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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, somber 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.
Chapter 8
…on the spur she fled; and more
We know not,—
I would have walked straight on past Paul, had he not called to me. He was sitting where we’d sat last night, near the top of the steps leading down to the river, his body folded in unconscious imitation of the brooding statue behind him. Resting his book face down upon his outstretched leg, he called again and waved.
Even with the zebra-striped pedestrian crossing, it took some minutes for me to cross the busy street and join him.
“You’ve been drinking,” he said, in a brotherly tone.
“Only a little wine with lunch.” I raised one hand to touch my flushed cheek. “Is it really that obvious?”
“’Fraid so. Your eyes are kind of glazed.”
“Oh, well.” I took the news in stride, not overly concerned. Stepping with care over his leg, I settled myself on the next step down and linked my hands around my knees. It was a lovely place to sit and watch the world go by, to watch the river coursing past and hear the ducks call out to one another as they paddled round the reeds that edged the sloping river wall. One could sit here all the afternoon, and never be disturbed.
I sighed, my worries sliding from me as I smiled up at Paul. “And how was your lunch?” I asked.
“Don’t ask.” He grinned. “The Whitakers decided to go for Chinese food today as well.”
I laughed. “Oh, Paul, what rotten luck.”
“You’re telling me. Martine and Garland spent the whole meal taking shots at one another—all terribly polite, you know, and smiling—and when Martine started scoring points Garland suddenly developed one of her headaches and made a big dramatic exit. You should have been there.”
“Just as well I wasn’t,” I replied. “Theatricals don’t impress me.”
Paul tucked one hand inside his jacket, searching for his cigarettes. “I don’t think they impress Jim much, either. He didn’t seem too upset when Garland left. He just ordered another drink.”
They were a most unlikely couple, Jim and Garland Whitaker. When I said as much to Paul, he smiled in agreement.
“I like Jim, though,” he said, placing a cigarette between his lips. “He’s a lot smarter than he lets on. And he really takes an interest in things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Oh… history, architecture, local food. He’s the one who wanted to tour the Loire Valley, you know—not Garland. Garland couldn’t care less. And this trip is definitely not her style.”
“Oh?” I looked up, interested. “In what way?”
“Every way. Garland stays at the Ritz when she’s in Paris. Christmas in the Swiss Alps. Easter on the Italian Riviera. Chinon,” he told me, “would not have been her first choice for a holiday.”
“Are the Whitakers rich, then?”
