The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(9)

Damiot slowed the Peugeot to a crawl as he recognized a section of road he had walked hundreds of times in the past. Farther on there would be an old stone bridge across a small river where he used to fish.

He glanced at the dog beside him, seated on her haunches, muzzle thrust out through the open window. She had scampered into his room as Claude entered, and jumped onto the bed. Damiot had fed her bits of orange-flavored bread spread with lavender honey as he enjoyed his breakfast.

She had remained on the bed, watching him while he shaved and dressed, and followed him to the foyer, where he found Madame Bouchard.

“Bonjour, Monsieur! Did you sleep?”

“Without a dream. I feel completely rested this morning.”

“I’m so glad.” She glanced down at the dog. “Fric-Frac isn’t being a nuisance?”

“Certainly not. In fact, I was wondering if I might take her with me this morning for a drive in the foothills?”

“You’ll be doing my staff a favor. She gets underfoot when they’re busy in the kitchen. And she adores riding in a car.” Smiling as she ripped the page from her pad. “Will you return in time for dinner?”

“Long before that, I should think.”

“Then I’ll reserve your same table.”

He saw that she was wearing a pullover sweater the color of spring violets, well-fitting gray slacks, and elegant black boots.

“Friday mornings I take the station wagon and drive from farm to farm picking up fresh meat and vegetables. Enjoy the sun, Monsieur…”

And he was enjoying the sun. First sun he had seen in weeks! It was spreading a golden haze across the orchards that provided the apples for Calvados, extending beyond the low stone walls lining the highway.

The farmhouses were old but appeared to be in good condition. Provencal farmers always kept everything in working order.

Fields and vineyards teemed with activity. Women in straw hats working among the grapevines. Smoke rising from bonfires of twisted roots. Farmhands in one recently tilled field, planting seeds. He could smell the rich earth, damp from the rains.

Groves of silver-gray olive trees trimmed on top, not as in some other provinces. Villages perched like toy houses on distant hills, their stone walls pink in the hot sunshine. Almond trees on the higher slopes and a row of dark cypresses like sentries, black against the intense blue sky.

A flock of ravens, disturbed by his car, shot up from a field with a clatter of sound, cawing and flapping their purple-black wings.

Passing a hedge of hawthorn, he was startled when a small boy straightened to stare at him. Probably crouched there searching among the roots for snails. He had done that many times, along this same road.

When Damiot reached the old stone bridge, he stopped the Peugeot and got out. The dog ran down to the edge of the bank and dipped her muzzle into the water.

He had fished here many times, another small dog beside him, although he didn’t recall ever catching any fish. Had sat on this same bank for hours, dreaming in the summer sun…

What did he dream about in those days? He had no idea.

As he continued along the curved road, higher and higher, he realized that he was approaching the Chateau de Mohrt. For centuries the ancient castle had belonged to the de Mohrt family, but he and his young friends always called it Chateau Mort. Castle Death!

That was what the villagers, long ago, had named the place. Which gave the great estate a special fascination…

He and his pals climbed over the high wrought-iron fence to steal berries every spring and walnuts in the winter. There were plenty of both closer to the village, but they were supposed to taste better if they came from the dark forest surrounding the castle. Sweeter berries and larger walnuts! Many times when they got inside the grounds they had been chased away by a game-keeper with a pack of fierce dogs. Huge gray beasts that came crashing and snarling through the underbrush…

Damiot realized that he was passing a high stone wall he had never seen before. They had replaced the old wrought-iron fence with a wall!

In the past you could see the front of the castle from here, beyond a sloping green lawn where sheep grazed. He had driven by several times with Blanche Carmet, and always slowed his car to stare through the trees at the distant Chateau.

It was rumored that the de Mohrt family had died out or, if any members survived, that they were living elsewhere. The only tenant was said to be a caretaker. Some of the locals claimed that the castle was haunted. Lights had been glimpsed late at night through windows in the upper floors…

He slowed the Peugeot as he approached the entrance and saw the same tall wrought-iron gates that had always been there. Although not as high as he had thought when he was a boy. How the size of things diminished as you grew older.

The gates were closed, padlocked on the inside.

Damiot stopped his car and leaned across to the open window, pressing against the dog, to look between the elaborate grilles.

A broad drive lined with poplars led up to the lower edge of an open courtyard from which, in a glare of sunlight, rose the impressive stone bulk of the Chateau de Mohrt.

It was this cobbled courtyard that had given the name of Courville to the village. The first houses, and an inn, were built centuries ago, at the place where two highways crossed. People were said to have traveled great distances to attend the famous trials held in the courtyard of the castle.

He stroked the dog’s head, feeling the delicate bones of her skull, as he studied the distant Chateau through the locked gates.