“I’m writing a series of articles on vineyards in the south of France under British ownership,” I said to get the conversational ball rolling. “The Willesford vineyard is one of the first and I went to talk to Gerard to get his viewpoint on his neighbors.”

  “Is that a fact,” he murmured. “Well, now, ye couldn’t have chosen a better man to do that. Gerard is a very nice chap and knows as much about wine and how to make it as anybody in the district.”

  He had a singsong accent and a soft-spoken voice.

  “You’re Welsh,” I said.

  “That I am,” he agreed. “Born in Llangollen. My mother was born there too. My father was a Cherokee Indian. His name was Running Fox but he changed it to Ronald Fox to suit the purposes of civilized bureaucracy.”

  He had the singsong intonation typical of Wales. “So ye’re writing about the vineyard here.” He said it as if he didn’t believe it for a second.

  I tried to ignore that impression as I said promptly, “Yes and I must say I didn’t expect to find a dead body as soon as I got here.”

  “Emil.” He said the name without emphasis.

  “Yes, poor chap,” he went on, “many’s the drink I’ve had with him in here … and other places.”

  He drained his stein as the waitress approached with my bottle of wine and I invited him to have another beer. The waitress took his glass almost before he had nodded agreement. She evidently knew his habits.

  “Cherokee and Welsh—that’s an unusual heritage.”

  “It is indeed. My father was with the Wild West part of a traveling circus. He was getting tired of the continual moving and Llangollen struck him as a place to settle. He met my mother and they were married in a month.”

  “You work at the vineyard?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  The waitress set another liter stein of beer in front of him and he took a few swallows from it before answering. “I’m a dowser.”

  “A what?”

  “A dowser. It’s a sort of gift really. You see, my father was the son of a medicine man, a shaman they call them. He had some gifts himself but he didn’t like to use them. They made him feel different and he didn’t like that. That’s why he joined the circus and confined his tricks to riding horses bareback, shooting a bow and arrow, that kind of thing. My mother—now she was the real thing. …”

  This was a strange man with a strange story. Why on earth did a vineyard want a dowser?

  “You say you have these gifts. Do you have any thoughts about Emil’s death?”

  He shifted his bulk in the chair. He was like a big shaggy brown bear.

  “I don’t know a thing about it,” he said softly. “Anyway, you came here to write about vineyards, didn’t you?”

  “I found the body,” I said defensively. “That’s why I’m interested. My first day here and I find a dead body.”

  “He wasn’t dead when you found him,” he said quietly.

  “Yes, he was. Jean-Jacques said Emil wasn’t dead when he found him.”

  “Ah,” he said without expression.

  The waitress evidently knew the timing of his drinking and came over with an inviting look. He nodded and she went back to the bar.

  “How long do you expect to be here?” I asked conversationally.

  “Don’t know. Till the job’s finished, I suppose.”

  “At least Gerard must be a nice guy to work for.” I was probing and not with any success.

  “Don’t have a lot to do with him. We have a little chat now and then, that’s about all.”

  Now that he had started, he didn’t seem reluctant to talk, and I watched him take another swig from the stein before he continued.

  “My mother was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. She was a seer just as her mother was a seer.”

  “It’s a person who has second sight, isn’t it?”

  “Aye, some people call it that. She could see things that others couldn’t—she knew things … she warned about the fire in the colliery at Festiniog a week before it happened. Fools wouldn’t listen to her and thirty men died. They listened to her afterwards though. People would come and ask her things … when little Megan Evans wandered off and got lost, my mother could see what Meg was seeing and it was from that that they found her.”

  He paused to drain the stein and I asked, “And you’ve inherited these gifts from both your parents?”

  He nodded. “That’s why I’m a dowser.”

  I couldn’t keep the querying note out of my voice as I said, “You’re dowsing at the Peregrine vineyard?”

  “That’s right.”

  I drank some wine. It was light and fresh, just the way I remembered it.

  “That’s the truth. The last job was in Spain—a godforsaken spot in the south. It was too far away from the Mediterranean coast and not near any cities. Some German builders wanted to put up a big housing development but they were fighting with the authorities—not greasing the right palms, I imagine. There was no early prospect of running in water mains so they wanted me to find out where they had to dig wells and see how deep they’d have to be.” He shuddered. “Terrible job that was.”

  “Did you find water?”

  “I always find it if it’s there.”

  “Having any luck here?”

  The waitress came, his beer in one hand and my peppers and anchovies in the other. He took a long draft. “It takes a while sometimes.”

  Red and green peppers with anchovies is a dish that is particularly Provençal. It carries the flavor of the terrain, full of light and sunshine.

  “Care to join me in some lunch?” I invited.

  He looked dubiously at my plate. “No, thanks, not now. Might eat later.”

  I was aware of someone at my shoulder and looked up.

  It was Lewis Arundel, the sardonic Englishman from the Willesford vineyard. He smiled a wry, lopsided half smile at both of us. The nod that he and Elwyn Fox exchanged suggested that they knew each other well. The waitress came with a stein of beer for him. I motioned to a chair and he sat down with us. Apparently the two of them were regular drinking partners.

  “How’s the investigation going?” Arundel asked me.

  Chapter 10

  “YOU’D KNOW MORE ABOUT that than I would,” I told him. “I believe the police have spent a lot of time there at the vineyard.”

  “Poking and prying. Asking silly and unnecessary questions.”

  “Have they reached any conclusions?”

  “The wild boar theory seems to be holding.”

  I decided that his bored tone was normal and natural to him, not confined to this conversation.

  He glanced slyly at the Welshman. “Pity your supernatural powers don’t stretch beyond dowsing. You might be able to help the police find out exactly what happened.”

  “Emil was gored by a wild boar,” Fox said and took another large swallow of beer.

  “I knew that there are sangliers here in Provence but I didn’t realize they were this dangerous,” I said, keeping the conversational focus on this point.

  I looked at Arundel. “You’ve been here a long time, haven’t you?”

  “Two and a half years.”

  “Heard of any sanglier deaths in that time?”

  “You hear warnings on Riviera Radio when it’s the mating season. Somebody must think they’re dangerous.”

  “But they don’t usually come so close to human habitation, do they?”

  Arundel gave me one of his supercilious looks. “Going to write an article on sangliers too, are you?”

  I hadn’t thought of that as an additional cover story but I accepted the contribution gratefully. “I was thinking one of the English sporting magazines might be able to use it. There’s a hazardous angle that would be novel to readers in the UK.”

  Arundel grunted. “Better be careful asking questions. You’re under suspicion already, you know.”

  Fox looked at him sharply. So did I.

  “Suspicion?” I said. “Of what?”

  Arundel drank beer, slowly, savoring the moment. “Some people believe that you are not what you seem.”

  I laughed nonchalantly. I hoped it came out that way. “Me? Not a journalist? Then what am I?”

  Fox was taking all this in, his eyes flickering from Arundel to me and back like a spectator at a tennis match.

  “There are those …”—Arundel said slowly and with a deliberate pause—“who think that you’re here to scout out the land for the homes.”

  “Homes?” I certainly must have looked innocent of this charge. “What homes?”

  Arundel drank more beer, keeping me in suspense as long as he could. It was Fox who answered. “There’s a story going through the village that a colony of retirement homes is going to be built somewhere near here.”

  “And they think I’m connected? That’s ridiculous,” I said firmly. “I came here to do a story, that’s all. Naturally, I’m always looking for new ideas.”

  Arundel looked at me with that same arrogant stare. Fox said nothing.

  The waitress came with my gambas at that moment and the flambéing operation at the table proved to be a convenient hiatus. We all watched the flames flicker and die.

  “Bon appetit,” said Fox ritually.

  “I must be off,” Arundel said. He threw some coins on the table, drained his beer, and left.

  Fox watched me start eating. “Okay are they?”

  “The gambas? Yes, fine.”

  “They’re pretty good here,” he said conversationally. “They use fresh stuff—well, not all the time but mostly.”

  “No excuse with gambas,” I commented. “With the Med only a few miles away.”

  “Aye, but that doesn’t bother some of the places. They’ll still serve frozen fish.”

  “I’m surprised that water’s a problem here though. Are you having any luck?”

  He didn’t answer right away, then he said abruptly, “It’s that film.”

  “What film?”

  “Two of them really—that Manon des Sources and … what was that other one?”

  “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.

  Chapter 11

  IN 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.

 

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