shall probably have to,’ she conceded dryly. ‘Or go home.’
Susan’s lips trembled. ‘You wouldn’t—we couldn’t do that, could we?’
Harriet gave a resigned grimace. ‘Probably not,’ she agreed. ‘Come on, I’m thirsty. I think there’s a can of lime juice in the car.’
Harriet felt tired and depressed now. She had been driving since early that morning, urged on by the eagerness to reach their destination. But it had all gone flat, and even her resentment towards Monsieur Frond was giving way to anger towards herself. When would she learn that people were not always what they seemed?
Sharing the can of lime juice with Susan, and assuming an interest she was far from feeling, she consulted the map, spreading it out over the steering wheel of the car, pinpointing their position with wry accuracy.
‘Well, we’re about thirty kilometres from Beynac, which I suppose is the nearest town, but the village is nearer, of course—Rochelac. Do you think we should try there?’
‘Of course.’ Obviously Susan preferred to stay within a reasonable distance, and the village was only a matter of some three or four kilometres.
‘There may not be a pension there,’ Harriet observed thoughtfully, but Susan felt sure there would be. ‘What if there’s not?’ asked Harriet reasonably, and her niece shrugged.
‘We can always sleep in the car,’ she pointed out, and unwillingly Harriet let her have her way.
To reach the village necessitated reversing back up the lane, it was too narrow to turn, and regaining the road that ran between two villages, Bel-sur-Baux and Rochelac. There was something vaguely familiar about Rochelac, which was what had attracted Harriet to it in the first place, but she didn’t exactly know what it was.
From the road, it was possible to look down on the trees that surrounded the house. They were even able to see the grey tiles of the roof, and beyond, the shallow ravine where the stream tumbled. Distance lent enchantment, but Harriet was too tired and dishevelled to appreciate its finer points right then. Susan was less inhibited and looked back longingly, but her aunt pressed her foot down hard on the accelerator, and the small Fiat surged obediently forward.
Rochelac seemed to cling to the hillside above the river of which their stream was a tributary. Harriet guessed it might be possible to walk to the village as quickly as to drive the few kilometres round by the road, and then stifled the weakening thought. They would probably never find out, she told herself firmly, and there was no point in pretending otherwise.
The village was as picturesque as she could have wished: narrow streets, balconies overflowing with flowering creepers, a tiny square, and the inevitable spire of the church. Harriet parked the car outside a patisserie, where the smell of new bread was mouth-watering, and then locking the car she and Susan took a walk down the steep cobbled slope which led to the river.
The houses that flanked the stone jetty were tall and thin, jostling together as if to conserve space. Steep, pointed roofs thrust up against the rocky buttresses above, with jutting attic windows projecting at right angles. Here and there, colourful canvas blinds shielded the upper windows from the effects of sun on shining water, while the river flowed by, smooth and mysterious.
Susan stood at the very edge of the path and looked down into its depths, and Harriet came to join her, her eyes drawn by the enviable sight of a pleasure launch floating downstream, its passengers trailing wrists in the cooling water.
Then she heaved a deep sigh and said: ‘Come along. We have to find somewhere to stay.’
‘Oh, look!’
Susan had turned and was pointing beyond the village to where the turrets of a castle or a chateau, Harriet was never quite sure of the distinction, could be seen above the trees at the top of the escarpment. They had seen many such examples of architecture on their way to Rochelac, and had even taken the time to stop in Beynac and look at the castle which had once been the base of the sinister Mercadier. During the reign of Richard the Lionheart, he had pillaged the countryside around Beynac on behalf of the English king, until Simon de Montfort himself seized control in 1214. This area of France was rife with such stories, and its turbulent history was no small part of its attraction.
‘Do you suppose anyone lives there?’ asked Susan curiously, but Harriet could only shake her head.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ she replied. ‘Let’s walk up into the square again. There are no hotels or pensions down here.’
But the village appeared not to cater for passing tourists, and the proprietor of the only café explained that they did not get a lot of visitors. Fortunately Harriet was reasonably fluent in his language, her work having brought her to France on more than one occasion, as he explained that he only spoke a little English.
‘So what now?’ Harriet asked of Susan, trying not to show impatience with the girl. ‘I don’t honestly find the prospect of driving back to Beynac appealing.’
Susan grimaced, and addressed herself in school-girl French to the proprietor: ‘Connaissez-vous quelqu’un qui pourrait nous héberger cette nuit?’
The proprietor frowned, and then launched into a long speech of which Susan understood little except the word chateau. She turned confused eyes in Harriet’s direction, and taking pity on her, Harriet explained: ‘Monsieur—er—Monsieur—?’
‘Macon,’ supplied the proprietor importantly, and smiling her thanks, Harriet continued: ‘Monsieur Macon was saying that apart from the chateau, there are no houses large enough to accommodate visitors around here.’
‘Is the chateau an hotel, then?’ cried Susan excitedly, obviously finding the prospect of spending the night in some mediaeval castle to her liking, but Harriet quickly disillusioned her.
‘Apparently no one lives in the chateau these days,’ she said. ‘The owner couldn’t afford its upkeep, and it’s fallen into disrepair like some other property I could mention. Wait a minute!’
This last was spoken with such vehemence that both Susan and Monsieur Macon started violently, and stared in bewilderment at Harriet, who had sprung to her feet.
‘Monsieur Macon,’ she exclaimed earnestly, ‘is the chateau part of an estate? Would whoever owned the estate own the farms hereabouts?’
The proprietor looked taken aback now, and not altogether happy at her question. It was as though she had overstepped the mark of what was proper to ask, and he levered his overindulged body up from his chair.
‘It is possible, mademoiselle,’ he agreed stiffly. ‘Now if you will excuse me?’
Harriet clenched her fists. ‘Just—just one more thing, monsieur,’ she appealed. ‘Who owns the chateau?’
The proprietor smoothed his apron. ‘Why do you wish to know?’ he asked evasively.
Harriet glanced down at Susan. ‘I—we—as a matter of fact, I’ve bought a property only a few kilometres from here.’ She hesitated. ‘I was curious to know who used to own it, that’s all. You see,’ she hastened on, ‘I bought it through an agent, in Paris.’
The proprietor looked suspicious now. ‘But you said you needed somewhere to stay,’ he reminded
