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Cooker spent most of his day in the village, at the Bertagna wine estate, to establish a winemaking protocol on an experimental parcel of land. He had been in touch with the managers of the property for several months and had promised to spend some time with them when he came to the area for his induction. The project was exciting and still needed some adjustments, but the cellar master and the master grower were efficient and cooperative. After long consultation and a methodical test of the decanted samples, Cooker concluded that he would definitely have to come back to Vougeot to put a final touch on this limited vintage. Before leaving, he took advantage of the opportunity to taste several vintages of Clos de la Perrière Monopole, a true Vougeot wine, which was produced outside the château but whose balance he had always appreciated.
Once back at the hotel at the end of the afternoon, he allowed himself a break in the dining room for a cup of tea. Aurélie prepared a smoky lapsang souchong, which he drank in little sips while waiting for Virgile to return. The girl made some overtures to engage him in conversation. He went along, but wasn’t fooled. She finally gave herself away by casually asking one too many questions about his assistant, whose brown eyes had met hers that very morning. Cooker didn’t hesitate to give her the information that she was trying hard to get out of him.
“In fact, here he is!” Cooker exclaimed as he heard the familiar sound of the convertible.
Virgile walked in with the ease of a handsome guy used to making a theatrical entrance. His gaze came to rest on Aurélie’s smooth face.
“So?” Cooker said.
“Nothing but good news, sir,” Virgile said, his speech mildly slurred.
“But you look smashed, my boy,” Cooker said, worried.
“To be honest, I didn’t leave very clearheaded. It was so fine that toward the end, I didn’t have the willpower to spit. But don’t worry. I didn’t get behind the wheel right away. I took a little nap in the car, and the cold air woke me up.”
“That’s not very responsible,” Cooker grumbled. “I expected more professional behavior from you! Let’s see what your notes look like.”
Virgile took out a bundle of pages that his boss almost tore from his hands.
“Very cool atmosphere. I got along very well with Pascal Wagner. He’s a super sommelier. We talked about rock ’n’ roll almost as much as we talked about wine.”
The assistant was effusive and joyfully related his visit with Olivier Lefflaive. The wine tasting had taken place before a nice plate of local cured meats, Bresse chicken stewed in honey, and several local cheeses.
Cooker was not really listening to him and consulted the sheets to see if they were in order.
“Well, I am going to my room to read all of this in peace. Tonight I am skipping dinner. I decided to diet today, and considering your state, I suggest you do the same.”
Once in his room, Cooker raised the thermostat, took off his shoes, pulled on a cashmere sweater, and stretched out on his bed to study his employee’s report. Everything was recorded according to Cooker & Co. criteria. He began with the tasting of the whites, which had been lined up in the 1999 vintage: Meursault, Chassagne-Montrachet, Puligny-Montrachet, Chassagne premier cru Blanchots, Meursault premier cru Charmes, and Puligny-Montrachet premier cru Chalumeaux. The notes were well written, both technical and perceptive, and some made the winemaker smile.
Virgile’s notes were as pertinent as they were impertinent. Chablis grand cru Valmur 2000: “Rather citrusy, mineral, with a touch of sweetness, a bit creamy. Superb bouquet. (You could say fabulous without exaggerating too much.) Floral, round, balanced. Very satisfying structure.” In the margin he had scribbled a note that was crossed out. Cooker could still make it out: “Think of asking Mom what perfume she wore when I was in high school. Same lemony, slightly acidic, smooth smell.”
Cooker could see that the finale of the wine-tasting session had been a real joy: Puligny-Montrachet premier cru Pucelles, Corton-Charlemagne grand cru, and Bienvenues-Bâtard-Montrachet grand cru in four successive vintages. Sublime whites that brought the art of chardonnay winemaking to unexpected heights. They were sometimes difficult to spit out. Virgile had done good work. Admittedly, his conduct had been a bit less than stellar, or at least he had drunk without much moderation. But he had written an impeccable wine-tasting report that was sufficiently precise and analytical without losing his personality and refined subjectivity. Obviously, this young man from Bergerac felt comfortable in Burgundy. He understood its authenticity, its rough manners, its gruff simplicity, and its down-to-earth honesty that emphasized doing what you say, not saying what you do.
Cooker placed the notes on his bedside table, picked up his cell phone, and punched in the number for Robert Bressel, the reporter. Night would soon fall on Vougeot.
“Good evening, Mr. Bressel.”
“Ah, Mr. Cooker!”
“How did you know it was me?”
“I have an ear for voices. I only have to hear one once to recognize it among thousands.”
In the background, there was the muffled sound of a sitar mixed with the banging of a tabla. Cooker had no trouble imagining the heady odor of patchouli. He rubbed his nose in irritation.
“I heard about what happened last night at Mrs. Grangeon’s place,” Cooker said. “How is the good woman doing?”
“Good woman? Who says?”
“I don’t know her, to tell you the truth. But what happened to her is still very strange.”
“That old lady has a reputation as a battle-ax and nasty shrew. Mean to everyone, including family. But no one wishes her any harm. At the moment, she is still at the hospital in a state of shock. I just finished my article, and I had to hold off a bit, because the doctors don’t want to comment just yet. We only know that her heart is not about to give out.”
“That’s good.”
“Apparently, the less heart you have, the stronger it is.”
“I have the impression that this latest episode completely exonerates the two boys. In my opinion, they died for nothing—just for having been smart alecks.”
“That’s my opinion, too, but it seems to me that the police are still on that track. I inquired myself, and it appears that Cedric was more or less a dunce, but his cousin, David, was an excellent student: baccalaureate with honors, seven years of Latin, and good grades throughout, right on schedule for catechism, first communion, and confirmation. In short, a completely plausible suspect. And besides, his name was David.”
“Maybe,” Cooker conceded. “But it doesn’t necessarily follow that he would know all those psalms. Still, what a waste. Those poor kids!”
“Getting back to Adèle Grangeon, I think the staging is a bit crude.”
“What are you insinuating?”
“As if someone meant to add a layer of complications, offer a whole new set of clues, and send yet another message to decode.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Nothing, but I have the feeling that there is something to pursue here. The graffiti messages that they found at Grangeon’s place correspond to the missing second and third verses from Psalm 102. I tried to reach my nephew to get some information. I already told you about him. He’s the one who works at the regional library. He did his thesis on the folklore of Burgundy and the secret histories of the Côte-d’Or. I’m sure he’s got something to say about this.”
“What’s his name again?”
“Pierre-Jean Bressel. You can find him during the day in the offices of the historical collections.”
“Excuse me for belaboring the point, but there is still something strange about Mrs. Grangeon. How is it that she didn’t wake up in the night?”
“It seems that she’s been taking sleeping pills since her husband died. She must have been sleeping like a rock.”
“I see.”
The two men sketched out some more theories without much basis, then decided they had examined the case from all angles. Soon after
hanging up, Cooker called his wife to confirm that he would, indeed, return home the following weekend. He missed Elisabeth, and he told her so tenderly and discreetly. Then he asked about his dog, Bacchus, and whether the first buds were blooming along the paths of their home, Grangebelle. Cooker knew that Elisabeth would pick up the melancholy in his voice and want to know how this trip to Burgundy was unfolding. He responded vaguely. She pressed him a bit. Benjamin reassured her, “Everything is going well, my sweet. Nothing to report.”
7
The dining room was deserted, the shutters closed, the tables empty, and the coffeemaker turned off. Cooker waited for a few minutes and decided to go back and awaken Virgile. When he turned into the passageway that led to the courtyard, he spotted the furtive silhouette of Aurélie hurrying nervously from the annex. She smoothed her hair before slipping through the back door.
Cooker sighed and walked directly to his assistant’s room. He knocked several times without getting a response. He turned the doorknob and found that the door wasn’t locked. Cooker poked his head in and surveyed the scene. The bed had slid toward the chest of drawers. The rumpled sheets were spilling onto the floor, and the pillows had been tossed to the other side of the room. The sound of a vigorous shower was coming from the bathroom, joyously accompanied by off-key whistling. Virgile was merrily butchering the melody from The Bridge Over the River Kwaï.
“That’s right, my boy, the sun is shining, shining, shining,” Cooker sang softly as he closed the door.
When he returned to the dining room, Aurélie was bustling behind the counter and putting the breakfast rolls in wicker baskets.
“Sorry, sir, I was late. Your tea will be ready in a few minutes.”
“No rush,” he said and watched, amused, as she laid out the tray with feverish movements that were so unlike her. “I hope it was nothing serious?”
“No, sir, just couldn’t find my watch.”
“Ah, Aurélie, time flies when we’re having fun!” he teased.
The young woman paid no attention and approached the table with an angelic smile. Her pink face, luminous blue eyes, pulled-back hair, and round mouth gave her the honest but still mysterious look of a polychromatic virgin in a Romanesque church.
Virgile appeared in a heady cloud of Italian cologne. He waved to his boss enthusiastically. He gave the waitress a sidelong greeting that was both subtle and awkward as he walked past the counter. Aurélie blushed and lowered her head to dry a stack of saucers. Virgile focused on devouring his pastries. He drank two glasses of orange juice and served himself cup after cup of tea.
“One would think you haven’t eaten in a week,” Cooker said. “Build up your strength. You seem to need it.”
“Did you read my notes?”
“Yes, and I congratulate you. It’s quite unexpected, considering your condition last night. I hope you got your beauty sleep?”
Virgile ignored the question and asked about the plan for the day.
“We are going to Dijon!” Cooker announced as he was getting up. “And we shouldn’t sit around too long.”
The engine of the Mercedes was already running when the young man trotted out of the hotel, a croissant in his mouth and his jacket half on.
“You think of nothing but eating, my boy!” Cooker said. “Come on. We’re off!”
Comfortably stretched out in the convertible’s burnished-leather seat, the assistant pulled a stack of raisin cakes out of his pocket.
“That young girl spoils you, Virgile. Please don’t take advantage of her generosity.”
They arrived without mishap in the historic center of Dijon and had no trouble finding a place to park. The winemaker gave some free time to his assistant, who felt duty-bound to visit the former Palace of the Dukes of Burgundy and its fine arts museum. Cooker intended to see the reporter’s nephew at the regional library, which was not far away.
Once he got there, a receptionist showed him to the office where Pierre-Jean Bressel presided. At the back, to the right of shelves dedicated to the history of Burgundy, a gray silhouette was seated at a table. Cooker approached slowly to get a good look at the archivist, who was filing piles of documents. The man was no more than thirty. He had a moon-shaped face, slightly flabby jowls, and thick bifocal glasses that distorted his face. His greasy hair was plastered to his skull. Robert Bressel’s nephew seemed to belong to another era. As he rose slowly, Bressel’s shoulders remained stooped, as if the centuries were weighing them down.
“Hello, sir. May I help you?” His monotone voice exhaled dust and melancholy.
“Hello, young man. I was sent here by your Uncle Robert. He interviewed me in Vougeot a few days ago, and he recommended that I meet you in order to—”
“I know,” Pierre-Jean Bressel interrupted. “You are Mr. Cooker, aren’t you? He called me, and I have been expecting you, more or less.”
“I was in the area for a meeting in Dijon,” Cooker lied with impressive composure. “I hope I am not disturbing you.”
“Not in the least. I suppose that you want to talk about the events that have taken place recently.”
“Absolutely. It seems that you have worked for a long time on the folklore of Burgundy and that you might be able to shed some light on certain matters for us.”
“I do not know if I am able to help you, but I have, in fact, studied certain phenomena that come from legends or beliefs. Let’s say mysteries, if anything.”
“Do you think that what happened to Adèle Grangeon might be in your area of expertise?”
“I am just a historian and do not claim to be anything more, but it does seem to correspond with other events that took place long ago. It’s not the first time that snow has been found on a bed in a home where the furniture has also been moved, and dishes have been broken. There have been many instances of this sort, most notably one that happened in 1826 in the town of Pluvet. Many houses were found this way, with snow on beds and other furniture. The residents said the devil had visited them. Some even claimed to have been hit by rocks in their sleep.”
“And what did that mean?”
“We do not know any more about it.”
The librarian pushed up his thick glasses, which had slipped down his nose. He smoothed his oily hair and extracted a file from a stack.
“This dissertation deals with several other matters of this sort,” he said in a toneless voice that was beginning to irritate Cooker. “I will spare you the chapter on the haunted houses. There are so many of them. But one particular story might be noteworthy. Back in 1633, a Chrétien Bochot, who ran an inn on the Rue de la Bretonnerie in Beaune, was complaining of nightly disturbances. Each morning, he would find trunks and furniture turned upside down and dishes thrown on the floor. Luckily, in those days, dishes were made of pewter, so they didn’t break. But the noise must have been terrifying. He also said he heard things: whimpering, chains rattling, groans, and screams from the attic.”
“So, what happened?”
“After that, we don’t know.”
“In the end, no one knows anything,” Cooker said, both disappointed and annoyed.
“We suspect some things.”
“But you don’t have a vaguely rational explanation?”
“By cross-referencing, we have observed that there is always a child connected to the story, sometimes several.”
“Could the children have been playing dirty tricks to frighten people? A little like the two young Bravart kids in some way?”
“Not at all. It was just observed that children were in the vicinity. There are three more recent examples. In 1877 in Chauvirey, a man who took in a little girl from a social-service agency was the target of the same type of harassment. He heard scratching, footsteps, and a terrifying racket every night for several months. They called in a soothsayer, a sort of exorcist, who concluded that the noise manifested only when the child was in bed and that it was her spirit acting up.”
“And there, same thing,” Cooker interrupte
d wearily. “You’re going to tell me that we know nothing more about it.”
Pierre-Jean Bressel did not respond but rather readjusted his glasses and turned some pages of the dissertation.
“We also know that in 1898 in La Roche-en-Brenil, a Mr. Garrie, who was a weaver by trade, saw his clock shake and fall to the floor and his lamps suddenly go out. He relit the lamps and put the clock back up. But the same thing happened. He called his neighbors over, and they watched as the furnishings tumbled over, and pictures came off the walls. Then a hammer sprang out of a drawer, broke a window, and ended up in the street.”
“That’s disturbing,” the winemaker admitted, leaning over the document.
“I have some press clippings from the time of the incident. See for yourself. The events occurred over the span of several days: tables knocked over, jars of pickles smashed, sideboard upside down.”
“Was there a child involved that time?”
“Yes, a youngster from the hospice who was raised by the family. As soon as he was sent to Saulieu, there were no more incidents. There were also several children in the home of Mr. Girard in Aubigny-la-Ronce. On the night of every Sabbath there were terrifying noises that everyone heard. One of them was a sound like collapsing logs, as if someone were knocking over entire stacks of firewood. It always happened as soon as Mr. Girard’s daughter-in-law put the grandchildren to bed.”
“And yet there was no writing on the walls, as there was in Vougeot,” Cooker remarked, trying to look Pierre-Jean in the eye behind the Coke-bottle glasses.
“Indeed, that may be a new element that should be indexed.”
“So there is no historical incident, proven or imagined, that involves the Psalms of David?”
“As far as I know, not one. We find many legends that revolve around the devil, satyrs, suspicious ceremonies and nights of debauchery. There are also quite a few tales of ghosts, such as a certain lady in white who wanders the countryside. From time to time, she is dressed in black instead of white. But is this really the same phantom? There is no dearth of shocking occurrences and bizarre apparitions—stories of tortured saints, trials, and stakes, talking crucifixes, fake Virgin Marys, bodies risen from the dead, what have you. Herders of wolves, goblins, spirits, and miraculous springs.”
Nightmare in Burgundy (The Winemaker Detective Series) Page 6