Years later it was agreed: she murdered him in Speracedes and claimed the ticket. It was on a sunny day, just after the vendange and everyone was happy, if tired: there was to be a big feast in the village that night. The tourists would see the dead man as a sort of sacrifice to the grapes, but the locals took things in their stride: they had no thirst for mystery, for symbolism; they sought confirmation, only, that things were as they were. The man's name was Philpot, murdered by ... well, in the presence of his wife, who inherited the ticket.
Markham, E.A., A Continental Romance, Kunapipi, 2(1), 1980.