The Splendour Falls (7 page)

Monsieur Chamond rose from behind the reception desk to greet me with a smile smooth as silk. In middle age he was a handsome man, neat and compact with an efficiency of movement that I much admired. In his youth, he would have rivalled his nephew Thierry as a breaker of women’s hearts. Most certainly he would have broken mine.

We exchanged our formal greetings, and because I answered him in French he kept on in that language, a little cautiously, poised to switch to English at my first sign of difficulty. ‘I’m sorry that I was not here to meet you yesterday, myself. You are enjoying your stay in our hotel, I hope?’

‘Very much.’

‘And your room, it is satisfactory?’

‘It’s lovely, Monsieur,’ I said, and was rewarded with a warm smile of pleasure.

‘I’m glad. Room 215, is it not?’ He handed me the key. ‘And you have another message, Mademoiselle. Just this morning.’

I took the narrow envelope he handed me and turned it over, frowning slightly. It was addressed, quite simply, ‘Braden’, in a bold black hand I didn’t recognise. ‘Another message …?’

Monsieur Chamond proved most perceptive. At the tone of my voice his eyes moved with sudden apprehension to one corner of the desk, below the counter, and whatever he saw there made him shake his head. ‘I am so very sorry, Mademoiselle, I had assumed …’ With the shrug of one resigned to suffering, he retrieved a small square notepad with a message scrawled upon it. ‘Our regular receptionist Yvette, she is on holiday for two weeks, and so her sister Gabrielle is filling in. She tries, poor Gabrielle, but she is not Yvette. She is … easily confused, and sometimes when I tell her things, she forgets.’ His smile held an apology. ‘Your cousin telephoned last night, while you were out at dinner.’

Wait for it, I thought drily. ‘Oh, yes?’

‘He speaks good French, your cousin – like yourself. He said he would be late, perhaps a few days. If you did not mind …’

‘I see.’ My host, I knew, had made that last bit up. Harry would hardly have cared whether I minded. ‘And did he say where he was ringing from?’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’ He looked at me more closely, perhaps surprised that I’d received the news so well. ‘This will not spoil your plans, I hope? Your holiday?’

‘Good heavens, no.’ I’d rather expected it. In fact, when Harry hadn’t met me yesterday, as promised, I’d braced myself for the inevitable. My cousin rarely kept to schedules. Hours turned into days with him, and days to weeks, and by the time he did show up in Chinon I might well be safely back in England, sorting through my holiday snaps. I smiled at Monsieur Chamond. ‘I’m sure I’ll manage, on my own.’

‘But I am sorry that you were not told last night. We might have saved you worrying.’

Worry? About Harry? Hardly likely, I thought. ‘No harm done,’ I said, looking down at the envelope he’d given me. ‘And is this from my cousin, too?’

‘No, Mademoiselle – that came this morning, as I said. By hand.’

‘How curious. I wonder who …?’ I tore the flap, and drew a printed card from the envelope. It was an invitation, of all things. I was invited to a guided tour and wine-tasting, the card informed me, at a time of my own choosing, although a written note along the bottom edge asked would I please be kind enough to telephone for an appointment. How
very
curious.

Monsieur Chamond was watching me. ‘It is from the
Clos des Cloches
, I think?’

‘Yes.’ I showed it to him. ‘That’s the vineyard on the hill, isn’t it? The one behind the château? I saw it just this morning.’

‘Yes. The white house.’

‘Odd. I wonder where they got my name.’

‘Ah, no,’ he said, ‘that is my writing, Mademoiselle, on the envelope. The boy who brought it told me it was for the
English lady staying here. And you,’ he explained, with a small shrug, ‘you are the only English lady that we have.’

‘But surely …’ I let the protest hang, unfinished. I could hardly accuse my host of making a mistake – that would be rude. And anyway, it hardly mattered. It was just an invitation; probably some sort of marketing ploy delivered round the hotels. Come and taste our wines, and bring your wallet with you – that sort of thing. Strange, though, that they should still be holding tours at
harvest-time
. I dropped the square card into my handbag and forgot about it.

Well,
nearly
forgot about it. One couldn’t quite forget about the
Clos des Cloches
in Chinon, I discovered. The name leapt out at me again half an hour later, from the menu of the restaurant where I’d chosen to eat lunch. ‘May we suggest,’ the menu read, ‘a red wine from the
Clos des Cloches
?’ Why not, indeed? A half bottle of the youngest vintage could be squeezed within my budget, I decided. The waiter took my order down approvingly, then vanished, leaving me to watch the ebb and flow of passersby along the narrow cobbled street outside the window.

The restaurant was tiny, just six tables and a narrow bar, but Monsieur Chamond had recommended it so strongly I had gamely searched the streets until I’d tracked it down. The French, I reasoned, knew their restaurants. And lunches were a serious affair. Most businesses closed down in France from noon till two, so everyone but cooks and waiters could observe the ritual. I had forgotten how enjoyable it was to sit and eat at leisure, not to hurry, with the warm smells swirling lazily around me and the hum of
conversation drifting past from nearby tables. I’d forgotten how wonderful the food in France could be – how even a salad could be stunning, filled with unexpected textures and a subtle trace of spice. And I’d completely forgotten about the wine.

At home I rarely drank wine with my meals, but here in France it seemed so natural, and the half bottle seemed so harmlessly small, that I’d already drunk three glasses by the time I thought to count. And by then I couldn’t do much, anyway – I was feeling quite pleasantly foggy.

So foggy, in fact, that when I’d finally paid the bill and stepped outside, I found I couldn’t quite remember just which way I ought to go. Looking round, I tried to get my bearings. There was the château, off to my right, which meant I should head that way, surely … except it seemed to me I’d come along a wider road than that one … and I had changed direction twice … or was it three times?
Blast
, I thought,
you’re lost
.

The tourist map I’d tucked into my handbag proved no help at all. It only showed the central part of town, and the unnamed streets and alleys formed a mysterious web on the glossy paper. It was no use, I decided – I’d have to ask someone.

It was no small thing, here in France, to ask someone directions. The rules of etiquette were very clear – the person you asked was obligated to help, even if they didn’t have a clue, themselves, exactly where to send you. Wrong directions, to the French, were better than no directions at all. When all else failed, they’d pull another stranger into the discussion to assist. I’d caused a pile-up on a Paris
pavement, once, by asking someone where to find the nearest bookshop.

So it was with a certain caution that I scanned the passing faces now, waiting for the proper sort of person. The morning’s sun had disappeared behind a swell of
slate-grey
cloud, and people walked by briskly with their collars pulled tight against the damp. I chose a woman slightly older than myself, smartly dressed and carrying a briefcase. She glanced with mild horror at my map, and I remembered how the French disliked maps – they preferred to ask a person. Calmly, I refolded it and stuffed it in my handbag, listening in patience while she told me how to get back to the Hotel de France.

It sounded rather more complicated than I remembered, but I thanked her, careful not to slur my words, and toddled off in the appropriate direction. The problem with medieval towns, I thought some twenty minutes later, was that the streets all ran whichever way they wanted. Which meant, I thought as the asphalt gave way once more to cobblestone, that following directions proved nearly impossible.

The pavement shrank until there was barely room for one person to walk, and I crowded close against the leaning buildings. These houses had not been scrubbed clean like the houses on the rue Voltaire, and the passing centuries had weathered their walls to a sort of uniform dun colour. Here and there, where the houses didn’t quite meet one another, a darkened crevice lay concealed by broken boards, or a snatch of garden glimmered through the narrow opening.

An old woman with suspicious eyes, her thick, shapeless
body lurching from side to side, passed by me in indifferent silence, and I felt bolder stares from a cluster of young men who moved more swiftly and with purpose.

Around the corner, the street was quieter. The human noise of shouts and speech and motors grew steadily more faint behind me, until my own footsteps sounded intrusively loud. On every house the shutters were pulled back and fastened; lace curtains fluttered at the open windows. Painted doors sagged on their ancient hinges, over steps that had been swept spotlessly clean. The evidence of human life was everywhere, but I saw no one. The twisting street was empty, lonely, silent.

I might have been the only soul alive.

And so the cat, racing past me in a sudden blur of black and white, nearly scared me to death. I jumped aside as a great lolloping mongrel of a dog came tearing up the street in hot pursuit, but the cat was even quicker. In the blink of an eye it hurled itself over a high stone wall, leaving the dog standing in frustration on the other side. After barking its displeasure, the dog slunk sourly off in search of a more co-operative quarry.

The wall over which the cat had vanished formed part of a narrow alleyway whose name,
Ruelle des Rèves
, was plainly marked for all to see. The Lane of Dreams. It seemed too grandiose a name for such a tiny thoroughfare.

Curious, I crossed the street. Standing in the lane, one could easily see how the cat had managed its escape. The wall was thickly hung with ivy – not the dark English ivy to which I was accustomed, but the other kind so common here in Chinon, a tangled mass of paler green that brightened at
its outer edge to crimson, where the smaller leaves spilled down in curling tendrils.

No windows peered into the little lane, and there appeared to be just one door, painted green and set so deep in ivy that one almost didn’t notice. It would open, I thought, into the garden of the house that rose behind the high stone wall.

The house itself looked less than friendly. Even as I took a step backwards to view it from a proper angle a window slammed above my head, and looking up I saw a face against the glass. Only for an instant, the briefest glimpse, and yet I recognised the face and knew the man who owned it: the young German artist, Christian Rand.

This must be his house, then. The house that had been loaned to him by Martine … what was her name? Martine Muret. The house in which, three days ago, a man had died. I remembered Garland Whitaker saying cattily,
Maybe it wasn’t an accident. Maybe Christian did it
… One wouldn’t need much fancy to imagine murder here.

It was enough to give one the creeps, really – the silent street and the dingy, claustrophobic Lane of Dreams, and the touch of death still hanging heavy round the house. Like ivy, I thought, dropping my gaze to the wall.

The cat’s unblinking eyes locked with mine. I hadn’t heard a sound, yet there it was, settled comfortably among the red-tinged vines that rustled along the top of the high wall. After a moment’s hard stare the cat, like Christian, chose to ignore me. The pale eyes closed.

Twice snubbed, I turned away. Since I was, by this time, quite hopelessly lost, it hardly seemed to matter which
direction I chose, and so I walked on through the narrow lane and came into another street as quiet as the one I’d just been on. Unlike the first street, though, this one was packed with cars and people, and the silence made me curious until I saw the cause of it.

At the street’s end stood an old church, pale and plain and solid. And in front of the church, almost blocking the road, a long hearse stretched dead black against the yellowed walls of the houses. The mourners, sombre in their dark overcoats, milled about the pavement, exchanging subdued kisses and handshakes.

One face among the many drew my gaze. It was the smoothly handsome face of my taxi driver, his classic profile turning a fraction away from me as he bent his head to say something to the young woman standing by the church door – a young woman with short black hair and fragile features that were almost tragic in their beauty. I frowned. I’d seen her somewhere, too, just recently … but where? And then she placed her hand upon his sleeve and I remembered.

I looked with deeper interest at Martine Muret. This morning, from the château walls, I’d seen her laughing, leaning close against Neil Grantham, full of life. She looked sedate now, solemn, though I couldn’t find much sadness in her lovely face. But then, I thought, perhaps she wasn’t sad. Paul called the dead man her ex-husband, so they must have been divorced. She might have hated him, for all I knew. She might have wished him dead.

Respectfully, she looked down as they carried out the flowers – great elaborate racks of flowers, red and gold, that
were laid with care inside the waiting hearse. A woman, not the widow, started weeping audibly, and not wanting to intrude further I pulled my gaze away.

And then I froze.

Across the narrow street, not ten feet from me, the dark, unshaven man from the fountain square leaned one shoulder against the stuccoed wall of the house behind him, and calmly lit a cigarette. Expressionless, he met my eyes. For a long unnerving moment we just stood there, staring at one another, and then the church bells set up a great clanging peal of sound that made the dog at his feet throw back its head and howl, joining the general lament.

The burst of noise broke the spell. I turned and walked on rapidly, away from the church and the press of mourners. Foolish, I thought, to be nervous of a stranger in broad daylight, in a public street. Foolish to find myself listening for a sinister fall of footsteps on the pavement behind me. Still, foolish or not, I kept on walking faster and faster, and I was very nearly running by the time I reached the river.