The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(10)
The enormous mansion appeared to be unchanged. But from here he could only see the western wing and a corner of the central part of the castle. Through the open space in between he glimpsed far-off hills at the rear. Ivy climbed the stone walls like rising smoke, winding around the balustraded upper terrace and spreading upward around the small tourelles to one of the massive high towers with its slits of windows. The other towers and the main entrance, under its pillared arch in the center, were no longer visible because of that new wall.
Suddenly the sound of pounding hoofs made him turn and peer through the windshield. He saw a small figure on a black horse, racing toward him. Probably some farm boy. The rider would notice him sitting here and think he was a tourist, gawking at the famous Chateau.
The dog began to growl.
“No, Fric-Frac.” He reached out and patted her. “It’s all right.”
As the horse thudded closer, he realized that the rider was a girl. Long blond hair flying. Wearing a man’s sport shirt, riding breeches, and boots. Sitting the horse like a professional.
It was that girl he had seen yesterday in the village. She glanced at him as the horse galloped past, their eyes meeting briefly. The dog barked and tried to scramble across his knees.
“Stay where you are.” He lifted her back to the window, where she settled down after one final growl.
The great Chateau seemed to float in a haze of sunlight above the open courtyard. Perhaps, while he was here, he could do some research on the castle’s history. There must be documents at the town hall. That would give him something to do for a few hours…
He saw that the grass edging the entrance drive had not been trimmed in a long time. Heavy coils of ivy hid the stone columns on either side of the gates. Barely possible to make out the carved gargoyle heads that glared down from the top of each gatepost. They were supposed to be the faces of de Mohrt ancestors…
Fric-Frac sat up again, her head thrust out through the open window, and began to growl.
A sharp crack of sound came from beyond the wall. A branch snapping under the weight of an animal? Wild boar or deer…
He had a momentary feeling that he was being watched.
Damiot drove on, following the high wall to the west boundary of the estate, then passed through a wooded area where ancient oak trees joined their branches in an overhead arch. No other cars in sight and the only sounds were muted bird voices from the forest.
This country air was giving him an appetite. In Paris he seldom had more than a sandwich with a glass of wine, but today he would treat himself to a real lunch.
He wondered where that blond girl could have been going on her black horse? Either in a hurry to get somewhere or anxious to escape from something. Or someone…
He drove past more vineyards and farms.
Heads turned, eyes following his car, but no arm was raised in greeting. These country people were never friendly with strangers.
He slowed down as he approached another farm. The old stone house, to his surprise, had recently been roofed and painted. A flower garden extended around both sides to vegetable gardens at the rear, with stables beyond. There was a long lane, lined with beech trees, where one car was parked. It was the gray Citro?n that blonde had driven yesterday. So this was where she lived!
Damiot drove on into the foothills, through rocky canyons that led up to shallow plateaus. Olive trees clung to the steep hillsides with desperate roots.
After driving for another hour, he checked a map and took a different route back toward Courville. The road descended gradually, and he glimpsed deep gorges and rock-tossed streams. One brief view of a river, probably the Rh?ne, snaking through a city that he didn’t recognize from this distance. Could it be Arles?
Several kilometers farther on, he passed a pleasant country inn with a small dining terrace at the side. Swerving off the road, he turned and came back. Slowed as he read a sign—La Terrasse—before he drove into the empty parking lot. Careful to leave his car under a tree, windows open, so that Fric-Frac would get air.
He followed a path to the dining area. All the tables, under yellow parasols, were empty, but a fat pigeon in a patch of sunlight was searching for crumbs on the stone terrace.
“M’sieur?”
Damiot turned as a swarthy waiter in shirtsleeves came from inside. “Are you serving lunch?”
“But certainly!” He led the way between the tables as he talked. “Yesterday, in the rain, there was nobody, but with this sunshine we should get several people today.”
Damiot eased into a chair that the waiter pulled out and flicked with a napkin. “I drove past, but your terrace looked so inviting I came back. Such peace and quiet can’t be found in Paris restaurants.”
“At the moment we have too much quiet. Another month and we’ll get a flood of tourists. The quiet will depart, of course, but business will improve. An apéritif, M’sieur?”
“A vin blanc cassis. What do you suggest for lunch?”
“The chef has prepared wild quail today. With a special stuffing.”
“I’ll have that.”
The waiter bowed and went inside.
Damiot realized that he was smiling in anticipation. He hadn’t tasted wild quail in years.
His table was near a low brick wall enclosing a flower garden whose rosebushes were a solid mass of green leaves. Another month and they should be covered with buds.
And, faintly, he heard the true sound of Provence. Les cigales! There seemed to be only a few of them, close at hand, probably hatched by the morning sun.