Shadows (19 page)

“There’s a lot of trees.”  Melissa used a paintbrush to lift the brim of her sunhat and looked up.  “And grass.  They’re both green.  Even that bird has noticed.  Listen.”  She held her paintbrush like a conductor’s baton, and indicated a particular line of bird song.  “He does the same line over and over again, but it’s the bit at the end where he says ‘it’s greener’—listen.”

The unseen bird performed on cue, and Rory laughed.  Her gaze met, and held his.  He bent suddenly, gave her a swift kiss on her nose and knocked her hat off in the process.  He picked it up and handed it to her.  “It’s after eleven, Blue Eyes.  I should go and see if he’s all right.  Are you coming?”

Flustered, and with a sneaking feeling of delight, she got up but glared at him with mutiny in her eyes.  “Okay, Big Shot.”

Rory swung round very fast and rammed the sunhat on her head so it slid down over her nose, swung her off her feet and twirled her round till she squealed for release.

He put her down gently, held her close to him for a moment and then stepped back.  “Put a shirt on, Blue Eyes.  I don’t want our Frenchman to see you in a bikini top.”

“As if he’d notice.”  Her pulse raced from contact with his warm brown skin.

“I rather think he would.”

He wasn’t joking, so for the sake of peace and something else she couldn’t quite explain, she picked up her big baggy blue shirt, wriggled into it and followed him down the steps.

Rory, fastening his shirt over swimming trunks, peered through the glass doors and knocked again, louder.  “He can’t be still asleep.  It’s been nearly twelve hours.”

He opened the door and stepped inside.  Cold air flowed out to meet her.  She hovered on the threshold, reluctant to enter the mill room again.

“He’s not in bed.  I’ll check the bathroom.”  Rory strode over the dull red tiles, no doubt checking the bathroom in case the Frenchman had fallen and hit his head on the tiles.  “No sign of him.  Has his car gone?  Go and see if his car is still where he left it last night.”

Glad of a reason to stay in the sunshine, Melissa stepped off the patio onto the open meadow at the back of the mill and strode through the long grass to the line of trees that grew along the bank of the mill-stream.  Stooping to avoid a pine branch, she breathed the scent of resin and gazed out over the expanse of open grassland.  There before her stood the red Citroen, neatly parked in the shade of the walnut tree.  From here she could see the slope up to the private track, the metalled road half-a-mile away and beyond that, the valley stretching west in the sunshine.

She hurried back to the mill room.  “Yes, it’s still here.  Could he have gone for a walk?”

“He must have.  I've searched the far room, and looked into the garage space, even checked the tiny room with the washing machine.  There's no trace of him.”

Rory shook his head and gestured to the chest of drawers where a white shirt and jeans lay neatly folded.  “But his clothes are still here.  He’s unlikely to have gone for a walk stark naked.”  He joined her at the door and stared around in every direction.  Only the red cows in the adjoining field moved slowly in the heat.

Walking back up to the pool, Melissa turned an anxious gaze to Rory.  “What should we do?”

“Is that him?”  Rory, far taller than Melissa, peered across the shrubs and bushes toward the road.

Melissa climbed on her chair, wobbled a little and stared.  A small figure was jogging—in this heat—under the trees.  “It might be.  How odd.  I wouldn’t have thought of him as a jogger.”

“He’s got all the gear, professional shorts and vest.  I’ll kill him.”

When Christophe loped onto the drive, his faint cry reached them on the warm air.  “Bonjour.”

“Imbecile.”  Rory turned toward the bolly.  "A good guest informs his host if he intends to go out for a run so that they don’t worry about him.”

Melissa bit her lip to hide a smile.  Rory’s irritation surprised her.  Last night the two men seemed to get on well, but that must have been wine talking.  “He must have thought that by slipping out the back way he wouldn’t disturb us.”

Rory grunted.  Melissa walked into the mill to make coffee.

Christophe, showered and dressed in his now creased whites, bounded up the stairs a few minutes later and plopped down onto a chair in the shade.  “I enjoy le jogging.”  He smiled up at Melissa as she brought coffee mugs to the table.  “It clears the ’ead.  I carry the shorts and shoes in the car always.  And it is Sunday.”

Rory unbent enough to repeat the word.  “Sunday?”

“I do not work today.”  Christophe tilted his chair back so he could see Rory more easily.  “I ’ave the ’ole day to do as I please.”

“Oh, so you’re not married, then.”  Melissa picked up her coffee mug.  Only single people ever said they could do as they pleased.  Those with partners always considered the other person in their plans.

Rory’s head swiveled.  Melissa met his sharp, speculative gaze.  What was wrong now?  If he chose to leave the work of conversation to her, then he shouldn’t complain at her choice of topic.  The question had seemed natural, but when she turned back to the Frenchman, Christophe’s grin had deepened and his blue eyes regarded her warmly.  Rather too warmly, perhaps.  His wet curls gleamed as he shook his head.  “No wife, no girlfriend.  I am, as you say, un’ooked.”

“I think you mean unattached,” Rory said dryly.

Melissa stared at her feet to hide her grin.  She liked Rory’s sense of humor, but laughing would hurt Christophe’s feelings.  She gazed from one man to the other.  Could she assume that both Christophe and Rory were attracted to her?  Rory was jealous of Christophe, but she didn't feel comfortable trapped between them.  She slid to the edge of her chair.  “Well, I must go shopping today.  I shall leave you two here by the pool.”  They could sort it out themselves.

Rory frowned.  “It is Sunday.  Are you sure the supermarche is open?”

“Until midday.”

He made no further objection and handed her the car keys.  She drove the yellow sports car along the drive and turned south for Bergerac.  Handling the car was a joy and nerve-wracking at the same time, but she was glad to be away from the tense atmosphere at the mill.  Hopefully Christophe would have returned home by the time she got back.  He had definitely outstayed his welcome.

She drove to the large hypermarket on the eastern outskirts of Bergerac, and got everything she wanted in record time.  Stopping by the café, she ordered coffee and pain au chocolat and sat in the sunny café reading one word in three of the free French newspaper she found on the counter top.

She enjoyed being among the dark-haired men and women propped against the bar drinking beer, smoking the inevitable Gauloises and chattering in rapid French.  Coffee, a bun and a newspaper were such undemanding, normal things even if she did look at the pictures far more than she read the words of the newspaper.

~~~

The sports car disappeared down the drive at a steady pace, and Rory nodded in grudging approval of Melissa’s driving.  She made the usual false starts until she found the exact spot where the clutch engaged, but it hadn’t taken her any longer than it had taken him when he’d first got the car, though he’d never admit that to her.  There was no break in the sound of the engine as she negotiated the sharp turn onto the valley road, and he craned his neck as the yellow car zoomed along between the fields.  The sound of the engine finally died away in the distance.

He turned to the Frenchman.  “I expect you’re ready to leave now, Christophe?”

Christophe eyed Rory speculatively.  “I may return?  Tomorrow?”

“Sure.”  Rory got to his feet to encourage his guest on his way.  “Or the next day.”

“Tomorrow is my day not working.”

“Fine.”  Rory waited on the edge of the bolly, not about to offer an invitation.  “Your stuff all packed?”  He could not wait for Christophe to leave.

Christophe nodded, held out his hand.  Rory shook it.  “Au revoir, Christophe.”

The Frenchman walked down the steps to the back of the house.  Rory waited on the bolly until the Citroen coughed into life.

At last.  Now he could relax for a little while.  He stretched his arms above his head until his fingertips grazed the roof beams of the bolly.  Christ, it had been a long night.  At last he had the place to himself.  He went into the house, rummaged through his bag until he found his phone and then headed out into the fresh air.  He looked at the tiny phone in his hand.  No signal.  Odd.  There'd been no problem phoning Jonny a day or two ago.

He went down to the lower patio, and tried again.  Nothing.  He held the phone up in the air, and found a signal at around eight feet.  He shook his head, stepped onto the discarded mill wheel by the side of the patio.

From there, he had a signal.  He punched in Jonny’s number.  “Jonny.  How are you?  Got a minute?”

“What’s up now?  More ghosts?”  Jonny’s delighted chuckle came to his ear.  “Nothing to laugh about, Jonny.”  The knowledge that he would have reacted the same way a couple of weeks ago, before he came to the mill, didn't help.  “There are ghosts here.  I’ve seen them.”

Jonny whistled.  “How many are you talking about?  You make it sound like there’s an army of them waiting to pounce.”

“Be serious, will you?  I’ve seen the monk and a girl.  The thing is, we’re saddled with an interfering librarian who thinks he’s a ghost-hunter and he’s ferreted out names for them.  Pierre and Justine.  Ring any bells with you?”

Jonny loosed a sigh of longing.  “I’ve never seen a hint of them, nor do I know much about them.  I envy you.  What does Melissa think?”

“That’s the worrying thing.  They seem to target her rather than me.  I don’t know if we should stay here.  I can’t help thinking she’s in danger.”

Jonny snorted.  “Melissa can take care of herself.  Comes of having both parents in the army.  Self-reliant girl.”

“I found that out very quickly.  Not that she talks much about her family.”

“Not surprised.  She’s never met her father.  He doesn’t know she exists.”

Rory focused on the geranium nodding in the border not two feet away and waited.  Had he misunderstood what Jonny said?  “Say that again, Jonny.  I thought you said she’d never met her father.”

“She hasn’t.  I only know because Gareth told me.”

“Gareth Hazlerigg is her—of course.  I didn’t make the connection.  You’ve known him for years, haven’t you?  He told you?”

“Her half-brother.  It’s a long story.  I take it she’s said nothing?”

“She talked about both parents being in the army, but…”  Rory frowned, trying to remember his conversation with Melissa.  “She didn’t give me a direct answer about her father.  I didn’t think it odd at the time, but now I think she deliberately misled me.  What’s going on?”  He wanted to pace the patio, but couldn’t because he was trapped on top of the mill wheel.  Carefully, watching his feet, he walked round and round the perimeter of the wheel as Jonny talked.

“Melissa and Gareth were in the same year at university, then discovered they were related.  She would be drawn by his surname, I suppose.  Basically her father went off on maneuvers never knowing he had got her mother pregnant.  Her mother decided to keep quiet about it and raised the child on her own.  Gareth’s parents haven’t a clue that Gareth has a half-sister.  I don’t think Melissa’s ever told her mother about Gareth.”

“Good Lord.  No wonder she’s screwed up.”

There was a moment or two of silence.  My upbringing may have been strict but at least I knew both my parents.  What must it do to you if one parent was nothing but a name?

“Is she screwed up?”  Jonny's voice sounded in his ear.  “She’s always seemed a most level-headed girl to me.”

No, she wasn't screwed up.  Maybe sensitive enough to avoid certain areas of conversation, and hesitant about commitment, but not screwed up.  But she could have been, given that sort of deal.  Rory pressed the phone closer to his ear.

“She’s known for two or three years.  It doesn’t seem to worry her.  She meets Gareth occasionally for a drink or a coffee.  And anyway all that has nothing to do with seeing ghosts.  Why did you ring me?”

“Um?”  Rory dragged his attention back to the conversation.  “Er, I rang because I have a feeling this librarian isn’t going to let this thing go.  So I need to know if you will trust me to do whatever needs to be done.  Bring in the clergy, you know the sort of thing?  I don’t know at this stage what will happen, but something has to.  Either I bring her home, or we see it through to the end.”