There were no more than half a dozen other guests in the taproom and most took no notice of him, engaged either in desultory conversation or in the important ritual of sampling the hostelry's stock of wine. Christopher found himself a table in a corner from which he could watch the door. The landlord's wife brought him bread and cheese. A full-bodied red wine helped to wash it down and revive him after his travels. Nobody came or left. After an hour, Christopher paid his bill in advance and followed the landlord up a rickety staircase and along a narrow passageway to his room. His host opened the door and set down the lighted candle on the table beside the bed.
'You will be comfortable enough here, monsieur.'
'Thank you,' said Christopher, giving the room a cursory glance. 'This will be most adequate, landlord. Good night.'
'If you need anything else, just call.'
'I will.'
When the man went out, Christopher closed the door behind him and saw that there was no bolt on it. He crossed to the window to gaze down into the courtyard. It was deserted. Only the occasional whinny from the stables disturbed the silence. There was no sign at all of the mysterious rider who had shadowed him. Closing the shutters, he took a closer look at his room. Small, musty and simply furnished, it had a low ceiling and undulating oak floorboards but it was reasonably clean and its bed looked inviting. Christopher was annoyed that he would not get to sleep in it because a sixth sense rearranged his accommodation.
After making up the bed to look as if it were occupied, he took the solitary chair into the corner behind the door and settled down on it. None of his apparel was removed. His sword rested within reach against the wall and the pistol was on the floor at his feet. The dagger remained in its sheath at his belt. He closed his eyes for a few moments then opened them again as if disturbed and crossed to the bed in four short strides. Confident that he could do so again in the dark, he blew out the candle and returned to his position in the corner. The chair was hard but he endured the discomfort willingly.
With so much to ponder, he found it difficult to keep his mind alert for sounds of danger and fatigue began to steal over him. Eventually he dropped off to sleep.
The creaking of the floorboards in the passageway brought him out of his slumber. His hand went swiftly to his belt, to the wall and to the floor. Dagger, sword and pistol were all there. A faint glimmer of light came under his door, then it inched slowly open. Candlelight illumined the bed for a second before the flame was snuffed out. Christopher heard the sound of the candle-holder being set down on the floor; a murky figure entered the room and surged towards the bed.
The man's dagger flashed but its point found nothing more than a couple of blankets which had been rolled up. There was an angry grunt from the intruder then a gasp of surprise as Christopher jumped on him from behind and knocked him forward on to the bed. He tried to jab behind his back with the dagger but Christopher already had a firm grasp on his wrist and he twisted it until the man let his weapon go with a cry of pain. Before he could struggle, the intruder felt the point of Christopher's own dagger pricking the nape of his neck and he froze.
'Who are you?' demanded Christopher.
'Let me go,' begged the man. 'Do not kill me, monsieur.'
'Tell me who sent you.'
'Nobody sent me. I saw you on the road.'
'What were you after?'
'Your purse, monsieur. That is all.'
'Don't lie!'
Christopher stood up and dragged the man after him by the hair, spinning him around and buffeting him across the face with his arm. The man rocked back but quickly recovered, aiming a kick at Christopher's legs and scything him to the floor before flinging himself on top of him. A firm hand closed on the wrist which held the dagger and the weapon was twisted inexorably around until its point threatened Christopher's eye. Though he could barely see it in the gloom, he felt its proximity and the sweat of fear began to flow. The man exerted additional power then suddenly put all his strength into a downward thrust. Christopher's head rolled out of the way just in time as the dagger sank into the floorboards.
Releasing the weapon, he grappled with the man and rolled him over on his back, getting in a relay of punches which took some of the energy out of his assailant. When Christopher felt a thumb trying to gouge his eye, his temper flared and he smashed a fist into the man's nose, splitting it open and sending blood all over his face. Rage served to revive the intruder and he found enough strength to hurl Christopher off before groping around in the dark for the dagger. Christopher was too quick for him. As he fell against the chair in the corner, he knew exactly where his rapier was standing and his hand closed gratefully on it. He hauled himself quickly to his feet.
The intruder saw only the outline of his body in the darkness. When he found the dagger on the floor, he leaped up and ran straight at Christopher, intending to stab him viciously in the chest. Instead, he let out a long agonised wheeze as he found himself impaled on a sharp and merciless sword. He dropped the dagger, flailed uselessly at Christopher with both hands then slumped to the floor on his side. As the sword was withdrawn, he remained motionless. Christopher waited for a couple of minutes to see if the noise of the brawl would bring anyone running but he was relieved that nobody came. He did not relish having to explain the situation in which he had unwittingly been caught.
Stepping over the fallen body, he groped his way to his candle and lit the wick. He then held the flame over his visitor and saw that the man was comprehensively dead, islanded by a sea of blood. Turning him over on his back, he let the candle illumine the man's face. The shock of recognition made him reel for a second. He had met the man before.
The dark moustache was unforgettable. It was the servant Marcel, who had admitted him to the house of Arnaud Bastiat.
Chapter Fourteen
Lady Frances Northcott snipped the stem of a rose then placed the flower carefully alongside the others in her basket. It was late morning and bright sunshine was buttering the whole garden. Birds sang from their perches and insects buzzed happily over petals and ponds. Lady Northcott looked across at the wisp of smoke that was curling up into the sky from behind a hawthorn hedge. Putting her basket on a stone bench, she went around the hedge and walked across to the fire that was burning quietly in the shadow of a wall. She bent down to toss some more fuel on to its dying flames then used a hoe to rake the embers. When the fire came once more to life, she returned to the rose bush again.
'Do you never tire of this garden, Mother?' said a voice.
'No, Penelope. This is my idea of heaven.'
'What does that make me?'
'One of the angels.'
Penelope gave a tiny smile. The garden which her mother found so idyllic somehow only made her feel restless and dissatisfied. It was the older woman's universe, filled with everything she could want and changing with the seasons to provide movement and variety. Yet it seemed curiously empty to Penelope. As a girl, she loved to play on its lawns, to climb its trees, to explore its countless hiding places, to plunder its orchard, to watch the fish in its ponds and the wildfowl on its lake. Looking around now, she realised that it was not the garden which was deficient. Under her mother's guidance, it had been greatly enriched and enlarged. The emptiness lay inside Penelope herself.
'Sit down a moment,' said her mother, indicating the bench. 'We need to have a little talk.'
'I am not in a talkative mood, Mother.'
'You have been fending me off for days. Now, come here.'
'Well, just for a moment.'
Penelope sat beside her mother, who took her by the hand.
'What is the matter?' she asked.
'Nothing, Mother.'
'I am not blind, Penelope. Since you got back from London, you have been deeply troubled about something.
