Rigaud’s arm lifted, straight from the shoulder, and he pointed past the pilot’s head at a ridgeline where towering old oaks gave way to a grim chateau with pepperpot towers—five of them, Palliser counted—rising from its walls. The day was fading, and here and there lights had come on behind the slitted windows.
A dry moat, like an open grave, surrounded it on three sides; the fourth was just a sheer drop-off to the river far below. But even from this height and distance, Palliser could see that the chateau far predated most of its more famous counterparts. This was not some frilly cupcake, designed for a royal mistress, but a fortress built by a knight back from the Crusades or a duke with his eye on a crown.
The chopper skimmed above the tops of the trees, their branches nearly grazing the bubble beneath Palliser’s feet, before banking slowly and wobbling down onto a sere, frost-covered lawn. A few dead leaves scattered in the wash from the propellers. Palliser removed his headphones, unhooked his shoulder harness, and after Rigaud had climbed out of the hatch, followed him, head bent low, as the blades stopped whirring and the engine died down.
His legs, he discovered, were a tad unsteady.
Rigaud, all in black and his dyed blond hair shining in the late-day sun, strode off, without another word, toward the main gate of the chateau, leaving Palliser, in his cashmere overcoat and his fine Italian loafers, to stumble after him, a leather briefcase holding the facsimiles from Chicago clutched in one hand.
They crossed a drawbridge, under a portcullis, and into a cobblestoned courtyard. A wide flight of steps led to a pair of doors standing open, and Palliser passed through them and into a vast entry hall with a grand escalier sweeping up it on either side. A middle-aged man was just coming down the stairs, dressed in English tweeds as if about to stroll down the lane to his local pub.
“Mr. Palliser,” he said warmly, stepping forward. “I am so pleased you could come.” His English was good, though it carried a Swiss or maybe Austrian accent.
Rigaud stood to one side, as if he were again on some parade ground awaiting review.
Palliser shook his hand and thanked him for the invitation. The man’s skin was both cool and damp, and though his blue eyes were cordial, there was also something in them that made Palliser distinctly uncomfortable. He felt, as Monsieur Linz clung to his hand a moment too long, as if he were being assessed somehow.
“What can we get you after your journey?”
“Perhaps a drink?” Palliser said, still recovering from the helicopter ride. “Scotch, neat?” He could tell already that this place was likely to be a treasure trove of art and antiques. “Followed by a tour of your magnificent home, if you would be so kind? I’m afraid I have never heard of this chateau prior to your note.”
“Few people have,” Monsieur Linz said, clapping his hands. A servant popped up out of nowhere and was dispatched for the drink. “But that’s the way we like it.” With his left arm tucked behind his back—was it shaking, Palliser wondered?—Linz strutted off to begin the tour.
“I should start by saying that the house was built in the early 1200s, by a Norman knight who had pillaged his way through the Holy Lands.”
Palliser silently congratulated himself.
“Many of the things he brought back are here still,” Linz said, waving one arm at a pair of faded tapestries adorning one wall, before ushering Palliser into a baronial hall lined with coats of armor and medieval weaponry. It was a fantastic display, worthy of the Royal Armouries in the Tower of London—swords and shields, bows and arrows, battle-axes, pikes, and spears. Their metal gleamed in the western light flooding through the casement windows. “One can only guess,” Linz said, running one hand along the dull edge of a broadsword, “what horrors they witnessed.”
Witnessed? Palliser thought. These were the very instruments of destruction.
The servant, breathless, appeared at his elbow with a silver tray on which rested a glass of Scotch.
Palliser put his briefcase down on a table before accepting the drink.
“You may leave that here,” Linz said, “I have so much to show you,” urging him on.
The tour was a lengthy one, ranging from the many salons to the top of the turrets. “As you no doubt know,” Linz said, “there was a royal edict, in the sixteenth century, decreeing that the nobility lower the walls and remove the pepperpot towers from their chateaux. The king wanted no fortresses in France that could withstand an assault by his troops, if it ever came to that.”
“But these, apparently, were spared,” Palliser observed. “Why?”
“Even then, no king dared to tamper with the Chateau Perdu. The place had acquired, shall we say, a reputation.”
“For what?”
“The dark arts,” Linz replied, with a hint of amusement. “It has served the chateau well ever since.”