Nightmare in Burgundy by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen Page A

an important position for a young historian,” Cooker said.
    “Indeed, and he worked very hard for it. He passed all his exams brilliantly and submitted a dissertation that received a special award from the jury. The position should have gone to him. I have always suspected some maneuvering went on.”
    “Who was named in his place?”
    “The grandson of a prominent regional politician who’s the mayor of a town near Nuits-Saint-Georges and a big wine trader. I’m sure he influenced the administrative authorities who made the decision.”
    “I see.”
    “That said, his grandson was not a bad student. He was a decent candidate, but he hadn’t really distinguished himself on the exam. At any rate, the scores have never been made public. Just one mention in the Journal Officiel . But why am I telling you all this?”
    The winemaker did not answer. Robert Bressel cleared his throat and excused himself on the pretext of having to meet a deadline for the next day’s paper.
    “I’ll be sure to buy Le Bien Public to have the pleasure of reading your article,” Cooker said by way of good-bye.

 
     
     
     
     
    10
    “This time they attacked the château, Mr. Cooker!” Aurélie shouted this without taking the time to greet him. She was trembling, and Cooker didn’t know if she was frightened by the events or simply excited by so much activity in so few days.
    “What happened?” the winemaker asked.
    “There are firemen, and policemen, and other cars, and—”
    “Are all those people up there? At the Château du Clos de Vougeot?”
    “Yes, Mr. Cooker, they flew by, no sirens, but they were going fast!”
    Cooker raced to the annex to knock on his assistant’s door. After several tries went unanswered, he began to bang. Virgile finally responded and stood in the doorway in a white T-shirt and navy-blue boxer shorts with yellow polka dots. His eyes were half-closed, and his face bore the creases of his bedsheets. His mouth was frozen in a half yawn.
    “You have five minutes to take a shower and meet me.”
    While he waited, Cooker went to drink a cup of tea without bothering to eat anything. He checked the inside pages of the Le Bien Public. Robert Bressel had written an evasive article mentioning only that the investigation was running its course, that some new clues had appeared, and that the police were following every lead. The journalist seemed to be trying to reassure readers, but his tone was almost clinical.
    When Virgile tumbled into the dining room, Cooker did not even let him come to the table, where Aurélie had just laid out a generous breakfast. He led him directly to the road leading to the vineyard. They walked quickly without exchanging a word and soon arrived at the Château du Clos de Vougeot. Several vehicles were parked helter-skelter, and a crowd had formed in front of the heavy door. Police officers were talking quietly with a group of firefighters, while some other men in uniforms stood slightly apart, chatting with the farmhands. Cooker and Virgile approached cautiously.
    A small owl was nailed to the enormous entry door. Its wings were spread apart to reveal a cavity of brown flesh swarming with maggots. The animal was in an advanced state of decay, and its mud-stained plumage had disappeared in certain places. On the left panel of the door, an enormous black inscription was written diagonally: “Jeremiah,” and on the other side, below the bird, slightly skewed near the hinges, Cooker could make out “26.”
    “Mr. Cooker, how are you?”
    Cooker swung around and recognized the head of the Confrérie des Chevaliers du Tastevin, who was walking toward him with his hand extended in a friendly gesture. Despite the worried expression that was darkening his face, the man could not neglect his good manners and natural cordiality.
    “For heaven’s sake, I’m very well, my friend, if it weren’t for these unusual distractions.”
    “Since your arrival, it seems impossible to get a good