Read Online Caravaggio's Angel by Ruth Brandon - Free Book Online Page B

sentry-go, had clearly been built with military defence in mind. But now it was a country manor, a gentilhommière . Large stone-mullioned windows had been cut in the massive ashlar walls, four on the ground floor, four on the floor above and two in each tower, and the last remnants of military sternness had been obliterated by climbing roses and wisteria.
    The door had a large circular wrought-iron handle, but no knocker; the only visible means of announcing one’s arrival was a large bell, attached to a dangling rope. I pulled it, and a violent peal echoed round the lawn, soon followed by a rapid crescendo of barking from inside the house. A dog – perhaps the alsatian I’d seen yesterday – rushed up to the other side of the door and made a frenzied attempt to claw its way through. Nothing else happened, however. I continued to wait; the dog continued to bark and scratch. I rang again, rousing the dog to fresh levels of vehemence, but still producing no human reaction.
    I pulled out a copy of the confirming letter I’d sent Madame Rigaut. Ten o’clock, Wednesday, 3rd July. And now – this. Was it a deliberate snub, or mere absent-mindedness? Perhaps the letter had never arrived. What a fool I’d been not to phone the previous day to confirm the appointment.
    I looked at my watch again. Ten past ten. Obviously no one was in. The question was, how long would they be out? Was this absence merely a shopping expedition, or a definitive departure? Shopping, I guessed: you don’t just abandon a dog, and the one I’d seen yesterday had been unmistakably part of the household. Perhaps I ought to go away and come back later. But how much later? Lunchtime? This afternoon?
    The one certain thing was that I couldn’t stand out here indefinitely. The sky had darkened and a gusty wind was beginning to blow. A heavy drop fell on my head, then another. I ran to the car, and as I got into it the heavens opened. Sheets of water blurred the windscreen. I, too, felt as though I was about to burst into tears. So much effort – so much anticipation – so much expense. Neither I nor my exhibition’s minuscule budget could afford to throw money away. But the real blow was psychological, the dis-missal, the anticlimax – the insult.
    The rain began to ease a little: it should be possible to drive now, though where to, I wasn’t sure. I’d checked out of Les Pruniers, and even if I hadn’t, the children would be in full cry. Bergerac? But my plane didn’t leave till late in the evening. What would I do when I got there? Sit in the shed? Besides, I couldn’t just abandon this interview. If I gave up now, what would I tell Joe?
    I decided to drive to Meyrignac and find a café where I could sit and collect my thoughts. At least I’d be in the dry. But as I put my key in the ignition headlights approached down the lime avenue, and the Renault 4 I’d seen yesterday puttered round the gravel drive and crunched to a halt beside me. The driver’s door opened and an umbrella appeared, followed, as it unfurled, by an elderly woman – a rotund, solid figure, with grey hair in a bun and wearing a short-sleeved cotton print dress-cum-overall. The house-keeper I’d spoken to when I first rang? She certainly fitted the voice.
    Whoever she was, she took no notice of my car, but stumped round to the other side of the Renault, extracted a number of plastic bags and a full shopping basket from the passenger seat, and made for the front door. I leapt out and ran to intercept her before she should disappear inside the fastness. ‘Madame?’
    The woman started: either she had been so intent on the weather and the business of getting herself and her shop-ping to the door without drowning that she had not noticed my car, or else she had assumed that its occupant was already inside the house.
    ‘I had an appointment for ten o’clock with Madame Rigaut,’ I gabbled, falling over my words in an effort to get them out before my listener could