Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard

an endless parade of admirers,” said Bruno, kissing each of them. “But will one of the horses ever be free for me to learn to ride?”
    “Don’t worry about that. You can have her whenever I’m working,” said Fabiola, bending to make friends with Gigi. “Pamela told me about him. I can’t believe he’s a hunting dog with these funny long ears and short legs. How can he run fast enough?”
    “He doesn’t have to. He just plods along relentlessly all day after the scent until the prey is exhausted.”
    “Do you use him to hunt criminals?”
    Bruno shook his head, grinning. “Never had to, but he did once find a little boy who strolled away from a family picnic and got lost in the woods.”
    “Come and get to know the horses,” said Pamela. “This chestnut is called Bess, after Good Queen Bess, and Fabiola’s gray is called Victoria.”
    “She couldn’t be easier to ride—very patient and stately,” said Fabiola. She fished in a pocket of her jeans, pulled out a bag of small carrots and handed one to Bruno. “Here, give her this and pat her neck so she’ll know you’re a friend. She’ll remember you.”
    “That’s the difference between Fabiola and me.” Pamela grinned, bringing some sugar lumps from her pocket. “As a doctor, she offers healthy carrots, and I give them these. Here, give one to Bess; she loves them.”
    “Do they like apples?” Bruno asked, gingerly holding his palm forward, the carrot perched on top. Victoria delicately snuffled it from his hand, and he felt only the warmth of the horse’s breath and the touch of a very soft muzzle. Then he gave Bess her sugar lump, keeping a wary eye on her teeth.
    “They adore apples. Bring a few of them and they’ll be your friends for life.”
    “By the way, I have some news for you,” said Fabiola. “The pathologist at Bergerac is a friend; we did our training together in Marseilles. He and I both agree that Cresseil had a heart attack that certainly would have killed him if he hadn’t broken his neck first. He was dying when he fell, if not dead.”
    “Does that mean he died before young Max?”
    “Only
le bon Dieu
could tell you that. They died within an hour or so of each other, but that’s as much as medicine can ascertain,” Fabiola said, shrugging. “One thing we know is that Max died of asphyxiation, not of drowning. There was no grape juice in his lungs.”
    “And that wound to the head?”
    “Not hard enough to crack the skull, so it probably didn’t kill him, and my friend in Bergerac is still trying to establish when exactly it happened. With the grape juice washing away the blood, and then Max’s body being rinsed clean with water, it’s not easy to see how much he bled. The grape juice also washed away any chance of doing a leukocyte count, which might have told us if he sustained the head wound more than a few minutes before he died. My friend is calling in his chief pathologist, who’ll do his own examination later today. Butwe’re sure Max wasn’t hit with any kind of weapon. The wood splinters in the wound came from the vat itself.”
    “So the pathologist has not issued a formal statement of unlawful death?”
    “Not yet. It’s a delicate matter, and we’re under a lot of pressure from the police. My friend in Bergerac said some
commissaire
was calling the pathology lab every few hours, demanding the
attestation
. That’s why they are doing it on a Saturday. Maybe this afternoon. He’ll let me know.”
    “I suppose the adoption makes it important to decide which of them died first,” said Pamela.
    Bruno nodded. “There are some cousins who stand to inherit if it’s clear that Max died first. If not, it could mean a lawsuit.
Merde
. I meant to tell you there’s a ceremony for Max up at Alphonse’s this evening, like an Irish wake,” Bruno said. “A lot of people will be there—the rugby team, his school friends. Would the two of you like to come with me?”
    “I would. Having been a witness at the boy’s adoption, I feel somehow involved. I assume Jacqueline will be going as well. You should come too, Fabiola. It will be your chance to meet half the town. They’re not all hypochondriacs.”
    “Which of Pamela’s places are you taking?” Bruno asked.
    “The one beside the stables. It’s lovely, light and airy, and Pamela has decorated it very simply, just as I like it. It’s probably a bit big for me, but Jacqueline has the smaller one.”
    “Have you met her