The Ghost Riders of Ordebec (Commissaire Adamsberg) by Fred Vargas

Author:Fred Vargas [Vargas, Fred]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780099569558
Amazon: 0099569558
Publisher: Vintage Books
Published: 2014-03-25T04:00:00+00:00

XXIV

Night was falling as Adamsberg stopped the car in front of the chateau’s iron gates, up on the hill overlooking the citadel of Ordebec. Danglard extracted his long body from the front seat with unaccustomed agility, and went at once to stand at the gate, gripping it with both hands and looking at the building. Adamsberg read on his face unadulterated delight, a state of mind free of melancholy, which Danglard achieved only rarely. He glanced up at the great chateau built of pale stone, which no doubt represented for his deputy a kind of honey kouglof.

‘I told you you’d like it here. Is it very old, this chateau?’

‘The first lords of Ordebec are recorded in the eleventh century. But it was above all at the Battle of Orléans in 1428 that the Comte de Valleray distinguished himself when he joined the French troops commanded by the Comte de Dunois, known as Jean, the bastard son of Louis, the Duc d’Orléans.’

‘OK, Danglard, but what about the chateau?’

‘That’s what I’m explaining to you. Valleray’s son, Henri, built it after the Hundred Years War, at the end of the fifteenth century. The west wing that you can still see and the west tower date from then. But the main body of the chateau was rebuilt in the seventeenth century, and the big arches are eighteenth-century additions.’

‘Shall we ring the bell?’

‘There are at least three or four dogs barking. We can ring and then wait for an escort. I don’t know what it is with these people and their dogs.’

‘And sugar,’ added Adamsberg, tugging the bell pull.

* * *

Rémy François de Valleray, Comte d’Ordebec, was waiting for them in the library, and received them informally, still wearing the shabby blue canvas jacket that made him look like a farm labourer. But Danglard noted that each of the cut-glass goblets on the table would have cost easily a month of his salary. And that judging simply by its colour, the alcohol which they were being served made the journey from Paris entirely worthwhile. Not like the grocer’s port he had drunk out of mustard pots at the Vendermots’ house, which had made his stomach protest. The library must have contained about a thousand volumes, and the walls were lined with about forty paintings, at which Commandant Danglard’s jaw dropped. In short, the kind of surroundings to be found in an aristocratic mansion where money had not yet run short, except that any solemnity the room might have had was dispelled by the incredible disorder. Boots, sacks of seed, medicines, plastic bags, screws, melted candles, boxes of nails, papers were strewn everywhere on the floor, tables and shelves.

‘Gentlemen,’ said the count, putting aside his walking stick, and holding out his hand. ‘Thank you for answering my appeal.’

He was indeed every inch a count. The tone of voice, the rather imperious gestures, the direct gaze and the confidence in his perfect right to meet them wearing a peasant’s jacket. At the same time, one could also

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