Socrates scanned the courtyard, from the drive that vanished into darkness on its way to the main gate, past the castle ruin, across the ghost-like blur of out-buildings, to the chapel on his right.
“What the hell?” he muttered.
The chapel door stood open. Of all the property on the castle grounds, it was the last door that should have been bothered by the wind. It was new, designed to look old, with a good latch. And he remembered clearly having backtracked to lock it. He pointed his shotgun at the door and ordered whoever was inside to come out. There followed neither stirring nor reply. He shouted again and, switching from French to Portuguese, a third time.
The caretaker cautiously climbed the three short steps and approached the door. He peered into the darkness and called again, b
