by Lin Anderson
Patrick gave a slight nod, while hoping that wouldn’t be the case, particularly if Giles Huntington was with her.
He waited until she’d flagged down a cab and climbed inside. He would have liked to hear the address she gave the driver, but wasn’t able to. He wondered if she was heading for Charles’s club to discuss the outcome of the meeting.
Wherever she was going was no concern of his, Patrick reminded himself.
He watched the cab disappear into the night, hoping that was the end of the matter, but sensing it wouldn’t be. His former employers were nothing if not tenacious.
As he walked back to his hotel, it began to rain. Lightly at first, then more persistently. The delight of the meal had dissipated. Now Patrick’s thoughts were as dark and dismal as the night.
THREE
The early flight landed in Nice at 10.00 a.m. Patrick caught the 10.30 a.m. express bus to Cannes and was deposited outside the Hôtel de Ville forty minutes later. He had decided en route to try for the midday crossing to St Honorat, which was a possibility. He just needed to go to Les Trois Soeurs to change out of his kilt, then head along Quai Labeuf and join the tourists that were gathering at the jetty to visit the Lérins islands.
Cannes was bathed in sunlight, the entrance to Le Suquet via Rue St Antoine arched with flowers. He suddenly remembered it was the weekend when the medieval town celebrated the coming summer by decorating its narrow cobbled streets with an astonishing variety of flower arrangements. By midday on Sunday the event would be over and the locals would remove whatever flowers took their fancy. He’d often decorated the boat with his own pickings, enjoying the scent for as long as the display lasted, revelling in the ability of Les Suquetans to relish summer and artistic ability, while declaring the flowers their own.
Walking along the quai towards the gunboat, he was relieved to be back. With London (the centre of the universe, as Forsyth had once declared it to be) now a distant memory.
The dive boat owned and operated by his Irish friend Stephen Connarty wasn’t at its moorings, suggesting Stephen had taken a party of divers out. Patrick checked the sea to the west of Ste Marguerite, where Stephen often took beginners. There was no sign of the boat there, so he assumed it had gone further afield, maybe round the Esterel headland to the Île d’Or. There was a miniature sunken underwater village near there, popular with more experienced divers.
Patrick made his way to Les Trois Soeurs. The gunboat was unmarked by his absence, although he missed the scrabbling sound of the small French bulldog, desperate to see him. Patrick stripped off in the cabin, then went through the old engine room to the bathroom, in the stern.
The mahogany sunken bath in the stern, for which his gunboat was famous among Les Suquetans, was infinitely preferable to any hotel bathroom. Patrick stood under the power shower long enough to revive, then dried himself and dressed. He would have loved to have breakfasted on the upper deck, on fresh coffee and a croissant from the nearby bakery, but knew he didn’t have the time. He would have to look forward to lunch on St Honorat instead.
Ignoring his hunger, he shut up the boat and made his way along the quai.
The ferry for the larger island was in the process of boarding. Patrick bought his ticket for St Honorat and headed down the steps to berth six, where a much shorter queue had formed for the crossing to the smaller of the islands.
Patrick boarded and took a seat inside, leaving the small number of external bow and stern seats for those keen to take photographs of a retreating Cannes and the approaching islands. He hadn’t been to either island for a while. When he’d first moved to Cannes, he’d spent some months getting to know the area, as much a tourist as those that surrounded him now. He’d also taken part in the annual charity swim from Cannes to Ste Marguerite. A strong swimmer, he often swam miles along the coast west of the old port, following the line of rafts anchored off each of the public beaches.
Initially those swims had been taken as much out of necessity as pleasure. Memories of the reason for his ‘retirement’ had haunted him during those months, only physical exertion such as swimming and climbing in the nearby Esterel mountains had saved his sanity.
Allowing himself to recall, even briefly, what had made him leave the service immediately brought back the visions he’d fought so hard to subdue. Despite the warmth and bright sunshine, Patrick felt again the blast of a snow-laden wind and viewed again the icy look of death on the face that stared up at him from the snow.
A small girl ran past, and as the ferry hit a swell and rose she stumbled, falling on to Patrick in the process, bringing him back to reality. Helping her regain her balance, Patrick murmured a few words of encouragement in French, which made her smile. Having seen her safely off towards the bow, Patrick concentrated on the view of the approaching islands, his resolve not to get involved with London strengthened again.
The crossing was swift, only twenty minutes to curve round the western tip of Ste Marguerite, traverse the busy strip of intervening water between the two islands, and tie up at the tiny jetty that served St Honorat.
Patrick waited while the rest of the passengers disembarked, among them two women with small suitcases, no doubt heading for a few days at the abbey. Le Chanteclair was the hotel recommended by the Abbot for those en route to the abbey for a retreat. Pascal was rather proud of the recommendation. Patrick mused whether his own association with Pascal and Le Chanteclair had resulted in the summons, although why a monk from the abbey required the services of Le Limier, Patrick couldn’t imagine.
The monks of St Honorat, he knew, belonged to the Cistercian order, founded at the end of the eleventh century in an attempt to ensure a stricter obedience to the Benedictine rule. The brothers lived simply, following the rule ‘Ora et labora’, pray and work. However, they did run the island as a successful business and had recently purchased the island ferry for €1.6 million and were running head to head with other ferry operators, offering trips to the Corniche d’Or and Cap d’Antibes. Making money didn’t seem to cause them any crisis of conscience.
Climbing the stone steps from the jetty, Patrick stood for a moment to get his bearings. To his right lay the only restaurant, La Tonnelle. Had he been here for pleasure, he would have chosen to eat lunch first, then take a walk round the island. A few of the other passengers were already heading that way, having no doubt booked online to take advantage of the special price offered for a meal and ferry ticket combined.
Patrick decided he would go for lunch after the meeting, his ‘breakfast’ on board the flight to Nice from London now a distant memory. As he watched, a small tractor arrived and, loading the women and their suitcases aboard, turned and set off towards the living quarters.
Patrick headed inland, choosing to approach the abbey by way of the famous vineyards, which produced some of France’s finest wines. On either side of the dirt track, plane trees showed off their fresh-green leaves. Here they were permitted to grow tall, whereas in Cannes they were trimmed and shaped. Among them stood olive trees and an occasional eucalyptus, lime tree or palm.
The island hummed in the midday heat. Passing the rows of vines, he saw brothers, dressed in their cream-and-black robes and leather sandals, working there. The gates to the fields stood open. Fastened to the metal was the sign of a hooded monk and the instruction that only brothers could enter.
As he approached the first building, which contained the monastery’s shop, he was met by the throaty hum of bees and the scent of rosemary. Long serried ranks of the purple-flowered herb flourished in front of the shop, where groups of tourists trooped in and out of the doorway.
Unsure where he should report, Patrick bypassed the shop and made for the church. The door was closed and when he eased it open he realized a service was in progress, so he slipped into the back pew to watch. A dozen brothers, robed in white, six on either side of the simple altar, chanted and sang in low voices, standing, bowing and sitting, almost in perpetual motion. The congregation followed their
lead, but the monks seemed oblivious to their presence. It wasn’t a mass, Patrick realized, but one of the many services of celebration and prayer offered throughout the day on the holy isle.
The brothers filed out and the church fell silent. Patrick waited while the congregation exited, then made his way along the cloisters to a small office at the entrance, where he made his presence known and asked to see Brother Robert.
He was small and slightly built, yet had a substantial presence. Patrick decided it was all in the eyes, which were a startling blue. His head was shaved close, although it was obvious he was grey, and his face and hands were burnt dark brown by the sun.
Patrick immediately liked him.
They were seated in a shadowy room that overlooked a central square surrounded by a cloister. Through the open shutters came the quiet sounds of the abbey at work. A butterfly fluttered in at the window, bringing a delicate beauty to the scene. It settled briefly on a simple wooden crucifix hung above an equally simple desk, then exited once again into the midday sunshine.
Patrick waited for Brother Robert to continue.
They had gone through the usual pleasantries, about the June weather, Cannes in general, his crossing to the island.
‘What did you think of our new ferry?’
‘Very efficient.’
‘And Benedict, our captain?’ Brother Robert said with a smile.
‘I only remember the very large gold crucifix round his neck,’ Patrick admitted.
‘Yes, it’s difficult to miss. A little ostentatious for a Benedictine,’ he added with a smile.
Brother Robert walked to the window and surveyed the courtyard. Patrick suspected that the reason for bringing him here was difficult to discuss.
‘I wonder what you know of the history of the monastery, Monsieur de Courvoisier?’
‘Only a little,’ Patrick said honestly.
‘Have you heard the name Mademoiselle de Sainval mentioned?’
Patrick thought for a moment. ‘Wasn’t she an actress?’
The brother nodded. ‘A wealthy and successful Parisian actress whose father, one Jean-Honoré Alziary, purchased this island after the Revolution, when it had been disestablished from the Church. Mademoiselle de Sainval lived here for twenty years.’
Patrick waited, sensing that even more intriguing information was about to be revealed.
‘As well as being an actress, she was also the mistress of a famous painter born not far from here, in Grasse.’
Patrick knew immediately who the brother was referring to.
‘Fragonard?’
Brother Robert nodded. ‘Fragonard returned to Grasse to be near her.’ He paused. ‘Are you familiar with the artist’s work?’
Patrick wasn’t sure what to say. Fragonard, he remembered, had forsaken religious painting for erotic themes, which were more popular, similar to his master Boucher’s work. In fact the two men’s erotic masterpieces had been reproduced as a frieze on the stairs that led to Cannes’ premier escort agency, Hibiscus, ruled over by the formidable Madame Lacroix.
‘I remember The Bathers and The Bolt.’ He mentioned two of Fragonard’s pictures that he had viewed. Both rather good. The first comprised a group of naked, buxom women. The second a bedroom tryst between two lovers, with the image of the man bolting the door before they got down to business.
‘Ah, yes,’ Brother Robert nodded. ‘He painted a series of works on the theme of love.’ He paused again, making Patrick suspect they were nearing the reason for his visit.
‘We have a Fragonard here in the monastery. A painting of the Madonna.’
This was news indeed.
‘I didn’t know Fragonard painted the Madonna.’
‘We believe the painting was gifted to Mademoiselle de Sainval, and there is a certain likeness of her in the depiction.’
The small smile that fleetingly touched Brother Robert’s lips suggested the likeness was more than superficial. Patrick found himself imagining an erotic representation of Fragonard’s mistress as the Virgin Mary, much like the paintings that decorated Madame Lacroix’s apartment on the Rue Antibes.
‘I’d love to see it,’ Patrick said.
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’ The wry smile was replaced by a cloud. ‘In fact that is why I asked you here.’
Patrick examined the monk’s worried expression. ‘The painting is missing?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘And you think it’s been stolen?’
The monk looked distressed at Patrick’s question. ‘We are a small community on St Honorat, and very few people were aware of the painting’s existence.’
‘May I ask who knew?’
‘Myself, as keeper of the artefacts. The Abbot. That’s all, officially.’
‘A theft of such an important and no doubt valuable work should be reported to the Police Nationale,’ Patrick said.
Brother Robert looked decidedly uncomfortable at such a suggestion.
‘I am afraid we are unable to do that.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘Monsieur de Courvoisier, this is an internal matter for our order. We trust you to keep it so.’ The blue eyes were turned upon him. ‘The police will not become involved, whatever the outcome.’
‘You’re worried it might have been a brother who took it?’
The monk nodded. ‘Yes, but that’s not all.’
Patrick waited.
Brother Robert went back to the open window, where he appeared to find solace in the view of the cloisters below. Eventually he braced his shoulders and turned to face Patrick.
‘No one outside the monastery must know the painting was, or is, here.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Patrick said.
‘We wish that to remain the case,’ Brother Robert said.
‘If you won’t admit to its existence, how can I investigate its disappearance?’ Patrick said, puzzled.
‘I was led to believe Le Limier was skilled in such matters,’ Brother Robert replied, with a smile.
Patrick acknowledged he was adept at keeping secrets, and it was perfectly possible to extract information from people without revealing why questions were being asked.
‘What do you propose?’ he said, aware that Brother Robert had already formulated a plan.
‘Should you decide to investigate, we suggest you stay with us for a few days as if on a retreat.’
An image of hourly prayers, ridiculously early rising, and life without good food and wine didn’t appeal, which must have been obvious from Patrick’s expression.
‘Some visitors come for the relaxation and quiet,’ Brother Robert explained quickly. ‘Some to do research on the monastery. Either reason would seem applicable in these circumstances.’
Patrick realized the monk was perfectly serious about this.
‘Would I be permitted to question the brothers?’
‘We would ask you to be discreet, but yes,’ Brother Robert said. ‘We will, of course, recompense you for your work,’ he added, perhaps sensing Patrick’s capitulation.
A thought crossed Patrick’s mind. If he was here on St Honorat, he would be less likely to meet Grazia Lucca and her associate, which was a definite positive. But there was also Oscar to think of.
‘I have a dog,’ he said.
Brother Robert’s face broke into a wide smile. ‘We know all about Oscar. In fact I’ve met him at Le Chanteclair. He is most welcome to join you here.’
It seemed the monk had thought of everything.
‘May I have an hour to consider?’ Patrick said.
‘Of course. I suggest you have lunch at La Tonnelle. I will call and tell them you’re on your way.’
That was one proposal Patrick had no wish to refuse.
FOUR
Patrick had already decided to accept Brother Robert’s offer of work before he sat down to lunch. However, having sampled the menu at La Tonnelle, he warmed even further to the prospects of a few days’ stay on the island.<
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He’d been warmly welcomed by the head waiter on arrival and a table had been ready for him.
‘Brother Robert suggested you might like a bottle of our own rosé.’ The waiter indicated the wine already chilling in an ice bucket.
Patrick wondered whether he could eat here every day, or would it have to be the refectory and much more simple fare? He decided to make the most of it and chose the asparagus soup followed by the sea bream, which was served with flowering baby courgettes in a light batter.
Around him the other tables buzzed with conversation and the healthy sounds of good food being enjoyed. At the neighbouring table there was a family of five adults. Below sat a small white terrier, who occasionally reminded his owner of his presence in the hope of a titbit, which was obligingly given. Patrick couldn’t imagine such a scenario in London.
Allowing dogs in shops and restaurants was another indication that the French made their own rules – along with speeding, and parking wherever they pleased. That thought led Patrick to remember his own car, languishing in the garage, bullet-ridden and possibly beyond repair.
His much loved Ferrari 330 GTS had probably saved his life and in the process lost its own, but he hadn’t given up hope on it yet. It would take time and money but it could be restored, or so Daniel at the repair shop on Rue Hibert had told him as he hovered round the car like a mother fretting over a sick child. It was Daniel who’d rescued the sports car from the mountain gorge and brought it back to Cannes. If he could accomplish that, then Patrick was more than happy to let him loose on what was left of it.
After lunch, for which payment was waived, Patrick asked the head waiter to inform Brother Robert that he would be back tomorrow, then headed for the ferry.
The return journey, it being early afternoon, was much quieter. Most visitors travelled to St Honorat to spend the day there, and would return by a later boat.
Patrick decided this might be a good time to make himself known to the captain. Approaching the cabin, he called in, giving his name and suggesting Brother Robert wanted them to meet.