Treachery in Bordeaux (The Winemaker Detective Series)

Treachery in Bordeaux
by Jean-Pierre Alaux and Noël Balen

First of the 20-book Winemaker Detective series, adapted for television in France

“I love good mysteries. I love good wine. So imagine my joy at finding a great mystery about wine, and winemaking, and the whole culture of that fascinating world. And then I find it's the first of a series. I can see myself enjoying many a bottle of wine while enjoying the adventures of Benjamin Cooker in this terrific new series.”
— William Martin, New York Times bestselling author of Back Bay and The Lincoln Letter

“Treachery in Bordeaux is a fine vintage forged by the pens of two very different varietals. It is best consumed slightly chilled, and never alone. You will be intrigued by its mystery, and surprised by its finish, and it will stay with you for a very long time.”
— Peter May, Prize-winning, international bestselling author

“An excellent mystery series in which you eat, drink and discuss wine as much as you do murders.”
— Bernard Frank, Le Nouvel Observateur

“Benjamin Cooker uses his composure, erudition and intuition to solve heady crimes that take place in the exclusive—and realistic—world of grand cru wines.”
— Jean-Claude Raspiengeas, La Croix

“This is an excellent translation. You never have the feeling you are reading a translated text. The author obviously knows Bordeaux extremely well, and he knows quite a bit about oenology. The book should be a hit with lovers of Bordeaux wine.”
— Tom Fiorini, The Vine Route

“A series that is both delectable for connoisseurs of wine and an initiation for those not in the know.”
— Marine de Tilly, Le Figaro

TREACHERY IN BORDEAUX

All rights reserved: no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

First published in France as
Mission à Haut-Brion
by Jean-Pierre Alaux and Noël Balen
World copyright © Librairie Arthème Fayard, 2004
English translation copyright © 2012 Anne Trager

First published in English in 2012
By Le French Book, Inc., New York
http://www.lefrenchbook.com

Copyediting by Amy Richards
Cover designed by Melanie Hooyenga at
Ink Slinger Designs
eBook designed by
the eBook Artisans

Direct-to-digital translation published in 2012
ISBN:
978-0-9853206-2-1
978-0-9853206-3-8

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

“A bottle of wine contains more philosophy than all the books in the world.”

— Louis Pasteur

T
HE MORNING WAS COOL and radiant. A west wind had swept the clouds far inland to the gentle hills beyond the city of Bordeaux. Benjamin Cooker gave two whistles, one short, the other drawn out, and Bacchus appeared from the high grass on the riverbank. He had that impertinent look that Irish setters get when you remind them that they are dogs. Cooker liked this clever and deceptively disciplined attitude. He would never roam his childhood landscapes with an animal that was too docile. The Médoc was still wild, despite its well-ordered garden veneer, and it would always be that way. In the distance, a few low wisps of fog were finishing their lazy dance along the Gironde Estuary. It was nearly eleven and time to go home.

The Grangebelle’s graceful shape rose among the poplar trees. The building would have seemed bulky, were it not for the elegant roof, the lightly draped pergola, the delicate sparkling of the greenhouse and the old varnished vases set out in the vegetation with studied negligence. Elisabeth moved silently among the copper pots in the kitchen. She shivered slightly when her husband kissed her at the base of her neck. He poured himself a cup of Grand Yunnan tea with slow and precise movements. She knew he was tired. She was perfectly aware of his nights of poor sleep, the deleted pages, the files he relentlessly ordered and reordered, the doubts he had when he completed a tasting note, his concern for the smallest detail and the chronic worry that he would deliver his manuscript late and disappoint his publisher. Benjamin had worked in his office until 5 a.m., taking refuge in the green opaline halo of his old Empire-style lamp. Then he had slipped under the covers to join her, his body ice-cold and his breathing short.

Who could have imagined that France’s most famous winemaker, the established authority who caused both grand cru estate owners and unknown young vintners to tremble was, in fact, a man tormented by the meaning of his words, the accuracy of his judgments and an impartiality that he brandished like a religious credo? When it came time to hand over a manuscript, his self-doubts assailed him—the man whom the entire profession thought of as entrenched in certainty and science, which was also a fine art. Benjamin Cooker knew that everyone, without exception, would be waiting for his book to arrive in the stores. They would be weighing his qualifiers and judging his worst and best choices. It was essential that the publication of his guide never blemish his reputation as a winemaker and very sought-after, even secret, advisor in the art of elaborating wines. He made it a point of honor, which he proved with his sometimes scathing criticism of wines he himself had crafted. To him, moral integrity stemmed more often than not from this astonishing faculty of uncompromising self-judgment, even when it was forced and terribly unfair. He sometimes thought it belonged to another century, a faraway time, when self-esteem and a certain sense of honor prevailed over the desire for recognition.

He closed his eyes as he drank his tea. He knew that this moment of rest would not last long and that he should make the most of it, appreciating these slow, spread-out seconds. Elisabeth remained quiet.

“Send him to me as soon as he gets here. I need to have a few words with him before lunch,” he said, calmly setting down his cup.

Benjamin Cooker dragged himself back to the half-light of his office. He spent more than an hour examining his tasting notes for a Premières Côtes de Blaye and finished by persuading himself that there was nothing left to add. However, his preamble about the specific characteristics of the soil and the vineyard’s history was a little short on information, despite his in-depth knowledge of every acre. There was nothing wrong in what he wrote, but nothing really specific either. He would have to draw a more detailed picture, refine the contours and play with an anecdote or two to clarify the text. He did not even lift his eyes from his notes when the doorbell rang out in the hallway. He was nervously scribbling some poetic lines about the Blaye citadel when Elisabeth knocked at the door. She knocked three more times before he told her to come in.

“Our guest has arrived, Benjamin.”

“Welcome, young man!” Cooker said, pushing his glasses to his forehead.

An athletic, honest-looking young man with short hair honored him with a strong handshake that left Cooker wondering if his fingers would still work.

So you’re Virgile Lanssien,” Benjamin said, lowering his reading glasses again to the tip of his nose.

He invited the young man to sit down and observed him over the top of his lenses for a minute. The dark, brooding good looks would have been almost overwhelming, were it not for the spark of mischief in his eyes. He was dressed simply in a pair of slightly washed-out jeans, a navy blue polo shirt and white sneakers. He was smart enough not to feign a laid-back attitude when everything about him was on edge. Benjamin appreciated people who did not posture.

“I have heard a lot about the time you spent at the wine school. Professor Dedieu was unending in his praise for your work, and I have to admit that I was rather impressed by your thesis. I have a copy of it here. The title is a little complicated,
Maceration Enzyme Preparation: Mechanism of Action and Reasonable Use
, but your reasoning was straightforward and clear, particularly the section about blind tasting an enzymatic treatment of cabernet sauvignon must. Well done, very well done! Please do excuse me for not having been part of the jury when you defended your dissertation.”

“I won’t hide my disappointment, sir.”

“In any case, my presence would not have changed the result: You greatly deserved the honors you received. I had an emergency call that day to care for some grapevines in Fronsac, and it couldn’t wait. The flowering was tricky and required quite a bit of attention.”

“I understand, sir. Did you save them at least?”

“More or less. There were enough grapes for me to offer you a bottle,” Cooker said, smiling.

The young man settled into the armchair and relaxed a little. He knew that these formalities foreshadowed a flow of questions that he would have to answer with candor and precision. Benjamin Cooker was a master no cheating could fool. Virgile had read everything written by this man, whose reputation spread as far as the New World and South Africa. He had also heard everything there was to know about the “flying winemaker”—all the scandal mongering and bitter words, along with the passionate commentaries and praise. Everything and its opposite are the usual lot of exceptional people, the ransom paid by those who have succeeded in imposing their singularity.

Virgile Lanssien tried to hide his apprehension and answered as distinctly as possible the sudden volley of questions that descended on him. They covered so many topics—layering, copper sulfate spraying, sulfur dioxide additions, microclimates, grand cru longevity, aging on lees, filtering and fining, gravel or limestone soils, fermentation temperatures, primary aromas and degrees of alcohol—in such disorder, yet Virgile managed to avoid the traps with a skilled farmer’s cunning.

“Well, Virgile—I can call you Virgile, can’t I? I think that after these appetizers, we have earned the right to a meal.”

Elisabeth, wearing a checkered apron tied at her waist, welcomed them into the kitchen.

“We will eat in the kitchen, if that does not bother you, Mr. Lanssien.”

“To the contrary, Madame. May I help with anything?”

“The plates are in that cupboard. The cutlery is here. I leave you to set the table.”

Benjamin was surprised to see his wife accept the young man as if he were already part of the family. But Elisabeth knew her man well enough to guess that this first job interview was going well.

The winemaker grabbed three stem glasses and poured the wine he had decanted that morning, before the walk with Bacchus.

“Taste this, Virgile.”

Cooker observed his future assistant while he cut the bread and placed the even slices in a basket. The boy knew how to taste. He used his eyes, his nose and his palate in a natural way, with the attitude of someone who knew more than he showed.

“Wine can be so good when it’s good!”

An amused smile crossed Cooker’s lips. The young man had a talent for finding the truth beneath the surface but kept a certain innocence. Virgile was a cultivated ingénue with enough freshness and spontaneity to compensate for the long years he had focused entirely on his studies.

“I will not be so cruel as to subject you to a blind tasting,” Benjamin said, turning the empty bottle to display the label.

“Haut-Brion 1982!” the young man said with a note of rapture. “To tell you the truth, I’ve never tasted one of these before.”

“Enjoy it then. It’s harder and harder to grab this vintage away from the small-time speculators who are complicating our lives.”

“I made something simple,” Elisabeth interrupted, putting an old cast-iron casserole on the table.

Virgile paused, unfolded his napkin and gave the pot an apprehensive look. Large chunks of eel floated in a thick greenish sauce filled with so many herbs, it looked like a patch of weeds.

“I know, at first glance it does not look very appetizing, but it is a recipe that deserves overcoming your first impression.”

“I think I know what it is.”

“Lamprey à la bordelaise. It’s a classic,” said Elisabeth.

“With this dish, you should always drink the wine that was used in the cooking,” Cooker said, dishing out generous portions. “And nothing is better with lamprey than a red Graves.”

Virgile stuck his fork into a piece of eel, dipped it in the sauce and nibbled at it.

“It is first rate, Mrs. Cooker! Excellent.”

“And now, let’s try a little of this Haut-Brion with that,” Benjamin suggested. “Just a swallow, and then tell me what you think.”

Virgile did as he was told, with a pleasure he had some trouble hiding.

“It is beautifully complex, particularly with the tannins that are very present. Rather surprising but not aggressive.”

Cooker remained silent and savored his lamprey.

“It leaves a very smooth sensation in the mouth,” Virgile continued. “And yet it has a kind of grainy texture.”

“Very perceptive. That is typical of Haut-Brion. It is both strong and silky. And what else?”

“It’s fruity, wild fruits, with hints of berries, blackberries and black currant fruit.”

“True enough,” Benjamin said. “You can taste cherry pits later on, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t notice, but now that you mention it.”

“Beware of what people say. Some may not find that hint of cherry pits, and they wouldn’t be wrong.”

The guest took the blow without flinching. Cooker had no trouble pushing his interrogation further. The Pessac-Léognan grand cru loosened Virgile’s tongue, and secrets slipped out in every sentence. He recounted his childhood in Montravel, near Bergerac, where his father was a wine grower who shipped his harvest to the wine cooperative and had no ambitions for his estate.

“You’ll take over the business one day, won’t you?” Elisabeth asked.

“I don’t think so. At least not as long as my father is in charge of the property. My older brother is all they need for now to take care of the vineyards.”

“That’s too bad. Bergerac wines have come a long way and could certainly benefit from your talent,” Cooker said.

“Perhaps one day. I rarely go back, truth be told. Mostly to see my mother, who accuses me of deserting the nest, and my younger sister, who is the only one I can confide in.”

He talked a lot, not so much because he wanted to monopolize the conversation, but rather to satisfy his hosts’ unfeigned curiosity. To earn his future boss’s trust, he felt it was appropriate to answer the Cooker couple’s unspoken questions. The winemaker needed to know what was hidden in this excellent and dedicated student. Never had he experienced a job interview that was so informal and piecemeal. He disclosed himself without ostentation, without mystery and without immodesty. He talked about swimming in the Dordogne River and playing for the Bergerac rugby club, but only for one season, because he preferred canoeing and kayaking. He mentioned his first medals when he joined the swim team, his years studying winemaking at La Tour Blanche, near Château d’Yquem, before he did his military service, his studio apartment on Rue Saint-Rémi, from which you could see a little bit of the Garonne.

Between two anecdotes, Cooker went to get a second carafe of Haut-Brion and gave way to telling some personal memories. It pleased Elisabeth to see her husband finally relaxed and able to forget the tribulations of his writing for a while. Benjamin recounted the crazy, hare-brained ideas his father Paul William—an antique dealer in London—had and his mother Eleonore’s patience. Her maiden name was Fontenac, and she had spent her entire youth here in Grangebelle, on the banks of the Gironde, before she fell in love with that extravagant Englishman who collected old books in a shop at Notting Hill.

Virgile listened. His brown, handsome eyes were wide open, and he looked like a slightly frightened child as he began to fully comprehend that this was the famous Cooker,
the
Cooker, whose books he had devoured and who was now sharing confidences. The oenologist enjoyed telling the young graduate about his chaotic career. He had studied law for a year in England, spent a year at the Paris Fine Arts Academy, worked for a year at the Wagons-Lits in train catering and sleeping-car services and then a year bartending at the Caveau de la Huchette in the capital before being hired by a wine shop in the fifth arrondissement in Paris, where he worked for three years while taking wine classes.

“The year I turned 30, I started my wine consulting business,” Cooker said. “Elisabeth and I ended up moving here after my maternal grandfather, Eugène Fontenac, passed away. Since that day, I haven’t been able to imagine living anywhere other than Bordeaux.”

“That’s an unusual career path,” Virgile said.

“Yes, it is atypical. I had been around wine since I was a kid, when I visited my grandfather in Grangebelle during summer vacations, but I needed a little time for all that to distill. I had a lot of doubts during my Paris years, and I spent a lot of time searching. I have followed a rather roundabout path, but I do not regret any of the detours.”