Dying on the Vine (7 page)

“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.

I
N A FRENCH VILLAGE
, the
mairie
is the seat of all power and the center of all authority. When the village is in Provence, Paris is merely the name of a city far away, and no local would accept for a moment any edict issued from it unless it was endorsed by the local
mairie.

The
mairie
in Saint Symphorien was two streets from the main square and occupied an ancient building in a narrow cobbled street. A pretty fountain tinkled merrily in front of it but the stone steps leading up to the battered wooden door showed the wear of thousands of feet, from hopeful brides and proud parents to indignant taxpayers, furious homemakers, and angry motorists.

The massive iron handle creaked as I turned it but the door swung open easily and led into a chilly, dark hall. More stone steps led upward to a large friendly woman at a high wooden counter in a large busy room. I explained that I was a journalist from England, that I was writing an article on local vineyards and wondered about the question of water supplies. “So many English love to visit this beautiful area,” I explained. “But it is a dry climate and readers will wonder how grapes can grow here. They are used to a lot of rain there, you know.”

She nodded vigorously. All the French know of the atrocious English weather. She went to a rack of thin shelves and pulled out a crinkled map. Her long brown finger wandered over it then stopped at some broken lines. Those were the water pipes, she said, 150 and 250 millimeter, that supplied the two vineyards. The water came from the Gorges de Verdon reservoir.

There was plenty of water, she assured me. I asked about drought years and she shook her head firmly. “Emergency plans exist: cuts at certain hours, limited supply to nonessential businesses—”

“And the vineyards?” I asked. Her eyes widened at this foolish question.

“Oh, no, m'sieu. Their supplies are never affected. Wine is the most important product of Provence.”

While I was here, I raised the subject of the A8b, for the specter of that new autoroute slashing its band of devastation through Provence haunts even those not likely to be affected. It appeared that it would not be authorized for some years, and even then it would pass nowhere near the vineyards. No, she said in answer to my next question—no other projects had been approved or even contemplated that would affect the vineyards. Retirement homes? She shrugged off the idea. Down on the coast perhaps, she said derisively, as if referring to another world.

At Le Relais du Moulin, I had the pool to myself and when I went into the lounge for a Kir before dinner. Madame was eager to tell me of the day's specialties. I selected the escargots in garlic, assured by Madame that these were the species known as “vigneron” as they are fed exclusively on vine leaves in the Burgundy region, and followed these with a fish casserole containing turbot, prawns, crayfish, mussels, clams, and rascasse. This latter is translated unfortunately as scorpion fish. It is tasty though short on meat, but ideal for a stew, bouillabaisse, or casserole.

A bottle of Willesford's Sainte Marguerite went very well with it, and the chef's use of bay leaves, saffron, onions, lemon juice, tomatoes, and marjoram was neatly done. He had, I was sure, added some Banyuls, a sweetish dessert wine, to balance the lemon juice.

I had a mandarine mousse that was light and fluffy as air—almost—and a cup of coffee. I was still enjoying this when Madame came hurrying over with an envelope that she said had been left at the desk.

Inside was a sheet of the squared paper that the French inexplicably prefer for writing notes. The message on it was in English. It was printed in large, blocky capitals and it was unsigned. It read:

IF YOU WANT TO KNOW MORE ABOUT THE DEATH OF EMIL LAPLACE, COME TO THE PLACE DES ARMES IN COLCROZE TOMORROW AT 11:00 A.M.

B
REAKFAST THE NEXT MORNING
was served on the terrace at Le Relais. It was a spectacularly beautiful Provence day. The sky was cloudless and a freshly-washed blue. Long-tailed birds reveled in the gentle breezes, soaring and wheeling, raucously applauding one another's aeronautical skills.

By the standards of many other countries, a glass of orange juice, a cup of steaming black coffee, and two croissants, crisp and hot though they may be, do not constitute any kind of breakfast. There was fresh butter, which helped, and, as a concession to English and American visitors, a bowl each of raspberry jam and marmalade. It wasn't much of a meal on which to go out and confront an informer who professed to have information on a suspicious death, but I resolved to have a good lunch in Colcroze and make up for it.

I had brought my Michelin map to the table and soon found that the map did not show Colcroze.
Col
means “hill” and
croze
is an old Provençal word for “cross.” Many villages in Provence have names with ‘croze' as part of them, bestowed in the eleventh to fourteenth centuries by returning Crusaders.

The waiter had never heard of it, he said, adding that he was from Montpellier anyway and a “foreigner” to Provence. Madame was in the village on a buying mission and I was passed on to Henri, the headwaiter. He tried to explain where it was and eventually put an X on the map. When I asked him why it wasn't marked, he shrugged as if that were a strange question. I thanked him and went out to the car. I was early, but indications were that finding Colcroze might not be easy.

An hour later, I was able to confirm that. I was in delightful Provençal countryside, fields of heather and lavender on all sides. I was also at a crossroads with no signpost. I made a guess and turned left.

The terrain was getting more hilly and I guessed I must be approaching two thousand feet in altitude. The air was fractionally cooler but the temperature was still very pleasant. I kept climbing. I hadn't seen a car or any sign of habitation for some time but I continued. Then the ground fell away to my left, giving a clear vista that allowed me to see a village a few miles ahead.

It looked like most Provençal villages, an untidy sprawl of houses huddled together behind massive, towering stone walls. The ruins of a castle struggled to reach above the rooftops … but I could see no more and drove on slowly, hoping that Colcroze was not like Brigadoon, appearing only once a century. I was experiencing doubt when a huge stone arch appeared ahead. It was set into massive walls and the entrance to the village.

It was so dark I was tempted to turn on lights. Houses on both sides reached up four and five stories, with irregular fronts, tiny windows, and large forbidding doors. The street narrowed and if a vehicle came in the opposite direction, one of us would have to back up.

At an intersection, an old church looked gray and forlorn. My eyes were adjusting to the gloom and it seemed I was in one of the less desirable parts of the village. Shops were either closed or out of business and—I suddenly realized—I had not yet seen a person. I went on slowly and came out into the dazzling brightness of the main square.

It was deserted.

There was not a car, not a human being in sight.

I didn't have to park the car, I just left it and walked across the square.

The village was abandoned and had been for some time. How long, it was hard to tell. In this dry climate and at this altitude, it must have been many years. It could have been decades … could it have been centuries?

I felt a shiver of apprehension.

It was not a good place for a meeting. It was ten minutes before the appointed time. I made a tour of the square, silent in the drowsing sunshine. Shop fronts were boarded up, the beams cracked and turning to powder, nails rusted till no metal remained.

There are a number of ghost villages in Provence. The oldest date back to the years of the Plague when a third of Europe's population was wiped out. During the following years, other pestilences and epidemics swept through weakened communities. Towns and villages were desolated. Biot, near Antibes, is an example of a village brought back to life after more than a hundred years when the bishop of Genoa sent fifty families there to regenerate it. Some villages were bypassed by new roads, others “died” as the industries that had sustained them were rendered obsolete.

Colcroze had a brooding air of mystery as if it might spring back to life at any moment. I looked uneasily around the square. Was my informant here already, waiting for me?

The inference of the note was that there was more to Emil's death than appeared. If he had not been gored by wild boars … the lurking suggestion was that he had been murdered. By whom and why were the inevitable questions. Was there a connection between Emil's death and the puzzle of the Willesford/Peregrine buyout offer?

The faintest of breezes brought up tiny swirls of dust from the cobbled square. A sharp noise startled me but it was a damaged shutter, slamming open and shut. An open space had a few stone benches under ancient plane trees.

The possibility that I was in danger had to be faced but it didn't seem too likely. If an unknown assailant wanted to dispose of me, it surely could have been done sooner and without the need to bring me out here. On the other hand… I pushed away all the thoughts that were on the other hand.

It was a minute or two before eleven, the witching hour. The breeze had died and it was utterly still and quiet again. I walked across the square and sat on one of the stone benches. It was warm and I felt drowsy. I thought I could hear the hum of a large insect but then it was gone and the silence spread like a cloak. I stretched out and must have closed my eyes and dozed.