Tower Of Shadows

To her disappointment, she had not been able to find a Château La Tour Monchauzet vintage on the wine-list, but the half-bottle of Côtes de Bergerac that she chose instead more than made up for it.

Once she’d made her decision to come to the Dordogne, Sabine had read up as much as possible on the area, and she knew that Bergerac wines had been overshadowed in the past by the great vignobles of Bordeaux.

Bordeaux had not taken kindly to competition from what it dismissed as ‘the hinterland’, and had even insisted at one point on Bergerac wines being shipped in smaller casks, thus forcing the Bergerac vignerons to pay more tax on their exports, the money being levied per cask. But that kind of dirty trick had been relegated firmly to history, and now Bergerac wines had a recognised and growing share of the market.

Before she set off the following morning, she’d visited the Maison du Vin, which was housed in a former medieval monastery. Sabine had been guiltily aware of the click of her sandal heels on the flags of the ancient cloister, and was tempted to tiptoe instead, in case she upset the sleeping spirits of the long-departed monks with such frivolous modernity.

But inside the old building she had found the staff reassuringly up to date, and smilingly efficient.

They had provided her with a local map, pin-pointing the exact location of the Château La Tour Monchauzet, and explaining she should take the Villereal road out of Issigeac, but only for a short distance. Then there would be a signpost. But, they had warned, it was not certain she could tour the château or its vines. It was owned by the Baron de Rochefort and his family, and visitors had not been encouraged for some time, as the Baron did not enjoy the best of health. Perhaps it would be wise to telephone first.

However, in the same area, they had added, there were other vignerons, who would be happy to show her the wine-making process, using the most modern and scientific methods, and allow her also to taste their products without obligation. They had given her a list.

She was also looking for a house called Les Hiboux. Well, that was more difficult. For serious exploration of the neighbourhood, they recommended a series of small-scale maps, available from any Maison de Presse. The house she sought, if long-established, could well be marked. If not, she could make enquiries at one of the local mairies.

Sabine had to admit that the château, tucked among its encircling trees, had the look of a place which actively discouraged visitors. If she hadn’t been looking out for the signpost, she could easily have driven past without even realising it was there.

But now it was decision time. Did she turn off on to the single track road across the valley, or take the easy option and drive on towards Villereal?

She glanced at the passenger-seat beside her. The tip of the envelope was just protruding from her bag.

She was probably making a big fuss about very little, said a small voice inside her. Perhaps Isabelle had simply visited the château once as a guest, in the old days, before the Baron became ill, and had kept the postcard and label as souvenirs of a happy day. A nice, comfortable thought, she told herself wryly. Only it didn’t explain how the medallion came to be in her mother’s possession.

Well, there was only one way to find out, she thought, resolutely re-starting the engine.

The road she found herself on was single-track, and twisting. The stream in the bottom of the valley was spanned by a narrow bridge, and she squeezed the car across it, and started up the hill on the other side. The vines spread away on both sides of her, and she could see people working among them, moving slowly along the ranks of greenery.

As she rounded the final corner, the trees were in front of her, a dark and impenetrable barrier hiding the house completely. The road itself ran beneath a tall archway, the gates of which were standing open. One of the high stone pillars carried a large, new-looking sign, showing the château’s name, with the now familiar emblem of the tower and the rose beside it.

Underneath was a smaller board which said curtly, ‘Privé’.

Well, she’d been warned not to expect the welcome mat, Sabine thought, as she drove under the arch. The drive up to the château was deeply shadowed by the trees, and Sabine found the gloom trying after the brilliance of the sunshine on the open road. As she peered ahead of her, something shot across the road in front of the car, forcing her to brake sharply. It was probably only a rabbit, but it had still unnerved her slightly, and she pulled off the drive and parked on the grass.

She leaned against the steering-wheel, resting her forehead on her folded arms. She was nervous of her own shadow today—strung taut as a wire. The problem was she had no real idea of what she was going to say or do when she got to the château. Or was she simply going to drive up to the front door and announce herself?

‘Good day, messieurs, dames,’ she rehearsed silently. ‘I am the daughter of Isabelle Riquard.’

Very impressive, she thought. She could just see the raised eyebrows, the exchange of bemused glances, and the shrugs which said, So what? before they politely but firmly showed her the door. Maybe she should have listened to the girl at the Maison du Vin and phoned ahead.

She opened the car door and got out, stretching. It was cool under the trees, and she could hear birds singing. The wood seemed to be beckoning to her, but she resisted the temptation. The last thing she needed was to be found trespassing in the Baron’s private grounds.

She was just about to get back in the car, when she heard another vehicle coming up the hill fast. Sabine had an ignominious impulse to run and hide somewhere. Then she took a deep breath, telling herself not to be such a fool, and stand her ground. If this was one of the family, she might have some explaining to do quite soon, but they couldn’t eat her, for heaven’s sake. She leaned against the bonnet of the car and waited.

With a snarl, a small Peugeot rounded the corner and headed towards her. Sabine pinned on a polite smile, and aimed it straight at the oncoming vehicle’s windscreen. Then, just as if the world had frozen and stopped for a moment, she saw the woman in the driving seat, face white, eyes glassy with shock, the mouth stretched in a grimace which looked like terror.

Sabine cried out in horror as the Peugeot swerved crazily, and plunged off the road. There was the sound of crunching metal as it hit one of the trees a glancing blow and came to a rocking halt.

For a moment Sabine couldn’t move. It had all been so fast, she could hardly believe what had happened. All she could think of was the panic on the other woman’s face when she’d seen her.

I was just standing there, she thought dazedly. I did nothing to cause that. Nothing.

But there was the Peugeot, its wing crumpled beyond recognition, and still inside was the driver, slumped over the wheel.

‘Oh, my God.’ Power returned to Sabine’s limbs and she dashed frantically across the road, and tugged at the driver’s door. It came open at once, and she leaned in, trying to disentangle the unconscious woman from her seatbelt. She’d obviously hit her head during the impact because there was a small trickle of blood on her forehead.

Sabine got the seatbelt off at last, and heaved and dragged the woman, arms and legs trailing, clear of the car. Fortunately, she was petite and thin, almost to the point of emaciation, but all the same Sabine needed all her strength to struggle with her to the grass on the opposite side of the road.

She wasn’t a young woman, either. Her hair, drawn back from her face into a chignon, was iron-grey, and there were deep lines around her nose and mouth.

She had the most ghastly pallor, Sabine thought, racing to fetch her jacket from the car and put it under the older woman’s head as a pillow. As she did so, the colourless lips moved in a faint moan.

At least she’s not dead, Sabine thought, relief flooding through her. She leaned close to the woman’s ear and said urgently, ‘Don’t move, madame. I’m going to get help.’

She jumped into her own car, hands fumbling with the ignition key. It started finally at the third attempt, and Sabine was almost weeping as she threw it at the hill. After the next corner, the road divided, and Sabine took the right-hand fork. Almost at once, the road levelled out, and she beat her fist on the steering-wheel in frustration.

‘The château’s at the very top of the hill,’ she wailed to herself. ‘This can’t be the way.’

She was looking for somewhere to turn when she suddenly realised there were buildings ahead of her. Not a house, but barns or storage areas of some kind. Oh, let there be someone around, she prayed silently, as she made the car fly the last few metres.

Directly ahead of her, three men stood in a group talking. At the sound of her approach, their heads swivelled towards her as if pulled by strings, their expressions transfixed by astonishment and alarm. If she hadn’t been so upset, it would almost have been funny.

Sabine tried to brake, stalled instead, and tumbled out of the car. ‘Please,’ she said between sobbing breaths. ‘Please come with me. There’s been an accident. A lady has been hurt.’

One of the men strode over to her. Sabine had a confused impression of height and strength, and an anger so powerful that she felt scorched by it.

His hand closed on her arm, bruising her, and she cried out in pain.

‘Who are you?’ A voice like steel and ice. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘That doesn’t matter now. You’ve got to help me. Someone’s injured.’

He swore violently under his breath, and Sabine found herself being propelled without gentleness into her own passenger-seat. He slotted himself in behind the steering-wheel, and started the car first time. Bastard, she thought. Know-all.

‘Show me.’

‘It was just before the fork.’ In spite of the heat of the day, her teeth had begun to chatter. ‘I was standing on the grass—just standing there. She—saw me, and—and—ran into a tree. I—I didn’t believe it.’

‘No?’ There was a kind of savage irony in his voice, and the dark eyes seared her. ‘I do.’

The damage to the Peugeot looked even worse as they approached, and Sabine groaned under her breath. The driver was sitting up, holding a hand groggily to her head.

‘How did she get there?’ Sabine was asked with a curtness that threatened to remove a layer of skin.

‘I put her there. I suppose I shouldn’t have moved her, but I was worried about the petrol tank—the car exploding.’

But he was already out of the car, ignoring her faltering explanation. He went down on one knee beside the older woman. ‘Tante Héloise.’ His voice had gentled quite magically. ‘Keep still, and try to be calm. Jacques has gone to call an ambulance.’

‘No.’ A thin hand gestured in agitation. ‘It isn’t necessary. I bumped my head, that’s all. I don’t wish to go to the hospital. Just take me to the house.’