by Marie Laval
His face was unfathomable.
‘I’ll pick you up at eight,’ he said.
The evening promised to be awkward, she thought as she watched the Range Rover drive away, but with any luck, she wouldn’t have to stay too long.
She was in the middle of mopping the downstairs floor when the phone rang. She cringed as she recognised the self-assured voice of Armelle Capitelli, the journalist from the Journal du Lubéron.
‘I want to write something about Bellefontaine and its mysteries,’ the woman announced.
‘What mysteries?’ Amy combed her tangled hair back with her fingers.
‘I understand one of your guests suffered nightmares so horrific while staying at Bellefontaine that she is now in a mental hospital. What can you tell me about the poor woman, and has this happened to any other of your guests?’
Amy's fingers tightened on the receiver.
‘Who told you about this?’
The journalist chuckled at the other end of the line.
‘I’m sorry, I am unable to divulge my sources. Do you confirm that the young English bride had to cut her honeymoon short?’
‘I won’t confirm or deny anything, Mademoiselle Capitelli.’
Amy slammed the phone down.
How did the reporter find out about Eva when only Adèle, Paul, and Lily knew about her? No, that wasn’t true. Someone else knew. She had told Anne Loubier that very morning. She must be the one who had contacted the journalist.
Amy frowned. One thing was odd. Armelle Capitelli knew that Eva and Justin were on honeymoon. Come to think of it, Anne Loubier did mention English newlyweds, yet Amy was certain she hadn't said that Eva and Justin had just got married. That could only mean one thing. The antique dealer had lied. She had met Eva and Justin. She was the one who had given them the crystal.
The evening came far too quickly for Amy’s liking. She stood for a while in front of her wardrobe, deciding what to wear. There was no point getting dressed up. Dinner at Fabien’s cottage would be informal. She picked another white cotton dress with a pretty gathered neckline, left her hair loose and slipped on a pair of pumps.
Fabien was right on time. As soon as she heard his car, she draped her pink shawl loosely on her shoulders and opened the front door. Like her, he had dressed casually, in a pair of jeans and one of the stripy blue and green rugby shirts he seemed to favour. They looked at each other without saying a word. Amy’s throat was dry. She was aware of a dull ache in the region of her heart. For a second, she wanted to touch him so much it hurt.
Fabien broke the silence. ‘Shall we go?’
They were both quiet in the car on the way to Manoir Coste. The evening sky was beautiful, pale blue with a few wispy orange and pink clouds. Amy wound the window all the way down. The breeze blew her hair around her face. It smelled of cedar pines, wild herbs and dry grass.
She glanced at Fabien. His eyes were fixed on the winding road. He was driving too fast. As they approached a tight bend a coach appeared in front of them, driving straight towards them. The road wasn't wide enough for both the coach and Fabien’s car. They were going to crash.
‘Fabien!’ she screamed, digging her fingernails into the leather seat,
The tyres screeched and the stink of burnt rubber filled the air. Fabien managed to stop metres away from the coach. The driver made a rude gesture and beeped as he drove away.
He gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles went white.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, closing his eyes briefly.
She was too shaky to answer.
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated as he started driving, at a normal speed this time.
She was still trembling when they arrived at Manoir Coste, and she followed him to the cottage. Tonight even more fairy lights than before lit the path around the walled garden.
'As you can see, we are gearing up for our Fête des Lumières at the end of April,’ Fabien explained.
‘Is it a local tradition?’
He nodded. ‘It started when people of Bonnieux offered thanks to the Virgin Mary for sparing the village from the plague, some time in the Middle Ages, but some say the tradition is much older and dates back to Roman times or before.’
‘Do you think it has anything to do with the lights in the forest – the goddess’ lights?’
‘Maybe. Anyway, we always hold a ball and have fireworks in the park that weekend. That’s why my mother came back from Paris. No doubt she’ll invite you. She seems to have the wrong idea about us and I didn’t have the chance to explain that you weren’t interested.’
Once again, her heart pushed her to tell him that she had lied, that she loved him. And once again her head held her back.
Inside the cottage, Céline gave Amy a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
‘Here you are, darling, just in time. The chef just delivered our supper.’
There were crystal flutes on the coffee table. A bottle of champagne stuck out of an ice bucket. Nibbles and canapés were artistically displayed on a silver platter.
Fabien poured the champagne out and gave Amy one of the tall, delicate crystal glasses.
‘I think we’d better eat,’ he decreed. ‘I must prepare for my trip to Paris tomorrow. Claudine is already there. She emailed me some papers I need to look at.’
‘How long will you stay?’ Céline asked.
‘Only until Monday evening. I promised to take the boys from Maison Espérance rock-climbing on Tuesday.’
The three of them sat around the oak table to eat the selection of seafood dishes, salads, terrines and fresh fruit pastries the restaurant staff had delivered.
Over supper, Amy couldn’t help looking at Fabien as he scooped food onto his mother’s plate, refilled her glass, picked up her cardigan and wrapped it around her shoulders. It was difficult to believe that he could be involved something as evil as murders and rapes.
Their eyes kept meeting across the table. His were cool and indifferent, and gave nothing away.
‘Let’s look at the plans now,’ Céline announced after they’d had coffee.
She asked Fabien to tidy up the dishes as she fetched a leather satchel and unrolled the plans on the dining table. There were half a dozen thick parchment papers. Even though the drawings had faded, it was still possible to recognise the front elevation of the castle.
‘These date from 1690.’
Fabien pointed to the date at the bottom of one of the plans.
‘Look. That’s the one we want – the plan of the basement.’
The three of them leaned forward. The basement of the chateau was divided into over twenty cellars. Fabien indicated the lines going off from some of them to the west, east and north.
‘These lines must represent the tunnels. The west tunnel goes towards Bellefontaine, the east tunnel goes to Bonnieux, and the north passages towards the old village of bories.’
He traced the outline of the basement area with his finger.
‘This is the central staircase leading to the main larder area. The west tunnel starts from the tenth basement room’
He looked up. Excitement shone in his eyes.
‘I’m going down now. I’ll grab a torch.’
Céline gasped. ‘But, darling, you can’t go down there tonight.’
‘Why not?’
‘It might be dangerous.’
For a moment she looked as stubborn as her son.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Amy said.
‘No, you will not,’ he said. ‘It’ll be cold and dirty. There might be mice or rats.’
‘I’m not afraid of a few mice. All I need is an old shirt or jumper to wear over my dress.’
‘Please,’ she insisted.
‘Very well, if you’re sure. I’ll get you something to cover up with.’
He went upstairs and came back with a blue shirt. It was so big it almost covered her white dress down to her knees.
Realising she was defeated, Celine said she would wait for them at the Ma
noir. It only took five minutes to walk through the gardens to the service entrance at the side of Manoir Coste. Fabien led the way.
‘The staircase is this way.’
The corridors and the kitchen were busy with hotel and restaurant personnel. All greeted Fabien and looked at her with undisguised amusement as she had to run behind him to keep up with his long strides, his blue shirt flapping around her.
He grabbed a couple of torches from a utility room near the kitchen, pushed a huge wooden door open, and flipped an electric switch.
‘There is electric light in the first five cellars because that's where we keep our wine, but after that it will be pitch black,’ he explained as they went down the stone staircase. The cellars were lined with row upon row of wine racks and barrels. There must be millions of euros in wine stored down there.
‘Switch your torch on now and watch your step,’ Fabien instructed when they walked past the last wine cellar.
The temperature dropped as they walked into the darkness. She followed him closely as he lit the way, shining his torch onto the alcoves on each side. He had been right. This place was vast.
Each time there was a junction, he counted how many pillars they had passed before carrying on.
He turned to the right.
‘This is it. Cellar Number Ten.’
He shone his torch onto the stone walls from the floor to the low, vaulted ceiling.
‘This is the west wall. Can you see anything? an opening, a door?’
She walked along all the way to the far corner. Shadows of cobwebs, as delicate as lace, moved upwards on the wall under her torch’s yellow beam.
‘There’s a draft blowing from behind here,’ she said.
He put down his torch, and started to push against the stones. At first nothing happened. Then a section of wall shifted with a grinding sound. Fabien kept on pushing until the wall revealed a dark passage. A gust of frigid air blew into the cellar, raising goosebumps on Amy’s skin.
‘This is it.’
He faced the black opening in the stone wall.
‘This is the entrance to the west tunnel, and it’s not even blocked. It’s almost as if …’
‘What?’
‘As if it’s been used recently. I‘ll leave it open and return with a couple of lads in the morning. Let’s go back.’
'What's that, over there?' she asked as she saw something glittering near the tunnel opening. Fabien picked it up and shone his torch on it.
‘I don’t believe this.’
Amy stared at the gold and blue signet ring in his hand, with two gold letters – CV.
She had seen it before. Images flashed in her mind. A man’s hand. Strange, hypnotic music. Torches on the wall. Herself, lying down, almost naked, helpless and terrified.
‘It’s my ring’ he said.
Amy stared at him in horror.
So it was true! He was the man in the underground temple. The man who had performed the ceremony, who had thrown the white substance all over her, who violated her …
‘It was you in the temple,' she said in a hoarse whisper. 'It was you all along.’
He walked towards her. The torchlight threw menacing shadows on his face. She stepped back but her legs were shaking and she stumbled. The darkness came closer, surrounding her.
She put her hand to her throat and would have collapsed to the ground if Fabien had not caught her in his arms.
Chapter Nineteen
Amy stared bewildered at the ornate moulded ceiling. Her gaze trailed down to the heavy bronze-coloured curtains drawn against the night, and the oil paintings of hunting scenes hanging on the walls. A sleek designer desk lamp shone a dim, warm glow onto neat stacks of files and papers. She recognised the room. She’d been here before.
This was Fabien’s study. The question was why was she lying on the sofa with a cushion under her head and a soft, warm blanket on top of her? A subtle sandalwood scent she recognised only too well filled the air. She frowned, looked down. It was no wonder she could smell Fabien’s aftershave. She was wearing his shirt!
Memories of the evening came rushing back. Céline had found maps to the basement. Fabien had led the way down into the cellars. Together they had found the entrance to one of the tunnels. And then …
Then she had seen something on the ground. His ring – the proof he was one of them!
She jumped to her feet, peeled the shirt off, and threw it into a heap on the Persian rug. Her heart felt like it was breaking.
What else had Fabien done? Had he arranged the burglary, nailed that dead rabbit on her door the first night she’d arrived at Bellefontaine, slashed her tyres, and left the dead crow on her car in a gruesome display to scare her? Had he drugged her drink at Manoir Coste too?
Whatever Fabien was up to, she had to get out before he came back to check on her.
Too late! She heard footsteps in the corridor and froze in terror as the door knob turned and the door opened slowly
Thankfully, it wasn’t Fabien, but Céline.
‘Amy darling, are you alright?’
Her eyebrows drawn in a worried frown, Céline took Amy’s hand.
‘You must lie down and rest a while longer.’
‘No.’ Amy pulled her hand away. ‘I don’t want to stay here a minute longer.’
‘Now you’re being unreasonable,’ Céline retorted in a stern voice which had the same authoritative note as her son’s.
‘You shall have a nice hot drink, then I’ll get a member of staff to drive you back. I knew it was a bad idea to go down to the basement tonight. Fabien said it was so cold down there you passed out. He tried to revive you but in the end had to carry you back up.’
How could Amy tell Celine that it wasn’t the cold that caused her to faint, but the realisation that her son was involved in some kind of cult?
‘Where is he now?’
‘He set off for Paris while you were sleeping. I don't know why he had to leave so fast but he was in a terrible mood. But of course! How silly of me. You two argued, didn’t you? That’s why you’re crying and why he left so suddenly. Oh darling, don’t worry. Everything will be fine. It’s plain to see you two are very much in love.’
‘We’re not,’ Amy cried out. ‘You have it all wrong. He doesn’t love me, and I certainly don’t love him.’
Céline smiled, made a tutting sound and pointed to the sofa.
‘Sit down, wrap the blanket around your shoulders, and wait for me. I won’t be long.’
She walked out, leaving Amy to gaze at the half-open door. For a moment she was tempted to sneak out and make her way back to Bellefontaine on her own, but decided against it. Now Fabien had gone, she was safe at Manoir Coste. So she sat on the sofa and as she was shivering, she pulled the blanket tightly around her shoulders.
Céline reappeared a few minutes later, followed by a waitress carrying a tray with a teapot and two cups.
She sat on the sofa next to her. ‘Tea? Milk and sugar?’
Amy nodded. Céline poured out two cups and placed one on the table in front of her.
‘I think I know what you’re going through,’ she started after Amy swallowed a few sips. ‘Coste men aren’t easy to understand, let alone to love. They are so very proud, so intent on having their own way they often come across as cold, haughty tyrants. In that respect, Fabien is very much like his father. Manoir Coste, this land, it’s everything to them. I didn't think Fabien would be so attached to this place since he was brought up in Paris, but I was wrong. Every time we came back for holidays, it was as if he was exactly where he belonged. Here. And when he was of age to take the place over and realised what a mess Frédéric’s father had made of things, I hoped he’d sell. But it only made him more determined to live here and bring Manoir Coste back from the brink of ruin.’
She smiled faintly.
‘My son is a very proud man, Amy. Some of his business associates will no doubt call him stubborn and ruthless too …’
She p
ut her porcelain cup down.
‘But I’ve seen the way he looks at you, and heard the way he talks about you. He is crazy about you. Even if he doesn't quite understand it yet’
Unable to listen to another word, Amy stood up.
‘And I say you are wrong. Thank you for the tea, but I’ll leave now. Could you phone for a taxi please?’
‘There’s no need.’
Céline rose to her feet, walked to Fabien’s desk, and dialled a number on his phone. She asked the reception to have a driver and a car ready in five minutes.
‘I left my bag at the cottage,’ Amy said. ‘My keys are in inside.’
‘I’ll send someone for it.’ Céline phoned through to reception again and asked for Amy’s bag to be picked up. They didn’t speak as they walked out of the office and into the lobby, where a driver handed Amy her handbag.
‘I can’t help thinking I am somehow responsible for what happened tonight,’ Céline said as she turned to say goodbye. ‘If only I hadn’t shown you the plans of the basement, you wouldn’t have gone down to the cellar and then you and Fabien probably wouldn’t have argued.’
There were tears in her eyes, and Amy felt a pang of guilt.
‘It’s not your fault. Not your fault at all. Good night, Céline,’ was all Amy could manage before following the driver out.
Thankfully the driver didn’t try to make conversation on the way back to Bellefontaine. Michka greeted her at the door, as usual, and Amy stroked her silky coat absent-mindedly.
What should she do now? Capitaine Ferri would probably laugh at her and think she was insane if she told him she suspected Fabien. After all she had no proof.
The phone’s shrill ringing echoed in the silence. She glanced at her watch and saw that it was almost eleven.
‘Thank God you’re here,’ her sister breathed out at the other end.
‘Chris? You sound strange ... What’s the matter?’
‘Can you come and get us at Marseille airport? I’m there with Peter.’ Chris paused. ‘I left him, Amy. I left Toby and I’m not going back. You were right about him.’
There was no point asking for more details right now. She told Chris to wait in the terminal, ran upstairs to slip a jumper over her dress, and grabbed her car keys. As an afterthought, she lifted Michka in her arms, clipped her lead on, and put her on the seat at the back of the car. The dog might provide a welcome diversion for Peter.
