The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(25)

“It was raining. Thought nothing would be happening, so I went to bed early. Had a feeling I was catching a cold…”

“Where are you staying?”

“They’ve put me at the H?tel Courville. Small room in the back. No heat, and the bath’s down the hall. That’s how I got this cold.”

They followed the left branch of the drive around the edge of the circular courtyard, past the entrance to a long allée whose marble statues and fountains were engulfed by weeds.

“Have you asked, at the H?tel Courville, who was staying there the night of each murder?” Damiot asked.

“Who was… Mon Dieu! I hadn’t thought of it. I should find out who was there both nights…”

“And who checked out next morning. He may have been driving a black Ferrari.”

“Black Ferrari? Thanks for the tip.”

Fric-Frac’s nose twitched, sniffing the delicious wild scents pouring in from both sides.

Damiot looked up at the stone fa?ade of the castle rising from the cobbled courtyard, eyes pausing on the carved entrance doors in the center, under a columned arch. His gaze followed strands of ivy up to the balustraded terrace where the monster had appeared last night, then continued on to the stone balconies and small tourelles and, higher and higher, to the massive circular towers thrusting their pointed roofs toward the sky. “There was a bell in at least one of those towers when I was a boy.”

“They say there used to be bells in three of them, but the last one was removed years ago because the beams had rotted. They were afraid it would fall and the whole tower might be pulled down. I’ve checked every tower and there are no bells in any of them.”

“What did those villagers hear last night?”

“Nothing!” His voice was harsh. “They imagined the whole thing.”

“Did they?” Damiot noticed that the old tiles on the roofs had weathered to a greenish bronze and that many were missing. With the winter rains, that number of holes might cause serious damage to the interior. Ceilings could collapse and floors would warp…

Bardou slowed his car, following the drive along the western side of the Chateau toward the rear. “They say this place is some sort of historical monument. Protected by the government.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it. Must go back at least three centuries.”

“I’ve been inside, but there’s nothing except some old pictures and furniture. Pouchet lives in a room off the kitchen.

“No women around?”

“Never saw any.” He turned the car right, into an open area extending from the kitchen yard to a distant row of stables.

Damiot recalled the last time he had been here. He had been caught by a gamekeeper, clutching a canvas bag filled with mushrooms he had picked in the forest. That gamekeeper was a tall man, muscular and rough. Damiot had been dragged, protesting, into the cavernous kitchen, and when they asked his name he told them the truth. Some of the servants had known his parents, and one of the cooks gave him a slice of cold game pie. He remembered to this day the delicious taste. They had let him keep the mushrooms, and his father sliced them into an omelette for the family dinner that night…

The car slowed to a stop near the open kitchen door, unchanged since his last visit, scattering several chickens. Their squawks roused a family of ducks at the edge of a pond.

Damiot heard a dog barking—the same deep sound he had heard last night—and saw Fric-Frac’s ears lift in response.

She was the first out of the car, eager to investigate everything.

He looked around, recalling earlier visits, as Bardou headed toward the kitchen door. The rear gate, behind the stables, was out of sight from here. One of the stable doors stood open but the garages were closed. In the old days they held a row of expensive cars.

He noticed that a dovecote near the stables had collapsed and fallen to the ground. The metal aviary where peacocks had been caged was rusted and empty, its doors hanging open.

“Pouchet! Where are you?”

Damiot turned to see Bardou coming from the kitchen.

“He’s not inside. Can’t be far, leaving his door open.”

“I heard a dog…”

“Big mastiff. He keeps it chained inside.”

The silence was abruptly torn apart by a terrifying scream.

The dog in the kitchen went into an uproar of barking.

Fric-Frac shot across the yard toward the stable.

Damiot went after her, limping because of his haste, as the scream was repeated. He realized that Bardou wasn’t hurrying. “Somebody’s been hurt!”

“They’ll be dead before we get there. Pouchet must be butchering this morning.”

“Of course! I haven’t heard that sound in years.” He paused for Bardou to catch up, then walked beside him toward the stables, where Fric-Frac had disappeared through an open door.

“The old man does his own butchering when he needs fresh meat.”

“Who’s out there?” It was a harsh male voice, from inside the stable.

“It’s me! Bardou.” He led the way inside, into cool shadow.

As Damiot’s eyes adjusted to the dim light slanting down from one dusty window, he noticed an old car parked inside the door and saw Fric-Frac, crouched on the earthen floor, facing a curious scene.