The Orchid Shroud (42 page)

Christophe looked genuinely shocked. “It wasn’t me! It was
those damned hunters. Antoine said he saw them hanging around when the ambulance took you away.”

“Wait.” Julian turned to the winegrower. “You were here that day?”

“Of course he was,” said Christophe. “He also gave me the phone. He said he needed a way of keeping in touch with me. How was I to know it was yours?” The little man bristled at Mara.

“That’s enough,” Antoine snapped. He waved the rifle at Christophe. “Get up. Get dressed.”

Christophe blinked doubtfully at his cousin. “Why? Where are we going?”

“Just hurry it up. You two”—the rifle swung around on Mara and Julian—“against the wall.”

“What’s going on?” Mara demanded uneasily.

Julian said, “Do what he said.” Step by step they retreated to the wall.

“Antoine, I swear to you, this is all some dreadful mistake,” Christophe babbled as he got out of bed. His round, soft body was clad only in a pair of candy-green boxer shorts. “You surely don’t believe this nonsense. For heaven’s sake. Tell her.” He hopped into his trousers. “Didier was born on the estate. And his father and grandfather before him.” He pulled a shirt on, buttoning it awry. “I didn’t want him talking, but why would I have shot him? Or her, for that matter?”

Julian took a deep breath. “You didn’t.”

“If not him, then who?” Mara turned to Julian.

“Antoine.”

Mara’s astonishment at Julian’s reply was mirrored in Christophe’s face. The little man gaped at his cousin. “You? But why?”

“Shut up,” the viticulturist barked. “Get your shoes on.”

Julian said, “Because Didier saw what he did to Guillaume Verdier.”

“Guillaume?” Christophe squeaked, pulling on his sandals. “What’s he got to do with it?”

“Guillaume was the
maquisard sans tête
. He escaped from the Germans and made it back to the valley—to safety, he thought.” Julian addressed Antoine. “You came across him in the woods, didn’t you? You were only—what?—thirteen? fourteen? But old enough to know what was at stake. How did you do it? Bash him on the head with a rock?”

“Why would I kill Guillaume Verdier?” Antoine sneered. “He was a hero of the Resistance.”

“Land,” said Julian. “With you people, it always comes down to that—land or money. Yours was the only family in the valley that stood to lose if Guillaume resurfaced. And you were the only one who had a reason to cut off his head. If Guillaume’s body had been identified, the survivorship of the
tontine
would have been reversed. Christophe said you and Didier brought the body out of the woods together. Did Didier see you do it? Or maybe he just suspected you had. And he’s undoubtedly held his tongue all these years because you are a de Bonfond.”

Antoine’s harsh laugh rang out. “Good luck proving it. Even if you could, the statute of limitations is well past. So why would I want to shoot Didier for something the law can’t get me for?”

“Two reasons. First, the law may not be able to get you, but the people of Sigoulane can. As you said, Guillaume Verdier was a hero of the Resistance. You think you have labor problems now. If Didier talked, if Guy Verdier got hold of this information, you’d never get another person in the Dordogne, let alone the valley, to work for you again. You’d be shut out of every restaurant in the region. That’s sixty-five percent of your sales right there. You’d be ruined. And, second, Didier was a danger to you because he could link you to a much more recent crime, one that will get you life. Jean-Claude Fournier.”

“Jean-Claude?” Christophe cried.
“Mon dieu!”
He broke off to appeal to Mara and Julian. “Antoine said he’d take care of it. I never expected him to kill the man. In fact, he said
you
did it.” He waved a hand at Mara.

“Tais-toi, imbécile!”
Antoine roared.

But Christophe was irrepressible. “Although I don’t say that
crapaud
didn’t deserve what he got. The
lies
he manufactured about that damned baby! And he actually tried to demand
money
of me. Fifty thousand euros to hold his tongue. Naturally, I told Antoine about it. After all, he’s a de Bonfond, too.”

“Antoine didn’t kill Jean-Claude to help you out,” Julian assured Christophe. “He did it to protect himself. You just provided the cover. After all, you’ve just admitted Jean-Claude was trying to blackmail you about Baby Blue—”

“Which gives him”—Antoine jerked his head in Christophe’s direction—“the perfect motive for silencing him.”

Julian turned to the winegrower. “Which was a godsend to you because Jean-Claude had you over a barrel. Let me tell you what I think happened. Christophe hired Jean-Claude to put together the de Bonfond family history. Despite everything, the man was a good genealogical researcher. It bothered him that he couldn’t verify a lot of the claims—”

“He was a rank amateur,” declared Christophe, his face pink with annoyance. “You should have heard some of the things he came up with.”

“So he did what any conscientious genealogist would do. He searched out alternative sources of information on the family, one of which was the Verdier archives. And that was when he saw the photograph of Guillaume Verdier. Guy told him the story of the
tontine
, of course. Jean-Claude had just published his book on the Resistance—”

“I kick myself,” Christophe cried. “I gave that crook a thousand-euro advance.”

“Enough,” bellowed Antoine. “Shut it.”

But Julian persisted. “He matched up the photo in his book with the Verdiers’ photo of Guillaume and concluded that Guillaume had indeed survived your father. But he needed corroboration. He went to see Didier and somehow ferreted out the truth, or enough of it to realize that he’d just stumbled on a lifelong line of credit with Coteaux de Bonfond.” Julian turned to address Antoine directly. “And that’s when Jean-Claude put the squeeze on you.”

“What if he did? I didn’t pay up. That’s what counts.”

“No. You eliminated him. Then you went for Didier because he was a weak link. Mara, too, because she was asking awkward questions. And I expect you came tonight to dispose of another weak link.”

“You!” Christophe rounded on his cousin. “You told me to lie low. You said you’d take care of everything. I should never have listened to you.”

“Don’t waste my time,” Antoine snarled. “Get over there with them.” He gave Christophe a shove that sent him reeling across the room. He ordered Julian: “The flashlight. On the floor. Slowly.”

Julian did not put the flashlight down. He whipped it—backhand—as hard as he could, aiming for the viticulturist’s head. It clipped him on the eyebrow. The rifle went off, bringing down a rain of plaster from the ceiling. With a flying tackle, Julian was on the other man. The rifle spun across the floor. Mara flung herself at it. Antoine, with surprising strength and agility for a man of his age, threw Julian over, scrambled free, scooped up the flashlight, and raced from the room. They heard his footsteps pounding down the corridor.

Julian grabbed the rifle from Mara and went in pursuit. Mara and Christophe ran after him. The chase took them down to the end of the wing and into the main part of the house. With the shutters closed, the darkness there was complete.

“Wait,” gasped Christophe. He fumbled along a wall and activated a bank of switches, lighting the entire progression of rooms. Ahead of them they heard Antoine’s feet clattering on the stone steps leading down into the kitchen.

“Careful,” Christophe panted from the rear. “There—are—meat-cleavers and things in there.”

“Terrific,” Julian murmured, hoping Antoine was not adept at knife-throwing. He descended the three shallow steps, pressing himself tightly to the wall. Cold air flowed in through the window he had broken the day before. Groping along the inside wall, he found another bank of electrical switches and flipped them on. The space, suddenly illuminated, was empty of any human occupant.

“The cellar!” hissed Christophe, pointing to a door at the back of the room.

More stone steps, these narrow and steep. The way was weakly lit by naked bulbs, dangling by their wires from the ceiling. Julian went part of the way down and stopped. The cellar, he saw, was vast and poorly illuminated. From where he stood, he made out alcoves filled with bottles, venerable with dust. A progression of low arches trailed off to a vanishing point of darkness. Even with the advantage of a gun, he did not fancy flushing Antoine out in such conditions. Then he realized he didn’t have to. The cellar was a true
cave
. The man was trapped down there. He turned back.

“Call the gendarmes, Christophe. He’s stuck down there. We have him.”

“No, we don’t,” said Christophe. “The tunnel.” He pointed to a low door, partly ajar, set into the far-side cellar wall. “He’s gone for the tunnel.”

Julian laughed. “It’s blocked off. We saw it ourselves a couple of weeks ago. There’s no way he can get out.”

“You don’t understand,” Christophe shrilled. “The tunnel
branches. About fifty meters down. The right fork leads to another opening in a field below the house. It—it’s how I’ve been coming and going.”

“Merde!”
Julian clattered down the steps. “Mara,” he yelled over his shoulder, “stay here. Get on to Compagnon.”

“In a pig’s eye,” she shouted.

Christophe snatched a battery lantern from a hook at the top of the stairwell and clattered after them. “You’ll need this. I’ll—I’ll show you the way.”

The tunnel was faced with rough-hewn stone for about the first ten meters. Then it became a passage crudely cut into bare rock that ran on a slight downward slope before them. The air was damp and cold, smelling of earth and wet stone. Christophe went first, the light from the lantern bouncing crazily from wall to wall as he hurried along. Julian followed, holding the rifle erect. Mara came last. Their pace, at first rapid, slowed to a trot, then to a stagger. At last, the little man collapsed winded against the tunnel wall. His breathing echoed like bat squeaks in the enclosed space.

“I can’t … You go.” He extended the lantern to Mara, who pushed forward past Julian to take it from him. “Fork—just up ahead. Right branch.”

The lantern illuminated two dark voids that yawned uninvitingly before them. They sprinted down the right arm of the tunnel, Mara lighting their way. She glanced back. Christophe was trailing behind. The second time she looked back, she no longer saw him.

“I just thought of something.” Julian’s voice echoed brokenly behind her. “Antoine—devious bastard. Supposing he’s hiding in the other tunnel—waiting to double back up into the house—escape that way?”

Mara stopped, her sides heaving, her injured shoulder throbbing with the exertion of the chase. “Bit late to think about that now.”

“Yes, but Christophe is back there. Unarmed and in the dark. I expect,” he added, “this was where Antoine intended him to disappear. Permanently.”

“Well, let’s hope Christophe has the sense not to move. So what do we do?”

They ran on.

The quality of the air changed. Mara felt it flowing past her, carrying with it a perceptible freshness. The tunnel floor began to slope upward, so that soon she had to stoop and then crawl on hands and knees, pushing the lantern before her, up to the surface of the earth. The opening was heavily overhung with shrubbery. She thrust her head and shoulders through a curtain of vines, set the lantern outside, stabilizing it on a flat spot, and slid out into a brightening world with its complex mix of smells: wet earth, vegetation, and sheep.

Moments later, Julian emerged from the tunnel, sliding out on his knees and elbows, shoving the rifle ahead of him. A boot came down painfully on his right hand.

“Leave it.”

In the morning light, Julian did not need the lantern to make out the boning knife, or the man who held it, neatly tucked up against Mara’s throat. The fingers of Julian’s free hand froze, centimeters from the gun. The boot followed up with a brutal kick to his jaw that caused an explosion to go off in his head. With a grunt, Julian slumped to the ground, half in, half out of the tunnel.

Antoine threw Mara from him. She landed, with a yelp of pain, on her injured shoulder. However, she had the presence of mind to grab the only weapon to hand: the lantern. With all the force she could muster, she smashed it up into the viticulturist’s face as he bent to retrieve the rifle. He staggered back, blood spurting from his nose. However, he had the gun. He turned it on her, fired point-blank, and ran.

He ran straight into it.

Mara, stunned and unable to believe that the shot had missed her, heard the shout first. Then she saw it, rising out of the tall grass directly before the winegrower, bigger than any wolf or dog she had ever seen and covered in coarse gray hair that seemed to give an added, diabolical dimension to its form. Its ears were flattened against a large head, its muzzle, wet with the blood of the sheep it had been devouring, rucked into a ferocious snarl. Antoine had time to give a choked shout of fear, to swerve and start back along the line he had come, before the thing was on him.

The beast drove him to the ground. Antoine fell screaming a short way from Mara, the rifle beneath him. He went on screaming as he fought the thing off, but the sounds coming from him were pitched unnaturally high. Each time Antoine rolled away from the gun, Mara snatched at it, only to be driven back by the shifting, frenzied struggle between man and animal. Again and again she grabbed for it and was defeated by kicking legs, a lashing tail, or powerful, pivoting hindquarters. At last, as Antoine’s cries trailed off to a wailing plea, her hand closed on the gun barrel, and she pulled it free.

The animal, correctly sensing its new adversary, whirled about. It left Antoine’s bleeding body and began to circle Mara, wrapping her with its awful smell. It went slowly at first, then at increasing speed, practicing its killing art in almost complete silence, its yellow eyes never leaving her face, its upper lip fully retracted to expose enormous fangs. She turned with it, knowing instinctively that she must not let it get behind her. It seemed almost to play with her, darting back and forth in a series of rushes and feints. She fended it off with the rifle, gripping it as she had picked it up, by the barrel, using it like a club. But she was already dizzy from spinning about and knew with a mounting sense of terror that she could not outlast the animal’s deadly persistence.