Free Kaleidoscope by J. Robert Janes Page B

cared for this shambles of a garden, did care for its wildness and sought not to tame it too much.
    To enter the house, he went in under a makeshift arbour of grey branches wound with wisteria and trumpet vine to a small handful of storage jars in which the roots were anchored.
    There was a sturdy rocking chair beside an iron-grilled window whose wall was cracked; a throw rug of earthy red upon which danced an electric design of saffron.
    Sabots and espadrilles lay side by side on the rush mat beside a potted palm and two ancient rhododendrons. The door was of that same powder-blue as at the front but open a crack. Ah no, what has happened here? he asked.
    Nudging the door open farther, he stepped inside to all but close it behind him. Drew in the heady scents of the hills, the sharp musk of wool that was being dyed.
    Bunches of herbs hung above the disused stone fireplace of what had once been the monks’ kitchen. A straw hamper, a wide-brimmed sun-hat, a wicker basket of gardening tools, canvas apron, a pair of rubber boots – he took them all in. ‘Mademoiselle …?’ he tried. ‘Is anyone here?’
    He should have rung the front bell, should have yanked on its rusty chain. Could not have used the key he’d brought, not yet, ah no. Not without the warrant and for that he would have needed the magistrate to accompany him.
    One must go easily.
    Committed, St-Cyr pressed on, finding the present kitchen on the other side of the fireplace, its ashes cold. Here disorder was laid above order. Agitation was in the unwashed dishes, the bits of bread and cheese that had been picked up and put down with hardly a nibble. The glass of wine that had not been touched.
    The kitchen was typically Provençal. Low beams, copper pots, an all but empty screened cupboard-box to air the cheeses and the butter. Pâté in a stone crock. Vinegar and oil in pale green bottles, mixed with various herbs. Fennel in one; dill in another.
    The sitting-room was large, the floor of the same brick-red tiles, the chairs of woven hemp and modern – pale gold with soft beige cushions. Light … light everywhere streaming in to touch the tapestries. ‘Ah, Mon Dieu ,’ he whispered. ‘I am in the presence of a master.’ The weaving was superb. Everywhere he looked there was this presence, this uniqueness, that feeling only the true artist can engender solely by exposing his or her work to view. ‘Mademoiselle …?’ he asked again. Still there was no answer. This troubled him; this made him think he’d come upon another murder and he asked, So soon? and was afraid.
    Then he heard the tiny, brittle sound of beechwood shuttles as they knocked against each other, and he followed it. Saw on the landing one of the tapestries from the villa near Chamonix. Was rocketed right back in time the nine years to the murder of Stavisky.
    Felt the villa, smelled the warm aroma of a small cigar, and looked up still, could not have moved. Was transformed.
    The tapestry flashed spears of colour laid upon one another as a bird’s wing-feathers are when preened. Mirrors of whites, blues, browns, greys, reds, greens and yellows blending into a pattern that was absolutely magnificent, the texture almost that of banded cornelian yet touched with fine lines and waves of purplish blue and of so many other colours and shades. Washes of the same as well.
    He heard the pistol shot. He caught a breath, fought through the web of time and panic – forced himself to break away and run up the last of the stairs and along the hall.
    There had been no gunshot.
    She was sitting behind the upright loom with the sun over a shoulder, and he saw her first through the vertical threads of the warp and the design she had drawn upon it. Eyes downcast, the left hand momentarily up and pressed gently flat against the warp; the right hand out of sight behind the tapestry, holding one of the bobbins. The lashes long and dark black,