“And if I see you slacking I’ll dock your pay,” she told him sternly.
The Saint tucked his forelock.
“Oui, mademoiselle,” he said humbly, in a creditable imitation of the local accent.
She laughed as she left him to his work. He had had no intention of lending a hand when he left the château. The idea had been spontaneous. He believed in collecting experiences. He had never taken part in a grape harvest. Here was a grape harvest, so why not take part?
He discovered that grape picking was far harder work than it appeared and it tested even his stamina. After two hours of non-stop toil in the heat of the day he had managed to locate muscles he had forgotten existed, and his hands and arms were stained a dark purple from the juice that burst from the ripe fruit.
He talked to the other pickers as he carried his basket to and from the truck. Including Pascal and Jules, they were respectful and distant — and, he guessed, suspicious of his working among them. But there was no sign of the hostility that Gaston had tried to hint about.
A halt was called at midday and he sat beside Mimette in the shade of the cypress trees, tucking in to coarse bread, saucisson, strong cheese, and vin very ordinaire with the same relish as if it had been a meal at Maxim’s. When both hunger and thirst had been sated, he told her of his encounter with Jeanne Corday.
“I heard that she arrived this morning,” she said. “What is she like?”
He considered his reply carefully.
“Can you imagine a cross between Mae West, Marlene Dietrich, and a playful boa constrictor?” he inquired.
Mimette’s eyes widened incredulously.
“She can’t be such a mixture as that!”
“That’s just my impression, and don’t quote me. Where did Henri meet her?”
“In Paris, I suppose. The first I heard about it was when he wrote to Gaston saying he had become engaged.”
“I think poor old Gaston is in for a surprise,” Simon chuckled. “By the way, where is Henri?”
“I’m not sure. I think he said he was going to check the inventory at the chai.”
“And Philippe?”
Mimette scowled.
“Uncle Philippe does not believe in soiling his hands. He went into Avignon early this morning, saying he had business to attend to. I don’t care where he is as long as he keeps out of my way.”
“Well, you should,” he told her reprovingly. “First rule of warfare, always know the enemy’s position.”
“Then you do believe Philippe is the enemy,” she said, but the Saint refused to be drawn.
“Let’s just say he is a prime suspect, and leave it at that for the time being.”
He stood up. The other workers were returning to the fields but he made no move to join them. The truck was full and about to begin another trip to the chai.
“It’s been fun, but I think I’d better get back to some real work,” he told Mimette as he helped her up.
“Real work?”
“You remember, keeping my eyes open. I’ll hitch a lift back to base and see what’s happening. I’d like to take the professor up on his offer of a chat.”
“You’re sure it’s the professor you want to see and not Jeanne Corday,” Mimette inquired mischievously.
The Saint appeared suitably shocked.
“How could you suspect such a thing?” he asked in a tone of injured innocence.
As they walked towards the truck he said casually: “By the way, the garagiste came, and says he can’t repair your handiwork for some days.”
The girl’s cheeks flushed, and she looked down at her shoes to avoid his eyes.
“How did you know it was me?”
“Elementary, my dear Mimette,” Simon answered in his best Holmesian voice. “Whoever damaged the car wanted me to stay, and you were the only person who didn’t seem anxious to get rid of me. Anyway, I’ve a feeling that filing down the brake cables would have been more to a villain’s taste.”
“I’m sorry, but I had to go out and it was the only thing I could think of at the time,” said Mimette shamefacedly. “However long it takes, you must stay with us.”
“I’ll be delighted to. And I’ll keep the secret. Just one thing...”
“Yes?” she asked quickly, and the Saint smiled.
“Next time try cutting the radiator hose. It doesn’t make half as much mess.”
For a moment she was nonplussed and then she began to giggle like a schoolgirl caught playing a prank.
The memory of her high-spirited merriment stayed with him during the bumpy ride back to the château. She was a different person from the confused and angry woman he talked with the previous night, more at home in the fresh air and freedom of the fields than the heavy cloistered atmosphere of the château; and he had deliberately kept the conversation light to try and take her mind off her problems.
The driver dropped him at the château steps before taking his load around to the chai. He saw no sign of Jeanne Corday as he walked across the reception area and through the old hall to the chapel. Louis Norbert was on his hands and knees in the centre of the aisle, using a wire brush to scrub away the dirt that had filled in the letters of a tombstone set into the floor. He glanced up as the Saint entered.
“Yes?” he inquired curtly, with no attempt to conceal his irritation at being disturbed.
“Or no, as the case may be,” the Saint responded blandly.
“Do you want something?”
“A word. Several, in fact,” said the Saint as he perched on top of a pew directly in front of the professor, so that his shadow obscured the tombstone. “I thought I’d take you up on your invitation to discuss my pedigree.”
“I thought you refused to be serious about that,” said Norbert crossly, but the Saint only smiled.
“I was too hasty,” he conceded. “The past twenty-four hours have made me very interested in the Templars.”
“And their treasure, no doubt,” the professor amplified slyly.
“And their treasure,” Simon agreed. “But then I suppose it really is just a legend.”
The little man sniggered. It was a high-pitched cackle that was strangely sinister. He straightened up and peered fixedly at his visitor.
“A legend? Perhaps. Troy was only a legend until Schliemann dug it up. Tutankhamen was thought an insignificant pharaoh before Carter opened the tomb,” he snorted. “What is a legend but a memory distorted by time? The treasure of the Templars exists and I shall find it.”
“I hope so,” said the Saint pleasantly, and Norbert rounded on him.
“You hope so! Why? So you can steal it? You are like the others. You think only of money. You think only in terms of gold and silver and jewels.”
“And you think in terms of acclaim from your academic cronies,” countered the Saint calmly. “Name in the newspapers, radio interviews, and a best-selling book: How 1 Found the Lost Treasure. Right? So now we understand each other there is no need to quarrel. But what was that mumbo jumbo about in the tower last night?”
“One of the charges against the Templars was that they practised black magic. You may scoff at the occult but—”
“I know, I know,” interrupted the Saint wearily. “More things in heaven and earth and so on and so forth. Okay, so let’s suppose you made contact with something or someone last night. Who was this Jacques de Molay you were all so excited about?”
Norbert regarded him coldly.
“Your arrogance is surpassed only by your ignorance.”
The Saint let the insult pass. He had a feeling that Norbert was the brand of academic who could not resist giving a lecture at the drop of a question, and he was right. The little man paced up and down the aisle as he talked.