Five people turned to greet him. All except one he had already met and the fifth could only be the half-brother of Philippe Florian. Mimette introduced him as her father, Yves.
At sixty the master of Ingare looked older than Simon had expected, but age had not bowed him even if it had left its mark on his face. He matched the Saint for height, and unlike his brother carried no excess weight. Simon could see where Mimette had inherited her looks, and reckoned that Florian had been more than averagely handsome in his youth. Now his face was deeply lined around tired eyes, and what had once been a lean face had become gaunt, but his handshake was strong and his smile was unquestionably genuine as he welcomed his guest.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Templar. I have heard everything you did for us. I am very grateful.”
“It was very little, and the damage to my car was not your fault,” Simon disclaimed.
Yves Florian offered a drink from the row of bottles on the sideboard, and Mimette told him: “I think Monsieur Templar should stay for a few days. I’m sure he would be interested to watch the start of the wine-making.”
“I should be delighted,” Yves responded cordially.
Philippe turned quickly away and poured himself another Scotch from the bottle beside him.
Yves indicated the others in the room.
“I understand you have already met Henri Pichot. May I present his uncle, Gaston Pichot. Gaston is our overseer, taster, chief blender, and hardest worker, and without him Ingare would crumble overnight.”
The old man coloured slightly at his employer’s praise. He stepped forward and shook the Saint’s hand. He seemed as ill at ease in his carefully pressed black suit as he had been comfortable in his working clothes in the fields that afternoon.
“It’s nice to see you again,” said the Saint. “We met at the barn this afternoon.”
Over the sideboard hung a full-length portrait of a tall handsome man dressed in the extravagant frippery of the late eighteenth century. There was a quality about the rakish features and insolent hand-on-hilt stance that appealed to the Saint. Still groping for any sort of information, he used it as a cue to remark: “He must be another Florian — I can see a family resemblance.”
“That was the Baron Robut,” Gaston informed him, with reflected pride.
“It’s a striking portrait.”
“And a striking man, though his contemporaries would not have agreed,” Philippe put in. “They thought him a traitor for supporting the Revolution.”
“And keeping his head when all his friends were losing theirs,” added Mimette cynically. “Not only did he survive the Terror but Napoleon made him a general.”
“How long has Ingare been in your family?” was the natural question.
“Since soon after the Templars left,” Yves replied. “I have read that in 1305 a certain Esquiu de Floyran of Beziers offered to betray ‘the secrets of the Templars,’ whatever they may have been, first to James the Second of Aragon, and then to King Philip of France. To force the Pope’s hand, Philip was able to denounce the Templars to the Inquisition, since the Grand Inquisitor was his personal confessor and protégé. In 1307 the arrest of the Templars began. It is thought that Floyran may have received Ingare as part of his reward, and that the name ‘Florian’ was derived from his.”
“One sees the family resemblance to Baron Robut,” observed Mimette acidly.
“Who knows what reasons people may have had, so many centuries ago?” said Yves goodhumouredly.
Charles came in to announce that dinner was ready, and there was a move towards the dining table.
Yves Florian took the head of it, and seated the Saint on his right and Mimette on his left. Philippe was placed next to Mimette, Gaston and Henri next to the Saint. As he unfolded his serviette, Yves looked at the empty seat beside Philippe and frowned.
“And where is our worthy professor this evening?” he wondered.
“Still prospecting, I suppose,” said Mimette and the others laughed at what was clearly a standing joke.
As Mrs. Charles, as Simon had dubbed the major-domo’s wife, wheeled in a trolley with a large serving platter of truites amandine and hot plates which she proceeded to distribute, Norbert entered. He apologised for his lateness and sat down.
“Any luck today?” Mimette asked pleasantly.
The professor regarded her as he might have regarded an impudent student.
“It is not a question of luck but of knowledge and application,” he said primly.
“Then we can be sure you will succeed if you only have enough time,” Henri said with studiously veiled sarcasm.
Mrs. Charles brought the platter to each place in turn for the guests to help themselves, while Charles himself circulated with a bottle of the château’s white wine; and Yves turned courteously to the Saint to interpret the cryptic conversation.
“The Templars were believed to have amassed a tremendous fortune at the height of their prosperity. Louis Norbert has a theory that some of it could well have been stored in such a Templar stronghold as this.”
“If it had been, everyone would have been looking for it when the castle fell,” Philippe said confidently. “It is hardly likely that it would still be hidden after six hundred and forty years.”
“More likely the Templars took it with them,” Henri said.
“Perhaps they did not have the opportunity,” ventured Gaston.
“At any rate, it is an interesting dream,” said Yves, with soothing impartiality. “And it harms nobody.”
The Saint was not so sure about that, but he said nothing.
In a few minutes, he had been presented with more information than he should have dared to hope for, but he did not propose to take sides in the debate. On the contrary, he had a sudden urge to efface himself as much as possible.
It was almost a relief when Mimette changed the subject by asking her father if he had heard the weather forecast for the next day, and Simon’s rampant curiosity could take a breather while the conversation reverted to banalities.
The trout were followed by rare roast beef, presliced in the kitchen and presented in the same style by Mrs. Charles on a similar platter with its garniture of fresh vegetables. The Saint suppressed a pang at the reminder that French custom and cuisine, for all its artistry and refinement, would never admit that the best and only way to roast rare beef is on the rib, under its natural overcoat of self-basting fat, instead of trimming it down to a totally cholesterol-free dietician’s boneless dream, dried on the outside and without richness within. The vegetables, however, were expectable perfection, a classic contrast to the Anglo-American school of stick-’em-in-a-quart-of-water-and-boil-to-a-pulp. As an uninvited guest, it was up to him to enjoy the fare, and the spirit in which it had been offered.
Mimette and Philippe appeared to have called a truce for the duration of the dinner. She talked with her father about the prospects for the harvest while her uncle became engrossed in a conversation with Henri about some new laws about labelling that were apparently about to come into force. Norbert spoke only when spoken to, which was not often.
Simon complimented Gaston on the red wine which Charles poured to accompany the beef, the same wine that had been recommended to him at lunch. From that it was an easy transition to the problems of a winery in wartime, and he found that once the old man’s natural reserve was breached he made a fascinating companion. The Saint heard about his soldiering in the first war and his activities with the Resistance in the second. They were not the boasts of the dinner-table general but the mostly amusing, sometimes poignant, anecdotes of a private soldier. The more they talked the more the Saint warmed to him. But despite the soothing effects of the food and wine and his genuine interest in the stories, he also heard the conversations of the others around the table and was constantly alert for any additional background knowledge that he could pick up directly or indirectly.