“Mademoiselle de la Martinières, of course you may,” he said, leading her into the small office at the back of the restaurant. “I apologize for not being here to greet you before, but I’ve been away in Paris. Everyone in the village was sad to hear of your maman’s passing. Like your family, mine has been in the village for many hundreds of years. Will you sell the château now she is gone?”
Emilie knew this was the question Damien wanted the answer to. His bar and restaurant were the high altar of village gossip.
“I really don’t know at the moment. I have many things to look into.”
“Of course. I hope you don’t decide to sell, but if you do, I know many a developer who would be willing to pay a fortune to turn your beautiful château into a hotel. I’ve had many inquiries here over the years.” Out the window, Damien indicated the château far below in the valley, its graying terra cotta rooftops glinting in the sunshine.
“As I said, Damien, I still have to make up my mind.”
“Well, mademoiselle, if there’s anything you need, please call us. We were all very fond of your father here. He was a good man. After the war, we in the village were so poor. The comte helped to push the government for proper roads to be built up to us here on the hill and encourage the tourists to visit from Saint-Tropez. My family opened this restaurant in the 1950s, and the village began to grow prosperous. Your father also promoted the planting of vineyards to grow the grapes for the wonderful wine we now make here.” Damien swept his arms across the vine-covered valley below them. “When I was a child, all we had around us was farmland, fields of corn and grazing cows. Now our Provençal rosé is world famous.”
“It’s comforting to hear my father helped the area he loved.”
“The de la Martinièreses are part of Gassin, mademoiselle. I hope you will decide to stay here with us.”
Damien continued to fuss around her, bringing her a jug of water, bread, and a plat au fromage. Once Emilie had connected her laptop successfully, Damien left her alone. She checked her e-mails, then took out Sebastian’s card and looked up his gallery on the Internet.
Arté was on the Fulham Road in London and mainly dealt in modern paintings. Emilie was comforted to see it existed. Making up her mind, she dialed Sebastian’s number. His voice mail answered, so she left her number and a short message, asking him to contact her about their conversation yesterday.
When she’d finished, Emilie thanked Damien for the use of the Internet and lunch, then drove back to the château. She felt energized, more motivated than she had in years. If she decided to renovate the house, she would almost certainly have to give up her veterinary career in Paris and move down here to oversee the project. Perhaps this was just what she needed—and, ironically, the last thing she would have considered a few days ago. It would give new purpose to her life.
However, her excitement gave way to fear as she drew nearer to the house and saw a police car sitting outside. Hastily bringing her car to a halt, Emilie grabbed Frou-Frou and climbed out. She stepped into the hall to find Margaux talking to the gendarme.
“Mademoiselle Emilie”—Margaux’s eyes were wide with shock—“I believe we’ve had a breakin. I arrived here as usual at two and the front door was wide-open. Oh, Mademoiselle, I’m so very sorry.”
With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Emilie realized that in her excitement over her decision to renovate the château, she hadn’t locked the back door before she’d driven up to the village.
“Margaux, this is not your fault. I think I left the back door open. Has anything been taken?” Emilie thought of the potentially valuable painting in the morning room.
“I have looked carefully in every room and I can’t find a thing missing. But perhaps you can look too.”
“Often these kinds of crimes are opportunist,” offered the gendarme. “There are many Gypsies who see what they believe is a deserted house, break in, and are simply looking for jewelry or cash.”
“Well, they won’t have found any of that here,” Emilie replied grimly.
“Mademoiselle Emilie, do you by any chance have the front-door key in your possession?” asked Margaux. “It seems to be missing. I wondered if you had placed it somewhere safe for extra security, rather than it standing as it normally does in the lock.”
“No, I haven’t.” Emilie surveyed the oversized, empty keyhole, looking bare without its rusting mate inserted into it. She blinked, trying to remember if the key had been in the lock this morning. But it was not the kind of detail she would have noticed on her way to the kitchen through the hall.
“If the key cannot be found, it’s important that you call a locksmith who can fit a new one immediately,” said the gendarme. “You will not be able to lock the door, and it’s possible that the thieves have taken it with them and are preparing to return at a later date.”
“Yes, of course.” Emilie’s earlier vision of a secure paradise was fast evaporating as her heart beat unsteadily in her chest.
Margaux looked at her watch. “I apologize, Mademoiselle Emilie, but I must go home. Anton is alone at our house. Am I free to leave?” she asked the gendarme.
“Yes. If I need any further information, I’ll be in contact.”
“Thank you.” Margaux turned to Emilie. “Mademoiselle, I’m worried about you being here by yourself. Perhaps it would be better to move out to a hotel for the next couple of nights?”
“Don’t worry, Margaux, I’ll contact a locksmith and I can always lock my bedroom door, for tonight, anyway.”
“Well, please call me if you’re at all concerned. And remember to secure the back door in future.” With a harassed wave, Margaux scurried off to collect her bicycle.
“Please search the château in case your housekeeper or myself have missed something.” The gendarme pulled a pad out of his top pocket and scribbled down a number. “Contact me if you discover anything has been stolen and we’ll take the matter further. Otherwise”—he sighed—“there’s not much more I can do.”
“Thank you for coming,” said Emilie, feeling guilty for her stupidity. “As I said, it is my fault.”
“It’s no problem, but I would suggest that you tighten security here as soon as you can and—as this château is so often empty—invest in an alarm system.” The gendarme nodded at her and walked toward his car through the open front door.
As soon as he’d left, Emilie mounted the stairs to begin checking nothing had been taken. Halfway up, she noticed a car snaking down the drive toward the house and saw it disappear around the back. Heart beating, Emilie scurried into the kitchen to lock it against unknown intruders. But it was Sebastian’s face peering through the glass pane. Emilie unbolted the door and reopened it.
“Hello!” Sebastian looked at her questioningly. “Are you sure you want me to come in?”
“Yes. Sorry, I’ve just had a breakin and didn’t recognize your car.”
“Oh, God, Emilie, how awful!” He stepped over the threshold. “Did they take anything?”
“Margaux thinks not, but I was just going upstairs to check.”
“Do you want me to help you?”
“I …” Her legs suddenly turned to jelly and she sat down abruptly on a kitchen chair.
“Emilie, you’re very pale. Look, before you go dashing off round the house, why don’t you let me make you the Englishman’s version of the ‘cure-all’—a nice cup of tea? You’ve had a shock. Sit where you are, calm down and I’ll put the kettle on.”
“Thank you,” she said, feeling dazed and shaky as Frou-Frou whined for a cuddle. She pulled the dog up onto her knee and stroked her, the motion comforting her.
“How did they get in?”
“We think through the back door, but they left through the front and the key is missing. I must get a locksmith out as soon as possible to replace it.”
“Do you have a telephone directory here?” Sebastian put down a mug on the table in front of her. “While you drink your tea, I could contact a locks
mith for you.” He pulled out his mobile phone.
“Yes, in the drawer over there.” Emilie indicated a large dresser. “Really, Sebastian, this is not your problem. I’ll sort it out …”
But Sebastian had already opened the drawer and pulled out the directory.
“Right,” he said after a few minutes of browsing the numbers. “There are three listed in Saint-Tropez and one in La Croix Valmer. Why don’t I call them now and see who’s available?” He picked up the receiver and dialed the first number. “Hello, yes, I’m calling from Château de la Martinières and I was just wondering if …”
Emilie didn’t listen to the conversation, simply sipped her tea and basked gratefully in the comfort of someone else taking charge.
“Right,” Sebastian said as he ended the call, “unfortunately the locksmith can’t come out until first thing tomorrow. But he told me he’s used to replacing old locks on doors around here.” Sebastian glanced at her. “You seem to have a little more color. Before the light fades, are you up to double-checking the house? You really should. I’ll come with you if you like.”
“Surely, Sebastian, you must have other things to do?” Emilie entreated. “I don’t wish to hold you up.”
“Don’t be silly. An English gentleman would never abandon a damsel in distress.” He offered his hand to help her up from the chair. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
“Thank you. I’m concerned they’re still here, hiding somewhere.” Emilie bit her lip. “Margaux didn’t see the intruders leave.”
All the rooms were as Emilie remembered them, and although it was impossible to be sure that absolutely nothing had been taken, given her unfamiliarity with the detail of the individual objects in the house, she arrived back with Sebastian in the hall reassured.
“Well, that’s the entire house checked,” he confirmed. “Anywhere else they could be hiding?”
“The cellars perhaps? But I’ve never been down there.”
“Maybe you should then. Do you know how to access them?”
“I believe the door is in the lobby just off the kitchen.”
“Come on then, let’s go and take a look.”
“Do you think it’s really necessary?” Emilie said reluctantly. Dark, enclosed spaces terrified her.
“Would you prefer me to go down alone?”
“No, you’re right. I should see the cellars for myself.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe,” he said, grinning as they walked into the lobby. “This door?”
“Yes, I think so.”
Sebastian pulled back the rusting bolts and turned the key with difficulty. “This hasn’t been opened for years, so I’d doubt anyone is lurking down there.” Managing to drag the door open, he searched for a switch and found a crude piece of string hanging above his head. Pulling it, a straggle of light appeared from below. “Right, I’ll go first.”
Tentatively taking the steps downward behind Sebastian, Emilie followed him into a cold, low-ceilinged room, the air stagnant and damp.
“Wow!” Sebastian exclaimed at the lines of wine racks, filled to the brim with dust-covered bottles. Pulling one out at random, he dusted off the label and read it. “Château Lafite Rothschild 1949.” I’m no wine expert, but this lot could be a vintner’s dream come true. On the other hand”—he shrugged as he replaced the bottle—“they may all be undrinkable.”
They both wandered around the room, pulling out bottles and inspecting them.
“I can’t find a single bottle after 1969, can you?” asked Sebastian. “It looks like no one bothered to add to the collection since that date. Wait a minute—”
Sebastian put the two bottles he was holding onto the floor, then pulled out four more, making six, then twelve. “There’s something behind this rack. It’s a door, can you see?”
Emilie peered through the rack and saw what he meant. “It probably leads to another cellar which no one used,” she offered hopefully, eager to remove herself back upstairs as soon as possible.
“Yes, surely a house like this would have extensive cellars running underneath. Aha.” Sebastian removed the last bottle, then took hold of the rotting wooden wine rack and eased it out into the center of the room. “I was right, it is a door.” He brushed the cobwebs from the lock and tried the handle. The door opened grudgingly, the wood no longer fitting its frame comfortably, having warped in the damp atmosphere. “Shall we see what’s inside?”
“I …” Emilie was nervous of going further. “It’s probably empty.”
“Well, we shall see,” said Sebastian, using all his strength to drag the door fully open along the cellar floor. His hands groped again for a light switch, but none appeared within his grasp.
“Wait there a moment,” he instructed Emilie as he stepped forward into the blackness. “There does seem to be some natural light coming from somewhere …” Sebastian disappeared completely into the gloom. “Yes, there’s a small window in here—ouch! Sorry, just banged my shin on something.” He reappeared at the entrance. “Do you by any chance know where there might be a flashlight?”
“I can check upstairs in the kitchen.” Emilie turned and headed for the stairs, grateful for an excuse to escape.
“If you can’t find a flashlight, bring a candle or two,” he called after her.
The flashlight she eventually found was inconveniently out of batteries, so she collected an old box of wax candles and some matches from the pantry, took a deep breath, and returned down the cellar stairs.
“Here,” she called into the room. Sebastian took two of the candles out of the box and held them as Emilie lit both. He offered her one, then turned back inside, with Emilie reluctantly following behind him.
They stood in the center of the small room, casting the eerie glow of their candles around it. Neither of them spoke as they took in what they saw.
“Correct me if I’m imagining things, but this looks to me like a room someone once occupied,” said Sebastian eventually. “The bed over there, with the small table beside it, the chair by the window, presumably placed so as to catch what little light comes in, the chest of drawers …” He wafted his candle toward it. “There’s even a blanket still on the mattress.”
“Yes,” agreed Emilie as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, “and a mat placed on the floor. But who would live down here?”
“A servant perhaps?”
“Our servants had attic rooms on the top floor. My family would never be so cruel as to place their staff in a room such as this.”
“No, of course not,” said Sebastian, suitably chastised. “And, look, there’s another small door over there.”
He strode toward the door and opened it. “I’d say this was used as a washing area. There’s a tap on the wall and a large enamel sink on the floor beneath it. And a commode.” He bent his head carefully as he stepped out. “This was definitely used by someone once, but who?” He walked toward Emilie, his eyes alight with interest. “Let’s go upstairs, pour ourselves a glass of wine from one of the bottles next door, and mull over the possibilities.”
5
Upstairs in the kitchen, Emilie suddenly started to shiver violently, whether from the cold cellar or delayed shock, she didn’t know.
“You run upstairs and find a jumper, and I’m going to try and light a fire. It’s turned chilly this evening,” Sebastian commented. “Can you hear that wind blowing outside?”
“Yes. It’s the mistral. The temperature always falls, but I don’t think we have the ingredients for such a thing as a fire.”
“What! In a house surrounded by trees? Of course you do.” Sebastian winked. “Be back in a moment.”
Upstairs, Emilie collected a cardigan and, pulling a blanket off her bed, walked around making sure all the shutters were secure against the escalating wind. Many residents in the area dreaded the mistral, which blew with relentless force along the Rhône Valley, often arriving unheralded and blowing up within minutes. Old wives’ tales told of ever
ything from the winds summoning witchery, to affecting female hormonal rhythm and animal behavior. Yet Emilie had always admired its power and majesty, and the freshness of the air once it had blown itself out.
Sebastian appeared ten minutes later in the kitchen with a wheelbarrow full of broken branches collected from the garden and a few ancient logs he’d found in a shed. “Right,” he said, “let’s get this started. Show me where to light it.”
Emilie led him into the morning room, and soon a fire was burning merrily in the grate.
“This is a fantastic fireplace,” Sebastian said approvingly, wiping his hands on his chinos. “They really knew how to make a decent chimney in those days.”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin to build a fire. The servants lit them in our houses and I don’t have one in my apartment.”
“Well, my little princess”—Sebastian grinned—“where I come from, they’re an everyday fact of life. Now, I’ll go and open that bottle of wine we brought up from the cellar and see if it’s drinkable. And, if I may, I’ll also have a root around in the kitchen to see if there’s something I could knock up to eat. I’ve had nothing all day and I’m sure you could do with something in your stomach too.”
“Oh, but …” Emilie made to stand up, but Sebastian pushed her back down onto the sofa.
“No, you stay there and get warm. I’ll go and see what I can find.”
Emilie pulled the blanket closer around her body and stared into the leaping flames, feeling warm and comforted. Not since she’d been a little girl and looked after by her favorite nanny could she remember being cared for like this. Tucking her legs underneath her, she laid her head on the aging damask silk of the sofa arm and closed her eyes.
• • •
“Emilie!” She felt a hand shaking her gently. “Time to wake up, sweetheart.” She opened her eyes and saw Sebastian’s brown ones staring down at her.
The Lavender Garden Page 5