Tower Of Shadows. Sara Craven

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Once again Sabine had the curious sensation that time had stopped and run back.

      But she was just being over-imaginative, she chided herself. Some kind soul had just been keeping the garden under reasonable control—that was all.

      She tried the key in the lock. To her surprise, it turned easily, and she stepped inside. She found herself in a large square hall, with a pair of half-glazed doors ahead of her leading directly into the kitchen, and wooden double doors to her left, giving access to the rest of the house.

      She tried these first. The room she entered ran the width of the house, with windows at both ends. She opened them and threw back the shutters, letting light flood in. The floor was tiled in a deep terracotta shade, but there was no furniture apart from a black enamelled stove standing in one corner on a raised hearth.

      There were two doors in the far wall, and she opened each in turn. One was bare, but the other contained a range of old-fashioned fitted wardrobes, and a vast wooden bedstead, the head and footboards elaborately carved.

      Sabine stared round her. The house smelt damp, of course, and there was a thin layer of dust everywhere, but there was none of the squalor and decay she had feared.

      She went into the kitchen. A big scrubbed table stood in the middle of the room, and a vast dresser almost filled one wall. There was an old-fashioned sink under the window, and a new-looking electric cooker, with cupboards on both sides. A stable-type door led to the rear garden.

      A further door led off to the right, with a tiled passage taking her to the bathroom, and another large square room at the end, which was probably the dining-room. From this a spiral staircase led upwards to a similar-sized room with windows on all sides, and Sabine realised she must be in the tower she’d noticed on the way in.

      The tower and the rose, she thought as she descended cautiously. I can’t seem to get away from them.

      She went slowly back to the kitchen. Only two sounds disturbed the silence—a fly buzzing desultorily against the window, and a tap dripping into the sink.

      Well, at least that meant the water was turned on. She tried the light switch by the door, and discovered there was power too. That was odd, she thought, when the house was unoccupied. But it made it habitable, for which she was grateful. She would have hated it if she had to admit defeat, and crawl off to a hotel somewhere. She’d included a sleeping-bag in the luggage she’d brought with her, so she could manage.

      She unloaded the car and carried everything in, dumping it all in the middle of the salon. Then she retrieved her map, plotted the route to Villereal, and made a list of what she wanted to buy.

      Villereal was charming, and busy too, with its narrow streets and central square with a timbered-covered market. But exploration would have to wait. She had more pressing matters in hand. And the supermarket Jacques had mentioned was sited on the outskirts of town, she discovered.

      Cleaning materials were the first priority, and enough china, cutlery and glassware for her own use. It was doubtful, she told herself wryly, whether she would be doing any entertaining.

      After that, she could have fun. She wandered round the aisles, filling up her trolley with cheese, sliced ham and wedges of terrine, lingering over the huge butchery section, where the cuts of meat looked so different from those she was used to.

      Finally she chose a plump boiling fowl, in deference to that great Gascon King of France, Henri Quatre, whose ambition it had been to see that all his subjects were well fed enough to have a chicken in their pot each week, and had made La Poule Au Pot a loved and traditional name for restaurants. Perhaps, she thought, her poule au pot, made as Maman had taught her, would make her feel less of an alien.

      Her choice made, she went back for vegetables to accompany it, recklessly adding a demi-kilo of the huge firm-fleshed tomatoes, as well as nectarines, oranges and a punnet of strawberries to her collection. Her last purchase should have been bread—she picked a flat circular loaf rather than a baguette—but she succumbed to temptation and bought one of the plastic containers of the local vin ordinaire, amazingly cheap and good for its price, and several bottles of water too.

      Driving back to the house through the small back-roads was more difficult than she’d anticipated, and she took a couple of wrong turnings. She could have cried with relief when at last she passed the war memorial with the crucifix and realised the next track led to the farm.

      And the house no longer seemed to be on the defensive, she realised as she parked the car. The late afternoon sun lent a warmer, more welcoming glow to its washed stones, and that exterior wall wasn’t a barrier, but a promise of security. She thought, I’ve come home.

      It took several journeys to unload her provisions from the boot. She put everything away in the kitchen cupboards, then went out to lock the car. It was probably unnecessary, she thought, but old habits died hard.

      Then she saw him.

      In fact, it was impossible to miss him. He was standing in the archway, hands on hips. Sabine halted, her hands balling into fists at her sides.

      ‘What do you want?’ Her voice rang with defiance.

      ‘That’s what I came to ask you.’ He strolled forward, and Sabine fought down a prickle of apprehension.

      ‘That’s close enough,’ she said sharply.

      His brows rose mockingly. ‘Do I make you nervous?’

      ‘You make me angry.’

      ‘And you,’ he said, ‘make me curious. Tell me, Mademoiselle Riquard, what possessed you to come here?’

      ‘My name is Russell,’ she said tightly. ‘And my reasons are my own affair.’

      ‘Russell,’ he repeated slowly. ‘So, Isabelle found another fool to marry her in England. Your French is excellent, but that is where you come from—isn’t it?’

      ‘I’m not ashamed of it,’ she retorted, taut with anger over his reference to her mother. ‘Anyway, we’re all Europeans now—aren’t we?’ she mimicked his own phrasing.

      ‘And that’s why you’ve come—for international reasons?’ His tone was openly derisive. ‘I ask your pardon. I thought there might be some—personal motive.’

      Sabine shrugged. ‘I admit I was—curious too.’

      ‘And has your curiosity been satisfied?’

      ‘Not by any means,’ she returned crisply.

      He said quietly, ‘I am sorry to hear that.’ There was a pause. Then, ‘How much would it cost, mademoiselle, to buy that satisfaction?’

      The heat of the windless afternoon lay on her like a blanket, but suddenly she felt deathly cold. She said huskily, ‘I—don’t understand.’

      ‘It is quite simple. I would like you to leave, preferably today, but by tomorrow at the latest. And I am willing to pay whatever price you ask—within reason.’

      She gave a small uneven laugh. ‘Just like that? You must be completely mad.’

      ‘I am altogether sane, I assure you. And I hope you’ll СКАЧАТЬ