Peter May - The Critic

She decided to go into the abbey to light a candle and say a prayer for her.

The vast, vaulted space of the Abbey Saint-Michel was gloomily lit. She passed down the central aisle and crossed to the Madonna and Child, where candles burned and spilled their wax. She dropped some coins into the box, took a fresh candle, and lit it from one already burning. Then she knelt in front of the Virgin Mary and closed her eyes. She had no idea what to do. It was so long since she had prayed, she had forgotten how. She concentrated her thoughts and hoped with all her heart that her mother would be delivered from her suffering quickly and without further pain.

When she stood up again, she realised she was alone in the church. The confessional was empty. And yet she could hear voices. A babble of them, some raised in what sounded like anger. Away to her right, on the curve of the apse, a door stood ajar, and she crossed the nave to listen at it. The voices were louder, though still distant, and so she was unable to hear what they were saying. She glanced around, self-conscious and indecisive. There was still no one else in the church. And so after a moment’s hesitation, she pushed the door open and stepped into an ante-room with coat hangers and an antique armoire. An old stone staircase spiralled down into darkness, to the vaulted cellars below.

The offices of the Maison du Vin, and the museum, were all part of the original abbey, interconnected by its cellars. And aware that she was probably hearing the assembled dignitaries of l’ Ordre de la Dive Bouteille in mid-meeting, she started tentatively down the stairs, drawn on by curiosity.

She felt the temperature drop as she descended into darkness, with only a rope handrail for a guide. The air was suffused with a smell of damp. Light bleeding down from the abbey above was quickly snuffed out and she became enveloped by an impenetrable black that swallowed all shape and form. It occurred to her that there was probably a light switch at the top of the stairs, and she stopped, wondering whether or not to go back. But the voices were louder now. And as her eyes adjusted, she became aware of a faint glow coming up from below. She pressed on, following the spiral curve of the wall, until the world took shape again in light, and she found herself stepping into a vaulted salle with freshly pointed brickwork and tiled floors. Black triangular uplighters on the walls echoed the flaming torches that once would have lit this underground place. An unlit corridor led off south, towards the river. The voices of the assembled dignitaries of the Order of the Divine Bottle echoed along it. Nicole took the first tentative steps towards them, leaving the light behind her again. Guiding herself with fingertips on rough brick, she turned left and then right and saw light again ahead of her.

It spilled through a glass door in a closed archway, and from the obscurity of darkness, Nicole could see through it into a large vaulted meeting room, where the crimson-robed members of the Ordre were assembled on chairs facing a top table. Most of the dignitaries appeared to be older men, although there were three or four younger ones, Fabien amongst them, and two women.

The dominant voice was Fabien’s. He was on his feet, red-faced again. Only this time, from anger and indignation. ‘I’ve worked damned hard all year. And then this. Just as I’m harvesting the fruits of my labour, some foreigner playing amateur detective comes snooping around my vineyard, disrupting my vendange, threatening my livelihood. You know, he even sent one of his spies to rent a room at my house!’ He stopped to draw breath. ‘I can’t take issue with an official police investigation. A man was found dead yesterday on my land. But Petty’s murder was years ago. This Macleod character is just reopening old wounds. And for what? I’ve read about him in the newspapers, like everyone else. This all started with a bet. He doesn’t care about Petty. He doesn’t care about us. All he cares about is his own reputation-and winning a wager. Well, he’s not going to do it at my expense.’

There was a chorus of murmured agreement, and Fabien pressed on.

‘We all have livelihoods at stake here. The reputation of the wines of Gaillac. The whole point of our Ordre is to protect and promote those wines. I don’t think we should be cooperating with this Macleod. It’s not in any of our interests.’

The wall at Nicole’s shoulder seemed to give just a little. There was a click, and the corridor was flooded with sudden light. She realised, to her horror, that she had leaned against a light switch. As heads in the meeting room swung towards her, she fumbled to switch it off again, and ran back the way she had come, training shoes squeaking on shiny tiles.

She reached the salle at the foot of the spiral staircase, and plunged herself again into darkness. Running up and round, burning her palms on the rope rail, stumbling on the stairs as profound blackness wrapped itself around her once more. And then there was light again, from above, and she emerged finally, gasping for breath, into the ante-room with the armoire.

She stood for a full minute, breathing hard, perspiring in the gloom, trying to regain her equilibrium. But her legs were like jelly, and her breath trembled in her chest each time she filled her lungs. Try as she could, straining to listen above the rasp of her breathing, she was unable to detect any sound from below. There were no voices. Nothing. And she knew she had to get out of there.

With as much composure as she could muster, she peered out into the abbey. There were a couple of elderly ladies kneeling before the Virgin, but there was no sign of the cure, and so she slipped out into the whispering vastness of the nave and hurried towards the back of the church.

The night air felt soft and warm as she emerged into the cobbled square. She walked quickly amongst the parked cars until she reached Fabien’s four-by-four, and slipped into the passenger seat with a huge sigh of relief. In the reflected light of the abbey’s floodlamps, she saw that her hands were trembling, and she leaned her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes.

The members of the Ordre emerged into the abbey square from the light of the arched tunnel of the Maison du Vin, a flood of crimson and black, dispersing to their vehicles and swallowed by the night.

Fabien peered in at Nicole before opening the door and removing his hat to throw it in the back.

She did her best to smile naturally. ‘How did it go?’

‘Fine.’ He slipped off his gown to reveal that he was wearing jeans beneath it, and folded it carefully to place it on the back seat. He pulled his shirt out from his jeans, where it was stretched in tight around the waistband, and he seemed to breath more easily. In the glove compartment, he found a baseball cap which he pulled on over his shock of curls, and slipped in behind the wheel. He glanced at Nicole. ‘Not too bored?’

‘No.’

He started the motor and turned on the lights. But she knew she couldn’t pretend for much longer.

‘Why are you so much against Monsieur Macleod?’

His head snapped around, eyes full of sudden anger. ‘It was you down in the cellars.’

She nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Spying.’ He almost spat the word at her.

‘Oh, yes, that’s what I do. I’m a professional spy for Monsieur Macleod. I’m spying on you at your house, I’m spying on you at your meeting.’

‘But you were.’

‘Not on purpose. It was an accident.’

‘Oh, so you’re an accidental spy?’

She gathered her indignation around herself like a cloak. ‘I was in the abbey saying a prayer for my mother, and I heard voices. I was curious, that’s all. I didn’t mean to spy on you, but I couldn’t help but hear.’