Tower of Shadows Read Free Page B

are, but I hope you've
    mellowed. Or that we never meet. Because you could make a nasty
    enemy.'

CHAPTER TWO
    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
    astonished help, she'd managed to ascertain that as Isabelle
    Riquard's only child, Sabine was legal heir to Les Hiboux.
    A house in France was a luxury she couldn't afford, but she needed
    to visit it at least once —to make a reasoned decision about the
    future of her unexpected inheritance. She'd flown to Bordeaux the
    previous day, and rented a car at the airport. She'd taken her time,
    driving down to Bergerac, conscious of the left-hand drive, and
    unfamiliar road conditions.
    'Driving in France is bliss,' everyone had told her. 'Marvellous
    roads, and half the traffic.'
    So far she had to agree. The route from Bordeaux to Bergerac had
    been straight and fast, and presented her with few problems. And
    she'd been charmed with Bergerac itself. She'd booked in to a hotel
    on the Place Gambetta, had a leisurely bath to iron out the kinks of
    the journey, then followed the receptionist's directions to the old
    part of the town, a maze of narrow streets where old timbered
    buildings leaned amiably towards each other.
    Although there were plenty of tourists about, mainly British,
    German and Dutch, Sabine had judged, she had no sense of being
    in a crowd. There seemed to be space for everyone.
    In one square, she'd found a statue of Cyrano de Bergerac, his
    famous nose sadly foreshortened, probably by vandals, but
    otherwise much as Rostand had envisaged him.
    There were plenty of bars and restaurants to choose from, but
    Sabine had already mentally opted for a simple meal. She was too
    much on edge to plunge whole-heartedly into the delights of
    Perigordian cuisine, she'd decided ruefully.
    She had found a traditional-style establishment, full of oak beams
    and dried flowers, which specialised in meat grilled on an open
    fire in the restaurant itself. She'd ordered a fillet steak,
    accompanied by a gratin dauphinois and green beans, and while
    this was being prepared sipped the aperitif suggested by the
    patronne, a glass of well-chilled golden Monbazillac wine. It was
    like tasting honey and flowers, she had thought, beginning
    perceptibly to relax.
    To her disappointment, she had not been able to find a Chateau La
    Tour Monchauzet vintage on the wine-list, but the half-bottle of
    Cotes de Bergerac that she chose instead more than made up for it.
    Once she'd made her decision to come to the Dordogne, Sabine
    had read up as much as possible on the area, and she knew that
    Bergerac wines had been overshadowed in the past by the great
    vignobles of Bordeaux.
    Bordeaux had not taken kindly to competition from what it
    dismissed as 'the hinterland', and had even insisted at one point on
    Bergerac wines being shipped in smaller casks, thus forcing the
    Bergerac vignerons to pay more tax on their exports, the money
    being levied per cask. But that kind of dirty trick had been
    relegated firmly to history, and now Bergerac wines had a
    recognised and growing share of the market.
    Before she set off the following morning, she'd visited the Maison
    du Vin, which was housed in a former medieval monastery. Sabine
    had been guiltily aware of the click of her sandal heels on the flags
    of the ancient cloister, and was tempted to tiptoe instead, in case
    she upset the sleeping