The boy was at the other side of a clearing, standing beside the ruins of some beehives.
Was that guilt in the look he gave, or fear? Even from a distance of perhaps forty metres, the resemblances to Gabrielle Arcuri were noticeable but these were all in the finely boned face, the high and studious brow, the height and slimness, not in the colour of the eyes or that of the hair.
‘A moment …’ began St-Cyr, only to see the wraith disappear.
Twice more the boy hesitated, making certain he was being followed. In time they reached a high stone wall. Again the boy looked back. Gargoyles surmounted the wall – stone dogs begging on their hind legs, griffins with folded wings. The boy took no notice of them but twice again he waited to make certain the stranger was following.
Then he ducked away and St-Cyr was left alone, cursing his luck until, at last, he found the opening, a portal which led across a piece of lawn through statues and ornamental shrubs to an entrance of the maze.
Again the boy waited. He was at least seven years of age, so the photograph in Gabrielle Arcuri’s flat had been taken some time ago.
The boy let him start out then left him to find his own way through the maze.
Now there was only the fog, the tall and enclosing walls of the passageways, the ever-present smell of cedar, the sound of distant geese, and from somewhere distant too, that of poultry, most expressively, the harshness of guinea fowl.
When he found the rabbit, grey, fat and with very soft and floppy ears, he knew he was lost. And so was the rabbit by the look, for it led him down this passageway and that, into one dead end after another.
Now he didn’t know if he was going deeper into the maze or back towards the entrance. At last he came to a T-junction and the first of a long aisle which pointed straight towards the stone tower in the centre. It was still some distance from him.
St-Cyr thought the boy was up there watching him from the highest of the embrasures but when he reached the tower, it was empty.
And the spiral of stone steps that had, echoing, led up to a leaded skylight in the dome, now looked down to the floor below yet he was certain the boy hadn’t left the tower.
What have we got ourselves into? he asked but had no answer, only a sense of doubt he didn’t like. Quite obviously the boy had been told to lead him astray and, quite obviously, whoever had told him to do so, hadn’t wanted to be seen.
That could only mean there’d been someone else among the reeds.
* Paris and its environs.
4
Chateau Theriault, Clos de l’Oiseau de la Brume lay at the end of the gigantic plane trees whose greenish-grey and pistachio-brown spatulated branches reached eerily up into the fog.
As Kohler eased the Citroen down the lane, he looked off to the right and away from the river. Vines began on the lower slopes, the fog giving but glimpses. Perhaps forty hectares in all so far.
Some people had all the luck. This was money – very old money.
Moundlike shapes of box, yew and hawthorn stood sentinel nearest the arched stone entrance which was set in the base of one of the towers. Flanking stone walls held crenellated battlements. Where once there’d been a drawbridge, there was now a stone bridge.
There were no flags that he could see – a dovecot, yes, there was one of those. Towers upon towers but hidden by their shroud. The gate had three conical roofs, with slotted embrasures below them. Ivy climbed the walls.
Immediately inside the gate there was a house. Beyond the house, the central courtyard opened up in lawns and formal gardens, mothballed fountains and statues that were shrouded in the ever-present mist.
The place was huge, a bugger to heat. The five towers stood around, and between these there were defensive walls only at the opposing gates. Otherwise the chateau went from tower to tower. Cut stone, beautiful slate, copper eaves and lots of tall French windows – barns and stables to his left at the back, now the garages perhaps, so self-contained but all part of the enclosing pentagon.
Five greyhounds stood in a cluster. A tall woman in a dark blue overcoat with turned-up high collar held the leashes. The help had all gathered humbly about her for the morning’s instructions. Well, what the hell …
Still some distance from them, Kohler got out of the car to wait. The dogs fidgeted. She spoke quietly to them. One by one the help ducked their heads, clutching their berets in respect – clogs on some, blue denim jackets, overalls and bulky turtleneck sweaters, the fog drifting. As each man paid his respects and received his orders, she seemed to exist only for him and he left without so much as a glance towards the visitor.
Kohler knew he wasn’t just witnessing a daily ritual but the iron and benevolent rule such a place as this would demand.
She let the dogs go and he stood there not knowing whether to get back into the car as they came at him. Such graceful things …
‘Sasha!’ One word, that was all. The lead dog. Its name echoed from the towers as the dogs stopped.
Each one held its position, watching him, and he had the thought then that Sasha would have torn the heart out of any of them if they’d moved, and that the woman would have approved.
As she came across the courtyard, she gathered in the leashes and he saw that she wore black leather riding boots.
‘To what do I owe this visit?’ she asked.
Kohler took in the regal bearing, the dusky eyes, pale complexion, high forehead, thin, smooth, delicate, oval face – beauty, Gott in Himmel, this one had been a smashing thing. Now in her early sixties, she retained haunting traces of that beauty. Russian … was she of Russian descent? he wondered, thinking of the cigarette case.
She moved with grace and ease yet as if resigned to life. There was about her an aura of sadness that puzzled him. The shoulders were thin, the frame that of a willow wand, the open dark navy overcoat revealing several strands of amber beads and a needlepoint sweater of maroon and gold brocade. Very ornate, perhaps quite fashionable, and worth a small fortune. But … and of this he was certain … not exactly the sort of thing one would wear to get the work going on the farm.
‘I believe I asked you a question, monsieur. To what do I owe this visit?’
Had she been expecting company of another sort? That why the dress-up?
Was that the trace of a Russian accent?
The hair was raven – long and flowing loosely over the thin shoulders. Not a touch of grey and brushed to beat the Jesus.
‘Kohler, Countess. Gestapo, Paris Central. I’ve come in connection with a murder case. Actually,’ he raised his eyebrows, ‘it’s two murder cases and likely to involve a third if we’re not careful.’
At once the woman pulled rank and showed her irritability. ‘I know nothing of such things.’
‘But you might be able to help, Countess?’
The eyes were very striking.
‘Must I? You people … I’ve the quotas to see to, Inspector – you are an inspector, aren’t you, or do they give you ranks?’
‘Inspector will do just fine.’
She began to unleash the dogs, restraining each until it shot away to zoom around the courtyard, ranging far and near. ‘I only hope my grandson has had the good sense to lock up his rabbit. If he hasn’t, it’ll teach him a good lesson.’
One by one the dogs raced out through the far portal. Kohler and the woman began to walk that way.
‘My husband was killed in the last war, Inspector, and now my only son in this one. What more can I say but that I think all wars are lousy.’
‘Was your son the husband of Gabrielle Arcuri?’
The eyes found him again. ‘I think you know this, Inspector, so why ask it? She’s not here. Gabrielle and I …’ The woman shrugged. ‘We do not understand each other. We’re both fighting our loss but in different ways.’