Close by, the bell tolled one o’clock, a solemn sound above the chuckling fountain. Through the open window swept a sudden breath of cold night air, and the shadows on my ceiling stilled their motion as the street lamps were extinguished. All the shadows, that is, except one.
It might have been the moon, passing high among the clouds outside, that made the dim reflection on my wall, and what I heard I blamed on my imagination, or the wind. ‘Follow,’ said the shadow, as it slipped across my bed. ‘Follow …’
A sudden breath of chill air blew my window open wider, and the curtains flapped and fluttered like a wild tormented ghost. My heart leapt, frightened, to my throat, but I forced it back again. Fool, I called myself, as I rose and hugged my blanket round me. There’s nothing there.
But just to make absolutely certain of that, I leaned across the window sill and looked down at the sleeping square.
The black-and-white cat moved stealthily between the rustling acacias, from shadow into light and back again, carefully avoiding the spray of the glittering fountain. On soundless feet, the cat traversed the empty square and crossed to sniff the planter set beside the hotel door. My gaze followed, and fell and with a startled jolt I saw that I was not the only one awake and watching the cat.
Neil Grantham’s hair looked white in moonlight. Ruffled by the night breeze, it was the only thing that moved. His hands lay still upon the railing of the narrow balcony, and beneath the leather jacket his shoulders were immobile, carved of stone. He didn’t seem to breathe.
And then his head began to turn and I drew quickly back, away from the window, and the curtains drifted past me on a sigh that was not mine.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I rose and …
Found a still place.
The cat came to me early next morning. How it found me I’ll never know; I’d walked some distance from the hotel to the hushed and peaceful Promenade, where the plane trees grew tall and regal by the river’s edge. But the black-and-white cat came to me nonetheless, and curled itself wearily into my lap with a wide indulgent yawn.
He’d had a hard night, from the looks of it.
He looked, in fact, much like I felt: tired and rumpled and out of sorts. I always felt like that when I hadn’t slept well. It was an inherited curse, insomnia. My granddad had it, and my father, and they’d kindly passed it on to me, so that from time to time I found myself counting sheep into quadruple digits, while I tried to will my aching brain to stop its restless thinking. It didn’t happen often any more, but when it did it always brought me to a place like this, a quiet place where I could watch the sunrise. Things seemed less important, somehow, once the sun was up.
Behind me, on the cliffs, the château bell sang seven times – they’d just be starting breakfast service back at the hotel. I ought to be getting back. But not just yet, I thought. Not yet. I smiled as I gently stroked the sleeping cat, and lifted vague unfocused eyes to gaze along the Promenade.
Row facing row the plane trees stood, ghostly pale and thick with green, mute sentries from an age long past. Beneath the arching canopy of leaves a raked red gravel path invited idle footsteps, like my own, and garden benches beckoned one to pause and watch the world drift by.
From my own bench I could see clear across the Vienne, past the jutting point of the little island to the darkly wooded shore that lay beyond. And in between, cold and still like a sheet of ice, the river breathed a veil of mist that caught and spread the dawning spears of sunlight.
Earlier I’d watched a yellow kayak cleave that mist, dancing the current down towards the bridge. Earlier still, a woman with a dog had passed me by, her step brisk and purposeful. But now there was only me, and the cat, and the ducks chattering noisily along the riverbank.
My mind had begun to drift idly along with the river when the cat suddenly shifted position, claws pricking through my woollen jumper. I winced, and looked to see the cause of its alarm.
I didn’t have to look far. Four trees away a little spotted dog, nose fixed to the ground, came trotting round a metal litter bin. It was obvious that the dog hadn’t yet taken note of us, and even more obvious that it posed no immediate danger to my bristling cat – this because the dog was attached by a bright red lead to a man standing, slouched, with his back to the river, his face cast half in shadow by the flat morning light.
The gypsy wasn’t alone. Another man had stopped beside him on the blood-red path, a tall long-limbed man with hair so fair it shone in that soft morning light like silver. The gypsy spoke, and gestured, and I saw Neil shake his head, and tossing back some smiling comment he came on towards me.
‘Good morning,’ he greeted me. ‘Mind if I join you?’
There seemed no escaping the man, I thought, despite my best efforts. I shifted to make room for him on the bench and he sat down with a decided thump, angling himself against the armrest so he could look at me. ‘You have a thing for cats, I take it? Or are you out to comfort every stray in Chinon?’
‘Not every stray. Just this one.’
‘Is this your chap from Saturday night, then?’ He reached a careful hand to scratch the dirty black-and-white head. The cat, less nervous, subsided into my lap and stared at him through half-closed eyes. ‘Well, what do you know.’ Neil’s own eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘He gets about, this one. I think I saw him prowling about last night, as well.’ Withdrawing his hand, he stretched his long legs out before him, ankles crossed. ‘He seems rather affectionate, for a stray.’