where you had to memorise so many objects on a tray.
She picked up the document, and spread it open. Her heart seemed to be beating very slowly and loudly as she looked down it. She read it carefully twice, but her conclusion was the same both times. It was some kind of title deed to a house in France. A house called Les Hiboux, sited in the département of the Dordogne, which she knew was in the south-west, near a community called Issigeac. Not that it meant a thing to her.
‘My jewellery case and all its contents to my daughter Sabine’.
All its contents.
She felt cold suddenly, and pushed everything back into the envelope. She would look at the rest later. For now, she had enough shocks to assimilate, she thought, as she put the case into her bag, and took a last look round.
She left the envelope on her dining table while she prepared her evening meal. Everywhere she went in the flat, she seemed to catch sight of it out of the corner of her eye. It was not to be ignored.
She’d called at the library on her way home and borrowed some books on the Dordogne. She glanced through them as she ate. The actual region where the house was situated was called the Périgord, and it was divided up into the White, the Green and the Black. Les Hiboux was in the Périgord Noir, which was called that, apparently, because of all the trees, particularly oaks, in the area. It was also a major tourist centre.
Issigeac, she discovered, was south of Bergerac, and on the edge of its wine-growing area.
Part of the Périgord’s fame, she read, rested on its cuisine, which included wild mushrooms, pâté de foie gras, and the ultimate luxury of truffles. Walnuts were another speciality, cultivated for salad oil, and also for a strong local liqueur.
She made a pot of strong coffee, and reached for the envelope. Les Hiboux, she thought, as the owl keyring fell into her hand. Hibou was French for owl. She put it to one side, and opened the folder of photographs.
There weren’t many, and they were all black and white. She studied them, frowning. They were just ordinary, rather amateurish snapshots. There were a couple of two children, a girl barely past the toddler stage in a sunbonnet and ruffled dress, and a much older boy, all arms and legs and ferocious scowl, staring pugnaciously at the camera. Maman had given the impression she was an only child, she thought, but was that the truth? Did she have relatives—a real family down in the south-west of France?
The other shots showed a man, standing alone outside some tall stone building. They were blurred and his features were indistinct, but Sabine got the impression that he wasn’t particularly young. She glanced at the back of each print, hoping for a name or a date or some other clue, but there was nothing. The man and the children remained anonymous.
She looked at the postcard next, her brows lifting in delight. It depicted a castle in a fairy-tale—a sprawl of golden stone topped by a high, sloping roof, and embellished with turrets. Sabine turned the card over. ‘Le Château La Tour Monchauzet’ the printed legend uncompromisingly informed her, with no further elaboration.
The wine label repeated the same words in a floridly ornate script overprinted on a picture, which Sabine recognised instantly. It was a simple drawing of a square tower, standing in splendid isolation like an accusing finger pointing at the sky. And at its base, as if tossed to the ground from one of the tower’s high windows, was a highly stylised rose.
It’s the same design as the medallion, she thought, with a little lurch of excitement. A tower and a rose. There’s definitely something familiar about that—something I recognised before. One of the stories, maybe, that Maman told me when I was small. Oh, why can’t I remember? I need to know.
They were a motley collection—these remnants of her mother’s past, she thought, as she began to put them back in the envelope. The deed to the house and the key she could understand—just. But what was the significance of the rest of it?
Well, there was only one way to find out. She was overdue for some leave, and she could go to France and make some enquiries.
But should she? Isabelle might have left her the case, but she’d hidden these things away, making sure they wouldn’t be discovered at least while her husband was alive. Clearly she hadn’t wanted Hugh to know she owned any property in her native country, but why conceal such an important fact? It made no sense—no sense at all.
Perhaps Isabelle hadn’t wanted them found at all, had intended her secret, whatever it was, to die with her.
But that can’t be true, Sabine thought, or she’d have burned the lot, and put the key down the nearest drain. No, for good or ill, they were intended for me. And now I have to make a decision.
Les Hiboux. Owls. Birds of ill-omen.
She shivered suddenly, and her arm caught the folder of photographs, knocking it on to the floor. The prints spilled on to the carpet and as Sabine bent to retrieve them the young boy’s face seemed to glare directly up at her, challenging and inimical. And she pulled a face back at him.
She said aloud, ‘I don’t know who you are, but I hope you’ve mellowed. Or that we never meet. Because you could make a nasty enemy.’
SABINE brought the car to a halt at the side of the road. She looked across the valley to the thick cluster of trees on the hill opposite, and the tantalising glimpse of pointed grey roofs rising above them in the sunlight. And below the trees, covering the hillside, there were the vines, row upon row of them, like some squat green army.
The Château La Tour Monchauzet, she thought swallowing. Journey’s end.
I don’t have to do this, she told herself. I could just look—take a photograph perhaps, and then travel on. Put the past behind me, and treat this as an ordinary holiday.
She could, but she knew that she wouldn’t. With Mr Braybrooke’s astonished help, she’d managed to ascertain that as Isabelle Riquard’s only child, Sabine was legal heir to Les Hiboux.
A house in France was a luxury she couldn’t afford, but she needed to visit it at least once—to make a reasoned decision about the future of her unexpected inheritance. She’d flown to Bordeaux the previous day, and rented a car at the airport. She’d taken her time, driving down to Bergerac, conscious of the left-hand drive, and unfamiliar road conditions.
‘Driving in France is bliss,’ everyone had told her. ‘Marvellous roads, and half the traffic.’
So far she had to agree. The route from Bordeaux to Bergerac had been straight and fast, and presented her with few problems. And she’d been charmed with Bergerac itself. She’d booked in to a hotel on the Place Gambetta, had a leisurely bath to iron out the kinks of the journey, then followed the receptionist’s directions to the old part of the town, a maze of narrow streets where old timbered buildings leaned amiably towards each other.
Although there were plenty of tourists about, mainly British, German and Dutch, Sabine had judged, she had no sense of being in a crowd. There seemed to be space for everyone.
In one square, she’d found a statue of Cyrano de Bergerac, his famous nose sadly foreshortened, probably by vandals, but otherwise much as Rostand had envisaged him.
There
