The Splendour Falls

But then, he’d never really grown up, my father. Like all the Braden men, my father had a child’s innocence and simple faith and depthless well of energy. My Uncle Alan was the same, and Harry too. It made them all three rather charming, and I loved them for it, but it put them on a plane of life one couldn’t always reach, or share.

Harry was the worst of them, come to that. Though I was terribly fond of my only cousin, he’d driven me to the brink of murder more times than I cared to remember. Unreliable, my mother called him. I might instead have termed him ‘easily distracted’, but it amounted to much the same thing when one was left stranded at the airport because Harry had gone off exploring, somewhere. The memory made me smile suddenly, and I looked across at him with affection.

‘I’d be a proper idiot to go on holiday with you,’ I said. ‘God alone knows what trouble you might lead me into.’

He grinned at that. ‘Maybe that’s what you need, a good adventure. Bring you back to life.’

‘I’m perfectly alive, thanks very much.’

‘No you’re not.’ His eyes were serious behind the smile. ‘Not really. I miss the old Emily.’

I looked down at the spreading tangle of coloured brochures. It was a trick of light, I knew, that made me see the shadow of a woman waiting still within that tower at the ruined castle’s edge, yet for a moment she was plainly there. A young woman, staring blankly out across the years, waiting, wanting, hoping … For what, I wondered? Brave Prince Charming on his pure white charger, riding to the rescue? More fool her, I thought – he wouldn’t come. You’re on your own, my girl, I told the shadowed figure silently, you’d best accept the fact. Those happy-ever-afters never stand the test of time. The shadow faded and I looked away, to where the raindrops were still dancing down my window panes.

Harry poured the final cup of cooled tea from the pot, and settled back in his chair, his blue eyes oddly gentle as he tapped my thoughts with maddening precision. ‘If you don’t believe in fairy tales in Chinon,’ said my cousin, ‘then there’s no hope left for any of us.’

CHAPTER TWO

Arriving all confused …

I should have known better. Experience, as everyone kept pointing out, had taught me nothing. Even my Aunt Jane had raised her eyebrows when I’d told her I was going on holiday with Harry.

‘My Harry? Whatever for?’

‘He thinks I need a holiday,’ had been my answer. ‘He’s promised me adventure.’

‘How much adventure,’ she had asked me, drily, ‘were you planning on?’

I’d shrugged aside the warning. ‘I’m sure we’ll do just fine. Besides, I do like Harry.’

‘My dear Emily, that’s hardly the point. We all like Harry. But he has a habit of being, well, rather …’

‘Unpredictable?’ I’d offered, and she’d smiled.

‘That’s being kind.’

I’d reassured her it was only France that we were going to, not darkest Africa. What could possibly happen in France? And if something were to happen I was well equipped to handle it – French was at least a language I could speak, thanks to my father’s years of service at the Paris Embassy. Besides, the thought of spending two whole weeks in Chinon was terribly seductive.

Aunt Jane had listened to it all, her blue eyes twinkling, and quirked an innocent eyebrow. ‘You’ve taken out insurance, have you?’ And then she’d laughed and turned away to make the tea.

My Uncle Alan had been less cynical. ‘Just what you need,’ he’d pronounced with satisfaction. ‘Change of scenery, eh? Bit of romance.’ He’d winked at that and nudged my arm, and I had smiled as I was meant to, thinking all the while that romance was the last thing that I needed. A holiday fling perhaps, quick and painless, but real romance … well, that proved as reliable as Harry himself, and, like my cousin, it could only lead one into trouble.

Harry, for his part, had done his level best to confound our suspicions these past weeks. He’d gone ahead of me to do some of the ‘boring bits’ of research on his own – I never had liked reading rooms. But he’d been almost conscientious with our travel plans, had sent me maps and confirmation of our reservations at Chinon’s Hotel de France. He’d even telephoned on Sunday last from Bordeaux, with my final instructions.

‘Not the Gare Austerlitz, love,’ he’d corrected me cheerfully. ‘Montparnasse. You still know your way around Paris pretty well, don’t you? Just take the bus in from the airport, and then the TGV from Montparnasse to St-Pierre-des-Corps, that’s the quickest way to do it. You’ll be there before lunchtime.’

I’d stopped scrawling down directions and tapped the pen against my notepad, frowning. ‘And you will come to meet me?’

‘Certainly. I’ll be driving right across the top of Tours – that’s where St-Pierre-des-Corps is – so I’ll pick you up right at the railway station. I’ve got the red car; you shouldn’t have any trouble spotting me. Shall we say noon?’

‘That’s noon on Friday?’ I confirmed. ‘Friday the twenty-fourth?’

‘Don’t worry,’ he’d said, sounding amused. ‘I won’t forget. I’m not a total idiot, you know. Besides, I’ve had this letter, did I tell you?’ He hadn’t, as it turned out, so he went on to elaborate. The writer of the letter was some fellow history buff who’d read one of my cousin’s academic journal pieces on the lost treasure of Isabelle. ‘So presumably he reads English,’ said my cousin, ‘though his letter was in French. He’s rather cryptic, but it seems he has some information that might interest me, about the tunnels underneath the castle. Asks me can I get in touch with him. It’s wonderfully intriguing – just like that Watergate informant chap, you know the one …’