Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder

CHAPTER 6

Docteur Janvier

‘Come Watson, we must be on the 4.30 train.’

I stumbled groggily into my clothes, and we set out in the predawn hours for the station. Hurriedly gulping down a hot coffee before boarding, I then tried to read a small Montpellier guidebook but soon dozed. Once again, I felt Holmes’s hand on my shoulder, jostling me awake. We had arrived in Montpellier, a small medieval city renowned for its scientific research. I yawned in anticipation of a long day discussing the vineyard scourge. But fate held something quite different in store.

We disembarked just before noon at the Gare de Montpellier and made our way north through the dusty streets to the Place de la Comédie. The weather had warmed since the day before, and the bright Mediterranean sun glowed on the golden brown sides of the crumbling and picturesque ruins that formed the Citadel, once an 11th-century fort. Despite its look of antiquity, this city had developed over the years into a kind of Mecca for scientists.

We were to meet Dr Paul-Édouard Janvier at La Coloumbe, a café on the main square, and we immediately spotted our quarry from a photograph provided by Mycroft Holmes. Seated at an outdoor table, the renowned horticultural scientist and leading investigator in the vineyard scourge, Dr Janvier was younger than I had anticipated, in his mid-thirties. Black-haired and intense, he sported an impressive, curled moustache and a lightweight suit of linen, appropriate here even in December.

Janvier gazed out at the passers-by, drumming his long thin fingers in a manner not unlike Holmes. He seemed lost in thought.

‘Docteur Janvier?’ said Holmes, approaching the man. ‘Je suis Sherlock Holmes, et voici Docteur Watson, mon collègue.’

Rising to shake our hands, the gentleman replied in perfect, mildly accented English, ‘Gentlemen, welcome. I have received a letter of introduction and know why you are here. But I have not much time. Please let us order our lunch and we shall discuss what you will.’ We took our places. Holmes positioned himself to look out at the square.

‘I prefer to speak English, if you do not mind,’ said Janvier. ‘I have recently been abroad in America, where few speak my language.’

I squinted in the bright sun at the menu as Holmes entered straight into the subject at hand. ‘Dr Janvier, as my speciality is crime, and not viticulture, I shall begin with the question of your security. I understand you have received threatening letters?’

‘I received a letter that you would come. Are you a threat?’

Holmes laughed. I was less sure of the joke.

‘Perhaps you are not aware of Mr Holmes’s successes in criminal investigations?’ I said. ‘He is a well-respected—’

‘Humour, Dr Watson. Of course, I am well aware,’ the scientist remarked.

‘The letters, then?’ asked Holmes. ‘How many?’

‘Two. No, three.’

‘Might I see them?’

‘I have thrown them away.’ At Holmes’s surprise, he continued. ‘I consider them irrelevant. Gentlemen, try our version of Salade Niçoise. Here, let us order our lunch.’ He signalled a waiter.

‘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.

‘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, or triplicate, and meticulously recorded,’ Janvier smiled. ‘I am not concerned,’ said he, waving a hand.

‘What of this man they have sent to look after you – Jean Vidocq, what has he done?’

‘Yes. Ah, you know him, do you? At least Dr Watson does. Your face tells me all, Doctor. Mr Holmes, you have the gift of obfuscation but your friend here is an open book.’

I began to think I should place obfuscation on my list of attributes to cultivate.

‘This Vidocq, then—’

‘Irritating man. He does nothing but fan the flames of fear among my researchers. He comes and goes. I should like to be rid of him.’

‘I can well imagine,’ I said.

‘Whenever he is here, he attempts to worry me and my researchers with concocted scenarios. I regret burning the letters, Mr Holmes. But that man Vidocq is such a pest. He exaggerates the danger. I wanted him gone and so I scorned the entire idea of any threat and burned them in front of him. He was as angry as you are!’

‘Indeed. How close are you to a solution to the phylloxera epidemic, Dr Janvier?’

‘Very close.’

‘Is that so? Who knows this?’ asked Holmes.

‘Any number of people, in the government and elsewhere.’

‘What is it?’

‘Grafts and hybridization show promise. But at present, we have taken several batches to maturity, and they adversely affect the flavour.’

‘Then you have not found the solution. Although as you near it, you may be in more danger.’

We had rounded a corner and now progressed down another long corridor, this with doors open to reveal laboratories, their rich wood cabinets and slate-topped counters gleaming from the afternoon sun slanting in the windows.

‘We may have been looking at the wrong question’ said Holmes. ‘Might there be a more personal motive to stop your work? Have you any rivals who wish to take credit? Anyone you have specifically angered? Anyone who comes to mind that would profit directly and personally from your cure not being advanced?’

Janvier paused midstride and turned to us. We stopped.

‘And there you have me, Mr Holmes. No. My first thought was that someone deeply invested in wines that rival the French might profit. The Americans. The Germans, perhaps the Italians. But I think not. The Americans have been helpful, and the Germans and Italians now face the same plague, though to a lesser degree. Regarding jealous colleagues, I think not. This particular problem has united the larger research community to a remarkable degree.’

‘And still Britain may be suspect,’ said Holmes. ‘As Watson mentioned, our whisky business is said to be growing in leaps and bounds.’

‘I think as a scientist does. Instinct is perhaps as important in my work as observation and logic. And my instinct tells me this disaster is an accident and nothing more.’

Holmes nodded. ‘I wonder, could this divisive theory then originate from someone who profits from a deterioration of Franco-British relations?’

‘There you exceed my expertise, Mr Holmes,’ said Janvier. He turned and placed a hand on a single, closed door at the end of the hall. It was locked and he felt in his pocket for the keys.

‘Back to the letters, Dr Janvier,’ said Holmes. ‘You mentioned there were two curious things. What was the second?’

Finding the key, Janvier unlocked the door. It swung open with a bang and both Holmes and I jumped, primed for what, I am not sure. What we saw was a complete surprise.

The room stood vast and empty, a laboratory like the others, but this one was not only devoid of people but of equipment as well. Bright sunshine flooded in from an expanse of windows, and dust motes floated over barren zinc lab tables. Along one end of the room were a row of cardboard boxes, from which protruded various pieces of equipment.

‘Ah, mon Dieu!’ said Janvier with an embarrassed laugh. ‘How could I have forgotten! We moved our laboratory to larger quarters in another building only yesterday. I was so engrossed in my story that it completely escaped my mind. We must go to another building!’ He strode through the laboratory to the other end. ‘Follow me, please. It is a shorter way out.’

‘You were about to mention the second curious thing, Dr Janvier?’ said Holmes.

Janvier unlocked a door at the other end of the deserted lab and we entered a small decoratively tiled antechamber where a set of double doors led outside. They, too, were locked. He withdrew another set of keys from his pocket and began to unlock them. As he flung the double doors open wide the brilliant sunlight blinded us momentarily. He turned, silhouetted in the bright rectangle.

‘Ah, yes. The last one was in rhyme,’ said he.

But before this fact could yield further thought, there was a sudden deafening roar and the sound of splintering glass. The entryway in which we were standing blew outwards into rubble. In a kind of slow motion the air turned a solid white and I felt myself propelled forwards through the air like a rag doll.

We were buried in an avalanche of bricks, mortar, plaster and dust. I was conscious only of white everywhere and a single thought: Janvier was wrong. And then blackness.

PART TWO

GETTING AHEAD

‘If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs …’

—Rudyard Kipling

CHAPTER 7

Vidocq

Was I dead?

Wiping my eyes, I blinked out the dust, and rolled over onto my side. I opened my eyes to see the octagonal red tiles of the hallway in which I lay. Not Afghanistan. Not the battlefield. Montpellier.

I felt a sudden stab in my bicep, and sitting up, I noticed a long shard of glass was embedded in my sleeve. Light streamed in from above and I looked up, noticing a shattered clerestory window.

France. Janvier’s lab. An explosion.

I lurched to my feet, head clearing.

Janvier, who had been before us, had received a small cut over his eye. But he now stood, apparently otherwise unharmed, though a bit stunned. He vigorously brushed the dust from his own clothing.

‘Your forehead,’ I said. ‘It is bleeding.’

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said he. He drew out a handkerchief and pressed it to his cut forehead. ‘I am all right,’ he said. ‘And you, Dr Watson? You look as though you had seen a ghost.’

I gently extracted the piece of glass. No large patch of blood; it was merely a scratch. ‘I am fine.’ I turned to look for Holmes. I could not see him, but nearby a wall had collapsed. My heart began to race. He had been right behind me. Had he made it through the door?

‘Holmes?’ I cried moving towards a mound of rubble, terrified at what I might find there.

‘Look!’ shouted Janvier. ‘He has gone back inside!’ The Frenchman pointed behind us into the damaged laboratory, where in the heavy layer of dust I saw a disturbed area where Holmes had fallen, and then footprints heading directly back inside towards the site of the explosion.

‘Holmes!’ I shouted again, peering into the room. I started after him.

‘Careful!’ Janvier cried. ‘There could be a second bomb!’

But I was already halfway across the room. Nearer the site of the explosion white dust filled the air.

I paused, now enveloped in a miasma of white and having lost view of the footprints, which vanished below me into the floating cloud. I squinted and bent down, trying to locate them. After some moments, I finally found them and proceeded slowly forward into the impenetrable whiteness.

A ghostly apparition, covered from head to foot in plaster, emerged from the fog. It was Holmes. In his hand he held something wrapped in a handkerchief. I heaved a sigh of relief.