early for his meeting with Fred. He walked up a rough, cobbled track to the gate and saw that the padlock which would normally secure it was open, its chain dangling from one of the spikes. The right-hand gate itself stood slightly ajar.
Enzo was surprised. A plaque on the gate announced daily visits between 2:30pm and 5:30pm from May till September. The chateau was closed to the public from October till April. He strained to see through the gloom toward the dark shadow of the castle and wondered if, perhaps, anyone still lived there. Many historic monuments were privately owned and only open to the public to raise funds for restoration.
The wind whistled through autumn trees around the building, detaching the last stubborn leaves and rattling branches. Enzo pulled his jacket more tightly around him and stamped his feet. It was damned cold. On an impulse, rather than stand around waiting, he pushed the gate open and started up the curve of the path toward the main entrance, drawn by curiosity and impatience.
Lichen-covered stone walls bounded what had once been a moat, lined now with grass and shrubs and saplings of mountain ash. Enzo crossed the stone bridge that spanned it to the tall wooden doors that arched beneath the tower. A heavy, black-painted iron ring hung from the right-hand door. Enzo lifted it with both hands and tried to move it. To his amazement, it turned clockwise, lifting some ancient, heavy latch on the other side, and releasing the door to swing inwards. He heard the sound of it echoing away into darkness. There had to be someone here.
“Hello?” Only the echo of his own voice replied before it was smothered by the night.
He moved forward cautiously over centuries-old flagstone, feeling the cold rising from them through his feet. Somewhere ahead was the faintest glimmer of light. Enough, at least, to allow him to distinguish his way forward through the shadows. He was in a vast entrance hall, with stone steps spiralling away to his right. Ahead, another tall, arched door stood ajar, and he could see an orange-yellow light flickering beyond it.
“Hello,” he called out again. Still no response. He pushed the door wide enough to reveal a long banqueting room awash with the light of dancing flames in an enormous open fireplace, its chimney rising up to the rafters, clad in decorated oak panelling.
A long table was set with, perhaps, twenty places, as if for a mediaeval banquet. Damp air was warmed by the flames and felt clammy on his skin. There was nobody here. But the scrape of a shoe on stone flags somewhere out in the entrance hall stilled his heart. He was going to feel more than a little foolish, and certainly embarrassed, if he had walked into someone’s private home.
He moved back out into the hall and felt the soft, damp darkness slip over him like a glove. A movement caught the peripheral vision of his right eye and made him turn in time to see a fist coming at him out of the dark. White knuckles, the glint of a ring. Instinctively he pulled back, ducking away, and was struck only a glancing blow. Still, it hurt like hell, filling his head with light, and dropping him to one knee. He heard, and felt, more than saw, his attacker coming at him again. And he pushed off, with his standing leg, dipping his head low and leading with his shoulder, a technique he had learned on the rugby fields of Hutchie Grammar. He made contact with soft flesh and hard bone. Rank garlic breath exploded in his face. A loud grunt filled his ears. With his weight for leverage, Enzo pushed the attacker back against the wall, and heard the crack of a skull against stone, almost like a bullet shot.
This time the man cried out in pain. Enzo had a handful of jacket in his right hand, and lashed out with his left fist. He felt it strike the hard, unyielding, protective shield of the man’s rib cage. Bone against bone, and pain went spiking up his arm. The man tore himself free of Enzo’s grasp and Enzo heard the rasp of his leather soles on the stone as he staggered away toward the main door. Enzo went after him, damned if he was going to let him get away. Out on to the old drawbridge, awash now with sudden moonlight. He saw his attacker just ahead of him. Tall, dark-haired, wearing a short fleece jacket and jeans. Now the moon was gone, the man reduced to the merest shadow. But Enzo could see the fugitive had hurt himself and was not moving freely. He almost hurled himself across the bridge, gasping to draw breath into protesting lungs, and lunged at the man’s back. A classic rugby tackle. They both went down, Enzo on top, and the air was expelled from the man beneath him like air from a bellows.
Enzo scrambled to his knees and straddled the man, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him over, just as the moon emerged once more from a fractured sky. He was shocked to see the face of the young chef whom he’d seen glaring at him in the staff canteen that morning. There was blood streaming from a gash in his forehead.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Enzo shouted.
To his surprise the young man shouted back. “Just stay away from her!”
Enzo grabbed his lapels. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re just some dirty old man who can’t keep his filthy hands to himself!”
“What?” Enzo glared at him, filled with anger and incomprehension.
“She’s my girl, okay?”
“Who?”
“Sophie!”
There was a moment’s hiatus before rage tore through Enzo like a storm, and he lifted the young man’s shoulders by the lapels and then slammed them down again. Hard. “You stupid little shit! Philippe, that’s your name, isn’t it? She told me about you.” He sucked air into his lungs. “I don’t know what Sophie is to you, and I don’t care. But she’s my daughter!”
Philippe’s face froze in an expression of incredulity. Confusion filled flickering, troubled eyes as he tried to process the information.
“It was you spying on us in the hall outside my room the other night, wasn’t it?”
“I… I… I didn’t know. I didn’t realize…”
“No, of course you didn’t. And you didn’t stop to think, or ask.” Enzo let go his lapels and got stiffly to his feet, brushing mud and moss stains from his trousers and his sleeves. He ran a hand over the side of his face and felt a swelling on his cheekbone. Philippe pulled himself on to one elbow and looked up at the figure of Enzo looming over him. Enzo stabbed a finger at him. “You stay away from my daughter, you hear? And keep your mouth shut about me and Sophie, sonny. Or I might just tell her real boyfriend that some scrawny chef’s been sniffing around her like a dog in heat. Bertrand’s a body-builder, jealous as hell, and got a temper to go with it. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes if he comes looking for you.”
The young man got to his feet with difficulty, holding his ribs where Enzo’s knuckles had made contact, bruising them, maybe even cracking one. He turned and limped off into the darkness. Enzo stood breathing hard, and was filled with a momentary sense of elation. He had done not badly for an old guy. The young chef was certainly less than half his age, but Enzo had still seen him off.
If the thought briefly puffed him up, then sudden floodlights illuminating the chateau and a gruff voice shouting at him from across the moat deflated him just as fast.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”
He turned to see a large man in workman’s overalls and shirt sleeves rolled up over muscled forearms striding toward him. He was caught in the full glare of the floodlamps on Enzo’s side of the moat, casting a giant shadow behind him on the castle wall.
“I’m sorry,” Enzo said. “Are you the owner?”
“I’m the caretaker. Who are you?” He stopped and glared at the intruder, a definite sense of threat in all of his body language.
Enzo’s confident facade faltered a little. “I just saw that the gate was unlocked, and wondered if the chateau was still open for viewing.”
“Are you blind? There’s a notice on the gate. We’ve been shut for a month. Now clear off before I call the gendarmes and have you arrested for trespass!”
Enzo raised a hand in peace. “Okay, okay, I’m going. Keep your shirt on.” He had no illusions about being able to see this man off if it turned physical. And he headed down the path, through the trees, feeling bruised and stiff, and thinking how ridiculous it was for a man of his age still to be getting into fights.
He pulled the gate closed behind him and saw a car sitting at the foot of the path, next to his own, engine idling, headlights cutting across the road and absorbed into the darkness beyond. As he reached the passenger side, he peered in to see Fred sitting impatiently behind the wheel. He opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. Fred cast him a wary look. “You’re late.”
