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“My dear Emily, that’s hardly the point. We all like Harry. But he has a habit of being, well, rather…”
“Unpredictable?” I’d offered, and she’d smiled.
That’s being kind.”
I’d reassured her it was only France that we were going to, not darkest Africa. What could possibly happen in France? And if something were to happen I was well equipped to handle it—French was at least a language I could speak, thanks to my father’s years of service at the Paris Embassy. Besides, the thought of spending two whole weeks in Chinon was terribly seductive.
Aunt Jane had listened to it all, her blue eyes twinkling, and quirked an innocent eyebrow. “You’ve taken out insurance, have you?” And then she’d laughed and turned away to make the tea.
My Uncle Alan had been less cynical. “Just what you need,” he’d pronounced with satisfaction. “Change of scenery, eh? Bit of romance.” He’d winked at that and nudged my arm, and I had smiled as I was meant to, thinking all the while that romance was the last thing that I needed. A holiday fling perhaps, quick and painless, but real romance… well, that proved as reliable as Harry himself, and, like my cousin, it could only lead one into trouble.
Harry, for his part, had done his level best to confound our suspicions these past weeks. He’d gone ahead of me to do some of the “boring bits” of research on his own—I never had liked reading rooms. But he’d been almost conscientious with our travel plans, had sent me maps and confirmation of our reservations at Chinon’s Hotel de France. He’d even telephoned on Sunday last from Bordeaux, with my final instructions.
“Not the Gare Austerlitz, love,” he’d corrected me cheerfully. “Montparnasse. You still know your way around Paris pretty well, don’t you? Just take the bus in from the airport, and then the TGV from Montparnasse to St-Pierre-des-Corps, that’s the quickest way to do it. You’ll be there before lunchtime.”
I’d stopped scrawling down directions and tapped the pen against my notepad, frowning. “And you will come to meet me?”
“Certainly. I’ll be driving right across the top of Tours—that’s where St-Pierre-des-Corps is—so I’ll pick you up right at the railway station. I’ve got the red
car; you shouldn’t have any trouble spotting me. Shall we say noon?”
“That’s noon on Friday?” I confirmed. “Friday the twenty-fourth?”
“Don’t worry,” he’d said, sounding amused. “I won’t forget. I’m not a total idiot, you know. Besides, I’ve had this letter, did I tell you?” He hadn’t, as it turned out, so he went on to elaborate. The writer of the letter was some fellow history buff who’d read one of my cousin’s academic journal pieces on the lost treasure of Isabelle. “So presumably he reads English,” said my cousin, “though his letter was in French. He’s rather cryptic, but it seems he has some information that might interest me, about the tunnels underneath the castle. Asks me can I get in touch with him. It’s wonderfully intriguing—just like that Watergate informant chap, you know the one…”
“Does your man have a code name, as well?”
“No.” Harry had sounded a shade disappointed. “No, just his real name… Didier… Didier something. I’d have to look it up, I don’t remember. Well anyway, he lives in Chinon, so that’s why you needn’t worry I’ll forget to pick you up. I’m rather keen myself to get up there and find out what this fellow knows.”
“Fine, then I’ll see you on Friday.”
“St-Pierre-des-Corps at noon. I promise.” It had been that final word, oddly enough, that struck a warning note, but the phone line was already crackling, breaking up. I’d heard my cousin’s voice saying, “Must dash, sorry,” and something that sounded vaguely like “Till Friday,” and that was that.
I should have known.
“Bloody Harry,” I said aloud. The young woman seated at the table next to mine looked up, surprised, then glanced away again discreetly as she raised her dainty cup of coffee. My own cup was long since empty, and cold against my fingers. I pushed it away with idle irritation and, resting my chin on my hands, stared out through the wall of windows in front of me. The view from the café of the rail station was less than inspiring—a wide sweep of concrete slabs set in a square geometric pattern, curving rows of futuristic lamp standards perched on thick concrete pillars, and a long low concrete fountain filled with foaming white jets of water that only emphasized the coldness of the architecture. Across the street three large blocks of flats rose like blemishes from the landscape, pale and impersonal, with rows of windows staring blankly back at me through the prison railings of their balconies.
I sighed.
This section of the city of Tours was depressingly modern. Chinon itself lay somewhere to the southwest—not far, though at that moment it seemed a thousand miles away. I could almost hear it beckoning, that lovely castle in the river’s curve, beneath a violet sky. “The flower of the Garden of France,” the brochures had promised me. I sighed again, with feeling. Because I wasn’t in Chinon—I was here, and St-Pierre-des-Corps looked nothing like a flower.
He wasn’t coming, I thought glumly. Harry never came an hour late. He either showed on time or not at all.
“Well, bother it,” I said, and once again the woman at the next table turned her eyes upon me warily. She seemed relieved to see me counting out the change to pay my bill, and even more relieved a moment later as I took a firm grip on my suitcase, pushing back my chair. I felt like telling her I didn’t normally talk to myself; that it was all the fault of my rotten bounder of a cousin… but then it didn’t really matter what she thought, as I was leaving anyway. Harry or no Harry, I would find some way to get to Chinon.
Outside, the air was cool against my heated skin. The skies had threatened rain all morning and the breeze was brisk, but still one wistful, optimistic patch of watery blue had broken through the unrelenting gray. With lifting spirits I headed for the taxi rank.
There were three taxis parked along the curved arcade of concrete columns in front of the station, but only one of them—the one at the rear of the rank—appeared to have a driver. He was standing not ten feet away from me, leaning against the bonnet of a smoke-gray Renault Safrane, eyes fixed upon the fountain in mild contemplation. One hand was thrust deep into the pocket of his tailored wool trousers, while the other held a half-finished cigarette. He wasn’t tall, but the dark and handsome labels certainly applied. He wasn’t young, either—perhaps a decade older than my own twenty-eight years. Distinguished, my mother would have branded him, and rather elegant in that unaffected way that the French alone seem to have mastered.
As I drew closer, his gaze slid sideways from the fountain to my face, and something flickered behind the dark eyes before they drifted on, taking in my clothes and, most tellingly, the British Airways tags still dangling from my suitcase. Before I’d had a chance to use my French he spoke to me in flawless fluid English. “May I help you, Madame?”
He knew I wasn’t married. His glance had rested on the fingers of my left hand—more from habit than anything else, I imagined, as I never looked my best when traveling. But it was a matter of politeness, to address me as “Madame.”
“Well, yes. I need a taxi, please.”
He frowned. An odd response, considering he was leaning against one. It wasn’t until he cast a quick glance along the taxi rank that I understood.
“I know you’re last in line,” I told him, “but the other taxis don’t have drivers.”
