The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(15)

He caught up with a two-wheeled cart, drawn by a farm horse. Three old men were huddled on straw in the back, their ancient faces like Daumier caricatures in the wavering light of a lantern.

Last of all he passed a pickup truck carrying a group of younger men. The driver appeared to be in his thirties, with sandy hair and round face.

Damiot increased speed up the hill and around a curve in the road. His headlights soon revealed the high wall surrounding the Chateau.

He slowed to a stop at the entrance. Got out and walked toward the closed gates.

The mist was much heavier here. Impossible to make out anything through the grille, except a ghostly section of drive revealed by his headlights. The distant Chateau was invisible.

Damiot turned back to his car, hip throbbing and warning of pain to come. Hesitating, his hand on the door handle, he looked down the long road. As yet, no one in sight coming from the village.

He lowered himself into the Peugeot, careful not to strike his hip, and switched off the headlights. The night immediately became impenetrable—a solid black wall pressing against his car.

Damiot closed the window at his side. As though that could shut out whatever evil might be crouched behind those locked gates…

Better get out of here before the first of the villagers arrived. He turned on his headlights and drove slowly past the gates.

He recalled that there had been a rear entrance to the estate when he was a boy. He had forgotten about that entrance. He had forgotten how he had watched from high on a hill, stretched out on his stomach, as trucks and carts creaked through the open gates bringing freshly caught fish that dripped water along the side lane, or carcasses of beef and lamb piled under bloody tarpaulins. Some of the de Mohrt family still lived here in those days. The old lady—Madame la Comtesse…

Opening both windows, he backed the car until he came to a space where there were no tree trunks or underbrush. Only darkness…

Damiot eased the Peugeot off the road and immediately felt his tires sink into soft earth. The winter rains must have soaked this ground for months.

Branches slashed through the open windows, sending dried leaves and broken twigs flying across his face. The car filled with a rich scent of damp earth and moss. Rotting wood and decaying leaves.

The deep ruts in the lane were impossible to avoid. When he struck one, the car gave such a lurch that he bounced up and down. His hip protested each time, with instant stabs of pain. If he got a flat tire or the next rut damaged his axle, he would be in real trouble.

Finally, he saw where the wall came to an end at the rear of the estate. Slowing the Peugeot to a stop near the rear entrance, he left the headlights on and got out.

Damiot peered between the vertical bars of the padlocked gate and glimpsed more heavy undergrowth and trees. In the past, from this vantage point, he had been able to see the kitchen area of the Chateau.

No point in staying here!

As he turned to leave he recalled that there had been another lane, directly opposite this rear entrance, leading to higher ground where you could look down into the kitchen courtyard. That was where he had stretched out for hours, watching the servants at their work.

He saw that the lane was still there.

Eh bien! After coming this far he would go all the way. He lowered himself into the Peugeot again and, backing a few feet, turned into the other lane. Felt the car lift at once as it followed the twisting curves.

He had neglected to close the windows, and the night air became colder as he drove up the hill.

To his surprise, he saw the marks that looked fairly recent. The local teenagers must still drive up here with their girls.

The Peugeot rounded a final curve and came out into an open area where its headlights revealed a grassy ledge facing empty black space.

This was the spot he had remembered.

He eased off the lane and stopped the car parallel to the ledge. Switched off his headlights and was swallowed up by the night.

Leaving the door open, he got out and hesitated, unwilling to move closer to the rim. One stumble could pitch him over the edge.

Lights danced in the distance. Lanterns? Those villagers must have reached the front gates.

The silence was broken by the faint tolling of a bell.

A dog howled, somewhere below. Damiot shivered. Madame Bouchard had said that the villagers heard a bell tolling before the monster appeared.

The sound seemed to come from high in one of the Chateau towers. A single repeated stroke, at regular intervals, deep and resonant.

That dog again. Barking now, but the sound seemed to be more distant. Was it one dog or several? Inside the Chateau or running loose in the grounds?

The bell continued to toll.

His eyes must be adjusting, because the darkness seemed less opaque. He closed them, squeezing both lids together. When he opened them after a few seconds, he saw the dark bulk of the Chateau de Mohrt. Still, it was impossible to make out any details except for the massive stone walls and towers against the night sky.

From here he was looking between two wings of the mansion across the west terrace, just as he had done when he was a kid, over the open courtyard toward the entrance drive.

Squinting toward the distant gates, he could make out their wrought-iron grilles against a glow of lanterns. There seemed to be two lanterns inside the grounds, moving up the drive toward the Chateau. Some of the younger villagers must have climbed over that wall.

Whisper of sound in the darkness, near at hand to his left. Probably some night creature prowling for food.