Лесли Чартерис - The Saint and the Templar Treasure

The question was, had Norbert long since beaten him to it? And where did that melodramatically hidden doorway lead?

The Saint would have to find some more answers for himself, which foreshadowed a possibly sleepless night of further exploring when he would be better equipped for the excursion.

He re-entered the château through the kitchens with the intention of going to the library to continue his struggle with the medieval French of the Templar records, but a sound of voices from the dining-room stopped him.

They were raised to that pitch just below shouting which is the key of an argument that is about to crescend into a row. Simon tiptoed noiselessly over and stood with his ear against the door. There was no need to look through the keyhole to identify the contestants, for the more forceful of the two voices could only belong to Jeanne Corday, while the other defiantly apologetic tones were undoubtedly those of Henri Pichot.

“Yes, sir; no, sir! What sort of man are you?” the girl was sneering. “They treat you like a guest, and you treat them as if you were a servant.”

“It is not like that,” Henri whined. “There are ways of doing things. You do not understand them like I do.”

“You mean I don’t curtsy every time they walk into a room.”

“It is not as simple as that,” Henri protested. “I must be careful. I am doing everything I can.”

“If you were half the man Philippe is, everything would be settled by now,” his fiancée countered spitefully. “In two days I am going back to Paris. With or without your cheap ring.”

“But you said...”

“With or without your ring,” Jeanne repeated coldly. “It’s up to you.”

Simon just had time to move back from the door before it was flung open. Jeanne Corday stormed past him without acknowledgement. Henri stood gaping dumbly at her retreating figure.

“A lovers’ tiff?” Simon asked sympathetically, and the lawyer rounded on him with uncharacteristic violence.

“Go to hell,” he snarled, and hurried after his lady love.

Simon found Pascal and Jules on the vineyard slopes, and shared an al fresco worker’s lunch with them before excusing himself for the private siesta which he felt that his constitution required.

Soon after six o’clock, refreshingly bathed and very casually spruced up, he made his way back down towards the chai.

The huddle of outbuildings formed three sides of a rectangle with the fourth side open to a panoramic view of the valley. The party was prepared in the courtyard between the buildings. Two long trestle tables had been loaded with eatables and wooden benches placed against the walls. Empty barrels served as extra tables or chairs as the occasion demanded. A couple of large casks had been set out on stands, and the permanent and seasonal toilers of the vineyard were already busy sampling the wine they had made the year before.

Yves and Mimette strolled from group to group chatting hospitably with anyone. Philippe stood a little apart from the crowd, a slightly condescending smile playing at the corner of his mouth as he sipped his wine. Henri and Jeanne Corday sat together on one of the benches without speaking. It was plain from the stiffness of their poses and the lack of conversation that their tempers had not cooled since the morning. There was no sign of either Gaston or Professor Norbert. The Saint had not expected the professor to leave his work for such frivolity, but he was surprised that the old foreman was not yet present.

As he stood and surveyed the scene, he discovered Pascal and Jules, and was about to walk over and join them when Jeanne Corday rose and hurried across towards him. Henri gazed sullenly after her but made no move to follow.

She was wearing a blouse that was intended to appear two sizes too small. The matching green skirt was equally tight and equally brief. The conversation of the two students might have proved more intelligent, but the Saint was only human. He bestowed his most dazzling smile on her. It was returned with a flash of polar white caps.

“Alors, vous voici,” she greeted him brightly. “Among the peasants.”

“Vous aussi,” Simon responded. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Are you kidding?”

Her eyes flicked shamelessly over him and he returned the compliment with an equally brazen appraisal.

“What’s the matter?”

Jeanne sighed wearily and sipped her drink. It was not the colour of wine, and he suspected that it was stronger.

“I mean, it’s all very nice here, but it’s so quiet, so open, just fields and things. I mean, it’s so...”

“Rural,” suggested the Saint helpfully.

“Ouais, well, something like that,” she agreed with a shrug.

“But you’re going back to the bright lights soon. Paris in two days, isn’t it?”

“Of course, you heard that,” said Jeanne, momentarily disconcerted. She recovered quickly. “I mean, Henri is wonderful, but he acts different down here. In Paris he’s amusing, but around this place he creeps about as if he was a lackey or something. I know the family have been good to him, but—”

“They make him feel inferior? I’m sure they don’t mean to.”

“You would not know how to feel like that, would you?”

“I’m too stupid,” said the Saint disarmingly, “to be sensitive. But don’t you agree that it makes life more comfortable?”

Jeanne looked uncertain whether she was the butt of some subtle joke, but she did not let it bother her for long.

“I heard you were on your way to Paris when you got stuck here. If you ever make it, you must look me up. We could have some fun,” she added transparently.

Simon gave the idea a few seconds’ serious consideration.

“You know,” he said judiciously, “I do believe we could.”

He had been watching Henri out of the corner of his eye. The young lawyer had not taken his eyes off them. Finally unable to endure the scene any longer, he came over. He ignored the Saint and addressed his fiancée.

“I think we’d better circulate,” he said brusquely.

Jeanne contemplated him with distaste.

“Circulate? What do you think I am — some sort of blood corpuscle?” she jeered, and Henri’s cheeks turned a rich shade of crimson.

Without a word he turned and strode away towards the château. Jeanne smiled as she rested a hand on the Saint’s shoulder and moved closer.

“This is boring,” she said silkily. “Why don’t we go pick some grapes on our own?”

Simon felt a very natural temptation to do just that. Whether or not he would have succumbed to it was never to be known, for at that moment one of the workmen rushed from the building behind the Saint and almost bowled him over as he half ran, half staggered across the cobbles shouting for Yves.

“Excuse me,” said the Saint abruptly and went after him.

The man was in a state of shock. His words spilled out in an incoherent babble. He stood with one shaking arm pointing towards the building he had come from.

“Routine check... lifted lid... lying there... Gaston...”

Yves Florian was trying bewilderedly to make sense of the words but the Saint preferred action. He spun round and sprinted into the building, more than half dreading what he was going to see.

It was the place used for the first fermentation of the newly pressed wine. Inside were a dozen huge vats, each taller than a man and linked by a narrow catwalk reached by a flight of steps. The heavy lid had been dragged from one of the vats and stood propped against the side. The Saint raced up to the catwalk and made for the open tank. He peered over the rim and looked down into the thick red pulpy liquid. The sightless eyes of Gaston Pichot returned his stare.