Sara Craven - Tower Of Shadows

The Château La Tour Monchauzet, she thought swallowing. Journey’s end.

I don’t have to do this, she told herself. I could just look—take a photograph perhaps, and then travel on. Put the past behind me, and treat this as an ordinary holiday.

She could, but she knew that she wouldn’t. With Mr Braybrooke’s astonished help, she’d managed to ascertain that as Isabelle Riquard’s only child, Sabine was legal heir to Les Hiboux.

A house in France was a luxury she couldn’t afford, but she needed to visit it at least once—to make a reasoned decision about the future of her unexpected inheritance. She’d flown to Bordeaux the previous day, and rented a car at the airport. She’d taken her time, driving down to Bergerac, conscious of the left-hand drive, and unfamiliar road conditions.

‘Driving in France is bliss,’ everyone had told her. ‘Marvellous roads, and half the traffic.’

So far she had to agree. The route from Bordeaux to Bergerac had been straight and fast, and presented her with few problems. And she’d been charmed with Bergerac itself. She’d booked in to a hotel on the Place Gambetta, had a leisurely bath to iron out the kinks of the journey, then followed the receptionist’s directions to the old part of the town, a maze of narrow streets where old timbered buildings leaned amiably towards each other.

Although there were plenty of tourists about, mainly British, German and Dutch, Sabine had judged, she had no sense of being in a crowd. There seemed to be space for everyone.

In one square, she’d found a statue of Cyrano de Bergerac, his famous nose sadly foreshortened, probably by vandals, but otherwise much as Rostand had envisaged him.

There were plently of bars and restaurants to choose from, but Sabine had already mentally opted for a simple meal. She was too much on edge to plunge whole-heartedly into the delights of Périgordian cuisine, she’d decided ruefully.

She had found a traditional-style establishment, full of oak beams and dried flowers, which specialised in meat grilled on an open fire in the restaurant itself. She’d ordered a fillet steak, accompanied by a gratin dauphinois and green beans, and while this was being prepared sipped the apéritif suggested by the patronne , a glass of well-chilled golden Monbazillac wine. It was like tasting honey and flowers, she had thought, beginning perceptibly to relax.

To her disappointment, she had not been able to find a Château La Tour Monchauzet vintage on the wine-list, but the half-bottle of Côtes de Bergerac that she chose instead more than made up for it.

Once she’d made her decision to come to the Dordogne, Sabine had read up as much as possible on the area, and she knew that Bergerac wines had been overshadowed in the past by the great vignobles of Bordeaux.

Bordeaux had not taken kindly to competition from what it dismissed as ‘the hinterland’, and had even insisted at one point on Bergerac wines being shipped in smaller casks, thus forcing the Bergerac vignerons to pay more tax on their exports, the money being levied per cask. But that kind of dirty trick had been relegated firmly to history, and now Bergerac wines had a recognised and growing share of the market.

Before she set off the following morning, she’d visited the Maison du Vin, which was housed in a former medieval monastery. Sabine had been guiltily aware of the click of her sandal heels on the flags of the ancient cloister, and was tempted to tiptoe instead, in case she upset the sleeping spirits of the long-departed monks with such frivolous modernity.

But inside the old building she had found the staff reassuringly up to date, and smilingly efficient.

They had provided her with a local map, pin-pointing the exact location of the Château La Tour Monchauzet, and explaining she should take the Villereal road out of Issigeac, but only for a short distance. Then there would be a signpost. But, they had warned, it was not certain she could tour the château or its vines. It was owned by the Baron de Rochefort and his family, and visitors had not been encouraged for some time, as the Baron did not enjoy the best of health. Perhaps it would be wise to telephone first.

However, in the same area, they had added, there were other vignerons , who would be happy to show her the wine-making process, using the most modern and scientific methods, and allow her also to taste their products without obligation. They had given her a list.

She was also looking for a house called Les Hiboux. Well, that was more difficult. For serious exploration of the neighbourhood, they recommended a series of small-scale maps, available from any Maison de Presse. The house she sought, if long-established, could well be marked. If not, she could make enquiries at one of the local mairies .

Sabine had to admit that the château, tucked among its encircling trees, had the look of a place which actively discouraged visitors. If she hadn’t been looking out for the signpost, she could easily have driven past without even realising it was there.

But now it was decision time. Did she turn off on to the single track road across the valley, or take the easy option and drive on towards Villereal?

She glanced at the passenger-seat beside her. The tip of the envelope was just protruding from her bag.

She was probably making a big fuss about very little, said a small voice inside her. Perhaps Isabelle had simply visited the château once as a guest, in the old days, before the Baron became ill, and had kept the postcard and label as souvenirs of a happy day. A nice, comfortable thought, she told herself wryly. Only it didn’t explain how the medallion came to be in her mother’s possession.

Well, there was only one way to find out, she thought, resolutely re-starting the engine.

The road she found herself on was single-track, and twisting. The stream in the bottom of the valley was spanned by a narrow bridge, and she squeezed the car across it, and started up the hill on the other side. The vines spread away on both sides of her, and she could see people working among them, moving slowly along the ranks of greenery.

As she rounded the final corner, the trees were in front of her, a dark and impenetrable barrier hiding the house completely. The road itself ran beneath a tall archway, the gates of which were standing open. One of the high stone pillars carried a large, new-looking sign, showing the château’s name, with the now familiar emblem of the tower and the rose beside it.

Underneath was a smaller board which said curtly, ‘Privé’ .

Well, she’d been warned not to expect the welcome mat, Sabine thought, as she drove under the arch. The drive up to the château was deeply shadowed by the trees, and Sabine found the gloom trying after the brilliance of the sunshine on the open road. As she peered ahead of her, something shot across the road in front of the car, forcing her to brake sharply. It was probably only a rabbit, but it had still unnerved her slightly, and she pulled off the drive and parked on the grass.

She leaned against the steering-wheel, resting her forehead on her folded arms. She was nervous of her own shadow today—strung taut as a wire. The problem was she had no real idea of what she was going to say or do when she got to the château. Or was she simply going to drive up to the front door and announce herself?

‘Good day, messieurs, dames ,’ she rehearsed silently. ‘I am the daughter of Isabelle Riquard.’

Very impressive, she thought. She could just see the raised eyebrows, the exchange of bemused glances, and the shrugs which said, So what? before they politely but firmly showed her the door. Maybe she should have listened to the girl at the Maison du Vin and phoned ahead.