Apart from Pommes Frites, who had taken it upon himself to establish squatters rights across the back seat, Monsieur Pamplemousse was the first to board the waiting coach after Le Creuset tied up at Velars-sur-Ouche. Master and hound eyed each other with a degree of circumspection, each trying to read the other’s thoughts, neither wanting to be the first to break the ice. It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that far from having lost weight, Pommes Frites might have gained a kilo or two, but possibly it was the way he was sitting.

Deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt, he turned to Boniface, freshly laundered and smelling of Xeryus. ‘How far is Beaune?’

Boniface emitted a non-committal whistling sound. ‘An hour, perhaps a little less. We are due to reach the négociants at eighteen hundred. Dîner is at eighteen-thirty after a tour of the premises. The pageant is at twenty hundred.’

‘How many kilometres is that?’

Boniface looked even less inclined to commit himself. ‘Thirty-five … maybe a little more. It is hard to say. We go the back way – the route of the vines – and we stop from time to time.’ He glanced at Monsieur Pamplemousse’s camera. ‘It is so that people can take photographs.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. In his mind’s eye he could hear the Director’s voice.

‘Nonsense, Pamplemousse. You heard what the driver said. The autobus stops from time to time en route. It is just what Pommes Frites needs. It will get rid of the cobwebs.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way towards the rear of the coach and tested the water.

‘Un promenade?’

A patently cobweb-free tail, which until that moment had been thumping the seat like a diffident upholsterer testing his workmanship after a difficult repair job, froze in mid air. Pommes Frites contemplated his master for several seconds as though wondering if he had heard aright, then settled matters very firmly by closing both eyes and pretending he was asleep. He’d had quite enough promenades for one day. Discretion being the better part of valour, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided not to pursue the subject. In any case the other passengers were starting to arrive.

Colonel and Mrs Massingham glanced disapprovingly at Pommes Frites and pointedly seated themselves near the front of the coach; the party of Americans scattered themselves noisily around the middle section. The two Germans did their best to distance themselves from the Massinghams without making it appear too obvious, and the Swedish lady settled herself by the door, to the right of the driver’s seat. Boniface looked as though he had been hoping for better things.

The girl was last to arrive. She had changed from her lunchtime outfit into a black crocheted dress; fashioned, it seemed to Monsieur Pamplemousse, by someone who had set out to make the largest number of holes out of the smallest possible amount of material. The task completed, the girl had been poured into it and no one had thought to say ‘when’. The effect was all that must have been intended.

Holding a video camera above her head, she made her way down the centre of the coach. Envy and naked jealousy filled the air in equal parts, not least from Boniface, as she squeezed past Monsieur Pamplemousse and seated herself between him and the window. Her bare shoulders were tanned and smooth, the nape of her neck covered in a light down. It was easy to see why she had won the title of Miss Goldenslopes.

‘Hi! JayCee tells me you’re my bodyguard for the evening.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse made a gruff, but suitable assenting noise, conveying to those in front the minor role he had played in the decision, and that the guarding of heavenly bodies was an everyday occurrence in his daily round. He was keenly aware that the rest of the party was displaying more than a passing interest in what was going on behind them. Even Pommes Frites had gone so far as to open one eye a fraction. It looked a trifle jaundiced, as though he had seen it all before.

‘That is my privilege.’

Relieving the girl of her camera bag, Monsieur Pamplemousse took her free hand and raised it halfway to his lips in a gesture of gallantry. It struck him that little further help would have been needed from him for it to have completed the rest of the journey of its own accord.

‘The name is Pamplemousse.’

‘You don’t say?’ She licked her lips. ‘I had one of those for breakfast this morning.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse wasn’t sure if the snort came from Mrs Massingham or the Swedish lady.

Boniface started the engine and attention was momentarily diverted as he carried out a U-turn. Having avoided backing into the canal by what seemed less than a hair’s breadth, he drove through the village to the autoroute, headed east for some five kilometres, then came off it onto the D108, taking a short cut in order to bypass Dijon.

Dijon was dismissed by Boniface with a wave of the hand. ‘The suburbs are now all built up. The only wine left is from Montre-Cul. You know why it is called Montre-Cul?’

There were no takers.

‘Because the vineyards are on the side of the mountain and during grape-picking time people used to stop and admire the women’s bottoms.’

Boniface’s chuckle lasted all the way up the hill.

‘And you?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘What should I call you?’

‘I’m down as Gay Lussac, but that’s just my pen name.’

‘Gay Lussac?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start.

‘You’ve heard of me?’

‘It is a very illustrious name in the world of wine. His work on the alcoholometer was invaluable.’

‘Yeah, that’s the one. I got it out of a book. Just liked the sound of it, I guess.’

‘It was a good choice for a pen name,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘My real name’s Brittany – as in France, but people who know me call me Honey-bee.’

‘I shall call you by the French equivalent,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Abeille. Strictly speaking it should be abeille domestique, but if you will forgive my saying so, I do not think you are very domestic.’

‘You can say that again. Abeille.’ The girl rolled the word round her mouth several times. ‘I guess I like that even better than Gay.’

‘It suits you,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Once again, forgive my saying so, but neither do you look like any wine correspondent I have ever met.’

‘So what’s a wine correspondent supposed to look like?’

‘They tend to show signs of their calling,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Too many invitations to too many tastings take their toll. The English are either elderly and very knowledgeable, or if they are young they are mostly products of one of their so-called public schools. They are like the matelot, Martin; they conceal their knowledge beneath a mask of schoolboy charm and a quiff of hair which falls down over their forehead. It is one of their great strengths. It disarms the opposition, who do not always take them seriously until it is too late.

‘Your fellow countrymen are on the whole very earnest. They analyse everything to the nth degree and talk a lot about micro-climates, forgetting that in Burgundy every stone hides its own micro-climate.’

‘And the French?’

‘We French simply cannot believe that anyone knows more about the subject than we do. But that, I fear, applies to most things. It is in our nature.’

‘So where do I fit in?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse felt sorely tempted to repeat that she was like no wine writer he had ever dreamt of. He modified it instead to ‘You are like no one I have ever met before.’ Spoken in a whisper, the effect was not quite as he had intended.

‘Tell me more …’ Abeille turned and fastened her eyes on his.

Monsieur Pamplemousse tried hard to consider them as objects in their own right, rather than as part and parcel of the whole. It wasn’t easy. They were cornflower blue, bluer than they had any right to be, far bluer, he decided, than those of the Director’s wife, and disconcertingly impossible to read; not so much expressionless as bottomless, without any kind of perceptible focal point.

‘You are very hard to catalogue.’

That, too, came out not quite as he had meant it to sound, but once again Boniface saved the day. Selecting a cassette from one of several in a holder screwed to the dashboard, he slipped it into the player. After a short fanfare a commentator’s voice began describing in various languages the route they were taking. At least it didn’t have Japanese overtones.

The coach went quiet as everyone concentrated on the Route des Grands Crus: the Champs Elysées de Bourgogne.

Avoiding the main N74 heading south, Boniface turned on to the D122 running parallel to it. It took them along the bottom of the wood-capped slopes of the Côte d’Or, through the vineyards of Fixin and Gevrey-Chambertin.

At one point he slowed down to point out the vineyard belonging to the négociants in Beaune.

‘… You are looking at Clos Ambert-Celeste. In France the word clos means a walled enclosure. It is a very old vineyard. Originally it was simply Clos d’Ambert. The word celeste was added at the end of the last century. Celeste means “heavenly”…’ Bells rang in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s head. The estate must belong to the Director’s wife’s family.

Negotiating the bends with one hand, Boniface pointed towards an imposing house set on the hillside away from the village itself, with its church and its cluster of tiny houses.

Clos de Vougeot came into view, then Morey St Denis. Absorbing the names on the signposts as they came and went was like reading from the roll call of a vinous hall of fame.

‘Isn’t it cute the way they name all their villages after the wine,’ said Abeille.

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave her a sidelong glance. ‘How long have you been a wine correspondent?’ he asked.

‘What time is it?’ Abeille felt inside the camera bag and took out her translator. ‘I’ll let you in on a little secret. Not long – thanks to this. Name me a wine.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse thought for a moment. ‘Since we are passing through Chambolle-Musigny, how about a Domaine George Roumier?’

He watched as she entered it on the keyboard. Half expecting her to ask him how to spell it, he was impressed when she got it right.

‘What year?’

‘Shall we say 1989?’ It had been a near perfect vintage in the Côte d’Or.

She typed in the date.

‘What is the name of the wine?’

‘Les Amoureuses.’ This time he helped with the spelling.

‘Very good year. Ninety-five points. Fruity taste. Ready for drinking now.’ Using the American style of classification, awarding points out of a hundred instead of the European twenty, the same Japanese voice issued from the tiny loudspeaker.

‘Who needs books?’ said Abeille. She snapped the gadget shut, replaced it in the camera bag, and began eyeing the passing countryside through the viewfinder of her camera.

Monsieur Pamplemousse sat back feeling deeply depressed. It was not what life ought to be all about. At this rate the day was not far distant when Le Guide in its present form would be made redundant and quite likely he would too.

‘What did you do before you became a wine correspondent?’ he asked at last.

Abeille switched off her camera. ‘After I left high school I was in grunt and groan movies for a while before JayCee rescued me.’

‘Quest que c’est le grunt and groan?’

Abeille licked her lips. ‘You know the kind of thing. I guess you have them in France too …’ Snuggling down, she kicked off her shoes, placed her feet on the back of the seat in front, and gave vent to a series of moans. They were accompanied by a certain amount of bodily writhing.

Heads turned. Monsieur Pamplemousse caught Boniface’s eye in the mirror as the coach swerved and nearly didn’t make Vosne Romanée.

‘Geez! There go my Dolly Partons!’ Abeille did some running repairs to an unsupported doudon which had become temporarily displaced. ‘I guess I get carried away when I’m performing. I should never have let myself get talked in to having breast augmentation like I did.’

‘How did you get to be one … a wine correspondent I mean?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse, hastily changing the subject.

‘It’s what JayCee calls Kismet. JayCee’s in communications. He owns a corporate presence in LA and he spotted me in reception one morning.’

‘You were visiting him?’

‘No, I was working there on the front desk. I’d just started and it was love at first sight. We were married within a week.’

‘That sounds very quick.’

‘JayCee’s like me. He goes after what he wants and he doesn’t rest until he gets it – one way or the other. I’m not the sort of girl to play around, so it had to be the other. After we were married JayCee made me wine correspondent for a newspaper he has an interest in. He thought it might stop me from getting bored.’

Very wise, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. And it would mean he could keep an eye on you at the same time.

Once again he was conscious of the blue eyes fastened on him. ‘So what business are you in? Aside from being an ex-dic.’

‘I write about food.’

‘You do?’ Her eyes grew rounder still. ‘So you know about wine too?’

‘A little,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse modestly.

‘Gee. Then you could help me with my lecture.’

‘Lecture?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to remember what the Director had said about it.

‘I’m supposed to be giving a talk on gridlock in the wine cellar. JayCee let me in for it. He says it’ll keep my mind occupied. He didn’t tell me I’d be giving it to a party of wine groupies.’

‘It is not a problem I have ever encountered,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dryly.

‘If you live in LA you know all about gridlock,’ said Abeille. ‘It’s part of the way of life. Like when it’s time for laying-down do you prefer horizontal or vertical?’

Boniface turned the volume down a fraction.

‘I take it as it comes,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘There is no point in meeting trouble halfway.’

‘Take it from me,’ said Abeille, ‘it’s when you try and do it both ways at the same time the trouble starts. So will you give me a hand?’

‘It is possible.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse heard his voice answer from what seemed a long way away. The wine groupies exchanged disappointed glances.

‘Gee, thank you. That’s great. I’ve been lying awake thinking of it.’ She planted a kiss on his forehead, then lowered her voice. ‘Now I don’t have to worry any more. All I know about wine is what JayCee tells me. He says you French put that bump in the bottom of the bottles …’

‘Punt,’ corrected Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In English it is called punt. It is put there to collect the sediment.’

‘Is that so? Well JayCee reckons it’s a trick you French thought up to make it look like you’re getting more than you really are.’

The coach slowed down and Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced out of the window as they drew up alongside a tall cross set against a low stone wall. The gently rising piece of land beyond it was covered in vines and the name of the vineyard was carved on a piece of stone let into a corner pillar.

‘I think you should not say that too loudly,’ he murmured in hushed tones. ‘The owners would not take kindly to such a thought.’

Following on behind the others disembarking from the coach he glanced up. The air was crystal clear, but dark clouds were already gathering towards the west. It looked as though JayCee could be right about the weather. What was it Colonel Massingham had said? Hailstones as big as tennis balls. It would be bad news if Pommes Frites got caught out in a storm like that, especially if one landed on his head. Life wouldn’t be worth living for a while.

A helicopter flew low overhead – probably getting in some quick crop spraying before the rain arrived.

He watched as it turned and zoomed in over a tiny patch of vines, the boundaries of which were marked by blue plastic bags tied to lines of upright posts. It was a simple way of ensuring the pilot got it right. In a region where each vineyard could belong to a dozen different owners, mistakes could be costly.

He shot off a couple of frames of film as the helicopter turned and flew in again. Then, using the wall with the name of the vineyard as foreground interest, he took a couple more shots of the hill immediately in front of them. It was a picture postcard view that must have been reproduced a million times, but one more wouldn’t hurt.

Abeille rested her chin on his shoulder.

‘Wouldn’t it be a great place for having it away?’ she whispered. ‘Behind the wall.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse pulled himself free and stared at her aghast. ‘That is hallowed terroir …’ He made a rapid mental calculation, converting hectares into acres. ‘It is four and a half acres of some of the most valuable land in the world.’

‘You’re just trying to turn me on,’ said Abeille.

Mindful of JayCee’s words of warning, Monsieur Pamplemousse took the girl firmly by the arm and led her back to the coach. The Golden Gate Bridge during the hour of affluence was one thing; Domaine de la Romanée Conti when the grapes were beginning to ripen was something else again. The thought of being discovered made his blood run cold. He would never live it down.

‘I am supposed to be looking after you, remember?’

Abeille paused on the step and looked back at him. ‘You didn’t think I was being serious did you? With all these people around? Shame on you. What do you think I am?’

In truth Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t know what to think, but he knew one who would have been only too happy to oblige. Boniface was having trouble finding the right gear. In his excitement he put the engine into reverse and they narrowly missed colliding with an approaching tractor.

‘Tell me about Beaune,’ said Abeille, as they drove on their way.

‘The place or the pageant?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse was happy to change the subject.

‘Whichever.’

‘Beaune itself is a city which is almost entirely given over to wine; it is honeycombed with cellars. Most of the big négociants have their offices there. Then, of course, there is the Hospice. Each year, on the third Sunday in November, there is a great wine auction. It is in aid of charity, but it also dictates the price of wine for that vintage. It is part of Les Trois Glorieuses – the Three Glorious Days. On the Saturday there is a dinner at Clos de Vougeot. On Sunday it is the turn of the Hôtel Dieu in Beaune, and on Monday everyone repairs to the village of Meursault for lunch. To take in all three you need a strong constitution.

‘Étienne-Jules Marey, who studied movement on film and effectively invented the movie camera, was born in Beaune. So was Gaspard Monge, who invented descriptive geometry …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse broke off. If he wasn’t careful it would sound as though he was echoing Boniface’s cassette. ‘It is also full of tourists. As for tonight’s pageant, that is all about a character called “Vert-Vert”.’

‘Vert-Vert? Is that a he or a she?’

‘Neither,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Vert-Vert was a parrot who lived in the fifteenth century. He belonged to some Visitandine nuns in a town called Nevers, and he became so famous that two centuries after he died a teacher in a Jesuit college wrote a long poem about him. Generations of school children have had to learn it off by heart ever since. I had to when I was at school.

‘How did he get to be so famous?’ said Abeille. ‘Did he have a good agent or something?’

‘On the contrary,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Vert-Vert lived a very pampered, sybaritic life. The nuns spoilt him, and instead of being adept at the usual phrases parrots learn he gradually became extremely fluent in ecclesiastical matters.

‘News of his prowess spread far beyond the boundaries of Burgundy and one day some sister nuns at a convent in Nantes asked if he could go and stay with them for a while.

‘At first the nuns at Nevers refused to let him go, but in the end they relented and he was sent off by boat.

‘Unfortunately, during the journey down the Loire he met up with some Dragoons and that is when the trouble began.

‘By the time the boat reached Nantes the damage was done. Far from being enthralled by Vert-Vert’s quotations from the Bible, the nuns were so scandalised by his foul language he was packed straight off home again in disgrace.

‘Punishment was swift. For the indiscriminate use of oaths and for the embarrassment he had caused, the Nevers Council of Order condemned him to a period of fasting and solitude.’

‘Oaths? You mean like swearing?’

‘Oui.’

‘Tell me some.’

‘Merde,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘And he had to go on solitary just because he said shit? Jesus – if that happened in America half the population would be shut away!’

‘This was in 1493,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Besides, there were a lot of variations. There were other words.’

‘Like what for example?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse racked his mind for some suitable examples. ‘Con and lune and praline, par exemple.’ He immediately regretted his action.

‘Con and lune … and what was the last one again – praline? I thought that was some kind of nut.’

Heads turned once again as Monsieur Pamplemousse tried desperately to think of a suitable translation … ‘I am afraid my knowledge of English does not allow me,’ he said at last. ‘But it is something all ladies have.’

Disappointment manifested itself in certain areas of the coach.

‘So what happened in the end?’

‘Vert-Vert served his sentence and gradually the nuns relented.

In short, he died of over-eating.’

‘And we have to watch a pageant about it?’

‘That is what it says in the itinerary.’

Abeille sat digesting the news for a moment or two. ‘I was in a pageant once,’ she said at last. ‘When I was in sixth grade. Miss Screwpull of 1993. I was the one the judges most wanted to pluck at harvest time.’

‘Times change,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

Signs saying Visitez! or Dégustation gratuite heralded the approach to Beaune.

The offices of L. Ambert et Frère – Négociants-Éléveurs occupied a large building standing a little way back from the perimeter road running round the outer wall of the city. There was little possibility of missing it; every half kilometre or so there were freshly painted signs advertising its presence. Other posters and hoardings drew attention to the pageant that evening.

They drove in through the open gates and crunched to a halt in a gravelled parking area alongside a row of cars and station wagons. Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed up at the signs. It wasn’t quite what he had expected. During the briefing, the Director had mentioned nothing about there being a brother in the business. Perhaps he wasn’t aware of it. The words ‘et Frère’ looked as though they were a recent addition; a hasty one at that, for the paint was of a different shade of white and they threw the original arrangement out of balance with the rest.

As they climbed out of the coach and formed a group near the main entrance to the building, an elderly woman he took to be Chantal’s aunt, Madame Ambert, came forward to greet them and extend a brief welcome. Monsieur Pamplemousse had a feeling she was scanning the faces as though she might be looking for him, but before he had a chance to catch her attention she handed over to an underling and disappeared. Perhaps she had been frightened off by the presence of Abeille, who had slipped her arm proprietorially into his? Or else she had been forewarned to look for a dog. Rather to his relief, Pommes Frites had elected to stay in the coach for the time being. Guided tours were not his strong suit.

Boniface was already in deep conversation with a girl – a courier from a tour company.

Madame Ambert was clearly too well bred to let it show to all and sundry, but he got the feeling she was having to force herself into doing something which was total anathema to her; she looked distracted and unhappy as she left them to it.

They were each handed a tasting glass with the name of the company prominently engraved on the outside – he noted in passing that the words ‘et Frère’ were missing – and after a complimentary glass of an unidentified white wine they set off on an escorted tour of the eighteenth-century mansion house.

Ahead of them. Monsieur Pamplemousse could hear Colonel Massingham’s voice droning on. The subject on this occasion was tasting glasses.

‘… the shape is very important. The stem prevents the hand from warming the wine. The tulip shape is so that when the aromas are released they will concentrate at the narrow top. That is why, when tasting, you should never fill the glasses beyond the widest point …’

He wondered how Mrs Massingham stood it. Life with the colonel must be one long lecture. Perhaps, as mothers do with children, she had developed mental shutters, replying only when absolutely necessary.

On the pretext of studying the brochure they had been given on the way in, Monsieur Pamplemousse hung back a little until the voice was barely audible.

Originally the residence of a prominent member of the old Burgundian Parliament, the house had been many things in its time – including a hotel – before it had been acquired by the Ambert family, who had restored it to its former glory, furnishing it in the style of Louis XV.

Parts of it looked as though they were still lived in; the library, for example. Some of the bedrooms were also roped off to visitors and there were signs of occupation.

The vaulted rooms of the old kitchen and pantry area were festooned with artefacts of the wine trade. Ancient well-worn double shoulder baskets – made of willow and yoked in the middle – were now filled with bottles of wine for sale, the prices prominently displayed. Replicas of old cannons, once used for scaring birds, miniature dioramas of barrel-makers at work, glasses, corkscrews, grafting knives; everything had its price tag. Someone, somewhere, was making the most of things. The only item that remained unpriced was a gigantic wooden wine press housed in the former stables. It would need a crane to move it.

There was no denying times were hard. After a long run of good weather, two poor seasons coupled with the world-wide recession had caused prices to fall and many vignerons had been forced to add other strings to their bow. Who could blame the Director’s aunt for joining their ranks? And yet, somehow, he couldn’t rid himself of a feeling of disappointment.

A striking woman, genteelly handsome rather than beautiful, with a face which radiated toughness. Toughness, along with a stubborn streak. She would have had need of both qualities over the years. To be a successful woman négociante in an international trading area which until recent years had been almost entirely male dominated, couldn’t have been easy.

Idly picking up a pair of pruning shears, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned them over. It was stamped MADE IN CHINA. At a guess the manufacturer’s price must have been upped at least tenfold.

Displaying the tools of the trade with pride and charging admission was one thing; over-pricing cheap replicas was something else again.

Dinner was a pedestrian affair; a sad reflection of the festivities of Les Trois Glorieuses. It was taken at a candlelit table set in what must once have been the main room of the mansion. Ornamental mirrors lined the oak panelled walls. They were interspersed with unsigned monochrome paintings of unknown sitters, presumably past members of the family. The side tables were festooned with hand-painted china and porcelain ornaments. At least they didn’t have price tags on them.

Perhaps not surprisingly, since it was billed as ‘a gastronomic feast based on local specialities’, the meal began with the ubiquitous jambon persillé. The ham was not a patch on the one which had been served at lunchtime. Manufactured rather than made with love and care. The pots of mustard on the table were not even from Dijon.

Monsieur Pamplemousse only toyed with the boeuf Bourguignon that followed. The wine came in large jugs and was too young for his liking. To say that it lacked ‘body’ was putting it mildly. It tasted as though it had been made by someone with a grudge against society; a product of one of Boniface’s ‘wine lakes’. Either someone was pulling a fast one or they had sadly underrated their visitors’ taste buds. The serving girls, dressed in period costume, seemed hard put to raise a smile between them and gradually an air of gloom descended on the gathering.

Even the flowers were artificial and not very good at that. He watched as a fly settled on one of the blooms. It stayed there, clearly preferring the aroma of plastic to that of the food. He could hardly blame it.

At one point, as the meal was nearing its end, Monsieur Pamplemousse heard raised voices coming from a nearby room. Two men were engaged in a furious argument. It was conducted in French so most of it went over the heads of the other diners, but the venom behind it was all too apparent. One of the men spoke with an American accent and he appeared to be answering complaints about some aspect of the way that the place was being run. The quarrel was short and sharp, punctuated by the slamming of a door, which brought conversation around the table to a temporary halt.

Abeille turned to him. ‘What was all that about?’

‘I think it was a clash between the old and the new,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘A debate between those who are resistant to change and those who are for it.’

Debate was putting it mildly. It had been a real slanging match. As they rose from the table and followed their guide down a stone stairway leading to the vaults, he decided the encounter had contained all the hallmarks of a bitter family quarrel; part of a continuing battle. A clash that had its roots in the dim and distant past.

The bulk of the audience was already seated. They looked cold, as well they might, for the atmosphere was damp and bone-chilling. A thermometer registered eleven degrees C. Abeille was going to regret her choice of dress before the evening was over.

The second row had been reserved for Le Creuset’s party and he found two places at the far end, near a lighting stand. At least when it came on it would give off a modicum of heat.

Judging from the batch of reserved empty seats in the middle of the row in front of them, local dignitaries and others of importance were expected.

As the audience sat waiting for the performance to begin, Monsieur Pamplemousse allowed his attention to wander. The vast stone-flagged, vaulted room they were in must have pre-dated the mansion itself by several centuries. Its walls looked as old as time – over six metres thick some of them, according to the guide.

Black drapes hung from the roof around the area where the performance was due to take place, but on either side he could see endless corridors lined with rows of bottles. It was like sitting on the hub of a giant wheel whose spokes radiated out in all directions; north, south, east, west and points in between.

The flooring in the corridors was of tightly packed gravel and the lighting came from candles burning in traditional wrought-iron holders. It made counting difficult, but at a guess the section nearest to them must have contained close on a thousand bottles; and that was only one stack. Multiply the total number by their market value … they were sitting in the middle of a small fortune. He would have given a lot to have tasted some of the older wines, rather than the mouthwash they had been served at dinner.

A hush descended on the audience as a small group led by Madame Ambert entered through a side door. She was closely followed by a man of about the same age. His face was bronzed and lined as though he had spent most of his life in the sun. Despite the chill, he was dressed in an open-neck shirt and thin plaid trousers. Several others followed, all men, presumably under-managers and other officials of the company.

Bringing up the rear was another older man. Monsieur Pamplemousse recognised him from a picture in the brochure. Fabrice Delamain, wine-maker to Clos Ambert-Celeste. He, too, had the appearance of someone who had spent much of his life in the open air. He looked ill at ease in his suit.

As soon as the new arrivals had settled themselves the house lights slowly dimmed until, apart from the candlelit corridors, the vaults were almost completely dark. Music issuing from loudspeakers hidden in various nooks and crannies filled the air.

Whoever was in charge of staging the production had obviously opted for working within pools of light, allowing the actors the freedom to appear and disappear as the script demanded, for as the pageant began a single overhead spot revealed a parrot on a raised perch. There was no sign of it being tethered in any way, and for a moment or two it was hard to tell whether or not it was real.

The opening music slowly segued into the sound of chanting as twelve hooded figures in white habits appeared from out of the shadows and moved in slow procession past the bird, paying their respects one after the other.

Monsieur Pamplemousse closed his eyes as the familiar words brought back memories of his childhood. It was almost possible to picture the scene as it must have happened. And were the responses really being spoken by the parrot, or was it a theatrical trick? He opened one eye. It was impossible to tell from where he was sitting. The bird’s beak was certainly moving and the shadow being cast on the floor grew and receded in turn as it shifted uneasily on its perch.

He was about to close his eyes again when he became aware of a movement nearby. At first he thought it was a rat, then he realised it was Pommes Frites arriving.

‘Oooh!’ Abeille gave a squeak. Luckily it coincided with the moment in the story when Vert-Vert set sail up the river Loire and the chanting of nuns gave way to a boisterous rendering of an ancient sea shanty, so it was lost in the general hubbub. Above it all there rose the voice of the narrator.

Monsieur Pamplemousse reached down and felt a familiar wet nose. ‘It is a sign of good health,’ he whispered.

‘Yeah? That’s what they all say! Have you got a handkerchief I could borrow?’ Taking advantage of the light on her right, Abeille wiped herself dry and set the video camera going.

The cast were barely halfway through the song when Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly felt Pommes Frites’ hackles rise. Ears cocked, body tense, muscles at the ready, he stared through a gap in the row in front. It was an all-too-familiar stance. Immediately put on the alert, Monsieur Pamplemousse concentrated his attention on the action, although for the life of him he could see nothing untoward.

The scene had changed to the quayside at Nantes where a group of nuns dressed in dark-grey habits anxiously awaited the arrival of the boat.

But it was not to be, for as the sound of cheering onlookers began to mount several things happened in quick succession.

At almost exactly the same instant as one of the nuns stepped forward with outstretched hands to greet Vert-Vert, Pommes Frites made a lunge – it could have been a fraction of a second earlier, or even a fraction later – but whichever way it was it took Monsieur Pamplemousse completely by surprise. Vert-Vert gave a loud squawk, fluttered into the air, and after hovering panic-stricken for what seemed like an eternity, plummeted to the floor, where he lay on his side, plainly no longer of this world.

It was all so unexpected the audience sat completely stunned and for a moment or two the actors looked equally thrown. Eventually Fabrice Delamain stepped forward and placed a large handkerchief over the corpse and everyone relaxed.

Bereft of its star, the cast manfully ad-libbed the second half of the poem. Extemporising much of it on the spur of the moment, intermingling past tense sadly with present, there were times when their performance bore all the signs of desperation, but at least the final lines were given an added poignancy.

It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse as he joined in the applause that if someone had had the foresight to provide a small coffin the reception accorded the twelve thespians might have been warmer still. Even so, they took many more calls than they could possibly have bargained for. Relief, coupled with a desire on the part of the audience to get their circulation going again, added its quota.

He glanced down to see how Pommes Frites was reacting to it all, but he was nowhere to be seen. As the applause died away and the house lights came up, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned and looked idly back over the rest of the audience, hoping to catch sight of him. Those at the back were already making a quick getaway up a second flight of stairs which was being used as an additional exit. He caught a momentary glimpse of a familiar figure.

Could it be? Was it possible?

He would have sworn it was the man from the TGV again. One moment he was there, the next moment he had gone, swallowed up by the crowd.

‘Hey! Look at that!’ Abeille tugged at his arm. ‘Would you believe it?’

‘I know. I have already seen him.’

‘No, I don’t mean behind you,’ Abeille tugged his arm again. ‘Look … over there.’

Reluctantly, Monsieur Pamplemousse diverted his attention back towards the acting area. A stage hand dressed from head to foot in black – one of several responsible for moving the scenery during the performance – was holding aloft the handkerchief that had been used to cover Vert-Vert, a look of disbelief on his face.

‘See what I mean?’ exclaimed Abeille. ‘Someone’s made off with the goddam parrot!’