Shadows (26 page)

“I had the feeling that something was going to happen.”  Melissa spread pate on her bread.  “Could that mean the ghost wanted us to find something?  The bones, perhaps?”

“Could be.”

Melissa touched his arm.  When he looked up, a soft smile curved her lips.  “Food, wine, sunshine and each other,” she said softly.  “We are so lucky.”

A wave of warmth spread through Rory.  He caught her hand, kissed the back of her knuckles and would have said something, but from the corner of his eye he saw Christophe walking slowly toward them.  He let go of Melissa’s hand.

Christophe stepped onto the bolly.  His face remained white, but he seemed composed.  “So, you phone your friend?  You told him?  You told him of the…?”

Rory nodded.  This was a time to be straightforward and matter-of-fact.  “I rang Jonny and told him what I’d found.  It’s his house, after all.  He needs to know.”

Melissa reached for her wine.  “And what did he say?”

“Jonny’s uncle bought the house way back in the thirties, ignored it for another decade.  He hired workmen to make it habitable and dam the millstream because the house was running with damp.  Up until that point the stream had flowed without hindrance under the house.”

Rory flicked a swift glance at Christophe.  “The waterwheel supports had split.  When they started work, the wheel dropped into the cavern.  There was little water running through because they’d had a drought year.  They left the wheel where it fell, which is where we found it the other day.”

“The wheel freed up some bones that had been buried in the mud.  The workmen thought some creature had been swept in on a flood, gathered them up, threw them out with the rubbish and thought no more about it.  But after that, strange sightings were reported and the men were not so keen to work here.”

Melissa broke in.  “But you said you found bones this morning.”

“The workmen didn’t find anything that looked human.”

“But you did?  Have you found them all, now?”

He nodded briefly.  “I think so.  The question is, what should we do with them?”

“Bury them in a church yard, I should think.”

“Yes, Jonny is agreed on that.  The thing is, the man might have been a murderer.  The girl was never seen again, remember?”

Christophe looked up from his barely touched plate.  “The bones…’e wants to be buried.  They are not ’er bones.”

Rory piled the last of the pâté onto his bread while he considered Christophe's statement.  “I understand English law, but French law might be different.  Should we contact Monsieur Le Maire?  Let him make the decision?”

“That’s a very good idea.”  Melissa glanced at Christophe.  “I’ve heard that the local mayor rules everything in France.  Is that true?  What do you think, Christophe?”

Christophe managed a very Gallic lift of the shoulders.  “Fais ce que tu dois faire.”

Melissa frowned over the French.

Rory translated.  “‘Do what you must.’”

Her expression cleared.  There was still something very bright and brittle about her and instinctively, without knowing the cause, he mistrusted it.  All his doubts resurfaced.  He mastered them with difficulty, squashed them down again.  “What did your research turn up this morning?”

Christophe and Melissa looked at each other.  A hint of color rose through Melissa’s face.  Christophe cringed like a beaten dog, gripped his wine glass and turned with some deliberation to Rory.  “I found the dreams.  Pierre dreamed of ’is death and—’e was…empêché de la monastère.  Perhaps, you would say, banishment?”

“That’s all?”  Rory’s muscles tightened.  He was not hearing the full story, he was sure of it.  He looked at Melissa, who had turned scarlet.

“We found some plans of the monastery, and the name of the man in charge in 1735,” she said brightly.  “Not a very nice man at, by all accounts.  The locals named him the Man of Iron.  And then we found his report to his superior in Bergerac.  He says that on the night of the storm, Pierre killed the girl and threw himself into the millpond in remorse.”

Rory lifted one eyebrow in disbelief.  “That’s rather different to what we heard before.  But it’s also very convenient.  For him, that is.  But I don’t think anyone would actually throw themselves under a waterwheel as a way of committing suicide.”

Melissa’s face fell in disappointment at his rebuttal.  “So you don’t believe it?  Any of it?”

Rory shook his head.  “Afraid not.  What else happened?”

Her pansy-blue eyes widened.  “What do you mean?”

“Something happened this morning and you haven’t told me yet, so come on, out with it.  Let’s have it all.”

“Nothing.  There’s nothing else, is there, Christophe?”

Christophe got to his feet, and gave Rory a brief, jerky nod.  “I think it is time I go.  My thanks for le dejeuner.”  Nervously, his hand fiddled with his plate, rattled the cutlery together.  Rory stared in disbelief.  Christophe’s hand trembled.  What was wrong with him?  Rory looked at Melissa.  What was she hiding?

 “Au revoir.”  Christophe trotted away to his car like a man escaping something unpleasant.

Melissa cleared her throat.  “I was thinking of going into the village to find the waitress and see what else she knows about the mill.”  Her blue eyes met his, wavered and returned.  “I know you’ll think it’s a crackpot idea, and you’ll be happy to know that Christophe agrees with you.  But I think it’s worth doing.”

“So you’ve already discussed it with Christophe?”

“Christophe knows where she lives.”

“How are you going to talk to her?  With a dictionary to hand?”  Hurt and anger swirled in him, forced him to his feet where he banged one fist against the bolly support.

“Rory.”  She stared at him, astonished.  “Are you angry?  Why?  Christophe can translate for me—”

“I have a job for Christophe.”  At her insistence on working with Christophe, Rory’s patience snapped.  “If you want to go, you’ll have to go on your own.”  He flung down his napkin and strode rapidly after Christophe.  He banged on the roof of the Citroen with one hand, and gestured with his thumb.  Christophe, his face chalk white, opened the door and got out.

Melissa ran over and stood between him and Christophe.  She glared at him.  “What are you going to do?”

“I want Christophe to come and talk to Monsieur Le Maire with me.  Human remains must be reported and he may get in touch with the gendarmerie.  I think that’s more important than following up on local village gossip.”

There was a small, stinging silence.  Christophe looked from Melissa to Rory, cleared his throat and said slowly, “D’accord.  It will be my pleasure.”

“Will you go in Christophe’s car?”  Melissa asked.

“I thought we’d go in mine.  Why?”  The anger grew in his head like a kettle coming to the boil and he struggled to control it.

Melissa looked alarmed.  “I don’t want to be left here on my own, but if you take the Honda, I’m stuck.”

“You can drive mine, ch—”  Christophe choked back the endearment.

Rory made a growling noise in his throat.

“Thank you, Christophe.”  Melissa threw an irritated glance at Rory.  “It’s good to know that someone cares about me.”

Rory saw the hurt in Melissa's face and ignored it.  “Wait there,” he snapped at Christophe, and stalked into the kitchen.  He came out with the car keys dangling from his hand.

“Right, Christophe.  Let’s go.”

Rory unlocked the Honda and got in.  Christophe hastily tossed the keys of the Citroen to Melissa, flung his hands out sideways in a gesture of helplessness and ran toward Rory.

Melissa listened to the scream of the Honda engine as it climbed the hill road up through the trees behind the house.  She couldn't decide if she was going to throw something or burst into tears.

Rory had been so angry, yet there was no way he could know what had happened in the library that morning.  She poured the rest of the wine into her glass, drank it off in three gulps and banged the glass down on the table.  Last night had been so magical, and now they were at loggerheads again.  Did he mean what he’d said about loving her?  Or were the words a plot to get her into bed?

Her hand lashed out.  The empty glass sailed through the air and collided with a tall nettle springing out of a low wall so overgrown it was barely noticeable.  The glass dropped and nestled among the thick grass stems.

Last night she’d trusted Rory.  He’d seemed vulnerable, said he loved her and he’d stood back and waited for her to accept or reject him even though heat came off him in waves and he trembled as he stood there.  Even now, after so many hours, she remembered how the air around them had quivered with longing, how her senses had demanded that she accept him.  She had so wanted to believe in him.

And now he was barely speaking to her, and that hurt more than she wanted to admit.

He knew the place was haunted.  He’d just dug up human bones, he was supposed to love her and yet he’d left her alone.  Melissa glared at the remains of lunch, turned and walked away from it.

A mixture of fury and hurt made her cheeks burn as she headed to the fridge, seized another bottle of wine and wrestled with the old-fashioned corkscrew.  With the open bottle in one hand and a fresh glass in the other she stalked outside and flopped down into her chair.  Hooking her foot under the nearest empty chair, she yanked it closer and crossed her ankles on the cushioned seat.

The wine was cool and calming in her hand and crisp on her tongue.  Her finger traced the condensation bubbles down the bowl and onto the stem between sips, and she sniffed now and then as a stray tear rolled traitorously down one cheek.

Rory was jealous of the Frenchman.  Yet what was he jealous about?  Christophe’s loose use of French endearments amused her, but they grated on Rory.  If he knew what happened this morning…

Guilt, like a long-handled spoon, stirred the mix of feelings.  She’d never lied to him in the short time she’d known him.  Well, she hadn’t told the exact truth about her family, but she hadn’t lied.  Clearly he’d picked up on something.  Had she and Christophe looked guilty?  Had he been checking for smudged lipstick stains and rumpled hair?  Such telltale signs would be everyday normality in his workaday life.

She and Christophe had probably behaved oddly in front of Rory.  Finding herself so powerfully drawn to Christophe, whom she barely knew, to the point where—her thoughts stuttered to a halt.  Thank God the library telephone rang when it did, or who knew what might have happened.

She couldn’t describe the intense burst of lust that had flared in the dusty, magnolia-laden air of the local history room.  She wasn’t attracted to Christophe.  In this world, her emotions were all tied up in Rory.  But in that other, hazy world…Justine somehow used Melissa to channel her feelings for Pierre.

Crazy.  Justine and Pierre had no right to reach out and use other people like this.

Maybe she should have tried to explain to Rory.  But last night he hadn’t exactly been receptive to their ideas, and this morning she'd been afraid of his reaction to the new development.  She gazed at the slowly dissolving cloud of dust hovering over the drive and thought Christophe would be having a hell of a ride down those narrow roads toward the home of Monsieur le Maire.

She sipped the wine steadily until alcohol blurred her worries.  Everything was Jonny’s fault.  He shouldn’t have introduced her to Rory at that silly party.  Jonny’s endearing habit of matchmaking all his friends like a sheepdog trying to keep his flock together had backfired this time.  Yet from the first moment all three of them knew a spark had been lit.  She’d looked up into Rory’s intense stare, heard that mellow voice and her insides had turned to mush.  She’d fallen head over heels in love.

Melissa stared toward the drive without seeing it.  She refilled her glass and sipped the wine even though she’d left the bottle in the sun and it was now warm and greasy.  Rory had been absolutely honest over everything, she’d lied by omission and he knew it.  She’d tell him and hope he understood.

Would she believe him, if the roles were reversed?  Melissa put down the wine glass, leaned forward and raised both palms to her face.  She couldn't bear to think of him breaking off the relationship.  Behind the shield of her hands, she took several deep breaths and pressed both index fingers into the corner of her brow and nose.  A tingling ache arose there.  Some kind of pressure point, she remembered vaguely, and it did seem to calm her a little.