Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Adventure. Bonnie Macbird
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.
‘Of course. That must have been a relief,’ remarked Holmes with a smile.
‘Just so.’
Both men sipped their coffee in contemplation of the brief exchange.
‘Wait?’ I asked. ‘Why did that relieve you, sir?’ I wondered.
‘The single writer clearly wanted Dr Janvier to think that the opposition to his work was more widespread, Watson. But it was only one person,’ said Holmes.
Janvier nodded. Of course, now it was obvious.
‘Dr Janvier, the question of the hour. What did the letters say?’ asked Holmes.
‘That I must stop my work or suffer dire consequences. The exact threat was vague. Flowery. The phylloxera was God-sent, or something, and that evil would befall me if I interfered with God’s will. Both me and also my family. But of course, I am unmarried and have no children. They also mentioned that objections to my work were rampant and in persisting, I risked awakening “a sleeping giant”, and my work would go “up in smoke”.’
‘A sleeping giant? Up in smoke?’
‘The exact words. And that is all. Would you care for some dessert?’ asked Janvier. He indicated a nearby cart on which were arrayed a tempting selection of tartes.
‘No, but a visit to your laboratory would be in order. I am still concerned for your security,’ said Holmes.
‘My pleasure, Mr Holmes.’
After a brief walk through the narrow streets of this hilly town, during which I had difficulty keeping up with my long-legged companions in the hot afternoon sun, and directly after eating a full meal, we arrived at l’École Nationale d’Agriculture de Montpellier.
We passed several low buildings in a compound with numerous garden plots, all planted with vines, which were carefully labelled and divided by string. A collection of broad, straw sun hats rested on poles throughout, evidently abandoned there by the workers at lunchtime.
We entered one of the buildings and made our way down a long hallway. The building was strangely deserted. ‘Where is everyone?’ I asked Holmes in a low voice.
‘We are in France, Watson.’ he whispered. ‘Lunch!’
But Janvier apparently possessed similarly acute hearing. He laughed. ‘Yes! Meals happen, as you say, like clockwork. In our country, we are quite sensible about refreshing mind and body. We lunched intentionally early as I wished to keep your laboratory visit private.’
‘I see no security measures here, Dr Janvier. Anyone could enter, and tamper with your work,’ said Holmes.
‘They would have to understand it to do so. Everything is done in duplicate,