It was not booby-trapped, but the room was a shambles. The mattress and cushions from the bed had been ripped open and their stuffings scattered across the floor; even the stove had been emptied and the ashes sifted through. While Mimette stood in the doorway and surveyed the chaos, Simon went around the room checking on the details.
Beside the bed, in a sea of papers, photographs, and torn books, lay an upturned trunk. Simon picked up a handful of papers and glanced through them. They were the ephemera of a long life — a discharge certificate from the first war and a ration book from the second, letters and greeting cards from relatives and friends, an insurance policy that had long since lapsed.
Mimette took a few hesitant steps into the room and stood watching him.
“What are you looking for?”
Simon tossed the papers back on to the floor.
“I’m not quite sure, but I think it’s what detectives call a clue.” He regarded his surroundings wryly. “But I think our villain has been too thorough, messy but effective.”
Mimette nodded towards the fireplace. In the bottom right-hand corner four bricks had been removed. In the grate lay a small leather sachet.
“Even Gaston’s cubbyhole,” she sighed, and picked up the wallet.
She gasped as she lifted the flap, and the Saint reached over and took it from her. Inside were bundles of notes, many so old that they were no longer legal tender.
“How did you know where Gaston hid his money?” he asked.
“I didn’t, at least I didn’t know it was money he kept there. Once, when I was a child, I ran in and he was putting the sachet into that hole. He was very cross that I’d seen him. He said it was a secret place, and made me swear never to tell anyone.”
“And did you?”
Mimette sighed.
“Oh, I don’t remember. It was so long ago. I’d forgotten all about it until now. Don’t you think it’s strange that the murderer should have left the money behind?”
“It just means that not only is he an amateur but he’s a very amateurish amateur,” Simon replied as he replaced the wallet in the grate. “If he’d had any sense he would have at least made it look like a robbery.”
She waved her hand over the litter around them.
“But if he wasn’t looking for money, what did he want?”
Simon was about to turn away from the fireplace when a scrap of yellow among the grey ashes caught his eye. He brushed them aside and retrieved a tiny piece of parchment.
“I should think,” he said slowly, “that he wanted the rest of this.”
It was made from the same material as the scraps he had seen in the casket under the statue of Hecate. Its triangular shape suggested that it had once been a corner of a page. On it were drawn two vertical, parallel lines behind which was a circle. A third line zigzagged beneath them.
Mimette peered over his shoulder as he studied his find.
“But what is it?” she asked.
“It’s why Gaston was killed,” he answered, and forestalled the inevitable questions by heading for the car. “I’ll explain on the way back to the château.”
Their return was undertaken at a speed more suited to the state of the road and the limitations of the car, and as they drove he told her what had happened after Gaston had fallen into the chamber under the storehouse.
“I heard him moving about and when I got down there I found that the box under the statue had recently been broken open. Everything but the lid of the box was covered in dust and the scratches on the lock were new. I was sure Gaston must have opened it; but if he’d taken something out, short of searching him there wasn’t anything I could do. I thought then that it might have been some sort of document, and now I’m sure of it.”
“And that’s what the murderer wanted?”
“It must have been.”
“But how did he know Gaston had it?”
“By making the same deduction that I made, from the evidence in the crypt. And the only reason he’d be prepared to kill for it would be if it was very valuable or the key to something valuable...”
“The treasure!”
“Right in one. I don’t know how this bit was torn off. It could have happened during a struggle or when it was pulled out of its hiding place.”
“But if the murderer has the rest of the parchment he will find the treasure,” said Mimette despairingly.
“Maybe, maybe not,” said the Saint. “It depends whether he understands it. Even if he does, he won’t be able to just pick up the loot and walk away. At any rate, it doesn’t seem as if Gaston could have.”
There was a few seconds’ pause, and then she said: “Why do you think Gaston was keeping this to himself?”
“That,” said the Saint dourly, “is one question I wish we didn’t have to think about.”
As a temporary evasion, he took the scrap of parchment from his pocket and handed it to her.
“Does this mean anything to you?”
Mimette shook her head as she studied it, turning it this way and that.
“Not a thing. I suppose those two upright lines could represent a building, but I can’t think what the squiggly line or the circle could mean.” She handed it back with a shrug of apology. “I’m sorry.”
The shadows were lengthening, casting the hillside into a purple twilight as the sun sank behind the other side of the ridge, but it was not artistic appreciation of the sunset that sparked an idea in Simon’s mind. When they stopped in the shade of the château, it had crystallised.
“How about this for a guess,” he suggested. “If the two vertical lines could represent a building, then the circle could represent the sun.”
“But what would that mean?” asked his bemused companion.
“It identifies the building. The sun is behind it, so it’s either setting or rising. The building must be in either the west or the east. Now, the west wing of the château is the most modern part and there’s nothing there that this could represent. But on the east side—”
“There’s the tower!” Mimette finished for him excitedly. But her elation lasted only a moment. “It still doesn’t tell us anything.”
“It’s a starting point, anyhow,” said the Saint.
He had a sudden glimpse of a police car swinging off the main driveway to brake in front of the house with an impressive squeal of tyres, and slid lower in his seat.
“The law has arrived,” he said. “You’d better go meet them. I’ll be along in a minute — there’s just something I’d like to check on first.”
As she started to get out of the car he reached across and squeezed her arm reassuringly.
“Don’t tell anybody where we’ve been. This is our party and we don’t want the gendarmes gatecrashing it. Okay?”
“Si vous y tenez,” replied Mimette hesitantly.
“I do. And trust me. Everything is going to be all right.”
“I hope so,” said the girl fervently.
Simon waited until the forecourt was deserted before leaving the car and heading directly for the tower.
He inspected the walls and floor carefully before beginning to climb the stairs to the battlements. Halfway up he rested and glanced down. As far as he was able to judge he was standing on what would once have been the landing of the second storey. He stood on a level with the top of the column and noticed that protruding from the top of it were three buttresses intricately carved with gargoyles whose fearsomeness had been smoothed away by the wind and rain of centuries. As a trio, they reflected the symbolic faces of Hecate, the Regina of Ingare.
He stood on the narrow ledge that circled the inside of the walls and looked out over the battlements. From his vantage point he could look down on every part of the château and its grounds, and across the plain below to the steely ribbon of the Ouveze. He rested his elbows on the top of the wall and idly wondered how much the view had changed since the last sentry of the Knights Templar had stood in the same spot so many hundreds of years before.