VERONIQUE DROPPED ME OFF at Le Relais and as it was still only four-thirty, I decided on a visit to the Willesford vineyard. The place was at the heart of this puzzle that grew more perplexing the more I discovered. I suspected I was learning the wrong things, but how was I to know which were the right ones?
I parked as far away from the farm cart as I could. It still stood there, just as it had with Emil leaning against it. I went inside to find Simone’s office empty. Wandering in search of someone, anyone, I ran into Lewis Arundel.
“Ah, the pride of Fleet Street,” he said with his usual tinge of sarcasm. “Know any more than when you started?” he asked.
“Quite a lot,” I said. It was equally untrue whether applied to writing an article or investigating a mystery, but it might shake him up a bit.
“Just had a few drinks with the Welsh wizard,” I said breezily, trying to jar loose some information from him. He invited me into his office, which was a smaller version of Simone’s with glass on three sides.
“Is he still trying to get the twig to twitch?” he asked.
“I think he’s being very successful.” The lie got even more of his attention.
“Really? Hot on the treasure trail, is he?”
I wasn’t sure what he meant by that but I wanted to keep the ball rolling.
“I was surprised to find a dowser here,” I continued, still being chatty. “I didn’t realize water was a problem.”
He leaned back in his chair and put one long leg up on the corner of the small crowded desk.
“No problem here,” he said flatly.
“Then how can it be a problem over at Peregrine? The terrain is the same. How could they have a problem with water and you not?”
He pulled open his desk drawer and rummaged around until his hand emerged with a packet of cigarettes. When he was puffing contentedly, he asked, “Told you he was dowsing for water, did he?” He sounded amused.
“Well, maybe he didn’t. He told me he was a dowser and I assumed he was talking about water. He did mention previously dowsing for oil in South America.”
“He was quite a hot shot at that, I believe.” Arundel puffed a poor imitation of a smoke ring, frowned, and tried again. It was no better. “Dowsed lots of other things too.”
“We talked about Uri Geller—he made a million dollars in less than a year finding metal deposits.” I paused, thinking. “Is that what you meant when you said ‘treasure’ a minute ago?”
“Never did get the hang of these,” Arundel said. He blew another plume of smoke that no geometrician would ever have recognized as a ring. He took his leg off the desk, leaned even farther back, and regarded me with the faintest of smiles that was really more of a smirk.
“You can’t blame poor old Elwyn,” he said solicitously. “These hills have been alive for centuries—not with the sound of music but with the tread of seekers after the Treasure of the Templars.”
“I suppose I’ve heard legends. … I didn’t know people were still looking for it though.”
“More than ever. People still enter the lottery, don’t they? Odds are about the same and you don’t even have to buy a ticket.”
“I didn’t realize that it was supposed to be around here, either.”
“Several regions claim it in campaigns that are no doubt spearheaded by the local chamber of commerce.”
His phlegmatic manner made it hard to tell how much he was merely trying to stir things up. As an occasional drinking companion of Elwyn Fox’s though, he might know a lot about him.
“So there’s no water problem,” I said.
“We don’t have one at Willesford. Can’t speak for the Peregrine crowd.”
“Do you know any of them besides Gerard?”
“You’ve met him, I suppose? Yes, nice chap, knows wine. But any others? No, I’ve never seen a soul.” He gave me a searching look. “Interested in Peregrine, are you?”
“It’s a close neighbor of Willesford so I have to be. But you’re right—it’s Willesford I’m writing about. What about these rumors that Peregrine wants to buy you out?”
“It wants to expand—where else can it go?”
“It must think you’re a valuable property.”
He shrugged carelessly. “We are.”
“But surely you’re not that valuable a property?”
“How valuable?” His eyes opened a fraction wider. “I don’t know how much Peregrine has been offering. Do you?” The last question came as a swift jab.
“No,” I said, “but it must be on public record.”
He laughed. “Peregrine? It’s incorporated in Monte Carlo. You know what that means.”
“I suppose that means it’s about as accessible as the Mafia’s account books,” I conceded.
“So if you know what the latest offer is, you have some red-hot information.”
“Just rumors …,” I assured him, adding quickly, “Don’t your wines have something of a reputation for their medical value?”
“All wines are medically valuable, aren’t they? Since the National Institutes of Health stated that wine can cut the risk of heart attacks by seventy-five percent, the public has been putting wine on a par with penicillin. ‘The Mediterranean Diet,’ they called it.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “and when CBS put on a TV special in the US calling it that and linking wine drinking with a low mortality rate from heart disease, it was said that wine sales there went up thirty percent. But what about the locals? Don’t they believe that drinking wine helps them live longer?”
“I doubt it. They just like to drink it.” He puffed away the last millimeters of the cigarette. “What makes you ask that?”
“Doctor Selvier’s article in La Voix,” I said airily.
“Oh, you saw that, did you?” He grinned. “Didn’t hurt our sales any.”
“So you don’t make wine in any special way?”
“Special! Of course not.”
“Maybe the grapes … or the soil … or even planetary influences?”
Surprisingly, he didn’t laugh. “Ah, you’ve been talking to the professor. Yes, there are accounts of extraordinary results from applying knowledge of the movements of the planets.”
“You believe them?” Such a belief didn’t fit with his otherwise skeptical demeanor.
“I don’t disbelieve them. I understand that Rahmani has reached some extraordinary conclusions from his work.”
His phone buzzed and he answered it. His French was fluent and the call was from a buyer who wanted a prompt shipment. Arundel took down the order and, hanging up, said, “Another satisfied customer. Didn’t say if he wants me wine for medicinal purposes.” He got to his feet. “Have to get this moving. He wants delivery tomorrow.”
I walked out of me office with him.
“If there are any more questions, don’t bring them around tomorrow. There’ll be only a skeleton staff on duty.”
“Not a national holiday, is it?”
“A local one—the Feast of Saint Symphorien, the patron saint of the village. We’ll all be there.”
“Maybe I’ll come too.”
“You should. There’s something for everybody and lots of good wine.”
“Willesford wine?”
“Naturally.” He gave me a lazy grin and stalked off across the yard.