11

Virgile came through the gate at Château Prada just as the first glimmers of dawn were spilling over the countryside. Philippe de Bouglon, the only one awake at this hour, asked Virgile why he was up and about. Yes, he was a diligent and hard worker, but everyone needed a little sleep. Philippe had the bonhomie of people of the land who knew there was no need to rush in the winter. But he was unable to persuade the young assistant to go back to the Cantarels and get in another hour of sleep. So he offered Virgile some coffee. If he was going to be awake, he might as well be fully awake.

“I’m going to Blanzac,” Virgile said after quickly downing the coffee. “I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

Virgile needed to satisfy his curiosity once and for all. Benjamin had often called him stubborn, and on that point the winemaker was entirely correct. Virgile didn’t intend to let anything get in his way. He took off for Blanzac territory.

Only Athos and Aramis came to lick his hand. Porthos simply urinated copiously on the rear tire of the car he had borrowed from Joachim. He had an air of distrust punctuated by a licking of the chops. Virgile figured it was best to keep the dog at arm’s length.

Virgile rapped on the door, but no human came to interrupt the dead silence of the place. Blanzac seemed abandoned. The winter cold reinforced this impression of rust, seeping humidity, and snuffed-out nature. In the courtyard strewn with dead leaves, ceramic pots had broken in the icy weather. The lingering odor of wet ashes irritated Virgile’s throat, as if the fire were still smoldering within the collapsed walls, where the charred staves and beams lay tangled in a heap of ghostlike blackness. Completing this macabre impression, an ashen mist shrouded the copper of the disembodied still. In Virgile’s eyes, the property had never looked so sinister.

“Valmont? Valmont?” Virgile called out.

No answer. The countryside was without a sound.

Failing to get a response from the mansion, Virgile decided to have another look at the cellar. He had explored every square inch. He knew each bit of rubble, having exhumed, examined, evaluated, and quantified all of it. The explosion and resulting fire had spared nothing. Each strip of alcohol-soaked wood had been licked by the flames, roasted, and destroyed.

But once again he wandered into the rubble, kicking the muddy scraps of iron and wood as he poked through it. A thick lock was all that remained of the cellar door. He glanced at it—and looked again. Why on earth was the bolt engaged? Then it struck him. The cellar had been locked—from the outside! Francisco had never had a chance to escape. Joachim was right. His father had been murdered.

Virgile called his employer.

“Boss, sorry to disturb you, but you’ve got to hightail it back here. My apologies to Mrs. Cooker.”

“What is it, son?”

“You’ll see when you get here. And you’d better call the cops. I’m going to warm up at Prada. Call me when you get near. I’ll meet you at Château Blanzac.”

§ § §

As Benjamin got ready to leave Grangebelle, Elisabeth handed him cracklings for the Bouglons. She had carefully packaged the greasy treat in a small terrine covered with aluminum foil. Philippe and Beatrice were aware that Elisabeth’s maiden name was Darrozière, a name redolent of the Gascony countryside and slow-cooked food. They would certainly appreciate this gift, even if it was as common as Armagnac in their region.

The winemaker had to return to Labastide-d’Armagnac anyway to collect Virgile, who had stayed behind. He was just leaving a little earlier than planned. The investigation for Protection Insurance was wrapped up, and Benjamin’s conclusions had evidently unleashed the wrath of the law and the tax authorities. Nevertheless, Castayrac’s precipitous fall troubled him, and he couldn’t dismiss his doubts. Virgile, on the other hand, had no misgivings about the baron’s culpability. Especially in light of his new friendship with Joachim, nothing would change his mind. Even that opportunist Alban found favor in his eyes.

§ § §

An hour and twenty-eight minutes later, the winemaker arrived at Château Blanzac with two reluctant-looking officers.

Benjamin turned to Virgile. “Well, what do you have to show us, Virgile?”

The assistant handed over his evidence. Benjamin examined it for a few moments and then gave it to the police officers. “It appears, gentlemen, that the cellar was locked from the outside.”

From the beginning, the police—and just about everyone else in the region—had theorized that Francisco Vasquez’s death was accidental.

“Considering Mr. Castayrac’s reputation…” one of the officers stammered.

His fellow officer looked at Virgile and then at Benjamin.

“Mr. Cooker, will you authorize us to take credit for this crucial discovery by your invaluable colleague?”

“You need to ask him yourself. It isn’t my decision to make,” Benjamin grumbled.

Virgile shrugged. Although he felt like saying more, “yeah” was his only response.

The two officers walked over to their van, carefully took off their shoes, and pulled on khaki waders, which made them look ridiculous. They started searching for new clues in the charred debris.

With little to do, Benjamin tugged at Virgile’s coat sleeve. “Come with me, Virgile. I can’t resist stealing another look at the black Citroën DS hibernating at the back of the garage. I know you appreciate vintage cars too. After all, you have one yourself.”

The Citroën was covered in canvas. Only the shiny hubcaps were visible. Virgile could tell that the winemaker’s desire to slip into this sleek 1957 car—aerodynamic before its time—was irresistible. Benjamin started to lift the cover. Not one second later, a beady-eyed Valmont de Castayrac emerged from the shadows.

“I believe I already told you, Mr. Cooker. This car is absolutely not for sale!”

Instantly, Virgile recognized the supple and robust figure, which the night before had appeared ready to throw himself under the car.

§ § §

Benjamin slipped into the back of the public hearing room, hoping not to be noticed. Jean-Charles de Castayrac kept proclaiming his innocence and denouncing the plot against him. Brought before the prosecutor, he cited his entire family tree, the war records of his ancestors, and his tireless battle to promote Armagnac throughout the world as evidence of his good character. But the Landes public prosecutor remained implacable. The baron’s forebears and efforts on behalf of Armagnac—which weren’t selfless, because he benefitted from them—did not make him a man of virtue. Indeed, Castayrac had admitted his bankruptcy, his chronic inability to manage his property, and his weakness for gambling, society life, and beautiful women. He also admitted to the staggering amount of money he had taken from his in-laws before his wife’s death to cover his abysmal losses from a deal gone bad.

“They were already so rich, sir, with their Alvignac spring water!” Castayrac had shouted.

To which the prosecutor responded, “You were just as rich from your own waters: eau-de vie!”

But the cavalier and frivolous behavior of the cynical baron wasn’t what mattered most to the public servant. The baron had cheated the tax authorities, carried out insurance fraud, and, even more important, committed arson. His own cellar master had died in that fire.

“Does it take courage or heartlessness to set fire to one’s own property?” the infuriated prosecutor had asked.

“But I am utterly incapable of that, sir.”

“Incapable of love, yes. That I believe. You knowingly locked Francisco Valdez, the unfortunate man who had been faithful to your family for almost a half century, in your wine cellar before reducing it to ashes.”

“I did nothing of the sort.”

“Everyone knows that you had defaulted on your mortgage, and Crédit Agricole was planning to sell your estate at auction. Only the insurance payout could save you from disgrace.”

“I admit I was in a bad situation, but good heavens, I never could have committed such an act!”

“Can you provide the slightest alibi to suggest that on December 24th you were not at Blanzac?”

The baron was quiet for a long time, as if he had run out of arguments.

“None,” he finally said, running a weary hand through his hair. “Forgive me, sir, I don’t feel very well.”

“And for the very good and sole reason that I have put my finger where it hurts. Blanzac was going to be sold, and you were angry with your older son, the only one who could have helped you.”

“Alban? You must be kidding! Him, help me? He never stopped humiliating me or prowling like a vulture around Blanzac to the point of trying to dispossess me. As recently as last week, he was my fiercest rival for the chairmanship of the APC! No, if you have to point the finger at someone, sir, you should be looking at him.”

“I knew you were capable of many things,” the prosecutor insisted, adjusting his glasses. “But with you, the worst is always yet to come. Incriminating your own son to clear your name! No one’s buying it. You’re providing enough rope to hang yourself. What interest would your offspring have had, no matter how ungrateful he was, to set your wine cellar ablaze? He’s not the one who stood to collect the fat check from the insurance company. And why would he have done away with Francisco, as well? I believe the relationship between your cellar master and Alban was quite friendly.”

“I cannot answer that question, sir. For all I know, his father-in-law was conspiring with the bank to buy the estate, and he planned to hand it over to Alban. Nadaillac would have gained control of one of his biggest competitors, and Alban would have been his own boss. My son never had many scruples.”

“And neither do you, it appears.”

With his head in his hands, Jean-Charles de Castayrac seemed to be trying to drown out the relentless accusations of the prosecutor. The light from the man’s desk lamp illuminated the baron’s signet ring. One could make out perfectly the Castayrac coat of arms: two unicorns and two matching trefoils.

“I believe we’ll leave it at that for today,” the prosecutor said, placing his pen in the white porcelain inkwell from another era.

The guards posted behind the suspect put their caps back on and got ready to leave. The hearing was over.

“When you feel the pangs of remorse, Mr. Castayrac, let me know. We’ll save time that way. As uncomfortable as Château Blanzac may be, it’s still warmer than our jails.”

“Actually, I find your cell sufficiently comfortable, sir,” the aristocrat answered, throwing his shoulders back.

“Lock him up until further notice,” the prosecutor grumbled.

“Very well, sir,” the first guard responded, taking the baron by the arm and leading him away. Benjamin noted that the prosecutor looked like an anachronism. His silk pinstriped suit looked like it was made by an eighty-year-old tailor. His bearing was pompous, and his voice was high-pitched.

§ § §

Back in his office, the prosecutor rose from his chair, walked over to the old cast-iron radiator, and warmed his hands while watching the van haul the fallen baron off to the old jail. Then he walked back to his Empire-style desk, picked up his telephone, and called the chief of police in Saint-Justin.

“Magistrate Canteloube here. I need you to do something for me. Pick up Alban Castayrac and bring him in. Right away.”

§ § §

“With a father like that, I understand why Alban took off,” Virgile told Benjamin during their lunch at Prada. “He would have married anyone to get away from Blanzac. It just happens that he made out rather well by marrying a Nadaillac.”

“It seems to be a theme in the Castayrac family,” Benjamin said. “The baron himself profited quite handsomely from his marriage.”

Philippe and Beatrice de Bouglon were watching this exchange in silence. But after a few sips of a Henri Leroy Romanée-Conti, unearthed from the dark vaults of the Prada cellar, they added their own views. Philippe sided with Benjamin, who was having second thoughts about the whole matter, while Beatrice shared Virgile’s opinion.

“There’ve always been rumors about the old man,” Beatrice said. “Remember that underage girl? And the shadowy deals he’s made—the people he’s cheated. I wouldn’t trust him for a minute.”

“Beatrice, honey, hardly any of that stuff has ever been proved. It’s talk. That’s all.”

“As far as I’m concerned, where there’s smoke, there’s fire!”

“In this particular case, my dear Bea, you couldn’t be more right!” Benjamin burst into a hearty laugh, followed by Virgile and then Philippe de Bouglon, whose handsome musketeer moustache was glistening with duck-crackling grease.

The lunch was filled with racy stories about the baron and his wife. Tales of the couple’s sexual antics—both factual and rumored—kept the four of them entertained to the last bite. La Riquette, the descendant of the famous Alvignac spring waters, wasn’t one to forgive and forget. Betrayed by her frivolous husband, she had cheerfully given the baron a taste of his own medicine. Beatrice confirmed what the baron himself had confessed to Benjamin: Alban was the fruit of an adulterous relationship between Elise de Castayrac and a wine trader from Bordeaux, a “great friend of the family.”

“And what about Valmont?” asked Virgile.

“As for the second son, they say he’s the son of—”

Hearing a car pull into the château courtyard, the diners looked up. When the doorbell rang, Philippe de Bouglon wiped his moustache with the corner of his napkin as he rose from his chair to answer the doorbell. “Could we possibly have lunch in peace someday?”

The winemaker heard an exchange of polite greetings in the Prada entryway. “Benjamin, it’s for you!” Philippe called out.

Who would be looking for him? He gave Virgile and Beatrice an inquisitive look. Shrugging, he took another sip of his Romanée-Conti and stood up to find out who had dared to disturb such a fine meal.

“Mr. Cooker? Delighted. Eric Canteloube, Landes public prosecutor. May I have a word with you in private? I’ll be very brief. I know your time is valuable.”

Although he was polite enough, there was something imperious in his manner that irritated Benjamin. No doubt, this representative of the law in a silk suit was used to intimidating people.

“The parlor is at your disposal,” Philippe said as he slipped into the kitchen.

The prosecutor took in the room, examining the paintings and photographs attesting to the lineage of the Bouglon family, and then sat in an armchair that swallowed him. He looked like a pale and sickly wren. Benjamin wondered how a man with such a frail physique could have such an overbearing presence. Indeed, sitting in the oversized chair, a pigskin briefcase propped in his lap, he seemed quite satisfied with the power his position conferred on him.

Philippe de Bouglon popped his head through another door, a bit like a scene from a comedy. “Can I offer you a Prada Armagnac, gentlemen?” Philippe asked.

The prosecutor declined the offer as if it were an indecent proposal. Benjamin, on the other hand, cheerfully told his friend, “Break open your 1983. That’s a winner if ever there was one.”

The winemaker noticed the reproving look on the prosecutor’s face. The man wasted no time as he launched into the reason for his visit. The Castayrac affair was about to be settled once and for all. He admitted that it had taken him awhile to believe that Jean-Charles de Castayrac was a criminal who had acted with premeditation. He thanked the famed winemaker for his investigation, which had implicated the baron. Benjamin was tempted to point out that it was Virgile who had discovered the evidence that conclusively refuted the accidental-fire theory. But he didn’t interrupt the prosecutor. The man was loquacious and confident. Finally, speaking in a hushed tone, the prosecutor divulged what he considered a secret.

“Imagine, Mr. Cooker. Castayrac went so far as to accuse his own son!”

“Which one?” Benjamin asked.

“Alban, of course! The president of the APC.”

The old man, according to Canteloube, harbored a profound hatred for his older son. The baron had accused Alban of masterminding the fire in order to hasten his bankruptcy and foreclosure.

As the prosecutor spoke, he became increasingly passionate and finally leaped from his chair.

“A bit of 1983 Prada, Mr. Canteloube? Frankly, you’re denying yourself one the best eau-de-vies in Bas-Armagnac. And offending our host!”

“One drop, then,” the prosecutor replied, indicating with his thumb and index finger that he wanted only a little bit.

“I agree that the son doesn’t seem to be as white as the driven snow,” Benjamin said, pouring more Armagnac in his tulip glass after serving the prosecutor.

“He’s ambitious, I’ll gladly concede. Even an opportunist. I suspect he’s more devious than his father. But he wasn’t in Gascony on December 24th. He has an alibi, rather shameful but indisputable. We checked.”

“Meaning?” Benjamin asked. Now he was curious.

“On December 23rd and 24th, Alban de Castayrac was at Fauchon Paris promoting Nadaillac Armagnac. Accompanying him on this trip was his devoted colleague, who is also his mistress, a woman named Sylvaine Malric. An employee at Fauchon confirmed the presence of both of them and witnessed some very affectionate exchanges between the two.”

The prosecutor was smiling for the first time. His coy attitude only added to the humor Benjamin found in his haughty demeanor and affected presentation. It was even more comical than the tales of Lord Castayrac’s shenanigans that Philippe and Beatrice had shared just a short time earlier.

“You see, Mr. Cooker, it’s all clear now—”

A knock at the double doors interrupted the prosecutor. Before Benjamin could respond, Virgile was in the room. He looked upset. “Excuse me, boss, but I’m running back to the Cantarels’ place,” he said. “Joachim’s grandfather just had a heart attack. He’s hanging on by a thread.”

“Go on ahead, my boy. I’ll join you momentarily!”

Virgile’s announcement put an end to the prosecutor’s narrative. The ascetic hadn’t even sampled the 1983 Prada. Benjamin concluded definitively that the man wasn’t worthy of his esteem. And therefore, his judgments were suspect.

§ § §

When the winemaker arrived at the Cantarel home, Evelyne’s eyes were red, and she had her arms around her son. Edmond, her father, was gone. He had died in a matter of minutes—just enough time for the old woodcock hunter to ease his conscience and depart the world in peace.

“No, it’s not possible that Castayrac set fire to his wine cellar to collect the insurance money,” Edmond had said. “He downgraded his policy a month before the fire, and he knew he was underinsured. I warned him that this was a very risky move. He said, ‘My dear Cantarel, my finances will not allow me to pay more. Let’s just hope that nothing happens.’”

Already, the priest had appeared, and neighbors were beginning to stream through the door. Following tradition, they covered the mirrors and stopped the grandfather clock’s pendulum. They had to start preparing the body for burial right away. Edmond’s old spaniel kept scratching at the door. Sensing that the dog was already missing his master, Benjamin let him in and allowed him to settle at his feet.