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‘It’s in full fermentation,’ Bonneval said, ‘and when wine is fermenting, particularly the white, it produces copious amounts of carbonic gas.’
    And suddenly Enzo understood why he had been in such danger. The gas in itself wasn’t poisonous. It dissolved in water, and was what made fizzy drinks fizzy. It was what put the bubbles in champagne. But it was heavier than air, and would fill your lungs like water, displacing all oxygen, and killing you in seconds.
    ‘The gas escapes from the tops of the
cuves
and sinks down into the pit. You can’t see it, but it’s down there. One lungful, my friend, and you’re dead.’
    It was with some relief that Enzo stepped back out into the safety of the shed. His legs had turned to jelly, and he became aware that his hands were trembling. And it wasn’t the effects of the wine he’d had over dinner. Quite unwittingly, he had come uncomfortably close to killing himself. ‘I’ll never think about champagne the same way again,’ he said. ‘Although I could do with a glass right now.’
    ‘I think you’ve had more than enough to drink already tonight, Monsieur Macleod. Especially if you’re going to be walking home alone in the dark.’
    ‘I thought you were coming with me? At least some of the way.’
    ‘I’m afraid I can’t. We have a problem with the
pressoir
. But I’ll point you in the right direction.’ And as they walked out into the courtyard, Bonneval said, ‘By the way, I’ve got you a grape-picking job on a neighbouring
domaine
. It’s a farm, not a
château
, but they have thirty-seven
hectares
of vines at La Croix Blanche, and a young winemaker, Fabien Marre, who’s producing some very good wines.’
    ‘Sounds ideal,’ Enzo said.
    ‘I’ve told him you’re an old friend who wants to experience the
vendange
. They still do quite a bit of picking by hand, where most of ours is mechanised. It’s just up the road from where you’re staying. But here’s the interesting thing. It was on the south-facing upper slopes of Marre’s vineyard that Petty’s body was found.’
    V.
    The dusty track shone silver in the moonlight, as did the strips of chalky, stony soil between the rows of vines that stretched away into the darkness on either side. The track was raised a metre or more above the vines, and Enzo had a fine moonlit view across the floodplain of the Tarn. Away to his right, he saw the lights of the
vendangeurs
hand-picking the mauzac grapes for the
vin mousseux
, a wine produced in almost identical fashion to champagne, except that in Gaillac there was no final addition of sugar before the bottle was sealed. It was known as
méthode gaillacoise
, and had most of the attributes of champagne at a fraction of the price. Enzo had discovered it many years before. He could hear the voices of the grape-pickers in the distance, the lamps on their helmets dancing in the dark like demented fireflies.
    The air was still balmy and soft, redolent with the heady scent of ripe fruit. Fresh from having consumed several glasses of it, Enzo reflected on what a fine creation wine really was. He was wondering how on earth man had first stumbled upon the secret processes of fermentation, when he was startled by the sudden roar of an engine off to his left. Lights from a massive mechanical harvester flooded the vineyard, and Enzo stopped for a moment to watch as it began its steady progress along the first row towards him. He felt the ground shaking beneath his feet, and thought that he preferred the gentler sounds of the
vendangeurs
picking by hand.
    He carried on along the track and had covered less than twenty metres when a dark shadow loomed unexpectedly out of his peripheral vision. He had no time to turn before something struck him hard on the side of his head. The pain was intense, but short-lived as the night burned out in a glare of bright light before plunging to black.
    ***
    It was like struggling up through a sea of treacle, fighting to break the