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“It is kept locked,” Armand said, finally.
Neil smiled his quiet smile, and the challenge became a dare. “Surely, just this once.”
There was a moment’s silence, then Armand’s mouth hardened and he picked the gauntlet up. “Why not?” He turned to François. “Do you have the keys?”
I would have preferred not to go with them. The cave, at least, was brightly lit and full of air, and I could half convince myself I wasn’t underground. But once again, I didn’t have much choice. The others swept me with them, through the cave and past a small group of incurious workmen, to a darker narrow passageway behind.
Above our heads the pallid rock, its surface scarred and pitted by the chisels of ancient craftsmen, closed round us like a tomb. The smell of damp was stronger here, and Neil was forced to duck his head. There were at least a dozen doorways bolted shut on either side of the passage.
Simon stopped, excited, at the first one. “Is this the entrance to a tunnel?”
“No.” Armand laughed, and shook his head, “it is a… how do you call it? A broom cupboard. This,” he told us, walking a few steps on and fitting his key into a lock, “this is the door you want.”
The tunnel was just that—a tunnel, hung with cobwebs, strewn with dirt, and smelling of decay. I took one look and stepped back hastily, bumping into Neil. He kindly took no notice.
“But it’s stone,” said Simon. He sounded disappointed, and I realized he’d expected to see walls of earth or clay. One didn’t, as a rule, dig holes in solid rock to bury treasure. “Is it stone all the way through?”
Armand assured him that it was.
“Can I go in?”
“I am afraid,” Armand replied, “that I cannot allow it. This souterrain is old, and there is now a road overhead that weakens it. To use it now would not be wise.” He swung the door shut and the key in the lock clicked firmly. “It is not safe.”
Nothing underground was safe, I thought. It was a relief to surface once more into sunlight, and to feel the whisper of the wind upon my face. I stood a moment enjoying the sensation, while the boys walked on ahead with Neil. Armand hung back as well, his face expectant. “So, how do you like my vineyard?”
I told him it was fascinating, and he looked pleased. “It is my pride, you understand. This estate has come to me from many generations of Valcourts, and one day it will belong to Lucie.” He looked out, as I had done earlier, across the flat-topped vines. “The greatest part of me lies in this place,” he told me. “I’m glad it fascinates you.”
Simon turned ahead of us. He appeared to have recovered quickly from his setback in the cellar, and having ruled out Armand’s tunnel as a hiding place for Isabelle’s lost treasure, he was eager to get on to other things. He beckoned me impatiently. “Emily, come on. We’re going to the Echo next.”
Armand’s eyes narrowed, sliding sideways. “He has much energy, that young man.”
“Yes.” I couldn’t help the smile. Armand walked with me to the gates, and after a confusing criss-cross of handshakes and thank-yous, he turned to take my hand.
“You must come back another time.” Alone, his dancing eyes said, and his smile was a sinful thing. “And you must tell me how you enjoy seeing our Echo. It is quite unique.”
I wasn’t entirely sure how one could see an Echo in the first place, but everyone promised me that it was indeed possible, and that there was a lovely view from the Echo, and that I would be suitably impressed.
And so I kept an open mind as I followed my companions through the gates. Neil left us there. “Sorry, but I promised to meet someone,” was his excuse, and looking like a man well pleased with the day’s work, he strolled away, head bent and humming to himself.
Simon, happy to be back in charge, turned sharply in the opposite direction and, keeping his shoulder to the high wall of the Clos des Cloches, led Paul and me around a curve of deserted road to a desolate place where the wind wept softly through the long grass. “Here it is,” he announced, proudly.
There was no mistaking it—a sign posted to one side of a raised viewing platform clearly read: Ici l’Echo, and the platform itself, though small, looked rather official.
“It really does work,” said Paul. “Just stand up there and yell something.”
I climbed the few steps obediently and turned around. The view, as I’d been promised, was a postcard panorama stretching from the château on the one side, out across the silver river and the patchwork roofs and gardens, to the distant hills beyond. Closer than that, across the road, treetops and a tiled roof peeked above an unkempt, rambling hedge. “But I’ll be yelling into someone’s yard,” I protested, and Simon hopped up beside me with a laugh.
“It’s OK, really. People do it all the time. Here, I’ll show you.” And he bellowed out an enthusiastic yodel that would have done credit to a native of the Swiss Alps. The sound soared out and came back, crashing loud against the green hills and the ruined walls of the château, like waves striking rocks on a wild shore.
“Neat, eh?” Simon grinned. “You can even ask it questions, like this…” Again he
filled his lungs, and yelled: “Will I ever get Paul to leave Chinon?”
The answer flowed back, faintly questioning in itself: “Non…”
“Very funny,” said Paul. “Why don’t you let Emily give it a try?”
I smiled. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”
