‘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