Day of the Arrow Page 3

  The road now wound its way down into the valley, passing among the vineyards, where the usual bent figures, so brown and so bent that they might have been carved out of the vines which they were tending, raised their heads to stare at his passing. The air was heavy, heady with what he could only suppose was the scent of ripe grapes. And yet, in July . . . ? He was puzzled, and very slightly sickened: it was not a pleasant smell. In a few minutes, however, the vineyards were replaced by meadows, running along the side of the lake; lazy cows stood up to their stomachs in long grass, chewing and chewing, and flicking the flies off each other with their tails. It was all pastoral, all peace.

  He came at length to the village of Bellac—quite a large village, he was surprised to see—cowering at the foot of the mound on which stood the castle. There was a small square on the main street: plane trees, and an ancient church, even a café with some rickety-looking tables outside it. Nothing outstanding, nor even especially beautiful, but there was certainly not the atmosphere of murky gloom for which his conversation with Françoise had prepared him. And yet . . . Yet what?

  He drew the Renault to a standstill in the square and sat frowning, listening. Listening to what? Exactly! A silence such as he could not remember before. Nonsense; it was the inevitable silence that succeeded the noise of the car, mile after mile of car noise. In a few seconds his ears would grow accustomed to it, and the small sounds of everyday life would slowly return; there would be the clucking of hens somewhere, and a mooing from the fat cows along the lakeside, for it could not be far off milking time; there would be . . .

  But he listened—and there was nothing.

  Perhaps, he thought, this is some strange atmospheric condition peculiar to the place: the silence of Bellac. It sounded good. He got out of the car and walked across the square. His footsteps resounded, clanged back at him from the stone walls of the houses. A lace curtain stirred; someone was looking at him. The sun was hot suddenly; it lay in thick glowing slabs across the cobbles of the square; he felt that if he walked on the sunlight it would give softly underfoot.

  Well, he thought, all agricultural towns are quiet by day when the men, and probably half the women and children too, are out in the fields working.

  But even as he got back into the car he knew that this was an excuse made to cover up uneasiness. It was almost with a sense of relief that he drove out of the village towards the chateau. The view of it that he had seen first, from the other end of the lake, had shown him a late seventeenth- or early eighteenth-century façade—a façade not unprepared for trouble, but on the other hand not stern enough to make a bad background for pleasure. The side that he now approached had been built for war and only for war. Two massive towers flanked a drawbridge, and, beyond, great bastions of masonry soared up to a frowning brow of battlements. Only then was a little frivolity allowed to break out in the form of ornamented pepper pots glued to the battlements, and a cluster of slender towers capped with pointed hats of slate, each vying with the other in the absurdity of the weathervanes surmounting them.

  Lindsay thought that the total effect would have been grim indeed were it not for the saving grace of the stone which had built it; the stone seemed, even in shadow, to contain a golden light of its own.

  The little car rattled impudently over the drawbridge, under a cavernous gateway, beneath the jaws of a portcullis, and into the Cour d’Honneur.

  This courtyard was wholly delightful because here the austerity was broken by trees—a square of pollarded plane trees forming a cool green walk all round the perimeter. White doves cooed and fluttered among the leaves or swooped against the golden walls. To one side of the great bulk of the chateau was a huge archway through which could be seen a formal garden, a green lawn sweeping down towards the lake.

  Lindsay, getting out of the car, wondered for a moment what might have become of the white Mercedes, which he had expected to find parked in front of the castle. He was also just beginning to experience that sensation in the pit of the stomach which always preluded arrivals at new places. What happened next put an abrupt end to all that. There was a sad, protesting squawk from above his head and he was aware of something falling on him. Instinctively he stepped back. A fluttering bundle of white feathers dropped at his feet—a white dove threshing around in its death agonies. A moment later, and it lay still.

  Lindsay stared at the dead bird with more than ordinary interest, for he was remembering something that Françoise had said.

  A sudden laugh made him glance up. A young man stood in the great archway that gave into the formal garden. In his hand he held a full-sized bow; a quiver of arrows was slung over one shoulder. As far as Lindsay could see against the glow of the sunlit garden beyond, he had black hair, the hair of a Florentine page of the Renaissance, close-cut and curling; he seemed to be smiling. He turned and was gone.

  Lindsay looked down at the dead dove, eyes now glazing over—the dead dove with the arrow piercing its white body.

  3

  The Secret Tower

  Françoise led him towards a mulberry tree which cast a pool of green shade at the edge of the lawn. The afternoon had become very hot—the solid heat which occurs in sheltered valleys and which usually precedes thunder. The lawn seemed to Lindsay to have grown larger since they started on their way across it; he was suddenly almost too weary to go a step further; but this, of course, was as much to do with his hatred of meeting new people as with the heat.

  The two women who sat in the shade of the mulberry tree, an immaculately white tea table laid before them, watched their approach without speaking. Lindsay could feel their eyes pressed up against his face like the suckers of some clammy sea creature.

  Françoise saluted them with a casual wave as they drew nearer; both, as if the same thread controlled their two hands, made marionette’s gestures by way of reply. They never took their eyes off Lindsay’s face, however. By the time he reached the table he was sweating.

  Françoise said, ‘Betty, this is James Lindsay. James—the Comtesse de Vignon. Tante Estelle, this is James—you’ve heard Philippe speak of him.’

  Aunt Estelle said, ‘Indeed yes.’ But her eyes were blank, and Lindsay suspected Françoise of indoctrination.

  The Comtesse de Vignon said, ‘The painter fellow.’ She said it in the petrified accents of the English shires.

  ‘Betty,’ Françoise explained, very unnecessarily, ‘is English too.’

  Irritated by her, Lindsay said, ‘I’m Scottish.’

  The Comtesse Betty examined him minutely from the top of his fair head, via the average presentability of his face, the evidently satisfactory width of his shoulders, general height, stance, to the muscular calf showing against the stuff of his trousers; it was the look she would have given a horse. At the end of it she said, ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

  Lindsay sat down—as far away from her as possible.

  Tante Estelle embarked upon what appeared to be a pre-prepared dissertation on Manet, who was clearly her favorite painter. Her voice, like her appearance, was pale gray, a kind of thistledown silver gray that seemed to be in danger of floating away on the next breath of wind. Her age might have been anything between forty and seventy; her fairish, silverish hair was rather attractively dressed on top of her head, with soft wings framing her pale face—an exquisite, attenuated, wistful face; vague, silvery eyes, a long, thin nose, a girl’s mouth, a little wishbone of a chin. Lindsay could hardly keep his painter’s eyes off her; she was wearing a kind of gray mauve; she reminded him of a fabulous moth, and her conversation was schizophrenic. Whatever she may have been thinking about, it was certainly not Manet. Occasionally, which made Lindsay like her all the more, she darted tiny envenomed looks at Betty, Comtesse de Vignon.

  Lindsay decided that Tante Estelle might have determined to look and behave like an aristocratic spinster aunt of no importance, but that in fact she was something quite different. (He had not yet had time to understand that everyone at Bellac was somethin
g different from what he seemed.)

  Countess Betty, in the meantime, was saying to Françoise, ‘Anyway, I am not going to Venice, and I told them so. I said if they had to go to Dubrovnik I’d join them there in September. I said, “It’ll be swarming with Poly Tours and all the rest of it, and personally I don’t think you’ll stay there a week.” Of course, when they’re at home they live in Chelsea, so they’re used to that sort of thing; I find her common. Do you?’

  Françoise said, ‘I find her dull.’

  Lindsay became aware of something: they were, all four of them, people in a waiting room—people in a foyer—people passing the time in anticipation of something which is about to happen. The knowledge, curiously, gave him a slight prickling feeling down the spine, and he glanced over his shoulder.

  Tante Estelle was saying, ‘. . . But then take Boudin; movement can be contained in the tiniest space. Look at my ring.’ She suddenly thrust under his nose a magnificent ruby solitaire. The sun caught it; captured suns, blood-red at nightfall, dazzled him, whirling in space. She snatched the ring away and said, in the same tone of voice, ‘They will come.’

  Lindsay stared at her, amazed, but she was shooting another mildly murderous look at the Comtesse.

  That lady, stretching out long, riding legs, encased in tight white trousers, said, ‘Darling, I’m dying for tea. Are we waiting for someone?’

  At this, most disconcertingly, Tante Estelle caught Lindsay’s eye and gave him a faint smile of complicity. Although she fascinated him, he began to wish he was sitting somewhere else. He became aware of Françoise gazing absently at him; she was saying, ‘I don’t think we shall be seeing Philippe until dinner.’

  She was answered by a voice out of the yew hedge behind her. ‘Not even at dinner; he asked me to tell you.’

  Tante Estelle snorted.

  A moment later the young man with the bow and arrow came into view round the corner of the hedge. He was indeed, as Lindsay had thought, very dark, Italianate; but now, no longer framed in shadow by the archway—no longer gaining stature from the unexpected and distinctly sinister incident of the shot dove—he seemed merely a handsome boy in a red shirt and crumpled fawn trousers, a little sulky perhaps.

  The Comtesse Betty gave him her analytical look and said, ‘Christian, you look a mess.’

  The boy gave her a look of equal directness and replied, ‘Maman, I am a mess.’ But he bent, rather surprisingly, and kissed Françoise on the cheek. ‘You smell marvelous,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  Lindsay was not by any means an ingenuous person, but the information that this young man was the son of the Countess Betty really did take his breath away; he looked with a little more interest at the slim, almost stringy woman in the white trousers with her blank oval of a face on which the features seemed to have been stuck after casual selection from a box labeled Average: one nose, feminine; two eyes, ordinary brown with eyebrows attached; one mouth, non-committal.

  Her son threw his bow onto the grass, slipped the quiver off his shoulder and came to the chair next to Lindsay; he sat down, turned, and gave a prolonged and interested stare. There was nothing Lindsay could do but return it. He found himself looking into two eyes which were unmistakably but quite subtly of different colors; the left one was a greenish blue, the right one, basically the same color, was flecked with amber; the effect was attractive but disconcerting, and it was clear that Master Christian liked it that way—for having made his mark, he gave a very small smile and looked away.

  Tante Estelle said, ‘Now, Lindsay, as a painter, do you find that Christian has an interesting face?’

  And while Lindsay was seeking the right words, she added, ‘Christian finds that Christian has an interesting face, but don’t be influenced by that.’

  Françoise said, ‘Betty, your wish is granted. Tea.’

  However, neither her intervention nor the rather absurd procession of menials approaching across the lawn was going to stop Tante Estelle and young Christian from finishing their verbal scuffle.

  ‘Mlle. de Montfaucon,’ said the boy, ‘does not like young people.’

  He had leaned right across Lindsay to say this, and Lindsay, using his painter’s eye, took in the line of the young neck, the cruel smile of youth, the delicacy of the ear and the brightness of the almost black hair. This perfection, for he was certainly an unusually handsome creature, and this concentration of venom upon a woman so much older than himself, were more than disconcerting—they were almost tragic.

  Tante Estelle replied, ‘Oh, but you are wrong. I am very fond of young people.’

  The Comtesse Betty gave a neigh of laughter. ‘Estelle, you are absurd—Christian’s only eighteen.’ Her son flashed her a look of unadulterated scorn. Tea arrived.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Lindsay, striding restlessly round his bedroom, ‘who are they? What are they doing here?’

  Françoise was sitting in an ancient and beautifully carved chair by the window. ‘They’ve upset you.’ She said it with satisfaction.

  Lindsay turned, leaning against the foot of the fourposter. ‘Françoise, you’re behaving like a clam; don’t imagine for a moment I don’t know why.’

  All he got for this was a nod.

  ‘You want me to get the atmosphere of the place, don’t you? Well, please believe me, I have.’

  ‘Betty,’ said Françoise quietly, ‘is one of the . . . the friends we made during our traveling years. At first she seems to be an idiot, but she is not; she has that strange English quality of loyalty. She married Pierre when she was very young; she hardly ever sees him—he spends most of his time in the African jungle, as you probably know . . .’

  ‘Oh, that de Vignon—the one who lives among the lepers.’

  ‘Yes. It’s . . . not easy to bring up a boy without a father.’

  Lindsay said, ‘That boy, anyway. But what are they doing here?’

  ‘Philippe asked them. She wants to buy one of his horses.’

  ‘And where is Philippe?’

  Maddeningly, she shrugged. ‘How should I know?’ Then, seeing the look of irritation on Lindsay’s face: ‘Tante Estelle is his father’s sister—you probably guessed that; they were devoted to each other. When he was drowned she came to live here permanently; she has a suite of her own, her own maid. She’s no trouble, but she’s got a few odd little ways like all old people.’

  ‘So I noticed.’

  A faint, almost wistful smile greeted this. ‘No, she doesn’t like Christian.’

  ‘I wonder why.’

  ‘Try asking her; it might be interesting.’

  Impatiently, Lindsay went over to the window and took her by the shoulders. ‘Françoise. My dear. I agree with you that there’s an . . . atmosphere here; the place is strange, unsettling; you seem to have surrounded yourself with weird people. I can imagine that if I lived here for a long time I’d . . . I’d imagine things myself.’

  ‘Imagine! Ah.’ Her eyes were suddenly alight, burning; he realized that he had been led by her silence to say the thing she had been waiting for him to say. She stood up abruptly, wrenching his hands from her shoulders; and now it was she who began to prowl restlessly about the room. ‘I suppose I imagine the fact that my husband . . .’ She turned on him, her voice rising. ‘James, I loved Philippe; I loved him in every way; I needed him; my heart needed him and my body needed him. You can’t understand what it was like—in the beginning I thought I would go mad. When you love someone that person becomes part of you . . .’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘And when that person withdraws himself—oh, but absolutely, James. Do you understand what I mean by that? You can touch the person, speak to him, kiss him if you feel like it, but the person, the interior of the person, has gone.’ She threw back her head and gave a terrifying gasp of laughter. ‘Am I the kind of woman who wants to take lovers?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how dare you . . . how dare you suggest that I imagine . . .’ She broke off,
her voice faltering; she put her beautiful hands over her face and turned away from him.

  Desperately Lindsay wanted to go to her, to take her in his arms; he did not dare—it was as simple as that. He did not dare.

  But he was right; his instincts usually were. After a moment she turned back to him and held out a hand. ‘Handkerchief, please.’

  He gave her one. She blew her nose. ‘I’m sorry. Thank you for not . . . not touching me. How well we understand each other! We always did.’

  Lindsay turned to the window and looked out at the shadows lengthening across the lawn below. He said, ‘All the time you spoke of Philippe you used the past tense.’

  Behind him there was silence. After a time he turned and looked at her. She had regained her self-possession, and the eyes that met his were non-committal.

  ‘Did I?’ she said. ‘I must go and change for dinner.’

  ‘No. Wait—please.’ He went over to where she stood by the door and looked at her closely. ‘What do you, in your deepest heart, think has happened . . . is happening to Philippe?’

  She shook her head numbly, and the gesture was more explicit than words. It told him of every conceivable explanation, and many that were not conceivable, examined and discarded, and re-examined and again discarded during the endless hours of sleepless nights.

  ‘Françoise, you must tell me what you have thought; I don’t know how I can help you, anyway, but without a clue . . .’

  She nodded, but still said nothing.

  ‘Perhaps he is ill; perhaps he has been told . . . Forgive me, but, say . . . cancer.’

  ‘The doctor examined him. He was out riding—riding round and round his damned estates; sometimes he’s away two nights; you’ve no idea how much he owns, it’s a small kingdom.’ She moved away from the door, went to the bed and rested her forehead against one of the carved posts. ‘Anyway, he fell. He wasn’t badly hurt, but of course he had to see the doctor, and I made it an excuse . . . Dr. Chauvet is an old friend; he frightened Philippe into having X-rays, blood tests. No, there’s nothing wrong with him in that way.’ She looked round the room as if seeing it for the first time. ‘Perhaps I was wrong to ask you here, my dear James.’ Suddenly she looked directly at him with a surprising, disconcerting tenderness. ‘Perhaps I was wrong—you’re an innocent.’ She shook her head. ‘Ah yes, and I’m forgetting: that’s why I asked you here. Don’t make me tell you what goes on in my poor aching head; look for yourself, decide for yourself, and then . . . Then, if you tell me again that I’m imagining things—that it is I who am crazy . . .’ She smiled very sweetly at him. ‘. . . I won’t be angry.’