‘The cook’s son? Well, why didn’t you say?’ Jane Makepeace exclaimed. ‘I can tell you where they both were … oh, between tea and the children’s supper time, if that’s any use?’

‘Please, I’d very much like to hear.’

‘I’d gone down to take a look at Frederick dashing away at his fresco outside in the gallery. I heard Estelle call out and looked up. She was over by the gateway and she’d clearly just caught one of the children—the smallest one—by the hand. Rounding them up for their evening meal, I thought. In so far as I gave it any thought. It was just the usual routine. So it must have been just before six. You only have scurrilous things to say about Estelle, Cecily, but she does more than her bit with those little ones. Do any of us even know their names? I don’t. So I can’t name the boy she was with. Clogs. Green shirt. She was bending over, talking to him. Sensible girl, I thought. Checking up. If I had to speculate, I’d say the child was going home to the village. They do sometimes. Or perhaps he’d been sent home. Had he been naughty?’

‘Did you see Estelle going out over the drawbridge?’

‘No. But I expect she did. Well, where else would she go? When I looked up again, they’d disappeared. Good girl, I thought—she’s gone down to the village with him. She was wearing that short red dress she had on at breakfast time and I don’t see it hanging up. Oh, come to think of it—there was something strange about her … she was carrying that little brown attaché case of hers. No room in that for more than a change of knickers and a toothbrush so she wasn’t going away for good. So, she’s probably stayed on down there in town. There are places to stay, I think. They say the inn’s pretty good.’

‘Ah! Some village Romeo in the offing, do you suppose?’ ventured someone.

‘Just getting away from the rest of us for a bit,’ suggested Jane. ‘It’s rather like being back at school living here. We all want to break out occasionally. Estelle is the one of us who has the courage to do it. I should take yourself off watch, Dorcas dear, and go to bed. Look—if she turns up again at dinner, I’ll tell her to pop her head round the door and say goodnight, shall I?’

Murmuring her thanks, Dorcas excused herself and came out. She closed the door gently and Joe supported her slight form, quivering with rage, back into the safety of the children’s dormitory.

Joe snapped awake in the dark hours, alert and listening. He went to his window and set about opening the shutters, surprised by the sudden force of the wind that almost snatched the iron locking bar from his hand. He stuck his head out and listened for a moment to the Mistral booming down the valley. With this northerly wind scouring the buildings, ancient woodwork would be creaking, unearthly howls would sound down narrow chimneys. He found the words of a prayer he’d not spoken since childhood were on his lips:

In deepest dark no fear I show

For Thou, O Lord, art here below.

I feel as safe as in the light,

Thy hand in mine throughout the night.

He crept silently into the corridor and went to stand by the door of the children’s room, listening. Reassured by the silence, he went back to his bed, imagining Orlando’s scathing comments if he’d been caught out in this show of sentimental vigilance.

Chapter Fifteen

Wednesday morning dawned bright and clear. The wind had abated as suddenly as it had arisen, leaving a cool, combed and invigorated countryside behind it.

An equally cool, combed and invigorated Commissaire Jacquemin called for his coffee pot to be refilled and detained with a gesture the landlord of the Hôtel de la Poste who was personally waiting on his distinguished guest. ‘Ferro—tell the Lieutenant over there …’ He nodded at the young man breakfasting by himself at the far end of the room, ‘… to join me at my table, would you? And bring another cup.’

The officer and the additional crockery arrived at Jacquemin’s table at the same time. ‘Ah! Coffee, Martineau? Sleep well? Good, good. Of course, being a native, you must be used to this confounded wind. Now tell me—the motor car—did you manage to get to the bottom of the problem with the … transmission, I think you said? We weren’t handed the cream of the collection for our little jaunt, I think? I want to arrive at the château snorting impressively not jangling like a bag of nails.’

‘Yes. All in order, sir,’ said the young man crisply. His broad brow, intense eyes and tight mouth gave the impression that here was a man incapable of saying or thinking anything but ‘yes’. ‘Snorting like a bull! There’s a mechanic right here in the village who seems to know his business. He sorted it out in no time. All’s ready for our assault on the Devil’s Château.’ He grinned dismissively.

‘Ah, yes! This name … I don’t like to walk unprepared into strange scenes even of the comic opera type I suspect we’re about to experience. A little local guidance is called for, I think.’ He summoned the landlord again and invited him to seat himself. ‘Monsieur Ferro, you know where we’re headed this morning. Tell me—how did the Château de Silmont of venerable name ever acquire the sobriquet of du Diable?’

Monsieur Ferro was delighted to be of assistance. ‘Because devilish things have happened there over the centuries. Oh, the usual murder and rapine, but this castle has always been associated with a particular kind of—I think you have to say, inhuman—evil. The kind that can only come from the Devil.’

‘Monsieur Ferro will be able to point out to you the hill-top lair of the Marquis de Sade of evil repute, not many miles from here, sir,’ the Lieutenant added helpfully. ‘There are many such châteaux dotted about in the villages and each has a reputation worse than the last.’

‘Ah, yes, but the Marquis de Sade was of flesh and blood. It’s at Silmont that the supernatural makes its appearance most strongly through history,’ insisted the landlord, realizing he was talking to a man of Provence. ‘It started with the Devil’s Bride. You must know that story?’

Jacquemin, mildly entertained, exchanged looks with Martineau and poured out more coffee. ‘Do tell. The story hasn’t reached Paris yet.’

It was only slightly encouraging but it was all the invitation Ferro needed.

‘This happened long ago, in the days of the Counts of Provence, when Paris was a backwater and France just a neighbouring kingdom,’ he said with pride. ‘The young heir to Silmont was to be wed. To the lovely daughter of a rich marquis from a nearby estate. The château was en fête for the wedding celebrations. It must have looked like the setting for a fairy tale—guests had come from miles around, days of feasting were planned, there were acrobats and musicians by the score. The young bride—who came with a large dowry—was very taken with her new husband. She must have considered her father’s outlay—some ten thousand crowns, it was said—well spent! The groom was somewhat older than she, in the custom of the times, but handsome and powerful and would inherit one day a splendid castle and lands. Ah! How were they to know …’ He left a dramatic pause, rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘… know that the lord had a rival—a rival more powerful than himself? The girl already had a secret admirer. The Devil! None other!’ Monsieur Ferro made the sign of the cross at the whispered name. ‘Though she was unaware of his plans for her. After the ceremony, the bride, still dressed in her white wedding dress, insisted on playing a game with her friends and all the other little guests who’d been invited to keep her company. It was a game she loved to play. And she was, after all, still a very young thing. A game of hide and seek.