Page 80 of A Death in Cornwall

The bustling port into which René Monjean expertly guided Mistral was Ajaccio, birthplace of Napoleon Bonaparte and capital of the occasionally restive French island of Corsica. Ingrid and Lambert had breakfast in a café near the ferry terminal while Gabriel saw to the rental car. By nine fifteen they were speeding along the island’s rugged western coastline. Lambert, stretched sideways across the back seat, watched the waves rolling across the picturesque Golfu di Liscia.

“Much better than Libya, Monsieur Allon. But where exactly are you taking me?”

“A village in Haute-Corse. It’s near Monte Cinto.” Gabriel glanced at Ingrid and added, “The highest mountain in Corsica.”

“Exactly what I was hoping to hear.”

Gabriel followed the coast road to the seaside resort of Porto, then headed inland and began the long climb into the mountains. Ingrid lowered her window, and the pungent scent of rosemary and lavender filled the car.

“I knew it wasn’t my imagination,” she said.

“Macchia,” explained Gabriel. “It’s a dense undergrowth that covers most of the island’s interior. When the wind is right, you can smell it out at sea.”

They passed through the towns of Chidazzu and Marignana and Évisa, then crossed the border into Haute-Corse. In the next village a young girl pointed at Ingrid with the first and fourth fingers of her right hand.

“Why did she do that?”

“She was afraid you might give her the occhju. The evil eye.”

“Surely they don’t believe that nonsense.”

“Corsicans are superstitious by nature. They live in fear of contracting the evil eye, especially from blond-haired strangers like you.”

“And if they do?”

“They have to go to the signadora.”

“Well,” said Ingrid. “I’m glad we cleared that up.”

Beyond the village, in a small valley of olive groves that produced the island’s finest oil, was a walled estate. The two men standing guard at the entrance were well armed. Gabriel gave them a friendly tap of the horn, and the men touched the brims of their traditional birretta caps in reply.

“Who lives there?” asked Ingrid.

“The man who will make certain that nothing happens to Philippe.”

The road climbed a steep hill and spilled into the next valley, and soon it was little more than a dirt-and-gravel track. Gabriel nevertheless increased his speed.

Ingrid shot a nervous glance over her shoulder. “Is someone following us again?”

“No,” replied Gabriel. “The danger lies ahead.”

“Where?”

Just then a horned domestic goat, perhaps two hundred and fifty pounds in weight, rose from its resting place beneath the twisted limbs of three ancient olive trees and took up a defensive position in the center of the track.

“There,” said Gabriel, and applied the brakes.

The enmity in the beast’s deportment was obvious at once. Even Ingrid, who was new to the island, could see that something was amiss. She looked to Gabriel for an explanation. His voice, when at last he spoke, was heavy with despair.

“The goat belongs to Don Casabianca.”

“And?”

“We’ve had our disagreements in the past.”

“You and Don Casabianca?”

“No.”

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