Treachery in Bordeaux (The Winemaker Detective Series) by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen

poison. Spineless!”
    Benjamin took this as a compliment.
    “Come on, let’s drink to all those delicate doctors! Bottoms up! Raise your glass to all those savant monkeys who can’t read Hippocrates in the original.” Ferdinand burped and filled up his glass.
    They clinked glasses loudly.
    “Your painting is Mission Haut-Brion. The doc’s represents the Château de Haut-Brion. I have nothing else to tell you.”
    “That I knew already,” Cooker said, without showing any impatience. “But what is most astonishing is that they go together. The right side of my painting joins up perfectly with the left side of Baldès’. They must be part of a two-paneled work made for some sort of mural.”
    “Probably,” grumbled Ferdinand.
    “And I would be curious to know where they come from, since the theme is rather rare.”
    “Your lousy paintings aren’t famous. They’re hackwork.”
    “I think they are rather well done for that kind of painting,” Benjamin said. “A little naive, yes, and rather broadly drawn, but they are not lacking in character. And the lighting is well mastered, particularly where the sky meets the trees. They have a nice brushstroke to them.”
    “Well, sir, my basic principle is that one should account for one’s taste. Only the spineless say the contrary. But I don’t have time to lose on two worthless sketches just because they were painted locally.”
    Cooker caught the reference as it flew by.
    “You are sure that these works were painted by an artist in the region? Perhaps a painter from Pessac?”
    “When the doc came to see me, he brought his painting, and I admit I had the feeling I had seen it somewhere before. But at the time, I couldn’t for the life of me remember where.”
    “And has it come back to you since?” the winemaker asked, trying not to look too insistent.
    “I think so.”
    Ferdinand Ténotier filled up their glasses again. He threw the empty cardboard carton to the back of the room and leaned over to grab another one from the floor.
    “These overmantels were in the reading room at the Château de Vallon,” the old man said, clicking his tongue. “I saw them at the beginning of the 1950s, when they were still hanging in the back of the room, above the chimney made of Pyrenees marble.”
    “The Château de Vallon?” Cooker said, surprised. “I seem to recall seeing a label with that name on it on an old bottle.”
    “If you still have that bottle, guard it with vigilance. It’s a relic!”
    “I don’t have it in my wine cellar, but I certainly saw it at an auction or something like that.”
    “Those damn urban planners made their way through there!” barked the old man. “The Château de Vallon was totally destroyed in 1966, and you’ll find a housing project where it stood. Isn’t the republic a beautiful thing! Always ready to trash what belongs to us! The châteaux in Pessac that have been torn down in recent years all belonged to us, to you, to me, to everyone! We all own our history! The people of France. I tell you, it all belongs to the people of France! What a wretched shame. A handsome château like Vallon. It was built in 1777 by Victor Louis, the same architect who built Bordeaux’s Grand Théâtre. It had a sloping roof, a large flight of stairs, huge grounds, and then there were the vineyards. Several acres that produced a fine red Graves. If my memory still serves me, I believe it got a silver medal at the Bordeaux fair in 1895.”
    “I can check my archives, if you’re interested,” Cooker offered.
    “You want archives. I’ll show you some you’ll never see again.”
    Ténotier had trouble standing up, then staggered to the greasy buffet and brought back a shoebox full of sepia-colored photographs and ancient postcards. He hands trembled.
    “Look at that! Château Fanning-Lafontaine, torn down in 1980. The grounds were remarkable, with rare tree species, including some Louisiana cypress that the Baron Sarget imported. There