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

night’s sleep in Vougeot!”
    “By that do you mean I am a bird of ill omen?” the winemaker allowed himself to joke as he introduced his assistant.
    The Burgundian was delighted to see that the specialists from Bordeaux were so interested in the productions of the Côte-d’Or. He did not try to hide his satisfaction when they mentioned their recent wine tasting experiences and announced their desire to return soon.
    “I am very sorry that you happened to arrive in the middle of such business,” he said, chagrined. “I don’t understand any of this.”
    “Oh, we’ve seen things like this before. Haven’t we, Virgile?”
    Virgile gave Cooker a knowing look.
    “But who could this Jeremiah be?” continued the representative of the brotherhood. “Certainly not the author of all these senseless acts. He wouldn’t sign his own crimes, would he? Could the culprit have wanted to expose someone named Jeremiah?”
    “Who knows?” Cooker said, shrugging.
    “I don’t know of any Jeremiah in the vicinity. And I don’t mean to brag, but I think I know Vougeot and its environs pretty well.”
    They reeled off pleasantries and useless theories, all in a tone of impeccable civility. But Cooker was preoccupied and in a hurry to leave. He was grateful for Virgile’s intervention.
    “I believe we are expected elsewhere, Mr. Cooker.”
    “Indeed, Virgile, duty calls.”
    They said good-bye with the utmost courtesy and headed back to the hotel.
    “I think I know what it is, my boy.”
    “I suspected as much, boss.”
    “Really?”
    “When I saw that frown, I knew right away.”
    “I didn’t look too unpleasant, I hope?”
    “It was close, but you were okay. But anyone who knows you well could tell.”
    “Thanks for letting me escape honorably.”
    “You’re welcome. I was in a rush to go back myself. I still haven’t had a bite to eat this morning.”
    “This Jeremiah doesn’t exist,” Cooker said without responding to his employee’s remark. “He does not exist, or at least not the way they all think. It’s that ‘26’ that put me on the right track. At first I stupidly thought that it was about a guy who was twenty-six years old or maybe about someone who was born in 1926.”
    “That’s not all that stupid. Maybe it’s a simple clue. Why complicate things?”
    “But who says it’s complicated? Go and have your breakfast. I have two or three things to check in my room.”
    Cooker got back to the annex and rushed to his Bible. He went straight to the Book of the Prophets and stopped at Jeremiah, which was preceded by the words of Isaiah and announced “The Lamentations.” The text contained fifty-two paragraphs, or two times twenty-six.
    § § §
    As soon as he saw the drawn features and sad eyes of the abbey porter, Cooker understood that Brother Clément’s health had deteriorated even further.
    “Everything is going very quickly, Mr. Cooker. Since yesterday he has not been able to get out of bed, and I fear that he will not hear the bells of the next vespers.”
    “I do not want to bother him. Excuse me for coming so late, but I worked all afternoon at Charmots.”
    “I think it’s one of Brother Clément’s favorite Pommard wines. Do not be afraid. I know that he will be happy to see you.”
    They crossed the cloister and entered the large white stone stairway leading to the lodgings. At the end of a long corridor filled with shadows and silence, they came into a small cell, where a young monk was kneeling beside a bed. Brother Clément was lying on a white sheet, with a wool blanket pulled up to his waist. The porter signaled the novice to leave. Cooker walked slowly to keep the floorboards from creaking. He sat on a wooden stool at Brother Clément’s bedside.
    “It’s good...of you to…I was waiting...for you.”
    His voice was extremely weak, as if emptied of all its substance, but a gleam still remained in his eyes. The winemaker leaned even closer.
    “The tawny owl...the