Destroying Angel (20 page)

‘Is he really?’ Paulette whispered urgently. ‘Is he really the one from the car park?’

‘He is.’

‘And a most enjoyable encounter it was too,’ MacNaughton said, having returned without them noticing, his composure seemingly recovered in full. ‘The car park in question is, shall we say, generally worth visiting. Though I’d not seen you there before.’

‘It was my first time,’ Susan admitted.

‘But not your last, I trust?’ he enquired hopefully.

‘Probably not; it was fun,’ Susan laughed. ‘I’ll bring Paulette next time, too.’

‘Susan!’ Paulette exclaimed again.

MacNaughton laughed and placed the tray of glasses he was carrying on a low table. Sitting in an armchair identical to Susan’s, except for being notably more worn, he began to arrange the glasses.

‘Let us see, then,’ he said. ‘Paulette, my dear, perhaps you would do the honours? But do sit down.’

Paulette made herself comfortable on the settee close to the case of samples. Using the corkscrew offered by MacNaughton, she opened the first of the bottles. He steepled his fingers and gazed out of the window as she poured a glass of pale white wine.

MacNaughton took the glass as soon as Paulette had returned the bottle to the case. Holding it up to the light he admired its colour, then swirled it gently in the glass and held it beneath his nose. Humming and tutting he again looked at the colour, took a sip, assessed it, and then swallowed.

‘Sauvignon, of course,’ he pronounced with absolute confidence. ‘Not, I think, New Zealand, although it is hard to tell nowadays. Nor is it Bordeaux. No, unless it is a rather poor Sancerre or from one of the neighbouring communes, I would say it’s from the plateau of the eastern Touraine, possibly Oisly or Sassay?’

‘Choray,’ Paulette corrected.

‘Only one village out then,’ MacNaughton smiled, evidently well pleased with himself for the accuracy of his assessment. ‘Not bad for an old man.’

Susan sat back, impressed by his ability. Paulette passed her a glass of the Sauvignon. She sipped it and wondered what factors in the flavour allowed MacNaughton to be so precise.

The tasting continued, MacNaughton pronouncing on each and declaring the wines to be of moderate quality at best but typical of the region. Only when Paulette poured him a glass of the mature Côt did he show real enthusiasm.

‘Ah ha!’ he declared, favouring his glass with an expression of satisfaction not unlike the one Susan had seen when they first met. ‘Here we have an example of what a region is truly capable of. Only in the best years, of course, and then only from the best sites, but I think you will agree the difference is remarkable. It’s Côt, isn’t it my dear, and almost certainly an ’89 or a ’90?’

Paulette nodded.

‘’89,’ she confirmed, ‘from the private estate of a grower called Christian Charrier.’

‘I regret that I have never met the gentleman,’ MacNaughton said. ‘Still, there are too many growers to meet them all, even in great Burgundy, never mind the eastern Touraine. Are these all his wines?’

‘The rest are from the co-op he manages,’ Paulette told him. ‘The Cave Co-Operative de Choray. I expect you’ve heard of it.’

‘I know Choray,’ MacNaughton said pensively, ‘but only vaguely. If I remember rightly, the co-op is to the south of the village, but I’ve never tasted there. The wines are adequate, it is true, and I dare say cheap, but frankly one can only taste so much and I prefer to stick to private estates when visiting a region.’

‘De Vergy Fine Wines import them,’ Susan added.

‘De Vergy Fine Wines?’

‘Annabella de Vergy’s outfit.
Surely you know her?’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure,’ MacNaughton answered. ‘There are so many small merchants these days, you know.’

‘But I thought you knew everybody?’ Paulette said.

MacNaughton spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘The wine trade is somewhat exclusive,’ he said, ‘and I fear I am perhaps not as objective as I might be. Still, it is impossible to have a comprehensive knowledge of the trade and, as I say, one can only taste so much. Also, if these are typical of their wines, then they are clearly a rather straightforward commercial operation. Do they supply mainly to the restaurant trade or to private clients?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ Paulette admitted.

‘No matter. What did you want to ask then?’

‘Actually, we thought they might be adulterated,’ Paulette said. ‘Not the Côt, the others.’

‘Adulterated?’ MacNaughton was clearly surprised.

‘They may be involved in some sort of scandal,’ Paulette explained.

‘I’m a private investigator by trade,’ Susan added. ‘Paulette asked me to help with the investigation.’

‘Are you, by Jove?’

‘Yes, and by the way, the man I was with the other night is a Detective Sergeant attached to the area crime squad.’

‘Good God!’ MacNaughton gasped. ‘You weren’t… what’s the phrase… on a stake out, were you?’

‘No, that was just for fun,’ Susan assured him. ‘Anyway, do you think they might be adulterated?’

MacNaughton eyed her carefully for a few moments, and then seemed to accept her word that his reputation was not in any danger. ‘Not at all,’ he eventually said. ‘Indeed, I can’t imagine why anyone would want to adulterate such wines.’

‘Why not?’ Paulette asked, a little crestfallen.

‘It could scarcely be worth the risk,’ MacNaughton explained. ‘Such wines are cheap, and adulteration would at best marginally increase their profitability. Meanwhile, they would almost certainly be caught when the wines were analysed by the authorities. French Appellation laws are quite strict these days, you know.’

‘Oh,’ Paulette said.

‘No,’ MacNaughton continued. ‘Adulteration is only worthwhile if it makes a cheap wine appear expensive. Take the diethylene glycol scandal of a few years ago. The anti-freeze was added to make cheap mass-produced wine appear to be of a higher quality than it really was. Profit margins were therefore greatly increased. It could hardly be so in this case.’

‘That’s true I suppose,’ Paulette said, ‘but some things struck me as odd in the winery as well. Perhaps you could explain them to us?’

‘If I can, I shall.’

‘Three things,’ Paulette started. ‘One: other than a few specialities, they only do the four main wines and bring two more in from the south, all of which you’ve tasted, yet they have sixteen tanks. Two: the slates on the tanks were marked with annotations that appeared to indicate sulphuric acid levels. Three: there were lots of blackcurrant bushes planted among the vineyards.’

MacNaughton laughed, taking a sip of his Côt before replying. ‘All perfectly ordinary, I fear,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘The tanks will hold wines from different vineyards and different years. A winery always needs plenty of capacity, and getting enough storage space is always an important consideration. The sulphuric acid annotation is merely a convenient way of expressing the natural, and highly complex, acidity levels within a wine by comparing it with a standard solution of sulphuric acid. The blackcurrants are for making cassis. Who knows, a few bunches may end up in among the cabernet grapes now and then, but really that is no bad thing. After all, we accept the flavour of oak in wine, even when added in the form of powder. I try not to drink such horrors, but I understand it to be common practice in America. If artificial oak, then why not good honest blackcurrants?’

Paulette shrugged, looking deeply disappointed.

‘I’m sorry not to be more positive, my dear,’ MacNaughton concluded, ‘but I fear that if you have unearthed a scandal, then it does not involve adulteration by the co-op at Choray. Still, I would be prepared to send what’s left of these samples for a detailed laboratory analysis, if you like?’

‘That would be very kind.’ Paulette managed a smile. ‘Thank you.’

‘A pleasure to be of assistance. But you must tell me the background to your suspicions. I confess to fascination.’

Paulette sighed and glanced at Susan. Susan responded with a shrug. MacNaughton seemed well disposed towards them and there was nothing to be gained by obfuscation. ‘Do you remember Alan Sowerby?’ Paulette began.

‘Certainly,’ MacNaughton confirmed, ‘poor old Alan. I knew him well, and was astonished that he was foolish enough to consume Destroying Angel.’

‘We don’t think he was foolish, we think he was murdered,’ Susan put in.

‘Good heavens!’ MacNaughton exclaimed, ‘But the police—’

‘Have no evidence and never even opened a case,’ Susan interrupted. ‘The coroner’s verdict was accidental death. Paulette, however, discovered that Alan had been on the track of what he considered a major wine scandal when he died. The only lead we had was that it involved de Vergy Fine Wines in some way.’

MacNaughton nodded pensively. ‘Hence your suspicions of adulteration.’

‘Exactly.’ Susan explained the case, Paulette adding the occasional remark and Oswald MacNaughton frequently putting in questions.

‘I must admit your reasoning appears a trifle speculative,’ he said, when Susan had finished. ‘Yet you clearly have a better grasp of the mathematics of probability than I. So you suspect this man Charrier?’

‘He seems the most likely suspect,’ Susan answered. ‘We were assuming that he and Philip Ruddock were working together to bring in bad wine and splitting the profit. Sowerby found out and they poisoned him. If the wines are clean, though, it rather wrecks our reasoning. I need to think out a new theory.’

‘Have another glass of Côt,’ MacNaughton offered. ‘It’ll lubricate your thought processes.’

Susan accepted the wine and sat back in her chair, thinking deeply. If de Vergy Fine Wines were importing an honest product from the Choray co-op, then Charrier had nothing to gain and so was probably innocent. Yet he had shown Paulette the Destroying Angel growing in local woods, which added yet another low probability event to a long chain of them. Something was wrong, but what?

Of course, Charrier might well make a habit of showing customers around the area, particularly pretty female customers. Annabella was a customer, a good one in fact, and certainly fell into the categories of pretty and female. Could Annabella – or Ruddock, for that matter – have picked up the Destroying Angel in the woods around Choray? Another suspicion was forming in her mind.

‘Getting back to de Vergy Fine Wines,’ she said, interrupting the conversation between Paulette and Oswald MacNaughton. ‘You say you’ve never heard of them, but Annabella de Vergy makes herself out to be pretty well known in the trade. She’s certainly successful, anyway. She owns a house in Little Venice.’

‘Oh.’ MacNaughton looked a little thoughtful. ‘Well, yes – to be honest, I would expect to know her, or at least to recognise the name. I fear I must be getting past my prime.’

‘Not at all. I think there’s a very different reason why you’ve not heard of them.’

‘Oh yes?’ Paulette asked. ‘What’s that?’

‘Have patience,’ Susan told her. ‘I’ll explain when I’ve thought it through.’

‘I’d be delighted to know the outcome,’ Oswald MacNaughton said, ‘and I shall certainly send these wines for analysis. I won’t hear of payment, either: Alan Sowerby was, after all, an old friend of mine. And if there’s any more information you need, don’t hesitate to ask.’

‘Thank you,’ the two girls echoed.

‘You might, however, grant an old man a small favour and enliven what will otherwise be a solitary and dull dinner,’ MacNaughton continued. ‘This Côt is excellent, yet in such warm weather a white might be more appropriate. By chance I have some Chablis in the fridge; a Premier Cru Fourchaume, ‘85, a truly wonderful wine.’

Susan relaxed, letting the heady red wine wash away the stresses of the past twenty-four hours. The comfort and refinement of Oswald MacNaughton’s drawing room seemed a world away from the noise and smoke of the Bell, his gentility in even greater contrast to the personalities of the likes of Billy Ryan and Dave Symmes. Sitting in a leather armchair in a Hampstead drawing room was definitely therapeutic, especially when faced with the prospect of fine wines and food. After that…

MacNaughton’s behaviour in the car park had suggested a taste in sex as hedonistic as his taste in wine, and something might well be in order after dinner. It would be very easy to submit to him, not just because she was slightly drunk but because, after the episode in the car park, there could be no embarrassment in discussing sex with him. A slow, gentle spanking might be nice, followed by a long period paying court to his cock. Susan exchanged a look with Paulette, finding similar thoughts mirrored in her friend’s face.

The hour before dinner passed in light conversation. MacNaughton then produced an impressive feast from his larder and more fine wines from his cellar. They ended up back in the drawing room, thoroughly relaxed and sipping Cognac. Susan had abandoned the armchair in favour of lying on the sofa with her head in Paulette’s lap. She watched MacNaughton idly as he enlarged on the qualities of the Cognac they were drinking.

Sitting back with his jacket open over an impressive spread of fancy waistcoat, he looked fatter and more extravagant than ever. His suit was of a deep green velvet, the waistcoat of a similar green but with patterns of gold and black. An ivory silk shirt and a bow tie of black velvet completed an image that made Susan feel distinctly underdressed in her simple frock of red cotton. Paulette had insisted they wear frocks, choosing white herself. MacNaughton’s whole image seemed calculated to make her feel like a naughty girl, and the idea of being spanked by him was even more appealing than it had been earlier.