MONIKA DROVE IN SLOWLY through the huge gates. The two men both had close-cropped hair and one called something to Monika in German.
I was having second thoughts about this visit. It was the spider and the fly syndrome. It was clear that I was the fly and I was now suspecting the name of the spider.
“Do you know this viscomte well?” I asked her point-blank.
“Fairly well. He’s sponsored me in a few races.”
“There’s a rumor that he’s dead.”
It was fortunate that we were creeping along slowly. She turned to stare.
“What?” She recovered and laughed, seemingly with relief. “What nonsense! He’s very much alive. He’s trying to revive interest in the fair. He wants to make it once again into the major event it used to be.”
So I had tracked down the viscomte, Dien Bien Phu notwithstanding. Or he had tracked me down. Anyway, there was surely safety in numbers, and the activity in the grounds suggested large crowds, judging from the tents and marquees.
People swarmed everywhere and the air was thick with cries and chatter. The sun was near its zenith and it was warm despite the altitude. The smells of herbs and flowers mingled with the tang of freshly cut grass. It was all very bucolic. Through all the noise came a thin buzzing sound. Monika slowed even more and pointed. “Look!”
A speck was visible in the sky. In the sparkling air, it could be seen clearly as it dropped lower. It grew in size and became a craft with large rectangular wings and a flimsy frame.
“It’s Alexis!” Monika said excitedly. “That’s his new two-seater—look, there’s someone with him!”
It drifted nearer. There were two figures inside the cube of girders. The craft came lower, banking slightly, and sank out of sight on the other side of the château.
“Who’s his passenger, I wonder?”
“I can’t see from here,” she said, shading her eyes.
I saw the château clearly now for the first time. It was built in the style of the fortified manor house—a very large and substantial dwelling but with battlements, towers, and arrow slits dating from the days when the home would have to be defended against: Moors, Saracens, pirates, freebooters, bandits, and quite often one’s envious neighbors.
Monika parked and a servant in the black uniform with red trim came out of the house, took our luggage, and led us inside. We went along a hallway and emerged into the main hall. It was impressively cavernous, with wood-paneled walls, armor and weapons, banners and tapestries. Voices echoed from the high ceiling where a massive chandelier hung.
An elderly gray-haired man appeared and introduced himself as Gilbert. He was the head of the household staff and told us that the viscomte was not here yet but was expected during the afternoon. He had the servant who had carried in our bags show us to our rooms. We were both on the third floor, Monika’s room a few doors down the corridor from mine.
The carpets here looked new and the hunting prints on the walls were in new frames and under sparkling clean glass. The room had mullioned windows with a seat all round the window alcove. The bed looked new, too, and the wallpaper had a subdued flower print; clean, fresh rugs were spread on the polished wood floor. The whole chateau had obviously had a thorough rejuvenation very recently. I took a shower, put on a shirt and slacks, and went out, locking the door with the big, old-fashioned key.
I considered knocking on Monika’s door but decided to do some reconnoitering on my own first. There were no other rooms on this floor but bedrooms, so I went down the wide staircase to the floor below. It appeared to be the same and I had hardly stepped onto the staircase to go down to the ground floor when a uniformed servant materialized at my elbow.
“Can I help you, sir?” he asked politely in German-accented French.
It was not the same man as the one who had carried in our bags, but he was the same type. Medium height and build, military bearing, and close-cropped hair—the description had a very familiar ring. The uniform was impeccable, black with red trim at the collar and cuffs of the jacket and a red stripe down the pant legs. He looked tough and efficient.
“Just looking around,” I said affably.
“Very good, sir. The bar is, of course, always open. The fair will be on until six o’clock and dinner will be at eight.”
I gave him a nod. He stood, motionless. I went on down the stairs and into the hall. It was empty and I examined the rooms running from it. There was a billiard room, a recreation room with Ping-Pong, darts, and two computers set on game programs, a meeting room, and another room that was set up as a cinema.
The bar, which was comfortably furnished to the standard of a good club, was empty. A quick glance indicated that it was very thoroughly supplied with every kind of drink. I went back into the hall and out through the main entrance. There were two massive, carved wood doors that were undoubtedly old but had been carefully refinished and restored. One swung open slowly and silently, despite its mass, a tribute to newly oiled hinges.
I wandered among the stands and stalls. One was giving a presentation on the Felibrige. This was a group of poets and romantics who deplored the way the old Provençal language, customs, and traditions were dying out. Organized by Frederic Mistral, a familiar name throughout Provence, they made a great number of people aware of their heritage, and when Mistral won the Nobel Prize for literature, the Felibrige received even greater support.
A reading in the Provençal language from Mistral’s own work, Mireio, was billed for every hour on the hour. Copies of his books and plays were on sale and troubadours in costume stood nearby, eagerly awaiting the call to sing and play.
A large number of people were clustered around the Willesford stand, sampling the wines. I watched from a distance. Two white wines were being offered for tasting—the Pont Vieux and the Bellecoste. The rosé that they sold as Val Rosé was being offered too. I didn’t see any of their better wines being poured. I strolled on to see what other festival delights were on display.
Music caught my attention and I headed in that direction. A team of tumblers and jugglers were putting on an act of great dexterity and I watched them for a while. I was expecting to encounter Monika, snapping away at her shutter, but there was no sign of her.
An enterprising farm had an aromatic and visually attractive show of their products, including sausages of various kinds, pigs’ feet, and other pork products. It seemed just the place to ask some questions about pigs and sangliers, and the heavy-set, red-faced man on the stand knew all the answers. Cheese appeared to be the main product, though. The most pungent French cheeses are made from lait cru, raw milk that has not been pasteurized. This prevents cheese makers from selling outside of France and obliges them to make strong efforts to sell in their own neighborhood where their loyal consumers are used to the cheese artist’s moldy masterpieces, complete with ashen rind, blue bacterial tracks, and a pungency that could pierce armor plate.
A familiar figure approached—it appeared to be an English country gentleman having an at-home day in his gray slacks and white long-sleeved shirt. His aristocratic nose wrinkled at the assault of the cheese fumes.
“Hope the stuff tastes better than it smells,” said Lewis Arundel in that languid tone. “But then it would have to.”
“You a friend of the viscomte’s?”
“Known him a while.”
I was well enough acquainted with Arundel’s laid-back style to know that this was his normal reaction to such questions.
“Is he here yet?”
“Haven’t seen him,” Arundel drawled.
“He’s alive and well then?” I asked casually.
“Of course,” he said quickly. “Why wouldn’t he be?”
We strolled along past a stall that was at the opposite end of the spectrum from the last one. This had herbs and spices of Provence in bottles, jars, cans, bouquets, air-fresheners, sacks, and a dozen other ways. The fresh clean scents of marjoram, rosemary, and basil were strong in the air.
I was determined to press hard on Arundel.
“The reason I’m particularly interested in talking to him today is that I believe him to be responsible for four murders.”
He stopped in midstride. His eyes widened in what looked like genuine surprise. “You’re not serious.”
“Not only that but he’s also involved in two—perhaps three—attempts on my life.”
A smile was starting to play around his mouth. “A serial killer, for sure. A bit of a bungler though, isn’t he? I mean, you’re still alive.”
“This isn’t funny,” I said, getting angry.
Arundel resumed walking, very slowly. “In fact, it’s funnier than you think,” he said. He seemed to be deciding whether to go on. He made up his mind.
“When you were pushed into the vat of Mourvedre—that’s one of the murder attempts you’re referring to, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” he said with a lopsided grin, “that was me. I pushed you in.” He went on quickly, “You were nosing into matters that didn’t concern you. If I hadn’t pushed you in, someone else would have—Simone probably.”
“What matters didn’t concern me?”
“You might as well know,” he shrugged. “You probably know already. According, to law, we’re only permitted to add twenty percent Mourvedre to a wine. We’ve had excellent results increasing that to about twenty-five percent—doesn’t sound like much, I know, but it’s one of the secrets of the high quality of our red. The record book that you were sneaking a look at gives the actual percentages. Oh, it’s not that much of a secret—not worth killing somebody for, anyway—but I thought pushing you in might warn you off.”
“I might have drowned,” I said furiously.
He laughed out loud.
“Nonsense. I was prepared to pull you out before that happened. We didn’t know that gendarme was on the premises. He got to you first.”
“And the beehive?”
He looked puzzled. “Beehive? What beehive?” He either didn’t know or wasn’t going to admit to that one. “When you talk about murders, you surely don’t mean Chantier and Laplace?”
“And Fox and Morel.”
“It seems like a long string of unfortunate events, I know, but accidents happen. It’s been years since we’ve had anybody hurt in our vineyard until now.”
“Is that the way the viscomte tells it? A string of unfortunate accidents?”
“Yes.” His eyes searched my face. “Well, you know him. Does he seem like a mass murderer to you?”
“I don’t know him.”
His expression changed. “You don’t? Well, you’ll meet him then you’ll see. The whole idea is preposterous.”
“Andre Chantier’s drowning—was that preposterous?”
“The currents in Marseille harbor are treacherous,” he said.
“He wasn’t drowned in Marseille but in Ajaccio.”
He stopped again in midstride. “Ajaccio?” he said hoarsely.
We resumed walking, past a stall adorned with objects carved from olive wood. The wood is very hard and durable and is made into walking sticks, ashtrays, letter openers, pipes, candlesticks, and even small animals.
Arundel was less talkative now. His face was strained. A man in the uniform of the staff walked past us as if on patrol. Again I noted that they all had a similar bearing and competency. They all looked like tough customers.
We stopped at the next stand. It had the Peregrine name above it in large letters and the small wooden counter had glasses and a stack of brochures. Arundel hailed Gerard.
“We’ll drink anything—even your awful stuff, Gerard. And make sure the glasses are clean, please.”
Girardet smiled a polite smile, evidently used to Arundel’s mocking manner. He poured wine for us, a pleasant white though not as good as the one he had given me on my first visit to the vineyard. Arundel noticed it too.
“This is the cheap stuff, Gerard. Where’s the good wine—if you make one?”
Gerard reached under the counter and produced an unlabeled bottle.
“I didn’t know you could tell the difference. Try this one.”
Arundel poured his wine out onto the grass and said, “Fresh glasses again too.”
Gerard smiled his polite smile once more. This time the wine was good and had the same superior taste as the one I remembered. Arundel just grunted and said, “Better, Gerard, but not much. Come on over some time and I’ll show you how to make real wine.” He emptied the glass, then said abruptly, “I’m going to get ready for dinner. See you later.”
My mind was buzzing—it began when I saw that honey was on the next stand. In Provence, bees are catholic in their choice of flowers to pollinate, so their product may be flavored with thyme, sage, lavender, lemon, lime, or eucalyptus, and all of them were represented here in every size of jar and bottle. I approached the large, capable-looking woman in charge. “Can you tell me something about bees?” I asked her, and she not only could but did. She answered my questions thoroughly and I went up to my room, very satisfied.