Unwelcome Invader

Tired as she was, Jane did not go inside immediately once the car had vanished. Instead she stood breathing in deep lungfuls of the clean, cold night air with its unmistakable Australian smell of eucalyptus. From somewhere out of sight she could hear the hoarse croaking of frogs, and the sudden hiss and scuffle and a flash of red eyes in the gum trees next to the barn told her that the possums were active tonight. An exultant smile curved Jane’s lips. It was good to be back! And the best thing of all was the thought that her vines were nearly ready for their first harvest…

Suddenly she realised that she couldn’t possibly wait until tomorrow morning to see how the grapes were getting along. She would have to take a quick glance right away. Groping in her handbag, she fished out the small torch which she always carried while travelling and trained its circle of light on the path leading down to the first of the vineyards. As she picked her way through the rows of espaliered vines a feeling of mounting pride and delight rose inside her. Soon, very soon, she would have her first harvest and then she would find out just what kind of wine she could make from her own grapes. Reaching out, she plucked one of them from a dark cluster and put it in her mouth. It burst with a faint pop, releasing a cool liquid on her tongue—full-bodied, still slightly acid, but very, very promising. With a contented sigh Jane spat the pips on the ground and picked her way back up the slope towards the cluster of buildings. Perhaps she would just take a quick look at her wine cellar too, before she went to bed.

The wine cellar was located beneath the big stone building which had originally been a dairy and was now used to store all the paraphernalia of the vineyard. Disliking the thought of the bright glare of fluorescent lights, Jane did not flick the switch, but used her torch to guide her past the dark shapes of picking buckets, secateurs and lengths of irrigation pipe to the stairs which led to the next level. The door at the bottom was padlocked, but she had the necessary key on her keyring. A moment later the door creaked open and she stepped inside and flashed her torch around. There was a row of oak barrels with silicon bungs—empty now but soon to be filled with her own wine—and a long row of weldmesh shelves containing her own collection of Australian wines built up over several years. It occurred to her that it would be nice to have a glass of wine to celebrate her return. She could always invite a friend over to lunch tomorrow, to finish the bottle with her. Pausing pleasurably, she ran her fingers along the mesh and finally chose a bottle of Penfold’s Grange Hermitage. Her mouth watered at the prospect of that dark berry fruit and charred oak bouquet, the full-bodied flavour and the astringent tannins that would follow.

‘I can’t wait,’ she murmured aloud.

At that moment there was a stealthy footstep on the stairs behind her. Not particularly troubled, Jane swung round, expecting to see her father. Instead a total stranger stood there before her, caught in the beam of her torch. A grim, unsmiling man in his mid-thirties, dressed in grey trousers and an open necked shirt, with dark brown hair brushed back from a lean, sardonic face and the most hostile brown eyes Jane had ever seen. He was advancing towards her in a purposeful crouch like a hunting animal and there was something utterly terrifying about the grim twist of his lips. Jane’s heart lurched.

‘What do you want?’ she asked in a high, nervous voice, stepping back a pace and half raising the bottle as if it was a weapon.

‘You,’ he breathed, and sprang.

Jane screamed, hurled the bottle and ran. There was wild confusion as she heard the shatter of breaking glass against the brick wall, smelled the sudden, heady perfume of red wine and felt her heart would burst from her chest as she raced down the avenue of flagstones between the shelves and the barrels. Her torch beam swung wildly, revealing the other exit, a crude, wooden door leading out into a rough shrubbery on the slope behind the building. It shouldn’t be padlocked, only bolted from the inside. Could she make it before he caught her? Transferring the torch to her left hand, she seized the bolt with her right, wrenched violently and pushed. It was like a nightmare. Nothing happened. Some resistance on the outside was preventing the door from opening. With a sob of frustration Jane hurled herself at it. A shuddering jolt went through her entire body, but still the door would not yield. Then suddenly a powerful hand caught her by the neck of her shirt and swung her round.

‘It seems I have you right where I want you,’ breathed a hoarse, masculine voice.

‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ cried Jane defiantly and, swinging the torch, she hit him hard on the side of the face. Another jarring impact travelled up Jane’s arm, but the stranger barely seemed to feel the blow. The only response he gave was a quick, sharp intake of breath, then his right hand came out and crushed her fingers, forcing her to release the torch. Gasping in outrage, Jane kicked him in the shins. With a faint sigh, he took one of her hands and twisted it behind her back. A warning twinge of pain went through her.

‘I don’t want to hurt you, mademoiselle,’ he murmured apologetically. ‘But you and I need to have a little talk.’

‘What about?’ panted Jane indignantly. ‘What is there to talk about? You’re a raving lunatic who attacked me for no reason at all.’

He shone the torch disconcertingly in her face, so that she blinked in its dazzling light.

‘Quite pretty,’ he said in the tone of a connoisseur. ‘Big green eyes, delicate features, long, curly blonde hair. The hair needing the attentions of a good hairdresser. Not quite the sort of vandal I expected, I must admit. Tell me, mademoiselle, what made you break into my wine cellar?’

‘Y-your wine cellar?’ stuttered Jane furiously. ‘Now I know you’re insane. This is my wine cellar, not yours.’

‘Ah, I begin to understand,’ he said courteously. ‘You are not the juvenile delinquent, but merely deranged. My apologies for handling you so roughly, mademoiselle. You deserve pity, not blame.’

‘I am not a juvenile delinquent!’ shouted Jane, although as a matter of fact she looked remarkably like one in her crumpled jeans and wine-splashed shirt with her hair falling in her eyes. ‘And I’m not mentally deranged, either! If anyone is deranged it’s you, claiming that this wine cellar is yours. My father is the legal owner of this farm and I own every barrel and bottle of wine in this cellar.’

As she spoke she slapped one hand against the weldmesh shelves, to emphasise her point.

‘Don’t do that!’ exclaimed her companion in horror. ‘It’s very bad for the wine.’

‘I know that!’ snapped Jane. ‘I’m a winemaker. Why on earth would you think I was a delinquent?’

He shrugged.

‘My apologies. I’ve had some trouble with vandals since I took possession of the vineyard here.’

‘Took possession of the vineyard?’ echoed Jane in bewilderment. ‘I don’t understand! Have I wandered into some kind of crazy nightmare?’

‘There does seem to be some confusion,’ agreed the stranger tranquilly. ‘You said that your father owns this property. What is his name?’

There was an air of authority in his voice that made Jane answer without hesitation.

‘Colin West.’

‘And your name, mademoiselle?’

‘Jane West.’

‘Bon. We begin to make progress. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Marc Le Rossignol.’

‘How do you do?’ said Jane with heavy sarcasm.

‘Ah, you are thinking perhaps that this is no place for exchanging the pleasantries? How right you are, Miss West. Why don’t you come inside and we’ll discuss the matter in comfort?’

‘Inside?’ echoed Jane in horror. ‘Do you mean you’re staying here? Are you some kind of guest of my father’s?’

‘Not exactly,’ replied Marc. ‘We are more in the nature of business associates, but I’ll explain all that once we’re inside.’

Jane glared at him suspiciously in the inadequate torchlight. Something very odd was going on here, but at least it no longer looked as if this Marc Le Rossignol was some kind of mad rapist or burglar. Suddenly she made up her mind.

‘All right,’ she agreed curtly. ‘I don’t suppose I can come to much harm anyway with my father in the house.’

Marc shrugged.

‘Unfortunately your father is not in the house,’ he replied. ‘He has gone to New Zealand.’

‘New Zealand?’ exclaimed Jane. ‘That’s the first I’ve heard about it! I don’t have the faintest idea of what’s going on here.’

‘Nor I, mademoiselle,’ replied Marc briskly. ‘But perhaps we can get to the bottom of it all over a meal and a glass of wine.’

Jane sighed. Her head was spinning. After the long flight and the drama of the last few minutes the last thing she wanted to do was share a meal with this unwelcome invader, whoever he was. Yet obviously she would get no peace until matters were straightened out.

‘All right,’ she agreed ungraciously.

With a proprietorial gesture, which annoyed her intensely, Marc took the torch and guided her with exaggerated courtesy back along the way they had come. At the foot of the stairs Jane crouched down amid the broken glass and the spilt wine and sorrowfully picked up a shattered fragment of the bottle which still had the label adhering to it.

‘Grange Hermitage,’ she said tragically, shaking her head. ‘What a waste! It’s enough to make a girl weep.’

‘Or a man,’ agreed Marc gloomily. ‘But I’ve got something equally fine inside. A bottle of Petrus 1985. I look forward to hearing your opinion of it.’

In a daze, Jane allowed herself to be hustled inside the house. In the outside porch Marc halted as if noticing something for the first time, and then strode across to the patch of shadow where Jane had dumped her luggage.

‘These are your bags, one assumes?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Strange.’

With a Gallic shrug he moved towards the back door, making no attempt to pick up the bags. Obviously he was either too ill-mannered to help her or had no intention of letting her stay the night! Darting him a smouldering look, Jane snatched them up herself.

‘What are you doing with those?’ he demanded.