The Splendour Falls (17 page)

‘Ah.’ He grinned, and broadening his accent so that he sounded exactly like a music hall actor pretending to be French, he asked her very slowly: ‘Would … you … like … a … drink?’

Even Jim smiled at that, but Garland missed the joke completely. ‘Oh, that’s very much better, Thierry,’ she congratulated him. ‘You see? I told you if you kept on practising, your English would improve in no time.’

Thierry shrugged, a modest little shrug. I didn’t trust myself to look up again until after he’d brought the drinks.

For the next half hour I sipped my
kir
and smiled politely. When it became apparent that the Whitakers were rooted to their seats for the remainder of the evening, and that Paul and I would have to wait until breakfast to talk any further about Harry, I excused myself with a rather convincing yawn and started up the winding stairs.

Alone in my room, I closed my fingers thoughtfully round the little silver coin, still nestled deep within my pocket, and wandered over to the window. The night air was thick and full of dampness. In the square below, the street lamps spread warm yellow pools of light upon the smooth black pavement, and water spilled from the fountain like an iridescent rain.

Beside the fountain, the little spotted dog yawned and stretched as the breeze went shivering through the acacias.

The gypsy glanced swiftly upwards, expressionless, at my window, then looked away again and lit a cigarette with unhurried fingers. It was only the darkness, I told myself, that was giving things this air of melodrama. The gypsy had every right to be sitting in a public square, and he might have been looking at anything, really, not just at my window. But still I latched the window firmly, securely, and twitched the heavy curtains closed before I crawled beneath the covers of the wide bed, shutting my eyes tightly into the pillow like a child seeking comfort in the long uncertain night.

Paul answered my knock at the door next morning with the telephone slung from one hand and the receiver cradled close against his cheek. Smiling, he motioned me in, not missing a beat in his conversation. He was speaking in French. ‘Ah. I see. Yes, I’ll wait, it’s no problem.’ Fingers cupped round the mouthpiece, he smiled again. ‘Come on in,’ he told me. ‘Have a seat.’

Which was easier said than done. The boys’ room was the mirror image of my own, except that where I had one huge bed they had two narrow ones, one neatly made and strewn with maps, the other rumpled and half buried beneath a set of curtains, still anchored firmly to the curtain-rod. Three spreading piles of clothing, sorted by colour, rose like miniature Alps from the carpet at my feet. There was very little room to stand, let alone sit.

Paul had solved the problem by sitting on the cluttered
desk, feet braced against a chair that had been buried thick in newspapers. He resumed his seat now, while I made my cautious way around the mounded clothing to perch upon a corner of the neater bed by the window.

Simon, I thought, had a point – the window did look better without curtains. It stood fully open to the morning air, and the jumbled sounds of traffic, talk and fountain drifted upwards from the square beneath, like some discordant modern symphony.

Paul was still on hold, and humming to himself.

‘Any joy?’ I asked him.

‘Sort of. The library isn’t open yet, but the staff is there. This guy’s just gone to ask the librarian if he knows anyone who—’ He broke off suddenly, and bent his head. ‘Yes, I’m still here.’ A shorter pause, and then: ‘Yes. I’m a student, you see, and I’m writing a paper on … that’s right. And I was told there might be someone here who might be good to talk to. Pardon?’ He leaned forward to scribble a few lines on the pad of paper at his side. ‘Yes, I’ve got that. Belliveau, that’s B-e-l-l …? You don’t have the telephone number, do you? Yes, of course, I understand. Well, I’m sure it won’t be a problem. Thanks so much.’ He replaced the receiver with a smug expression, and struck a match to light a cigarette. ‘Well, that was fun.’

‘You want to watch out, Sherlock,’ I said drily. ‘Big brother might walk in and catch you smoking.’

‘Simon,’ Paul informed me, savouring the words, ‘isn’t here. He left half an hour ago, with the Whitakers.’

‘Simon’s gone off with Jim and Garland?’ I couldn’t quite believe my ears. ‘Why on earth would he do that?’

‘Because they were going to Fontevraud, where your Queen Isabelle is buried. Simon thought there might be clues there, as to where she hid her treasure.’ Paul shrugged. ‘But mostly he went because I reminded him today is Tuesday, our weekly laundry day, and Simon really hates the laundromat.’

I smiled slowly. ‘You’re a whopping sneak.’

‘I know.’

‘And how are we supposed to play detective, might I ask, if we have to do your laundry?’

‘Thierry and I have it all under control.’

‘You didn’t tell Thierry?’ I asked, startled.

His eyes held soft reproach. ‘Of course not. I promised, didn’t I? I only told him you and I were taking off to do some sightseeing on our own, and could he help us keep it secret from Simon?’

I smiled. ‘Well, that’s torn it. He’ll be thinking we’ve gone sneaking off to do something romantic.’

‘Nah.’ Paul grinned. ‘We could do that right here at the hotel. Besides, Thierry knows me better than that.’

‘What, I’m too old for you?’ I teased him.

He shook his head. ‘Hardly. But I’d never hit on someone else’s woman.’

‘Someone else’s …?’

‘Anyhow,’ he changed the subject, picking up his notepad. ‘Do you want to know what I’ve just found out?’

I stopped frowning and leaned forward. ‘Please.’

‘Well, the librarian only knows of one man who reads foreign history journals and takes an interest in the tunnels – a local poet by the name of Victor Belliveau.’

‘Victor …’ I tried the name, experimentally.

‘Was that the name your cousin mentioned, on the phone, do you think?’

I shook my head. ‘I can’t remember.’

‘Because it sounds like this might be our guy, it really does. Apparently he’s been poking around the tunnels for years, making maps and things. Kind of a personal obsession. So if this Belliveau did write your cousin, then your cousin might have met with him when he was here in Chinon. Assuming, of course, that he
was
here. It can’t hurt to ask.’ Paul checked his notes again. ‘He lives just outside Chinon, sort of. I’ve got the address, but there isn’t any phone number. The librarian doesn’t think he has a phone. Our Monsieur Belliveau is a true artiste – a little bit eccentric.’

‘But you said he doesn’t live far from here?’

Paul shook his head. ‘Just up the river, past the beach. A fifteen-minute walk, maybe. Do you want to go there first, then? Or would you rather start by taking another look around the Chapelle Sainte Radegonde? I’ve got the key.’

‘How did you manage that?’

Another shrug, more modest than the first. ‘I just went round to Christian’s house this morning, before breakfast, and asked him for it. Christian’s like Neil, he wakes up with the birds, and I figured he wouldn’t mind.’

‘Well, I’m most impressed, I really am. You’ve had a busy morning, Sherlock.’

‘Morning isn’t over, yet,’ he reminded me. ‘So where do we start? The poet or the chapelle?’

I took a moment to consider the options. The Chapelle
Sainte Radegonde, I thought, was the more appealing prospect, and I was quite certain Harry had been there, but then again … I rubbed my thigh unconsciously, recalling the hellish climb along the cliffs, and the endless winding steps that led back down again.

I smiled at Paul. ‘The poet, please.’

The house of Victor Belliveau stood on the fringe of the community – a sprawling yellow farmhouse with an aged tile roof, set off by itself with a scattering of crooked trees to guard the boundary fence.

Thierry had confirmed the man’s artistic status. ‘He was a famous man, this Belliveau,’ Thierry had said in response to Paul’s casual question. ‘Not just in Chinon, but in all of France. I read his poetry at school, in Paris. But now he drinks, you know, and he is not so well respected.’

His property reflected that, I thought. The yard was pitted and unkempt, and the stone barn, built long and low to match the house, was tightly shuttered up. And the rubbish! Peelings rotted everywhere among the weeds, and paper wrappers cartwheeled in the wind to fall exhausted in the rutted muddy lane before us.

‘Oh, boy,’ said Paul.

‘My thoughts exactly.’

‘I guess poets don’t make much money, do they?’ Paul strolled across the road and tried the fastening of Victor Belliveau’s gate. It was a long gate, stretched across what might have been a drive, and it was unlocked. One push sent it creaking back on its hinges. The sound spoke of loneliness and isolation, and I’d not have been surprised
to see a snarling dog come slinking round a corner, but the only animal that came to greet us was a small black chicken. Keeping its distance, it turned a round and curious eye to watch us cross the lawn towards the house.

It was a farmer’s house, square and sturdy. Great blocks of smooth pale stone framed both front windows and the door that stood between them, but the rest of the walls were made of rubble. Much more economical, I supposed. It might have been made quite a pretty house, if someone had cared enough to take the trouble. It only wanted some new roof tiles and a lick of paint on the sagging shutters, perhaps some curtains and a flowerpot or two to brighten things. But I could clearly hear the rattling of the cracked and greying tiles, and on the wall see places where the years had worn away the mortar so the dampness could creep in between the dirty yellow stones. The windows, staring out across the littered yard at the still and shuttered barn, had a blank and empty look.

No-one, I decided, had cared about this house for a very long time.

I had already conjured up a vivid mental picture of Monsieur Victor Belliveau, and so I was completely unprepared for the sight of the man who actually opened the door to Paul’s polite knock. This was no unkempt wild-eyed poet, half mad with drink and raving in his solitude. Instead a tidy, dapper little man, with crisp grey hair and a shaven face that smelled of soap, looked back at us in pleasant expectation.

Paul did the talking for us both, in flawless French. He didn’t tell the whole truth, mind. He was careful not to
contradict the tale he’d spun for the librarian, about being a student working on a paper, only this time he did mention he was trying to find my cousin. ‘Braden,’ he said. ‘Harry Braden. He’s from my university. I believe he was here in Chinon last week, doing research, and I thought he might have come to talk to you …?’

Victor Belliveau raked us with a measuring look. ‘No, I’m sorry, he did not come here.’

‘Oh. You didn’t write him a letter, then?’

‘No.’ Another long and penetrating look. ‘You say it is something to do with the tunnels, this paper you are writing?’

‘Well,’ Paul scuffed his shoe against the step, ‘sort of …’

‘Then perhaps I can help you myself,’ said Victor Belliveau, with a rusty smile. He pushed the door a fraction wider. ‘Please,’ he told us, ‘do come in.’

The French did not ask strangers into their homes as a matter of habit, and it would have been unspeakably rude to have refused his invitation. Feeling slightly guilty for intruding on the man’s privacy in the first place, I followed Paul across the threshold.

There were only two rooms on the ground floor, a large square kitchen and a second room in which a bed, a coal stove and a sofa were the only furnishings. The far wall of the kitchen groaned beneath the weight of rustic bookshelves, stacked two deep in places, an intriguing mix of paperbacks and expensive-looking volumes leaning wearily on one another. The other walls were bare, with jagged cracks that ran from the ceiling like thunderbolts. In one corner some plant – an ivy branch, it looked like –
had actually worked its way through the heavy plaster and been unceremoniously hacked off for its trouble. Still the rooms, while spartan, were surprisingly clean, and the tile floor had recently been swept.

Victor Belliveau seated us in the kitchen, round a large scrubbed table spread with newspapers. ‘Would you like a drink?’ he offered. ‘Wine? Coffee? No?’ He shrugged and poured himself a glass of thick red wine. ‘I had some brandy here the other day, but I’m afraid it’s gone. They took it,’ he said, jerking his head towards the window and the tangled yard outside. ‘Damned good taste, if you ask me.’

At Paul’s blank look the poet smiled again. ‘I’m sorry, of course you wouldn’t know. I meant the gypsies,’ he explained. ‘I have a family of them, usually, living on my land. That’s why the yard is such a disaster. Good people, gypsies, but they don’t believe in guarding the environment.’

‘
Gypsies
?’ The word came out rather more sharply than I’d intended, and the bland and guileless eyes shifted from Paul to me.

‘Oh, yes. We’ve plenty of gypsies round here, my dear. Mine stay here several times a year. One’s never sure exactly when – they just turn up when the mood strikes, with their caravans. Not everybody likes them, but they don’t much trouble me.’

‘I see.’ The scarred table felt suddenly damp beneath my splayed fingers.

‘But what was it you needed to know, about the tunnels?’ he asked, his glass trailing moisture on the table as he leaned forward in his own chair, helpfully.

Paul played his part extremely well, I thought. Having
only just left school himself he made a most convincing student – even borrowed pen and paper to make notes, his face attentive, serious. I tried to listen to what Victor Belliveau was telling Paul about the history of the tunnels, but my mind kept wandering off to other things.

Like gypsies, for example. Of course it was coincidence, and nothing more, that Victor Belliveau let gypsies on his land. There must be half a dozen other people living in these parts who had a gypsy caravan parked down their back lane. And besides, I reminded myself, the gypsy with the little dog who haunted the fountain square had nothing at all to do with me. Nothing at all.

‘… up to the Chapelle Sainte Radegonde,’ Belliveau was saying, ‘but that has long since fallen in. One has to use imagination …’

His mention of the chapelle set my mind wandering again, this time to Harry. Bloody Harry. I ought to have that printed on a T-shirt, I thought. He’d probably be quite amused by all the trouble I was going to, just because I’d found that King John coin. There was bound to be a simple reason why the coin was here and Harry wasn’t.

‘He died last Wednesday,’ Victor Belliveau said, shrugging, and I came back to the conversation with a jolt.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘A friend of Monsieur Belliveau’s,’ explained Paul, for my benefit.

‘Well, I knew him, let us say,’ the poet qualified drily. ‘We were not friends. But this is why the gypsies left, you see. We’d had the police round a few times, asking questions, and gypsies don’t much care for that. Not that I was a
suspect, or anything,’ he said, smiling at his own joke, ‘but as I said, I knew the man quite well. It was a sad case. He drank too much.’ He shrugged and raised his own glass, which I noticed had been filled again.

Paul raised his eyebrows. ‘You don’t mean Martine Muret’s husband, do you?’

‘Yes, Didier Muret. You know them, then?’

‘Only Martine,’ said Paul. ‘I never met her husband.
Ex-husband
, I should say.’

‘Ah, she is a lovely woman, Martine, don’t you think? I believe I wrote a sonnet to her, once. But she chose Muret. God knows why,’ he said, smiling above his wine glass. ‘He was an idiot.’

I frowned. ‘Didier Muret – that was his name?’

‘Yes, why?’

Didier … I turned it round again, concentrating. It rang a bell, that name. I was sure it was the name Harry had mentioned – either that, or something very like it. It was a common enough name. There were probably dozens of Didiers living in Chinon. Still, I thought, it never hurt to try …