Tower of Shadows (3 page)

the fact that it could all have been a sham.

Isabelle had loved another man —had given herself to him with

disastrous consequences — and here was Sabine, the living proof,

the cuckoo in the conventional Russell family nest.

She wondered if Hugh Russell had ever hinted that his wife should

have her baby adopted. According to Miss Russell, Isabelle had

forced him to treat her child as his own —had even made it a

condition of their marriage.

He had loved her, Sabine thought, but how had she felt about him?

Was it love or simply gratitude because he had offered her a safe

haven? She would never know.

Biting her lip, Sabine walked over to the wardrobe, and flung open

its door. They were still hanging there on their plastic covers —the

classic suits, the dateless dresses, with the shoes, always plain

courts, racked neatly beneath them.

She lifted down the big suitcase from the top of the wardrobe, and,

placing it on the bed, began to fill it, folding the garments as

carefully as Isabelle would have done.

At times, a faint remembrance of the scent her mother used to wear

drifted up from the folds of the clothing. That was the most

personally evocative thing of all, Sabine thought, wincing, and she

could understand why Hugh had always shied away from clearing

out his wife's things. It was interesting too, she realised, that he'd

never allowed his sister to dispose of them either.

But then, he wouldn't have wanted to see Isabelle's treasured

possessions grimly thrust into bin-bags and left outside for

collection.

It took nearly an hour for her to empty the wardrobe and dressing-

table. She didn't hurry, using the time to do some serious thinking.

It occurred to her for the first time that there were a couple of

curious anomalies in her childhood.

Firstly, although Isabelle had kindled her love for foreign

languages by teaching her their own native tongue, at the same

time she'd been strangely reticent about her own life. When Sabine

asked about France and French life, Isabelle had talked exclusively

about Paris where she'd trained as a commercial artist. For that

reason, Sabine had always assumed that her mother was a

Parisienne by birth.

But assumptions, as she'd discovered that day, could be dangerous,

and Isabelle had never actually stated where she was born. She'd

never spoken about family either. Sabine had asked if she had any

grandparents in France, or any other uncles and. aunts. It seemed

unjust if she was saddled with Aunt Ruth alone, but Isabelle had

said there was no one, adding,
'Helas.'

The other odd thing, she realised, was that they'd never been on

holiday to France. Nor could she recollect that it had ever been

suggested they should do so. It was as if the subject had been

taboo.

Yet they'd been to Spain, Italy and Greece time after time, and

surely it would have been natural for Isabelle to want to show off

the country of her birth.

Why did I never think of this before? she wondered blankly.

Presumably because I was too young, and because life was so full

in other ways that I never had time or any real reason to question

it.

She'd left the top dressing-table drawer until last. It still contained

a handful of cosmetics, and, at the very back, her mother's suede

jewellery case. Sabine extracted it gently. Her mother had been

quite specific about it. 'My jewellery case and all its contents to my

daughter Sabine', her will had read, with the added proviso that the

bequest should only take place after Hugh Russell's own death.

Maman's perception had probably told how impossible it would be

for him to part with any of her things in his lifetime.

In fact, there was very little inside the case, just her watch, a few

pairs of earrings, and her cultured pearl necklace. The tray didn't

fit very well, she noticed, and when she lifted it out she discovered

why. Under it was a small flat package wrapped in yellowing

tissue paper.

Sabine removed the paper carefully, trying not to tear it, feeling in

many ways like an intruder. An oval silver medallion and chain

slid into her hand, and she studied it, frowning. She knew all

Isabelle's small store of jewellery, and she'd certainly never seen

this before, although she had to admit it was a beautiful thing.

Moreover, it looked old, and by its weight in her hand could also

be valuable. And equally clearly, concealed in the base of the box,

it had not been for public view.

There was some kind of engraving on the medallion, and she took

it over to the window for a closer look. The design wasn't very

clear, but she could just make out a building shaped like a tower,

she thought, tracing the outline with her fingertip, and beneath it a

flower which might or might not be a rose.

Sabine looked at it for a long moment, aware of a faint stirring in

her consciousness, some elusive memory, fleetingly brought to

life. But as she reached for it, tried to bring it into sharper focus, it

was gone. Just another unanswered question, she acknowledged

with a small sigh, as she re-wrapped it.

She was about to replace it when she noticed that the satin lining in

the bottom of the case had been torn away from one edge, and

stitched back into place with large clumsy stitches.

Not Maman's style at all, she thought, frowning. I wonder when

that happened?

She ran her fingers over the base, finding an unexpected bulkiness.

There was something there—under the lining. She found a pair of

nail scissors and cut the stitches.

The something was an elderly manila envelope, secured with a

rubber band.

Slowly Sabine opened it, and emptied the contents on to the

dressing-table. A latch-key-attached to a ring in the shape of a

small enamelled owl fell out first to be followed by a thin folder of

photographs, a picture postcard, a label from a wine bottle, and,

lastly, some kind of official document in French.

It was a mixed bunch, she thought wonderingly. Rather like that

game where you had to memorise so many objects on a tray.

She picked up the document, and spread it open. Her heart seemed

to be beating very slowly and loudly as she looked down it. She

read it carefully twice, but her conclusion was the same both times.

It was some kind of title deed to a house in France. A house called

Les Hiboux, sited in the
departement
of the Dordogne, which she

knew was in the south-west, near a community called Issigeac. Not

that it meant a thing to her.

'My jewellery case and all its contents to my daughter Sabine'.

All its contents.

She felt cold suddenly, and pushed everything back into the

envelope. She would look at the rest later. For now, she had

enough shocks to assimilate, she thought, as she put the case into

her bag, and took a last look round.

She left the envelope on her dining table while she prepared her

evening meal. Everywhere she went in the flat, she seemed to

catch sight of it out of the corner of her eye. It was not to be

ignored.

She'd called at the library on her way home and borrowed some

books on the Dordogne. She glanced through them as she ate. The

actual region where the house was situated was called the

Perigord, and it was divided up into the White, the Green and the

Black. Les Hiboux was in the Perigord Noir, which was called

that, apparently, because of all the trees, particularly oaks, in the

area. It was also a major tourist centre.

Issigeac, she discovered, was south of Bergerac, and on the edge

of its wine-growing area.

Part of the Perigord's fame, she read, rested on its cuisine, which

included wild mushrooms,
pate de foie gras,
and the ultimate

luxury of truffles. Walnuts were another speciality, cultivated for

salad oil, and also for a strong local liqueur.

She made a pot of strong coffee, and reached for the envelope. Les

Hiboux, she thought, as the owl keyring fell into her hand.
Hibou

was French for owl. She put it to one side, and opened the folder

of photographs.

There weren't many, and they were all black and white. She

studied them, frowning. They were just ordinary, rather amateurish

snapshots. There were a couple of two children, a girl barely past

the toddler stage in a sunbonnet and ruffled dress, and a much

older boy, all arms and legs and ferocious scowl, staring

pugnaciously at the camera. Maman had given the impression she

was an only child, she thought, but was that the truth? Did she

have relatives —a real family down in the south-west of France?

The other shots showed a man, standing alone outside some tall

stone building. They were blurred and his features were indistinct,

but Sabine got the impression that he wasn't particularly young.

She glanced at the back of each print, hoping for a name or a date

or some other clue, but there was nothing. The man and the

children remained anonymous.

She looked at the postcard next, her brows lifting in delight. It

depicted a castle in a fairy-tale — a sprawl of golden stone topped

by a high, sloping roof, and embellished with turrets. Sabine

turned the card over.
'Le Chateau La Tour Monchauzet'
the printed

legend uncompromisingly informed her, with no further

elaboration.

The wine label repeated the same words in a floridly ornate script

overprinted on a picture, which Sabine recognised instantly. It was

a simple drawing of a square tower, standing in splendid isolation

like an accusing finger pointing at the sky. And at its base, as if

tossed to the ground from one of the tower's high windows, was a

highly stylised rose.

It's the same design as the medallion, she thought, with a little

lurch of excitement. A tower and a rose. There's definitely

something familiar about that — something I recognised before.

One of the stories, maybe, that Maman told me when I was small.

Oh, why can't I remember? I need to know.

They were a motley collection—these remnants of her mother's

past, she thought, as she began to put them back in the envelope.

The deed to the house and the key she could understand—just. But

what was the significance of the rest of it?

Well, there was only one way to find out. She was overdue for

some leave, and she could go to France and make some enquiries.

But should she? Isabelle might have left her the case, but she'd

hidden these things away, making sure they wouldn't be

discovered at least while her husband was alive. Clearly she hadn't

wanted Hugh to know she owned any property in her native

country, but why conceal such an important fact? It made no

sense—no sense at all.

Perhaps Isabelle hadn't wanted them found at all, had intended her

secret, whatever it was, to die with her.

But that can't be true, Sabine thought, or she'd have burned the lot,

and put the key down the nearest drain. No, for good or ill, they

were intended for me. And now I have to make a decision.

Les Hiboux.
Owls. Birds of ill-omen.

She shivered suddenly, and her arm caught the folder of

photographs, knocking it on to the floor. The prints spilled on to

the carpet and as Sabine bent to retrieve them the young boy's face

seemed to glare directly up at her, challenging and inimical. And

she pulled a face back at him.

She said aloud, 'I don't know who you are, but I hope you've

mellowed. Or that we never meet. Because you could make a nasty

enemy.'

SABINE brought the car to a halt at the side of the road. She looked

across the valley to the thick cluster of trees on the hill opposite,

and the tantalising glimpse of pointed grey roofs rising above them

in the sunlight. And below the trees, covering the hillside, there

were the vines, row upon row of them, like some squat green

army.

The Chateau La Tour Monchauzet, she thought swallowing.

Journey's end.

I don't have to do this, she told herself. I could just look—take a

photograph perhaps, and then travel on. Put the past behind me,

and treat this as an ordinary holiday.

She could, but she knew that she wouldn't. With Mr Braybrooke's