Bonnie Macbird - Unquiet Spirits - Whisky, Ghosts, Murder

‘Dr Janvier, your government feels you have been legitimately threatened and, through an intermediary, has asked me to offer my services. I presume you showed the letters to someone.’

‘I did.’

‘And then you destroyed them?’

‘The entire matter has served only to waste my time. The only outcome of this threat is that I have been distracted and delayed by the man sent to protect me. Really, sir, I do not take them at face value. It is my choice to ignore the matter.’

As did Holmes with Orville St John, I thought.

‘Perhaps that is best decided by a detective, Dr Janvier. Can you tell me more of these letters? Were they all written by the same hand? In English, by chance?’ asked Holmes.

‘In English, yes. But first things first, Mr Holmes, let us order our food. We are in France, after all. Ah, here is the waiter!’ Janvier, in the manner of many of his countrymen, would not be rushed. He ordered our lunch and, of course, some wine.

‘A good Château Des Flaugergues , from very nearby. Since the 17th century! The one I have ordered comes from before the phylloxera.’

‘What did the letters say?’ persisted Holmes. ‘Certainly enough to have the government wish to send someone to investigate?’

‘Mr Holmes, have you never been frustrated by those who claim to share your goals and yet impede your work? That is how I feel about my government. Everyone is concerned about my safety, and yet so slow to understand the results of my research. They are impatient for completion. They do not understand how research works!’

‘Yes, yes, I sympathize,’ said Holmes.

‘I imagine you can. I have read Dr Watson’s account.’

The wine arrived and now Janvier busied himself with tasting and approving the precious liquid. It was clear he did not wish to discuss the letters. I took a sip of the wine. Even to my relatively untutored palate, it was truly delicious. Holmes’s glass remained untouched, and I could sense his growing impatience.

But at Janvier’s urging, he took a sip. ‘Yes, a splendid vintage,’ my friend conceded. ‘We shall return to these letters. Regarding your research, Dr Janvier, how close are you to a cure?’

Janvier immediately warmed to this question. ‘Ah! To understand this,’ said the scientist, ‘you must understand the phylloxera itself. Let me give you some background.’

Dr Janvier then proceeded to regale us with far more than I ever wanted to know on the subject of the phylloxera plague that was destroying the vineyards, how it affected the roots, how American wine varieties seemed immune, and how a search for resistant rootstock version that would thrive in the limestone of French soils was being sought.

Meanwhile our rather large and complicated salads arrived, filled with a variety of olives, seafood, and vegetables. Mounds of vegetation are generally not my choice of a meal, but this was surprisingly good, and some minutes later I was fishing for any stray olives that might have escaped my fork, when Janvier’s description became particularly detailed about the tiny worm-like parasites and their effects on the roots of the vines. His words were so graphic that I could suddenly stomach no more of the leafy greens I faced.

Holmes ate and drank very little but as the meal progressed remained on alert, glancing frequently at our fellow diners, and those passing through the square. This had not escaped Janvier.

‘Mr Holmes,’ said he, pushing away his empty plate, ‘you may relax your hawk-like vigilance. I do not believe these threats, and even if I did, I would certainly feel safe in public nevertheless.’ He took a sip of wine.

The waiter cleared our plates, including Holmes’s full one.

‘Dr Janvier, please allow me to decide whether or not there is a threat. I am perhaps more accustomed to these things.’ Holmes looked to his salad but the plate was gone. He threw down his napkin in annoyance. ‘What is the status of your research currently?’ he asked.

‘The vintners distrust science, and gaining their cooperation has been challenging.’

‘That is a shame,’ said I. ‘Surely you can educate them to—’

‘No, they are a superstitious lot. Many persist in their magical thinking.’ The scientist offered a hint of a smile from underneath his enormous moustache.

‘What do you mean by that curious term?’ asked Holmes.

‘Well, some believe that burying poisonous toads near the roots of the afflicted vines will scare away the evil spirits! Others imagine that the measurements of their casks must match the golden mean, or that magnetic forces under the ground should dictate the layout of their plantings. Ludicrous!’ He looked around for the waiter. ‘ Garçon! Du café, s’il vous plaît! ’

‘Frustrating, I am sure. Dr Janvier, are you aware that the French government suspects intentional sabotage?’ asked Holmes.

‘Pah!’ exclaimed the scientist. ‘They are idiots.’ Janvier sounded more and more like Holmes in one of his disputatious moods.

‘A certain Monsieur Reynaud of your government thinks one of my countrymen was at fault,’ said the detective.

‘Well, that is so.’

Holmes looked up in surprise. ‘What?’

‘I am fairly certain that a British horticulturalist brought it in on a cutting from America.’

‘Indeed!’ said Holmes. ‘Whom do you suspect?’

‘I know the man and he is innocent. It was accidental, a mistake anyone could make. Well, I would not. But it is remarkably easy to do, and probably would have happened sooner or later.’

Holmes pressed Janvier on this topic, but he would say no more.

Over coffee moments later, the scientist lit up a cigarette. ‘Mr Holmes, if it were sabotage, what motive would the British have for this? You are one of the largest importers of our wines, cognac and brandy. Britain would suffer from the loss.’

‘Yes, but our whisky business is profiting wildly just now,’ I said. ‘Some say—’

‘Watson!’

‘I have heard,’ said Janvier. ‘They suspect the Scots. Or some particular Scots, I do not know. I have seen no evidence. But Mr Holmes, consider the mechanics of such a plot. It is impractical, uncontrollable. Only a madman or anarchist would attempt to make such an obtuse statement in this way.’

‘But to stop your work? That might be useful. Let us return to those letters,’ said Holmes.

Janvier shrugged. ‘Mr Holmes, let me ask you this. Have you ever received vague threats from someone who seems, well, deranged? And did you alter your course because of it?’

I cleared my throat.

Holmes shook his head in irritation. ‘I take your point. But crime is my business and I am accustomed to receiving threats. Please tell me everything you remember about the letters.’

‘I can tell you only this,’ said the scientist, ‘All three were in English, anonymous, and all three on the kind of cheap paper that is available in hundreds of places all over France. The first was written in ordinary black ink, with an aged but costly pen with a flexible nib, the other in a slightly more expensive blue ink but a similar pen. And the third, in black ink like the first, on the back of a postcard with a cheap pen.’

I began to realize the remarkable similarity of the two men sitting at the table with me.

‘Was the handwriting male or female?’ asked Holmes.

‘Male, for all three, I would say. Educated. There were, however two curious things.’

‘What were those?’

‘Well, I noted that while my initial impression was that the hands were different, upon a closer look, it became apparent that they were actually written by the same person.’

‘And how did you—’

‘The looped “t”s,’ said Janvier.