A Spell in Provence

by Marie Laval

  ‘I don’t know. He’s not moving. He’s not dead, is he?’ Stéphane whispered.

  Brice’s face was pale, emaciated. Amy placed two fingers at his throat to feel for a pulse then heaved a sigh of relief.

  ‘No, he’s alive.’

  She asked Fabien to help her move him into the recovery position.

  Together they rolled the teenager gently onto his left side and extended his arm in front of him.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ Amy said as she put her arms around Stéphane’s shoulders and hugged him. ‘The gendarmes won’t be long.’

  ‘How did you find him?’ Fabien questioned.

  Stéphane looked up.

  ‘I got a text earlier. It said to come here, alone. I panicked when I couldn’t see him at first. I went into all the bories. Then I saw him lying here.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else?’ Fabien asked, scanning the surroundings. ‘A car? A van? Anything at all?’

  Stéphane shook his head. ‘No, the place was empty. So you really think he’ll be all right?’

  Amy nodded reassuringly.

  ‘He’s alive. We’ll soon get him into hospital. I think the gendarmes are here now.’

  The strident scream of a siren got louder. A convoy of police vans and two ambulances drove up the rocky lane at speed and shrieked to a halt next to Fabien’s Range Rover. Amy rose to her feet and gently pulled Stéphane upwards. He seemed oddly unresponsive. He was probably in shock.

  The paramedics ran over to Brice and carried out a brief examination.

  ‘We need to take him into the hospital at Apt straight way,’ one of them said.

  ‘He’s lucky to be alive. Let’s hope he can soon tell us what happened, where he was all this time, and who the hell that so-called Alain is,’ Capitaine Ferri said sternly, looking at the teenager as he was being strapped into a stretcher by the paramedics.

  Chapter Fourteen

  While Brice was rushed to the hospital in Apt, Capitaine Ferri asked Amy, Stéphane and Fabien to follow him to the gendarmerie in Bonnieux to make a statement.

  ‘Still no answer from your home number. Your dad’s phone is switched off, too.’

  Amy turned to Stéphane who sat at the back of the Range Rover.

  ‘Do you have any idea where he could be?’

  Stéphane shook his head silently.

  ‘Let’s try Lily’s number. Your mother might be there.’

  Amy remembered that the elderly woman had been ill.

  Adèle was indeed at Lily’s. As soon as Amy explained what had happened, she said she would meet them at the gendarmerie.

  The drive to Bonnieux didn’t take long. Fabien parked in front of the gendarmerie and opened the door for Amy and Stéphane. The boy stumbled as he got out.

  ‘Come on, son.’

  Fabien clasped a firm hand on his shoulder to steady him.

  ‘You’ve had a nasty shock, but it’s over. Thanks to you, Brice is safe now.’

  They were shown into a small waiting room. Capitaine Ferri strode in, sat behind the desk, and started pulling out papers from a thick file. He lifted his inquisitive pale eyes to stare at Stéphane, and asked him why he’d called Amy instead of his parents or the police when he found Brice.

  The boy’s face flushed bright red.

  ‘Because she’s cool, and she always understands me,’ he said, casting a timid but warm glance towards her.

  Amy smiled but couldn’t help wondering if the teenager had a crush on her.

  Ferri asked Stéphane for his phone. If they could trace the text, he explained, they had a good chance of finding the people Brice had been staying with – perhaps even get hold of the elusive Alain. Stéphane looked down and muttered something.

  ‘What did you say? Where is your phone?’ the gendarme repeated, impatient.

  ‘I lost it in the village of bories. I’m not sure where.’

  ‘Damn. I should have asked you before. Now I’ll have to radio my men. It’s a good job they’re still up there, searching the area.’

  Ferri cursed under his breath again and left them.

  Fabien paced the room, stopping now and then to rake his fingers through his hair or gaze out of the window.

  ‘I don’t understand why someone would text Stéphane, instead of Soeur Michèle at Maison Espérance,’ he said at last. ‘And why leave Brice alone in the old village?’

  ‘Because it’s isolated?’ Amy suggested.

  ‘Whoever stayed with Brice these past few weeks needed a car or a van to get to the village of bories, unless they didn’t come by the road but by the …’

  He stopped, frowned, then shook his head.

  ‘No, that’s impossible,' he whispered to himself.

  The door opened before Amy could ask him what he meant, and Adèle rushed in. She held her arms out to embrace her son, but Stéphane pushed her away.

  ‘Leave me alone,' he snarled, 'and stop treating me like a little kid.’

  Welling up, Adele looked at Amy and Fabien.

  ‘Capitaine Ferri said I could take him home. Thank you both so much for being there, and for taking care of him.’

  ‘He’s usually a very sweet boy,’ Amy remarked after Adèle and Stéphane had left. ‘He must be upset.’

  Fabien frowned.

  ‘I don’t know, there is something odd there, something that doesn’t make sense.’

  He looked down at her.

  ‘I guess we’ll have to wait for Ferri to tell us more … Since we’re here, I think you should make your statement about what happened on Saturday night.’

  ‘I still don’t remember much about it,' she said. 'The last thing I want to do is make wild accusations about who I think might have spiked my drink. As far as I’m concerned, it could have been anyone who happened to be on the terrace, including Serena Chevalier, since I left my glass of orange juice unattended on a table.’

  What she didn’t say was that Serena had a motive for hurting her. She hated her, and wanted her gone from Bellefontaine. She tried, however, to be objective when she made her statement, and only mentioned Serena’s name as a possible witness.

  It was late afternoon by the time she arrived back home. Bellefontaine was empty. The Ducros weren’t back from Avignon. Amy let Michka run wild in the garden and sat on one of the terrace’s stone steps. In the golden evening light, it was full of delicate shadows, soft colours and butterflies. Only the buzzing of bees and the call of birds troubled the silence. The air was thick with the scents of grasses, of rosemary and thyme and wild flowers. White and blue forget-me-nots, daisies, pretty buttercups and red poppies scattered the lawn. Yet if the garden looked as pretty as an impressionist painting, Amy felt a growing anxiety as she glanced towards the dark green forest.

  Fabien rang a short while later with news about Brice.

  ‘He’s still in intensive care undergoing tests, but he’s conscious,’ he announced, a note of optimism in his voice. ‘The doctors think he’s been heavily sedated for days. His body is so full of drugs he’s lucky not to be in a coma.’

  ‘So he’ll be all right?’

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘That’s great news.’

  She breathed a sigh of relief.

  Fabien said that he was going to Lyon on business for a couple of days but that he’d call her on his return so that they could resume their investigation into the temple and Renaud Coste’s diaries. Even though Amy doubted that spending time alone with him was a good idea, she replied that she was looking forward to it.

  At least, she thought as she put the phone down, Fabien now kept his distance. He must have understood that she wasn’t interested in a fling. All that she had to do was to convince her silly heart to stop aching and jumping every time he was near.

  The Ducros left the following morning. They promised to recommend Bellefontaine to friends and family.

  ‘Your cooking alone would justify a visit, dear,’ Madame Ducros said before waving goodbye.

  They ha
d just left when the postman made his usual loud arrival on his moped and slipped a letter into her letterbox. She carried it into the kitchen. It was from the Fédération des Offices de Tourisme, the National French Tourist Board. At last there was news about her application for a star grading!

  Her heart sank as she read the first few lines. The Board’s inspector concluded that she had failed in her most basic duties of care towards her guests. Even a single star was out of the question until Amy showed an improved level of service. The letter finished by stating that she was more concerned with consuming alcohol than with fulfilling her responsibilities and was signed Arthur Garnier.

  So Garnier was the board inspector who had played the mystery guest. Why had Monsieur Verdier not warned her of his arrival in advance like he’d promised?

  Amy steeled herself. This was a bitter blow, but she would appeal. Fabien, Céline and the emergency doctor could all testify that her indisposition had nothing to do with drinking too much alcohol. She sighed and closed her eyes. She could remember seeing Monsieur Garnier talk to Claudine in the ballroom. Claudine had pointed at her and laughed.

  She tried to concentrate on the broken film her mind was playing. The waiter’s face. The empty Petit Salon. A voice whispering in her ear. Perhaps her memory of the evening was coming back at last.

  Amy’s eyes flew open. There had been someone there with her, someone who had frightened her, even though she couldn’t remember their exact words. Someone who touched her.

  Blood pounded in her ears. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Her stomach heaved. She got up with a start and rushed to the toilet to be sick. When the nausea had subsided, she staggered back to the kitchen to pour a glass of water. Who had been there with her? Perhaps it was the very person who’d drugged her drink?

  She tried working in the study for a while, but couldn’t concentrate on her paperwork. All she could think of was the underground passages and chambers of her dream. Images flashed in front of her eyes. Long, dark tunnels. The statue of a goddess wearing a crown of oak leaves and hissing snakes. White robed priestesses officiating in a temple lit by torchlight. Mysterious trap doors opening in her cellar. Lily’s stories preyed on her mind.

  She pushed her files away and dropped her pen on the desk. Worrying was pointless. It was time to take a proper look at Bellefontaine’s basement.

  She unlocked the cellar door, swiched on the light and went down, followed by Michka. Metal shelves and empty wine racks stood against the walls. She pulled them all away from the walls and slid her hands along the smooth, even walls to feel for any concealed door or opening. There was nothing there.

  It had been a bad dream, that was all, she thought with relief. She was about to turn back when Michka started sniffing the bottom of the wall with excited whimpers and wagging her tail furiously. Worried, Amy went over to investigate. The ground sounded different there, almost as if it was made of wood instead of stone or concrete.

  She knelt down to touch the floor. Although it was perfectly camouflaged and painted the same grey colour as the rest of the basement floor, the faint outline of a trap door was visible. She couldn’t find a catch or handle to open it. It was as if the trap door could only be opened from the other side.

  Maybe Laurent would help open it when he arrived on Sunday. For now, she piled some crates on top of it. It might seem silly, but she would make sure nobody could sneak into Bellefontaine this way.

  When the trap door was entirely covered with metal shelves and boxes, she climbed the cellar stairs and locked the door. In the hall, her eyes focussed on the wooden chest. Perfect, she thought. Filled with books and nick-nacks she’d bought at flea markets and second-hand stores, it was so heavy she was panting by the time she’d dragged it across the tiled floor and pushed it against the door.

  She didn’t care if she was over-reacting. Nobody would come up from the cellar and into her house now.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In the Middle Ages, the ridge-top village of Ménerbes was reputed to be impregnable. It wasn’t difficult to see why. Even today the half-ruined walls of its fortress rose high above the hillside, and its belfry shot up like an arrow towards the sky. Amy had visited Ménerbes when she was touring the region in search of the perfect property to buy. She had liked its old buildings, winding streets, archways, and the two chapels at either end of the village. Although it was picturesque, it was quiet and off the tourist trail.

  Philippe Coste’s sketches were still with Fabien so she relied on her memory to find the fountain. She remembered it to be taller and more ornate than the other two fountains of Buoux and Saignon. As the village was only small, she guessed it wouldn’t take long to find. She started from the central square and walked up one street to the castle, then back down another lane, exploring the village for the best part of an hour.

  She finally reached a belvedere at the west end of the village, and there it was, in front of her. Her heart beat a little faster as she came closer.

  There was no carving on the wide pillar except for a coat of arms and a date:‘1835’. The same date as the other two fountains.

  There must be something else. Some Latin or Greek writing, she thought, as she walked around. She bent down to examine the basin but the stone was worn and smooth. She stood up again and then she saw it, under the carved lion head into which a pipe was inserted.

  The inscription was faint and partly hidden by the running water.

  Res divina sacrificium

  Hominess pro victimis immolare

  Terricula pervigil

  Pulchrum fons

  The last two verses were familiar. She’d seen them on the other fountains. Beautiful spring/fountain. Spectre forever awake. As for the rest, it didn’t take an expert in Latin to understand the words ‘sacrifice’ and ‘victim’.

  She wrote the lines down, took a few photos, and walked back to the car, mapping out in her mind the route to Lourmarin, the last village in her ‘fountain trail’.

  Who was the stonemason who had rebuilt the fountains, and why did he use the temple’s stones? Was it his way of making sure the cult wouldn’t be forgotten, or was he saving money by reusing materials nobody would touch because they were supposed to be cursed?

  Lourmarin, a busy market town roughly eleven kilometres south of Ménerbes, wasn’t as picturesque as other hill-top villages. It was still popular with tourists, though, who came for its sixteenth-century castle, Roman church, antique shops and the cemetery, where the graves of Albert Camus and Jean Giono, two of France’s best loved twentieth-century writers were found.

  She walked to the fountain which stood in a small square shaded by an old lime tree. It looked like a miniature Roman temple, with columns and a classical portico above its central pillar. Unfortunately, the carvings were far too worn and she was unable to decipher even one word.

  So the Lourmarin fountain would keep its secret. Disappointed, Amy headed back to the car park. She took her time, looking at shop windows as she wandered through the narrow streets. Her attention was attracted by a large terracotta vase in the window of a bric-à-brac shop. It would look beautiful in Bellefontaine’s living room and would replace the one the burglars had smashed. One look at the price tag however was enough to discourage her. She couldn’t afford the expense right now.

  Etchings were propped up among chipped plates, wooden toys and old-fashioned railway annuals. One of them featured a chateau which looked just like Manoir Coste.

  She pressed her nose against the window pane. It was Manoir Coste! Intrigued she pushed the door open and walked into the shop.

  A man was sorting out sets of playing cards on a table. He looked up.

  ‘Bonjour, Madame.’

  Amy pointed to the window and asked to see the etchings.

  ‘Certainement. These are mid-eighteenth century.’ he explained as he lay the pictures flat on the table.

  Altogether there were five etchings of Manoir Coste, each of them drawn from a different persp
ective. Two, however, were different and Amy’s pulse raced as she leaned over them. One depicted a semi-circular fountain adorned with statues in the middle of a wood. Behind the fountain, she could just about make out the outline of a construction with square pillars and steps, standing in the shadows of the trees.

  Amy pointed to the fountain.

  ‘Do you know where this is?’

  ‘I don’t, but it’s what we call a monumental fountain, or a nympheum,’ the man replied. ‘They were built by Roman senators. The most famous one is at Glanum, near St Rémy, but I believe there is another one in Nîmes.’

  Amy stared at the last etching, which showed a close-up view of the temple. It was a primitive construction, with square pillars, a portico, and two statues on either side of the entrance, standing guard like sentinels. The statues looked identical to the one which had been stolen from Bellafontaine: her Bona Dea, wearing the same headdress of oak leaves intertwined with snakes.

  ‘Where do these prints come from?’

  The man looked uneasy.

  ‘I’m not sure, sorry.’

  Why was he so evasive? Could the engravings be stolen?

  ‘How much are you asking for them?’

  ‘Two hundred euros. They’re very old, you know.’

  ‘That’s far too much, especially if you can’t establish their provenance. I’ll give you forty euros.’ She tried to sound indifferent when in reality she was shaking with excitement. These were prints of the fountain and the temple, she was certain of it, but there was no way she could spend the amount of money the shopkeeper was asking for.

  ‘Sixty.’ The man bartered.

  ‘Fifty.’

  ‘D’accord, but I only take cash.’

  Amy went to a nearby cash dispenser, paid the shopkeeper, and left with the etchings secure in a large envelope. She couldn’t resist taking a look at them again as soon as she sat in the car. If the lost fountain was impressive and beautiful, the temple looked mysterious. It was no wonder the villagers had been afraid of it.