Page 90 of The Splendour Falls

“My word as well,” I said, lifting my chin with a courage I didn’t quite feel. “You shouldn’t be telling me this.”

“You won’t repeat it.”

My belly crawled with sudden cold. “Oh? And why n

ot?”

“Because of this.” I guessed his intent even as he reached for me, but I didn’t have the time to move away. The kiss was hard, and yet it scarcely registered—I was past feeling anything. I simply stood and let him kiss me, unresponsive. At length he drew back, touched my cheek. “We have this still between us, you and I,” he said. “From the moment I first saw you…”

When he bent to me again, my mind stayed stoically detached and analytical. Past Armand’s shoulder I could see the little ivy-shrouded bench, with dead leaves drifted underneath it. I saw the wooden doorway to the Moulin Tower, bound firm with iron hinges, and I watched it shifting inwards as the wind went rushing past it. Impossible, I told myself. The tower was off limits, closed to tourists, it was always locked. The door could not have moved.

Armand drew back a second time and, frowning, lit a cigarette. He smoked too much, I thought absently. Like Paul… And suddenly my thoughts weren’t absent any more. The feeling came back in a searing flood that scalded every nerve to painful rawness.

I didn’t move, but mentally I took five paces back, away from Armand. I could perhaps forgive him for the death of Didier—a tragic accident, unplanned, partly orchestrated by the victim—I could forgive him that, and as for Brigitte’s will I understood a father’s drive to shield the future of his daughter, however much I disapproved of his methods. But Paul… No, I decided firmly—never. Day of Atonement notwithstanding, I could never forgive him for Paul.

“You are thinking of the boy,” said Armand. He hadn’t lied about my expressive face. “Two people, you said—I have killed two people. Did the gypsy see that as well?”

I didn’t tell him, this time, but he read the answer anyway, in my stoic silence.

“Ah.” He accepted this new information calmly. “I am sorry. Not about being seen, you understand, but about… I didn’t know he was so close a friend.”

“Would that have made a difference?”

“No.” The black eyes touched mine briefly, honestly, and slid away. “No, it wouldn’t. I could not have let him live.”

My throat had begun to hurt. “Why not?”

“He was too smart, your friend. Too clever. But I didn’t know how clever until yesterday, when we met quite by chance upon the road, just outside there.” A nod in the direction of the sturdy château gates. “He asked me questions, then, about Didier. About when Didier was working for the lawyer. Now, if the other boy had asked me, I might just have thought he asked from curiosity—he likes Martine, that one. I’d not have thought it strange. But this boy Paul, his questions made me curious myself. And so I sat with him, offered him a cigarette and asked him why he wanted to know about my brother-in-law. Do you know,” Armand said, unable to keep a trace of disbelieving admiration from seeping into his voice, “he’d worked the whole thing out: the blackmail, the struggle by the stairs, the whole thing. Blackmail, he said, was the only thing that could explain how Didier got all his money, and more than likely the blackmail was connected to Didier’s days as a lawyer’s clerk. Your friend, he told me he thought Didier had not been by himself that night, that someone else was with him, maybe someone who had pushed him down the stairs…” Armand broke off and shook his head, incredulous. “Too clever, that’s what this boy was. Oh, he didn’t know that it was me, of course. And he didn’t bring the Englishman… your cousin… into it.”

“Yes, well, he wouldn’t have,” I told him. “Paul had promised, on his honor, that he wouldn’t tell anyone else we were looking for Harry.”

“On his honor,” Armand echoed, with a faint and distant smile. “Then I should have had him promise me he wouldn’t talk of Didier at the hotel. I couldn’t let him do that, couldn’t let him talk of blackmailers and lawyers… it was too dangerous.”

I didn’t understand, and told him so.

“Because of Neil. Because he would remember, maybe, Brigitte’s will. He would ask questions. It was too dangerous,” he said again. The last word seemed to echo from the ruined walls around us, and I turned my head away in time to see a shadow moving past the gaping window of the Moulin Tower. The shadow vanished as I looked, and yet I caught the motion at the corner of my eye. And underneath the window, as the wind swirled fiercely by, the heavy wooden door creaked further inward on its ancient hinges, beckoning.

I judged the distance silently, between the tower and myself, and knew that with a running start I might just make it. I could bolt the door behind me. I’d be safe then, till they came to find me, if they came at all…

Behind us, in the high and narrow confines of the clock tower that guarded the château’s entrance, the great medieval bell began to toll the time. Half past seven. Hunching deeper in my jacket, I swung my troubled gaze around to watch the outline of the ringing bell. “Who’s that coming now?” I asked Armand.

And when he raised his head to look, I ran.

I heard him swear; I heard him pounding close behind me, but I ran as one possessed and when I reached the door I still had time to turn and slam it shut behind me. The only problem was, there was no bolt. Not on the inside. “Damn,” I breathed. I couldn’t hope to hold it, by myself. Already I could hear the scrape of steps upon the stone outside, I saw the heavy handle start to turn…

My eyes were not adjusted to the darkness, and I stumbled as I dragged myself across the barren room to where the ghostly suggestion of a staircase curled its way upwards against the wall. The door crashed open behind me.

“Emily! For God’s sake, don’t be stupid. I won’t hurt you…”

I had reached the stairs. With one hand trailing on the curved stone wall to guide my steps, I started up. The stone felt damp and full of dirt—the smell of it burned sharply in my nostrils, but I was climbing far too rapidly to register the full range of sensation. I burst with trembling legs into the upper chamber, open to the sky, and groped my way around the wall in search of some place, any place, to hide. The gathered clouds, tinged still with crimson, gazed down at me with pity.

The light was nearly gone now, and the wind seemed everywhere around me. It had a voice, that wind, half human and half demon, that numbed the mind and turned the soul to stone. I’d reached the end, with nowhere left to go. A slash of brightness showed in the wall a few feet on and with desperate hands I clawed my way around to it. I found a window… well, an arrow slit—a crumbling gaping arrow slit my height and width, with jagged edges framing an impressive view across the roofs of Chinon’s old and peaceful heart.

In ages past an archer would have stood here, poised with watchful eyes to hold the castle keep against all challengers from the darkening hill below. And nearly eight centuries ago a frightened girl of fifteen years might well have stood in this same spot, watching the spreading fires of the rebel barons camped around the château walls. I could almost see the fires myself, tonight—the rue Voltaire below me was a blaze of light, and I fancied that I saw a line of torches winding up the cliff. Oh, God, I prayed, please let him come.

“I’m coming up,” Armand announced, below me. He was on the stairs. “Do you hear me, Emily? I’m coming up. Don’t move.”

I slid away, along the wall, and pressed myself into the dripping stone. Armand moved very slowly, with deliberate purpose. His steps fell loud upon the worn stone. “Please, Emily, I promise I won’t hurt you. I could never…” His voice trailed off, and clearing his throat he tried again. “Just don’t move. The walls are weak in places, they’re not safe. Please…”