THE LAST TIME I had climbed up here, it had been to find a shiny revolver pointed at me. I would be more careful this time. I studied the geography in more detail before I made a move. The ledge ran across the cliff edge and three-quarters of the way up. The only way up to it from where I stood was the same that I had used on the previous occasion, at the west end. I could see cave mouths along the ledge. At the east end of the ledge, a trail snaked up and onto the ridge at the top where eucalyptus trees grew in what looked like dense woods, though the ground sloped back and out of sight.
I made the climb keeping a careful eye on the ledge whenever it was in sight. I saw no further movement and reached the ledge hardly out of breath. At the mouth of the first cave, I paused and listened. It was quiet but for the soft buzz of cicadas. I walked carefully along and into the third cave—the one where I had seen movement from below.
The antechamber was large and could have housed dozens of people. The walls looked ancient and caves ran in three directions. I froze—I thought I had heard a sound and I held my breath. There was only silence. I took a step then stopped… there was something, a sort of scuffling sound, a scraping. I listened, then gave it longer. My heartbeat had settled down to a dull thump by that time and I decided to look briefly into each cave, going as far as the penetration of the outside daylight permitted.
I had taken no more than a dozen steps when I was hit by a fast-moving body that seemed to weigh a ton. I crashed to the ground, the wind knocked out of me, trying to see in the semidarkness who my assailant was and how I could protect myself. I could make out only a long dark shape, then to my horror, there was another—and another.
Before I could roll away, I was engulfed in massive fleshy bodies and the porcine stench confirmed my worst fear—sangliers, wild boars. Slobbering jaws brushed my face and I tried to jerk myself clear, but wherever I turned there was another of the creatures. I fought to get to my feet but their hairy, bristly carcasses were everywhere, grunting and snorting. I expected to feel the excruciating stab of a tusk at any second and kept rolling this way and that to avoid their aim. Their prickly hide was disgusting as it rasped my skin and I could feel spines rip my clothes. Boar saliva trickled down my face and revolted me but the fear of a daggerlike tooth ripping into me was worse.
I continued to roll and twist to escape the inevitable thrust of one of those spearlike tusks while the memory of Emil Laplace’s body with its myriad bleeding wounds rose vivid in my mind. I was so exhausted from the buffeting and beating that I was taking that I seemed to be floating in a world of smelly, snorting, massive shapes. I was battered and aching and losing consciousness when a shock wave reverberated through the cave, a hollow boom that sent echoes bouncing off the walls and made my eardrums tingle.
The sangliers growled in what I hoped was apprehension. They backed away. One of them ran, snuffling and snorting into the safety and darkness of the cave interior and the others followed. I lay there in the stillness, hardly able to believe that I was still alive. I gulped a lungful of the stinking air and staggered out into daylight.
At the far end of the ledge, I took the path that went up to the top of the ridge. Scrubby undergrowth covered the ground and the trees looked invitingly safe. When I was close to them, I took stock of myself. I could hardly believe it but I couldn’t find any blood. Why had a sanglier killed Emil and not me? Not even a flesh wound!
My clothes were a mess, my shoes were badly scuffed, and I had splintered a fingernail but it was a negligible price to pay. My spirits rose as I began to fully appreciate that I had no splintered bones and no lacerations. I wondered what the noise had been that had frightened off the sangliers … then it came again.
In the confines of the cave it hadn’t been an identifiable sound, but out here there was no mistake. It was a gunshot, and the leaves in the eucalyptus trees crackled. I dropped to the ground—had I escaped the frying pan to enter the fire, in this case gunfire? The explosion came again and this time it was much closer. Where could I hide? Back in the caves? Not likely! Before I could make a decision, a man came into sight. He was carrying a large gun and it was pointed right at me.
This was clearly not my day. Almost killed by a crossbow bolt, nearly mauled to death by wild boars, and now shot at with a very loud gun
The man came closer. It was a shotgun he carried, and as he approached me he snapped it open at the breach. Was I reprieved? Why? He was wearing hunting clothes—denim pants, a jacket with large pockets, big boots, and a floppy hat. He looked familiar.
“Hello!” he greeted me jovially. “How are you?”
There were several answers but I wasn’t ready with any of them. I recognized him now—it was Marcel Delorme, the elderly wine master at the Willesford vineyard.
“I hope I didn’t frighten you,” he said. “I thought it was a good day to do some hunting with everyone at the festival.”
He was staring at my clothes. No wonder. I looked like a tramp down on his luck. “Did you have an accident?” he inquired solicitously.
“I was attacked by sangliers. I’m lucky to be alive. Your gunshot scared them away.”
His eyes were big. “Sangliers?” He started to laugh. I didn’t join him. “Sangliers?” he spluttered. “You were in one of the caves?”
“Yes and several of them attacked me. What’s so funny?”
He wiped away a tear. “There are no sangliers here in the caves. Those are just pigs.”
“Nonsense. They were huge, they mauled me—nearly killed me.”
“They were being friendly, they were kissing you. This breed of pig is very affectionate.” He was still chuckling at this, city slicker who didn’t know the difference between belligerent boars and passionate pigs. I wondered if there was a possibility that he was right and that was why I had no injuries.
There was no chance that I was going to admit it, though.
“Well, it’s a good thing you came along anyway. You saved my life.”
He was starting to laugh again and argue that statement, but he caught my eye and thought better of it.
“Do you want to come and get cleaned up?” he asked instead.
“Thanks, but I’d better go back to the auberge and clean up properly.”
He nodded. “I’ll try my luck a little longer, then. I saw some fat quail up here but haven’t been able to get any yet.”
“Those pigs …”
“Yes?”
“They live in the caves?”
“They were Emil’s. He bought them some time ago. They were extremely attached to him—they are very friendly animals.”
“What did you think about his death?”
He got a faraway look in his eye and avoided my gaze.
“That couldn’t have been his own pigs. They are all female, they don’t have tusks. He must have run into a real sanglier—a wild one.” He brought his attention back to me. “Were you looking for something in the caves?”
“Just curious,” I said. “Did the Romans really use them for storage?”
“So they say.” Like many rural French, history in his own backyard didn’t interest him much.
“The Templars too?”
“People come looking for their treasure.” He sounded dismissive.
“Do they ever find any?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? If you found any, would you tell?”
He had a point there. He pulled out a couple of shotgun shells and snapped them home.
“I must get on with my hunting now. Good day to you.”
Once again, I had to run the gauntlet to get to my room without raising an alarm. I had a warm, relaxing bath, firmly resisted the idea of a glass of champagne, and phoned Sir Charles.
“It’s not two weeks already, is it?” were his first words. His next were a short time later after I had described Fox’s death.
“An accident,” he said anxiously. “Nothing to do with our business.”
“It’s not clear yet.”
“What’s all this dowsing?” he wanted to know. “Never heard of a vineyard hiring a dowser,” he muttered after I had told him what I knew of Fox’s activities.
“Nor did I. Could be unconnected.”
“Hmm,” he said. “Anything else?”
I thought it better not to worry him with tales of beehives falling from me sky and near drowning in a vat of red wine. As for being attacked by a herd of killer sangliers and nearly having my head blown off by a shotgun—well, there are just some things an investigator doesn’t report.
I went down for a swim, changed, and went into the lounge, where I ordered an atypical scotch and soda. I settled down with it in a comfortable armchair and looked through a pile of magazines on the table. My browsing came to an abrupt stop as I came upon an article headlined “Seeking the Treasure of the Templars.” It was in a National Geographic-style publication and the whole issue was devoted to the myth and legend of Provence. I recalled only fragments about the Templars and this was an excellent summary of their history.
They were monks who were also warriors. They protected pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land during the first Crusades. They took their name from the Temple in Jerusalem, swearing to win it back for Christianity. By the time of the later Crusades, they were the most powerful organization in Europe. They paid no taxes and were richer than most countries.
Inevitably, as their power and wealth increased, envious eyes were cast upon them, and King Philip of France, his own finances in disastrous shape, denounced the Templars as devil worshippers and seized their possessions. Many Templars were killed and others tortured to death. Frequent and determined efforts to find the treasure had been unsuccessful, though there was a lot of truth in Marcel’s statement that anyone finding any of it would hardly be likely to let out the news. Metal detectors, ultrasonic beams, X-rays, and other technical equipment had been employed in the search as well as … I reread the phrase twice … “as well as dowsers.”
Had Elwyn Fox been one of those dowsers? Who could have hired him? Had he been killed because of what he had found? I remembered him telling me what a wonderful day he had had the day before. Had he actually found treasure?
Henri, the headwaiter, came to bring the menu and tell me that one of the specials of the day was crayfish, so his recommendation was to start with the gratin de queues d’ecrevisses. I told him that he evidently went along with the French proverb that “the best cooking is that which takes into consideration the products of the season.” He beamed and agreed, going on to say that for the next course, the kitchen had just received some daurades, a popular Mediterranean fish that is at its best when eaten straight from the sea. Henri proposed it poached in champagne and I concurred. After three attempts on my life, I deserved a good meal.
The main course required a lot of deliberation. Sweetbreads in nantua sauce was a contender, and chicken described as being “in the style of Sacha Guitry” was another. I knew that the great writer and director was a lover of good food, but I didn’t know which dish it was that he enjoyed so much that it was named after him.
“And what else can you offer?” I asked blithely.
Henri sighed and proposed beef stroganoff as a subtle rebuke for daring to decline such a sublime presentation. I finally settled on another of the “products of the season”—Partridge à la Valentinoise, which Henri said was roasted until just pink and served with a sauce of meat glaze, wine, Armagnac, fresh cream, and black pepper.
The gratin was a little bland but the daurades were perfect. The partridge was excellent, too, though I had pangs of regret for not ordering Sacha Guitry’s favorite chicken. A white Châteauneuf-du-Pape went very well with it and I even had a dessert—a soufflé with Grand Marnier. I watched some terrible French television for a while—a soap opera episode in which revelations of incest, blackmail, and betrayal were followed by recrimination, revenge, remorse, and reconciliation. I think the episode ended with a suspicion that the family jewels had been replaced by replicas, but that started me in more speculation about Templar treasure. …