The other shots showed a man, standing alone outside some tall stone building. They were blurred and his features were indistinct, but Sabine got the impression that he wasn’t particularly young. She glanced at the back of each print, hoping for a name or a date or some other clue, but there was nothing. The man and the children remained anonymous.
She looked at the postcard next, her brows lifting in delight. It depicted a castle in a fairy-tale—a sprawl of golden stone topped by a high, sloping roof, and embellished with turrets. Sabine turned the card over. ‘Le Château La Tour Monchauzet’ the printed legend uncompromisingly informed her, with no further elaboration.
The wine label repeated the same words in a floridly ornate script overprinted on a picture, which Sabine recognised instantly. It was a simple drawing of a square tower, standing in splendid isolation like an accusing finger pointing at the sky. And at its base, as if tossed to the ground from one of the tower’s high windows, was a highly stylised rose.
It’s the same design as the medallion, she thought, with a little lurch of excitement. A tower and a rose. There’s definitely something familiar about that—something I recognised before. One of the stories, maybe, that Maman told me when I was small. Oh, why can’t I remember? I need to know.
They were a motley collection—these remnants of her mother’s past, she thought, as she began to put them back in the envelope. The deed to the house and the key she could understand—just. But what was the significance of the rest of it?
Well, there was only one way to find out. She was overdue for some leave, and she could go to France and make some enquiries.
But should she? Isabelle might have left her the case, but she’d hidden these things away, making sure they wouldn’t be discovered at least while her husband was alive. Clearly she hadn’t wanted Hugh to know she owned any property in her native country, but why conceal such an important fact? It made no sense—no sense at all.
Perhaps Isabelle hadn’t wanted them found at all, had intended her secret, whatever it was, to die with her.
But that can’t be true, Sabine thought, or she’d have burned the lot, and put the key down the nearest drain. No, for good or ill, they were intended for me. And now I have to make a decision.
Les Hiboux. Owls. Birds of ill-omen.
She shivered suddenly, and her arm caught the folder of photographs, knocking it on to the floor. The prints spilled on to the carpet and as Sabine bent to retrieve them the young boy’s face seemed to glare directly up at her, challenging and inimical. And she pulled a face back at him.
She said aloud, ‘I don’t know who you are, but I hope you’ve mellowed. Or that we never meet. Because you could make a nasty enemy.’
SABINE brought the car to a halt at the side of the road. She looked across the valley to the thick cluster of trees on the hill opposite, and the tantalising glimpse of pointed grey roofs rising above them in the sunlight. And below the trees, covering the hillside, there were the vines, row upon row of them, like some squat green army.
The Château La Tour Monchauzet, she thought swallowing. Journey’s end.
I don’t have to do this, she told herself. I could just look—take a photograph perhaps, and then travel on. Put the past behind me, and treat this as an ordinary holiday.
She could, but she knew that she wouldn’t. With Mr Braybrooke’s astonished help, she’d managed to ascertain that as Isabelle Riquard’s only child, Sabine was legal heir to Les Hiboux.
A house in France was a luxury she couldn’t afford, but she needed to visit it at least once—to make a reasoned decision about the future of her unexpected inheritance. She’d flown to Bordeaux the previous day, and rented a car at the airport. She’d taken her time, driving down to Bergerac, conscious of the left-hand drive, and unfamiliar road conditions.
‘Driving in France is bliss,’ everyone had told her. ‘Marvellous roads, and half the traffic.’
So far she had to agree. The route from Bordeaux to Bergerac had been straight and fast, and presented her with few problems. And she’d been charmed with Bergerac itself. She’d booked in to a hotel on the Place Gambetta, had a leisurely bath to iron out the kinks of the journey, then followed the receptionist’s directions to the old part of the town, a maze of narrow streets where old timbered buildings leaned amiably towards each other.
Although there were plenty of tourists about, mainly British, German and Dutch, Sabine had judged, she had no sense of being in a crowd. There seemed to be space for everyone.
In one square, she’d found a statue of Cyrano de Bergerac, his famous nose sadly foreshortened, probably by vandals, but otherwise much as Rostand had envisaged him.
There were plently of bars and restaurants to choose from, but Sabine had already mentally opted for a simple meal. She was too much on edge to plunge whole-heartedly into the delights of Périgordian cuisine, she’d decided ruefully.
She had found a traditional-style establishment, full of oak beams and dried flowers, which specialised in meat grilled on an open fire in the restaurant itself. She’d ordered a fillet steak, accompanied by a gratin dauphinois and green beans, and while this was being prepared sipped the apéritif suggested by the patronne, a glass of well-chilled golden Monbazillac wine. It was like tasting honey and flowers, she had thought, beginning perceptibly to relax.
To her disappointment, she had not been able to find a Château La Tour Monchauzet vintage on the wine-list, but the half-bottle of Côtes de Bergerac that she chose instead more than made up for it.
Once she’d made her decision to come to the Dordogne, Sabine had read up as much as possible on the area, and she knew that Bergerac wines had been overshadowed in the past by the great vignobles of Bordeaux.
Bordeaux had not taken kindly to competition from what it dismissed as ‘the hinterland’, and had even insisted at one point on Bergerac wines being shipped in smaller casks, thus forcing the Bergerac vignerons to pay more tax on their exports, the money being levied per cask. But that kind of dirty trick had been relegated firmly to history, and now Bergerac wines had a recognised and growing share of the market.
Before she set off the following morning, she’d visited the Maison du Vin, which was housed in a former medieval monastery. Sabine had been guiltily aware of the click of her sandal heels on the flags of the ancient cloister, and was tempted to tiptoe instead, in case she upset the sleeping spirits of the long-departed monks with such frivolous modernity.
But inside the old building she had found the staff reassuringly up to date, and smilingly efficient.
They had provided her with a local map, pin-pointing the exact location of the Château La Tour Monchauzet, and explaining she should take the Villereal road out of Issigeac, but only for a short distance. Then there would be a signpost. But, they had warned, it was not certain she could tour the château or its vines. It was owned by the Baron de Rochefort and his family, and visitors had not been encouraged for some time, as the Baron did not enjoy the best of health. Perhaps it would be wise to telephone first.
However, in the same area, they had added, there were other vignerons, who would be happy to show her the wine-making process, using the most modern and scientific methods, and allow her also to taste their products without obligation. They had given her a list.
She was also looking for a house called Les Hiboux. Well, that was more difficult. For serious exploration of the neighbourhood, they recommended a series of small-scale maps, available from any Maison de Presse. The house she sought, if long-established, could well be marked. If not, she could make enquiries at one of the local mairies.
Sabine had to admit that the château, tucked among its encircling trees, had