Chapter Twelve
Chateau de Castelmore hunkered under the rain, an unkempt memorial of its chivalric past. Yvon had warned me about the size of his family’s former residence, but the longish, two-storied building constructed of beige stones was even smaller than expected.
Four towers rose on both ends, two square and chunky, two small and round, the latter with an ice cream cone roof, a must-have if we were talking fairytale castle, which this was not.
No towering ramparts, no crenelated walls—only two rows of rectangular windows marching across the facade, the shutters rotted and useless, the window panes either cracked and blind or boarded up. Under the ruin’s dodgy roof, gutters sagged and greenish-brown streaks ran down the wall.
A determined climbing rose covered half of the front while ivy invaded the ground floor. It even covered the steps that led to the battered front door, in no better shape than the shutters. If Sleeping Beauty was inside, she was out of luck. No self-respecting prince would come calling.
My rucksack dug into my ribs, so I shifted it. “If I were the seller, I would be thrilled someone wants to take this pile off my hands.”
His eyes shone. He seemed to have forgotten the odd combo in the Citro?n already. “Rest assured the structure is sound. I appointed an architect. Nothing was added, nothing was changed, everything’s of the original design and as solid as a rock. Okay, there might be a few holes, but otherwise...”
I regarded the part of the castle angling from the right side of the nearest turret, where uneven cavities showed in the brickwork. Half filled with crumbling cement, they reinforced the image of a structure wracked by a violent past at odds with the bucolic charm of sparrows chirping in the beeches and bunnies snacking on the scraggly lawn.
I scratched my head. This was the renovation project from hell. “Otherwise, you’ll need modern plumbing, heating, electricity, new windows, a new roof, new flooring, new everything. You’ll have to sell a lot of dijonaise for that.”
Yvon’s gaze followed mine, and he heaved a deep sigh. “A souvenir of the French Revolution. Instead of knocking on the door, the Sansculottes rolled cannons along the driveway and threatened to string the resident aristocrats up on the nearest lamp post.”
“Wasn’t the guillotine their murder instrument of choice?”
“That came later. In the beginning, the crackpots had to improvise.”
“What happened to the family of the then Count d’Artagnan? I mean, they escaped, otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.” I hesitated, but his expression gave nothing away. “Where did they go?”
Yvon stared at the facade. “Marquis d’Artagnan if you please. And Baron of Sainte-Croix. Back then, the family had risen high enough in the world to register on the revolutionaries’ radar. Like many others, they emigrated to Britain, but once the silver was sold, life became unpleasant.”
He flapped his hand as if to wave away a vile stench. “In all fairness, the peasants wouldn’t have revolted if the upper crust hadn’t treated them abominably over many years. The Batz family was no exception, even if they were originally of merchant stock. No blue blood running in my veins, I’m afraid. Let us go.” With that, Yvon turned his back on me and headed for the entrance.
Paulette could insinuate what she wanted; the man cared about the heritage he claimed as his.
Once we arrived on the topmost tread, he produced a large key from his pocket. “Would you like a short guided tour? The guy selling Castelmore has given me full access.”
“Uh, you’re sure the place won’t collapse on us?”
“Ah, bah. You’re exaggerating. Told you I had the structure checked. I might be keen, but I’m not suicidal.”
A rusty grille protected the disintegrating entrance door, secured by a combination padlock. He fiddled around until something clicked, then he pulled the metal bars toward us, serenaded by the screech of tired hinges. A second key took care of the door panel itself, though it didn’t put up much of a fight.
As it swung inward, a strong whiff of mildew, guano, and damp wall escaped from the gloom that held the interior of Castelmore in its stranglehold.
Yvon entered first and, after a short wrestle with a sudden onset of claustrophobia, I stepped after him. There had better be a story waiting for me here, hidden in the dank chilliness. Failing that, I wouldn’t mind some revelations on his true self. Let Paulette trade for information. I relied on other sources. Sources that told me his aura flared the exact moment we arrived at the chateau.
I shivered.
“I’ll show you something. You’ll love it,” he said.
Our footsteps echoed on the flagstones leading to the back of the building. We passed a splintered heap of decaying wood; the zig-zag edge of the peeling paint above the sorry pile revealed it must have once been a staircase.
I stopped and glanced at the dark beams above our heads. They appeared to be robust enough, but looks can be deceiving.
He laughed. “The first level is off-limits, though in most places the floor itself is okay. The staircase only collapsed because it’s the one place where water seeped through the roof.” He pointed at mossy green streaks running down the plasterwork, disappearing into the overgrown jumble below. “Here, we’re fine.”
Something rustled among the wreckage.
“Rats,” I said.
“Could well be. For the time being, we shall ignore them.”
We rounded a corner, passed an archway, and entered another corridor, shorter and narrower than the previous one. He didn’t hesitate and strode along as if he already owned the place, then ducked his head under a stone lintel and entered the space that lay beyond. “Come on, this is fantastique .”
Whatever held him in raptures was vast enough to tease echoes from his voice. A few hesitant steps took me into what must once have been the castle kitchen. Its windows faced the trees at the back of the house, their branches casting a shadow on panes smeared with the grime of centuries.
At least on this side of the building, most of the glass was intact and it hadn’t been covered in boards. As a result, the kitchen presented itself in its full dusty glory, complete with an enormous fireplace big enough to roast a complete ox on a spit. To judge by the size of the pointy metal pole leaning against a barrel, people back then must have done just that.
The floor tiles—in those places where the cover of dust and debris wasn’t too dense—glowed a warm brick red. Clunky objects lined the wall opposite the windows: butter barrel, massive stone sink, rocking chair, and many other bits and pieces whose former purpose I couldn’t guess.
“This so-called castle should be a museum.”
He gave me an encouraging nod. “There’s a museum in the village, to which the owner donated the finer objects. The finest, I would imagine, he kept to himself, though there’s plenty left I can use, in a dining room for example, no? This place is huge, too much for a modern kitchen, so I’d only convert part of it.”
Excitement twinkled in his eyes, and his French accent was invading his English, much like the ivy outside.
“Hmm.” I let my gaze roam across our surroundings.
With a lot of goodwill, determination, and oodles of spare cash, the old kitchen might rise from the ashes of former glory. I didn’t think it was worth the effort, but then I didn’t have a personal connection to this place.
He gave me a lopsided smile. “You think me mad, yes?”
I cleared my throat. “No, I understand why you would be thrilled. This place is beyond magical and caught in a time-warp somehow. It’ll cost a bloody fortune to kick this empty shell into some sort of shape. Worse, you’ll have to clear the debris before you can even start. This will be a listed building, correct? I doubt you can put things like vents where you need them. It’ll be one monster of a home renovation show.”
Yvon shrugged. “What’s the point in having money if one doesn’t use it? My restaurant on the coast is fine, but it’s missing something. The chateau will be the right setting for my art, and it offers enough space to open my own Resto Du Coeur. Once I have installed a modern kitchen, of course. But this is the heart of Castelmore, always has been.”
He made a sweeping gesture at the clunky table in the middle of the kitchen. Not for a minute did I doubt he would pull off his ambition. The daunting dimension of his pet project was not the reason for my glaciered marrow. Unless I was very much mistaken, the man who called himself Yvon had just revealed his true self.
Fishing for something to say that wouldn’t betray my rising panic, a soft crunching sounded somewhere in the dusky depths of the old house.
Adrenaline whipped into my bloodstream. “The ceiling.”
He froze into a statue, straining into a silence alive with white noise soon swallowed into the thump, thump of my heart.
We stared into the half-light, then at each other.
Slowly, he shook his head. “No, I’m sure it’s safe. Please, wait here. Don’t move until I call you.”
“Yvon, I—”
“We might have visitors. I need to check.” With that, he sneaked from the old kitchen, soundless as a ghost.
?When I unglued my gaze from the doorway he had disappeared through, the surrounding walls seemed to have crept closer. Was there a bulge in the ceiling that hadn’t been there before? I crab-stepped toward the floor-lengths windows, painstakingly avoiding the crunchier bits of debris.
Once I reached the windows, I found the frames to be warped, the glass only single-paned. If need be, I could use the old spit to smash and break my way through. Unfortunately, doing so meant returning to the depths of the kitchen, something my feet refused to do.
No rocks, no bricks anywhere near me.
Invisible crawlies skittered up and down my arms, and unseen hands seemed to squeeze my throat.
Once more, I peeked at the ceiling. There was a bulge. It might have been there before and I never noticed. Or, it formed when I wasn’t looking.
Where the heck had Yvon gone?
I forced myself to ignore the protuberance above me and tuned my ears to the absence of sound strumming through the dead building.
An icy trickle traced its way along my spine.
Another crunching noise. Faint, almost not there and immediately lost. It could have echoed from anywhere.
I caught myself staring at the ceiling. Was the bulge bigger than before? Surely not.
I shifted aside.
Crackle.
This, the faintest of noises, hadn’t come from the ceiling but originated somewhere close to the entrance.
“Yvon?”
I darted for the door, the scrape made by my shoes overloud in my ears. I stopped under the lintel, carved of stone, squatting on equally strong slabs that made up the supporting jambs. If the ceiling collapsed, this would be an excellent place to be. If someone were stalking us, it also would be the ideal place to be since they wouldn’t be able to spot me immediately.
What was it with me and the hide and seek today? I peeked around the worn edge of the nearest jamb.
An empty corridor stretched along the back wall of the chateau, here and there broken by a window.
The longer bit of hallway, with the staircase, was hidden around the corner and out of sight. What I could see of the ceiling among all that furry dust seemed okay, supported by wooden beams, cobwebby and faded, but otherwise reassuringly solid.
“Yvon?” I whispered.
From the part of the corridor beyond my field of view came the sound of rapid footsteps scurrying away. The metal grille at the entrance creaked. A rush of air sent the cobwebs into a lazy sway until they settled again. With a plop, a displaced spider landed on the ground and scuttled for cover.
Dust tickled my nose. Don’t sneeze.
“Bande d’idiots .” Yvon’s voice thundered through the ruin, loud enough to shake the foundations.
The comment needed no translation. Team Green Citro?n had arrived. I tiptoed along the corridor and stopped at the corner.
A deep, hoarse voice responded, and like Yvon it spoke French. “You’re an abomination.”
“Who gives you the right to judge me? And what has kicked you and your idiotic posse into action again? Your latest head honcho is no more. I was expecting you to lie low for a while.”
“You murdered him.” Another person had entered the chateau, another male, but with a voice higher and whinier than his colleague’s.
“Did I heck. He succumbed to a heart attack. You can’t blame me for everything that happens when you idiots are on the rampage.”
“You killed Roland and his predecessor,” said Whiny Voice, nagging like a mosquito.
I inched forward until I could see past the nearest corner. Two figures stood beside the entrance, illuminated by the light seeping through the door. Yvon I could not spot at all, but there were doorways on both sides. Failing that, he might be hidden next to the ruined staircase.
“Prove it.” Yvon’s voice lashed from the shadows.
In response, a shot cracked into the plasterwork above the doorway closest to my hiding place.
My heartbeat spiked, and I threw myself against the bricks with enough vehemence to thrust the breath from my chest with a whoosh.
“No need to prove anything. Anyway, we’ve found someone new. Someone you can’t ignore so easily,” Whiny Voice gloated. “We’ll see her later.”
Another shot cracked, the bullet not landing anywhere near me. Since no scream followed, I remained reassured they hadn’t hit Yvon. If my theory was right, they couldn’t.
“Stop it, you fool,” the man with the hoarse voice yelled. “What if there’s a ricochet? You’ll get us killed.”
“That would be very handy indeed,” Yvon said. “I wouldn’t want you morons ruining my castle.” If anything, he sounded amused rather than angry.
“It isn’t yours anymore,” the first voice whined. “And it won’t ever be if we have anything to say.”
“Ah, but then you don’t.”
Once more, I peeked around the corner, and this time my gaze found Yvon, crouching next to the sagging steps.
Three shots rang out in rapid succession, then nothing.
“ Merde . Did you not load this thing after last time?” Whiny Voice complained.
“Why me?”
“Did you bring yours?”
“No. Weapons make me nervous.”
Someone groaned.
With an unearthly yell, Yvon uncoiled from the floor and rushed the two figures at the door. He was swinging something in his hand, something I first took for a plank of rotting wood until the light from the entrance drew a glint from the object.
A blade. The blade of a rapier, to be precise. Where did he find it? Why would it shine when the rest of this place was in shambles?
The two intruders scrambled through the front door and stampeded down the steps with Yvon at their heels, still hollering and slashing his rapier around like a maniac.
I sprinted after them and popped through the exit in time to behold the most extraordinary scene.
The lanky man I’d first observed in back in Lupiac was hoisting himself up the nearest beech tree in a shower of twigs and leaves. Yvon danced around underneath, thrusting a lethal-looking weapon at the man’s retreating bottom.
A tearing noise was followed by a hoarse “ Merde ”. He wasn’t Whiny Voice
Yvon stopped poking the foliage, shook his head, then charged after another man, a short and squat fellow. The guy yanked open the door of the lime-green Citro?n, threw himself inside and, with the door hanging open, reversed along the driveway, bouncing through the potholes. Yvon gave chase, slashing at the air with his weapon in a manner that would have made the Musketeers proud.
“ Mince alors ,” hollered the man in the tree. “You can’t leave me here.”
His pal could and did. Once he reached the street, he slammed the door shut, exercised a rapid three-point turn, and sped away. Yvon stopped and lowered his weapon.
My gaze fell on his minivan, its back door open, and the lamp illuminating a layer of foam under a false floor in the back someone had flipped over. From inside the foam peeked a whole armory: pistols, knives, and other lethal bits and pieces whose purpose I couldn’t even guess. Every single one would have fitted right in on the set of Mission Impossible .
Above me, something rustled. A longish face with a pointy nose peeked from among the beech leaves.
“Oh pardon, Madame. I hope you weren’t inconvenienced. Ah, do you speak French?” a hoarse voice spoke.
“Yes.”
“We’re not after you.”
“How reassuring. Care to tell me why you’re after him?” I pointed at the tall figure guarding the gateposts. Yvon, having shed his fleece, wore only jeans and a T-shirt that displayed his body as if painted on. His shoulders were heaving, but it was hard to tell whether he was winded or laughing.
The man in the tree said, “He’s an abomination.”
“So you said before. You don’t like his dijonaise?”
Confusion clouded the face peeping from the beech tree. “Pardon?”
Yvon turned on his heels and came jogging along the path.
The man in the tree withdrew. “Don’t let him near me.”
What a wimp. “You wanted to tell me something.”
“No, I didn’t. If I do, he’ll have a go at me.”
“He’ll do that anyway,” I confirmed.
Unfortunately, we got no further since Yvon had reached us, the weapon still in his hand. Sunlight peeked from behind the clouds and drew sparks from the blade.
I raised my chin and our gazes crossed. Fear rose on an acid wave, but I swallowed it down. Whoever he might be, he wouldn’t hurt me, of that I was sure. “You owe me an explanation.”
Yvon shrugged. “Family tradition. I fence in my spare time. I also practice knife-throwing. And I have a gun permit. With these bastards around, I need something to defend myself. The police aren’t always fast enough.”
Not for one second did I trust his smile, nor his caged look of his.
“He’s lying,” said the hoarse voice.
Yvon snarled an innovative swearword.
“Okay, not lying perhaps. But not telling you the whole truth either.” Despite his misgivings, the tosser in the tree was enjoying himself.
“Believe it or not, I gathered as much,” I said. “We’ll sort this out later. First, we’ll call les flics.”
“No,” said the man in the tree.
“Yes,” said Yvon. “Hold this for me, please.” He passed his weapon, gilded hilt first.
I gripped the metal, still warm from his hands, expecting the thing to weight a ton. It didn’t. Instead, it was surprisingly light. I gave the blade an experimental swing. It swished through the air and sliced off a minor twig.
The man in the tree yelped.
Yup, the rapier or whatever it was appeared to be rather sharp.
Mumbling something under his breath, Yvon raised his face at the sky and said, “I asked you to hold my sword, not to skewer your environment, for heaven’s sake. Women.”
I lowered the weapon, keeping the pointy tip well away from my sneakered toes. “Are you now calling the cops or what?”
“Only if you stop poking things.”
“I second that motion,” said the man in the tree.
“You shut up.” Yvon patted his jeans. “ Dame , the phone is in my jacket.” A quick dash took him across to the minivan.
I raised the blade and faced the beech, its branches trembling.
“Didn’t you hear what Batz said?” the man said, alarm ringing in his voice. “Leave the weapon alone.”
“I’m not good at taking orders. What’s your problem with Yvon?”
“First, Yvon is not his given name.”
Why did that not surprise me? “He’s not Batz either?”
“Oh yes, he is.”
I had feared something along those lines. “Don’t tell me, he’s d’Artagnan. I mean the d’Artagnan who has somehow returned from the dead and can materialize during the day because he is ancient?”
If Raoul could smell, sound, and feel like a human being despite being dead for less than a century, someone who had suffered that fate a lot longer would command tremendous powers. Avenging his doomed family would be a powerful incentive, something that would have anchored Yvon to Earth.
Like Raoul and his obsession with the Legrands.
When the voice spoke again, it sounded surprised. “No, where did you get such an idea from?”
“Did you know ghosts exist?” I tossed a glance at the minivan, where Yvon was speaking on the phone, hopefully calling in reinforcements.
“Don’t doubt it, but I’ve yet to meet one.”
“You’re telling me, he isn’t a phantom?”
“Of course not,” the man in the tree scoffed.
Bugger, there went my theory. His aura had been iffy, but who knew, after haunting for absolute ages, Yvon might well be able to fake that too. Hence the fluctuations. Being the real d’Artagnan would also have explained his fixation with sharp, pointy objects. The bit with turning chef, however, was still a mystery.
“Madame, as much as I might enjoy our conversation, I’d much rather leave this tree.”
“That’s something you have to negotiate with your foe, not with me.”
The man in the tree fell silent.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel as Yvon returned. “I’ve changed my mind. I’ve alerted my friends, not the police. They’re much too slow and too lenient when it comes to stalkers. I’ve got a message for you lot. It’s quite simple. Leave me alone or you will regret it. You’re free to pass my message on to whomever it concerns.”
“You won’t kill me?” Now the man in the tree sounded even whinier than his companion had been.
Yvon rolled his expressive eyes. He shrugged into his fleece jacket and waggled his fingers at me. “Never before dinner. My sword, please.”
“Not before you come clean on who you are.”