THE BOLT FROM THE crossbow passed so close that I could feel its hot breath singe my cheek. As thoughts tumbled through my brain, the first of them postulated that I had been hit. Hadn’t I read that you didn’t feel the pain at first? That idea was immediately dispelled by a horrible gasping sound from behind me and I turned amid cries and shouts of terror to find Elwyn Fox falling to the ground, his hands desperately grasping the long, black metal bolt protruding from his throat.
The next minutes were a chaotic jumble of events with one emerging as dominant—the gendarme, Aristide Pertois, was there, bending over Fox even as the Welshman gurgled his last precious seconds of air and died with a flow of blood spreading across his chest.
It wasn’t until I was in one of the offices in the mairie that my mind came back to normal. Pertois had somehow found an official to open up the building and Fox was carried inside. The gendarme told me to follow him and I was too stunned to do otherwise. Fox’s body was taken into one room while Pertois led me into another. He murmured a few words to one of the men and a minute later a small glass of brandy was pressed into my hand. Pertois disappeared for a while. I lost track of time, then he came back to sit on the edge of a table facing me as I sprawled in a chair, physically and mentally devastated.
“A horrible thing,” he said quietly. I nodded.
“Tell me exactly how it happened.”
I did so, glad of the opportunity to do something, whatever it was, even if it meant reliving those ghastly moments.
“What did you talk about in La Colombe?” he asked.
“He told me that yesterday was a wonderful day.”
Pertois leaned forward. “Did he say why?”
“I said he must have found millions of gallons of water in his dowsing efforts. He shook his head but he was still so pleased with himself that I assumed he had found something else. It seemed unlikely to me that he was looking for water but I had no idea what else he could be dowsing.”
“What did you think he was dowsing for?”
“I’ve heard stories about treasure. The Treasure of the Templars in particular.”
He sat back onto the table, not taking his gaze off me. “Provence is full of such stories. They probably told you the Templar treasure is guarded by dragons too, didn’t they?”
“Yes, and I saw one of them today.”
“In the parade—yes.” His agreeable tone suddenly developed a razor edge. “Out of your line anyway, isn’t it? You’re writing about vineyards. Why are you investigating dowsers and treasure?”
“It seemed like a good subject for another article. Vineyards are still the subject I’m mainly interested in. Besides,” I went on, not wanting to be too docile, “I’m not investigating, I’m just gathering information.”
His steady gaze didn’t waver. If skepticism could be expressed in silence, he was a master at it. I told him the rest. “When I was talking to Fox, he seemed to be having some strange seizures. It was if he were having extrasensory experiences. He warned me of danger. Then when the Cathars came flooding out of that wagon, he pointed and looked terrified—as if he were seeing a vision. Seconds later, the crossbow went off.”
“Eh bien,” he said, the French equivalent of “Ah, well” and just as meaningless. “I must go. We will continue tomorrow at nine in my office. You know where the Poste Provisoire de la Gendarmerie is?”
He described its location. I went out into the sunshine where people were still moving around, determined to enjoy the rest of their ruined day. I was still undecided on where I would go as I drove out of the village. The two vineyards seemed to be the obvious places. Whatever was going on revolved round them…
The Peregrine vineyard was first. I parked near the shining stainless steel barrels and went to the door of the only building. It was locked, as I might have expected. I circled the building, looking for another door. There was one in the back but it was locked too.
It was a small facility for wine production. I guessed the output of the vineyard to be about a thousand liters an acre as it was fairly good-quality wine. There were about four acres, so that was four thousand liters—just over five thousand bottles. It was small. Barely enough to support Gerard let alone show a profit for a Monte Carlo-based conglomerate.
I strolled down to the rows of low bushes that held the grapes—the heart and soul of the vineyard. They looked healthy, and in the time between now and the harvest would grow appreciably. Professor Rahmani came to mind. How much larger and juicier could he make these grapes if he applied his ideas to them? Another thought occurred—was he applying his methods?
From this position, the chalky cliffs and their yawning black holes looked innocent, yet held a touch of hidden menace. I could see them from the same angle as when I was with Gerard and had seen a figure appear, then hastily duck back out of sight. Surely … I shaded my eyes to see more clearly … There was no mistake. There was movement on the ledge in front of one of the cave mouths.