye know, and I don’t know how it works. I just know it does.” He sounded earnest.
“A lot of people believe that there are earth currents, don’t they? Magnetic currents of some kind that can be tapped?”
“Yes. Dowsing probably originated here, you know.”
“Here?” I said, surprised.
“In ancient times, but the art was lost for years. Then a French abbott, Abbe Paramelle, spent much of his life seeking underground springs here in this region. At first, he wanted to help poor peasants who couldn’t grow crops in arid soil.”
“The church must have frowned on it, surely. Didn’t it smack of witchcraft and magic?”
“Aye, some church authorities wanted the abbott burned for sorcery, but others said it was a gift of God. He was successful and the people of the district loved him when he found many springs that brought them their much-needed water.”
“Do you use a twig or a metal rod or something else?”
“It depends. I have used lots of different shapes and materials. I get results with most of them but they can vary with conditions, terrain, even weather.”
“I suppose some dowsers like specific tools?”
“Oh, I know dowsers who use only copper rods. Some use twigs. I know one who even uses a forked shape that he designed himself—he had it made in plastic. It works, for him, anyway. In earlier days, a silk thread was popular. Some dowsers dangled a coin or a disk from it. The material needn’t be important—every dowser has to find out what works best for him.”
He was talking freely enough now. Was he glad to be off a subject he wanted to avoid? It was time to throw him off balance. …
“So, when you’ve found water, your job here is finished?”
“Perhaps … perhaps not.” He was being evasive again but he didn’t seem disconcerted. “The abbot Paramelle found dozens of springs. He kept on and on. Perhaps, they’ll want me to keep on.”
“The Peregrine vineyard is small. You’ll soon have covered all of it, won’t you?”
“Eventually. Sometimes, I have to go over the ground more than once.”
He finished his beer.
“Another?” I invited, and I thought he gave it serious consideration but maybe my questioning told him it was time to end the session.
“No. Thanks anyway.”
He went out into the square. I finished my gambas and had a small cup of powerful black coffee. I had a lot to think about. A whole new dimension of the investigation was opening up before me. Why were the Peregrine people looking so desperately for water? The vineyard looked as if it had ample irrigation; the grapes appeared healthy enough. If they weren’t getting plenty of water, couldn’t they put in larger pipes? Of course, that would cost money—maybe the vineyard didn’t have a high enough grape yield to justify that?
Well, I could check on those points right now. I paid the bill and asked directions to the mairie.