Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Adventure. Bonnie MacbirdЧитать онлайн книгу.
name know that his friend Reynaud had hired Vidocq?’
Holmes smiled impishly. ‘Now he does.’
Holmes was ever a master of the long game. But the short-term concerns fell to me. ‘Order some food, Holmes. The omelette is quite good I am told.’
‘Nothing, thank you.’
‘Well I see you have leverage now over Vidocq, if indeed he is romancing Mlle La Victoire.’
‘It is as likely as the sun rising tomorrow.’
‘But is there any chance that Vidocq is actually fulfilling his role? That he is actually protecting Dr Janvier from a very real threat?’
‘That is the far more important question, Watson, and takes precedence.’
He looked out at the sliver of ocean thoughtfully. The slanted rays of the setting sun highlighted his London pallor and he looked rather more like a figure at Madame Tussaud’s than was healthy. As usual while on a case, he had eaten nothing.
‘Shall we take a stroll?’ I offered. ‘Perhaps some dinner?’
‘Not for me, Watson. Go ahead. I have more reading to do before meeting with Dr Paul-Édouard Janvier. We leave tomorrow on a very early train for Montpellier.’
‘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