Thierry admitted that he didn’t know. ‘But then, I do not always pay attention. I think that he is gone to hear the Mass somewhere.’
‘I’m surprised you haven’t gone to Mass yourself,’ Paul said. ‘You could use a confession, my friend.’
Thierry merely grinned and raised his shoulders in a carefree shrug. ‘But I must work on Sundays,’ he excused himself. ‘Who else would serve your breakfasts?’
Which was probably just as well. Judging by the shadows beneath his dark eyes and the rather wickedly rumpled look he was sporting after what had obviously been a wild Saturday night, I decided Thierry’s soul was very likely past redemption.
‘He’s superhuman,’ Simon said, with grudging admiration, as Thierry left us to attend an older couple seated by the window. ‘He wore us out completely last night, at the disco. You should have been there, Emily.’
I pulled a face. ‘I’m much too old for discos.’
Paul stopped pouring his second cup of coffee long enough to roll his eyes. ‘Oh, right. What are you, thirty?’
‘Twenty-eight.’
‘Positively ancient,’ he said drily. ‘They’ll be fitting you for false teeth next, I guess.’
‘Besides,’ Simon added, ‘age is no excuse. Neil’s come out with us a couple of times, and he’s forty-something. He dances pretty good for an old guy.’
‘Pretty well,’ Paul corrected him, automatically.
‘Whatever.’ Simon grimaced. ‘Remind me to get some aspirin later.’
‘I’ve got some,’ I offered, reaching for my handbag. ‘Somewhere, that is. I don’t know why I carry all this, I can never find anything.’ Rifling through the overstuffed bag, I started to remove things, one by one, piling them beside my empty plate. My bulging wallet, sunglasses, two pens, a packet of tissues, a crinkled tourist map of Chinon, a square of thick paper with printing on it …
‘Hey,’ said Simon, pouncing on the latter. ‘What’s this? You’ve been holding out on us.’
I glanced up. ‘What? Oh, it’s just an invitation.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Simon flipped the card around to show his brother. ‘To the Clos des Cloches.’
Paul whistled, impressed. ‘Who’d you have to kill to get that?’
‘No one.’ I smiled. ‘They just gave it to me. Aha!’ I found the aspirin at last, and handed the bottle to Simon.
He took it absently, tapping the edge of the card with one finger. ‘The Clos des Cloches is where that tunnel leads, from the château.’
Paul caught my eye. ‘Oh, here we go.’
‘No, no,’ said Simon, ‘I was only thinking that it might be kind of neat to get inside, you know. To find out what the tunnel looks like at that end.’
‘I would think it looks a lot like a wine cellar,’ was Paul’s dry comment. ‘And they probably would have noticed by now if Queen Isabelle’s jewel box was lying around.’
‘Not if she buried it.’
‘You are not,’ Paul said firmly, ‘going to dig up the poor guy’s wine cellar.’
Simon ignored him and rocked back in his chair, deep in thought. ‘I wonder if there’s any place in town that rents out metal detectors.’
Paul looked at me. ‘I told you this would happen.’
I laughed. ‘I don’t mind, honestly. And Simon, if you want to use the invitation—’
‘Oh, no, it’s yours, I wouldn’t steal it from you. But,’ he added, with a grin, ‘there’s nothing here that says you can’t bring guests.’
He was quite right. The card wasn’t even addressed to a specific person. A small, mischievous thought began to glimmer at the back of my mind. Armand Valcourt had flung a challenge down last night – he expected me to come. I didn’t doubt that he was used to having women swoon in all directions when he smiled. He was probably sitting up there now, waiting for me to ring him, and feeling smug about the whole affair. And I knew just the way to wipe that smug look off his face. ‘All right. I’ll ring the Clos des Cloches and arrange a tour for the three of us. For today, if you like.’
‘But no metal detectors,’ Paul instructed, turning knowing eyes on his brother. ‘And no shovels.’
Simon promised nothing. ‘This morning would be good,’ he said. ‘We don’t have anything planned for this morning.’
Indulgently, I checked my watch. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Paul had been right about Simon, I thought – once he set his mind to something, he was rather like a great shaggy dog with a bone. When I would have dawdled an extra minute over my coffee cup, he pushed and prodded me up the stairs instead. He would probably have followed me right to my room, to see that I dialled the telephone properly, if he hadn’t been distracted by the sudden, shocking oath that greeted us on the first floor landing.
‘Careful, Neil,’ Paul called out. ‘It’s Sunday.’
‘I don’t bloody care,’ Neil’s voice came back, and then his head came round the open door to his room. ‘Do any of you know anything about hi-fis?’
Forty-something? I thought, looking at his longish hair and unlined face. I’d not believe it. He looked half that age this morning. Something had clearly irritated him – his mouth was set in a thin, tight line, his dark eyes narrow with impatience.