Tower of Shadows (4 page)

astonished help, she'd managed to ascertain that as Isabelle

Riquard's only child, Sabine was legal heir to Les Hiboux.

A house in France was a luxury she couldn't afford, but she needed

to visit it at least once —to make a reasoned decision about the

future of her unexpected inheritance. She'd flown to Bordeaux the

previous day, and rented a car at the airport. She'd taken her time,

driving down to Bergerac, conscious of the left-hand drive, and

unfamiliar road conditions.

'Driving in France is bliss,' everyone had told her. 'Marvellous

roads, and half the traffic.'

So far she had to agree. The route from Bordeaux to Bergerac had

been straight and fast, and presented her with few problems. And

she'd been charmed with Bergerac itself. She'd booked in to a hotel

on the Place Gambetta, had a leisurely bath to iron out the kinks of

the journey, then followed the receptionist's directions to the old

part of the town, a maze of narrow streets where old timbered

buildings leaned amiably towards each other.

Although there were plenty of tourists about, mainly British,

German and Dutch, Sabine had judged, she had no sense of being

in a crowd. There seemed to be space for everyone.

In one square, she'd found a statue of Cyrano de Bergerac, his

famous nose sadly foreshortened, probably by vandals, but

otherwise much as Rostand had envisaged him.

There were plenty of bars and restaurants to choose from, but

Sabine had already mentally opted for a simple meal. She was too

much on edge to plunge whole-heartedly into the delights of

Perigordian cuisine, she'd decided ruefully.

She had found a traditional-style establishment, full of oak beams

and dried flowers, which specialised in meat grilled on an open

fire in the restaurant itself. She'd ordered a fillet steak,

accompanied by a
gratin dauphinois
and green beans, and while

this was being prepared sipped the
aperitif
suggested by the

patronne,
a glass of well-chilled golden Monbazillac wine. It was

like tasting honey and flowers, she had thought, beginning

perceptibly to relax.

To her disappointment, she had not been able to find a Chateau La

Tour Monchauzet vintage on the wine-list, but the half-bottle of

Cotes 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 Chateau 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 chateau 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 chateau, 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 chateau

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 chateau's name, with the now familiar

emblem of the tower and the rose beside it.

Underneath was a smaller board which said curtly, '
Prive'.

Well, she'd been warned not to expect the welcome mat, Sabine

thought, as she drove under the arch. The drive up to the chateau

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 chateau. 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 chateau'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