‘It’s not a bit like the Château Houdart, is it?’ Dorcas murmured. ‘That was welcoming, lived-in, looked pretty on a wine label. This is a jolly scary place, Joe!’
‘Machicolations, crenellations, canonniered arrow slits …’ Joe muttered. ‘Blimey! It’s got the lot. Put your tin hat on, Dorcas! And hope they’ve not boiled the oil up yet. A l’attaque! Yes?’
He put the car in gear and moved off slowly.
‘Is this the usual style of accommodation for one of your father’s artistic jamborees?’ he asked cheerfully to dispel her gathering gloom as they wound upwards under intimidating walls. Joe always tried to avoid speaking in a dismissive tone when discussing Orlando’s activities. Privately, he considered it the height of indulgence, an embarrassing bohemian flourish, this habit of congregating together with a coven of fellow artists to spend the summer months daubing away in each other’s company, stealing mistresses from one other, squabbling and boozing, conspiring to exchange one outrageous ‘ism’ for a newer one. Fauvism, Cubism, Dadaism, Futurism, and now, he heard, Surrealism was all the go. Well, that at least seemed to make sense.
‘No. It is a bit grand. But his crowd will gather wherever some art-lover, some patron is kind enough—and rich enough—to offer them accommodation for a season.’
They looked up again at the château and Joe voiced the thought: ‘Some accommodation! I do wonder who the generous host might be? Any information on him? I shall need to know to whom I should address my bread-and-butter note …’
Dorcas shook her head. ‘No idea. You’ll have to ask. But the artists always pay their rent! In kind, of course. You know—they leave some of their best work behind as a thank-you. They’re very productive. And artists are very generous. Did you know that Van Gogh never sold a painting in his life? He gave away more than a thousand of them.’ And, again, she hurried to defend her father and his chosen occupation: ‘But some of Orlando’s pals are getting quite well known in art circles. They’re being offered really high prices for their work in the Paris salerooms. Fortunes have been made. If anyone offers you a canvas while you’re here, Joe—don’t refuse it, will you?’
He promised he would accept anything he might be offered by any of the inmates with a convincing show of pleasure. And pleasure might be just what he experienced, he corrected himself, remembering the one or two attractive and unusual pictures Dorcas had herself been given by her father’s friends. He’d noted—and instantly coveted—one portrait of a dark-haired girl who could be no one but Dorcas, standing barefoot and windblown on a Mediterranean beach. The ugly scrawled signature at the bottom would have been unknown at the time of painting but Pablo Picasso was, these days, a name to be reckoned with in the saleroom.
After a noisy grind upwards in bottom gear, they arrived at a flat turning space in front of the entrance to the castle. Joe paused and put the handbrake on, reluctant at the last moment to commit himself to crossing the drawbridge.
The watcher at the summit of the north-east tower grunted in surprise. What was this? It could only be the brat arriving at last. In the company of the Englishman. But a hesitant Englishman? Circumspect and careful?
Lips curled in derision as the dark man jumped lithely from the car, bossily pointed a staying finger at his companion and proceeded to stroll over and subject the drawbridge to an unhurried examination. The underside was checked, the hauling mechanism inspected, the central planks stamped upon by a hefty English brogue and finally the man did what he should have done in the first place: he walked across and noted the presence in the courtyard of two vehicles heavier than his own tin-can conveyance.
‘Get on with it, man!’ the watcher yearned to cry out. ‘You’re already a week late and unwelcome at that! The way is clear before you—just deliver your package and get out. While you can.’ But curiosity took the place of impatience. This was surely a display of untypical behaviour? One would have looked for an arrogant charge across the bridge followed by the squeal of brakes and an uninhibited: ‘Halloooo the château! Anyone at home?’
The castle, over the centuries, had seen its share of English invaders and they’d never knocked politely. Roving gangs of masterless men for the most part, men for whom murdering, robbing and rape were a way of life. The dregs of crusading armies, they had deserted their cause to range unchallenged over a defenceless Europe.
Not quite defenceless.
The watcher smiled and looked to the west in the direction of the mighty Rhône. Distance, even from this vantage point, hid the gleaming towers of the fortress across the river from Avignon, but the image was easily and comfortingly conjured up: a white stronghold glowing against an ethereally blue sky, straight from the pages of a Book of Hours. And, farther yet, Tarascon, Les Baux, Carcassonne, Aigues Mortes. Defences against barbaric invasion.
And here was another northern barbarian at the gate, preparing to cross over.
There were more ways than one of defending a castle. The medieval architects had known their job. If you didn’t want to have your drawbridge hacked down, your walls pounded into rubble, foundations undermined, you could always discreetly leave the way open, invite entry … Once inside the courtyard and completely surrounded, a small army could be—and on several occasions here had been—massacred by concealed defenders.
The watcher smiled. ‘Come in! Come in! Test the warmth of our welcome!’
At last, the fastidious Englishman, apparently satisfied, had returned to his car.
‘Well, if a Hispano-Suiza and a heavily laden gypsy cart can survive the trip over, I think we can do it in a Morris,’ Joe announced. ‘It’s usually safe to take the road well-travelled.’ He turned to Dorcas and grabbed her by the shoulder. Excited by the mention of the gypsy cart, she was already halfway out of the car, bare legs and sandalled feet sliding over the running board.
‘Stop wriggling and listen!’ He spoke to her in the guardian’s voice he found he had developed over the past months. ‘Look, Dorcas … last chance to say this … I’ve learned a thing or two about assessing new diggings from billeting officers. Security, hygiene and comfort. That’s what you look for. In that order. Now, I think we can probably say of this handout—walls three yards thick: secure enough! From external assault at least. But the other two requirements? Do you suppose they have running water up here? Decent kitchens and proper ablutions? Flea-free mattresses? I won’t leave you behind in dubious conditions. Aunt Lydia would have my guts for garters!’
Unusually, Dorcas did not pour scorn on his concern. She’d grown accustomed, he guessed, to the high level of cleanliness and comfort maintained in Surrey.
‘Whatever your confidence,’ he went on, ‘always plan for retreat! We learned that much at Mons. I checked with the landlord back in the village that they had rooms to spare at the inn—and the telephone.’
‘Ah! I thought you were taking your time in there.’
‘I was making myself known to Monsieur Ferro and charming his good lady. I pointed you out and sketched for them the rough outline of your situation. Motherless child … arty father … concerned but distracted uncle. I even displayed my warrant card and gave poor old Inspector Bonnefoye’s name as a referee … you can imagine. The upshot is that they’re prepared—and encouraged by a generous deposit!—to take you in at a moment’s notice. Should you want to bale out at any time, you can cut along there and present yourself. And ring me in Antibes. You have my number.’
She didn’t argue but sat back in her seat and thanked him quietly. Then, suddenly alarmed, she clutched his arm. ‘Joe, you’re not going straight off, are you? I thought you’d perhaps stay for a day or two. Meet Orlando’s friends. You might find them interesting. Pablo might be here … He usually turns up … I know Henri Matisse is due to come up from Nice to put on a teaching session like the ones he used to give in Paris. There may be a poet … a dancer or two. You can carouse with Orlando till the small hours …’ Her voice trailed away as she realized that none of her offers was likely to be attractive to a man with his sights on the Riviera.