The Missing Masterpiece

by Jeanne M. Dams

  He gave me an exasperated look. ‘I haven’t had time to form any. Laurence, my friend, only told me last week that he wasn’t coming. He didn’t even have the courtesy to phone me; sent an email, the – er – miserable bloke. I had thought, perhaps, of making some enquiries in Caen.’

  ‘Why Caen?’

  ‘Well, the university.’ When I looked blank, he went on. ‘One of the world’s great universities is at Caen. Didn’t you know? Not as venerable as Oxford, of course, some three hundred years younger, but very well respected. I could probably find an archaeologist there to help me, but …’

  ‘But you want this to be your own splendid discovery. If in fact there is anything to be discovered. Hmm.’ I sipped some wine, stared at my glass, and pondered. ‘I don’t think I know anyone in that field at Sherebury. My friends tend to be either scientists – my first husband was a biologist – or artists. Alan might know someone, but he’s still at home with a broken ankle.’

  It was Peter’s turn to look confused. ‘At home? In America?’

  ‘No, in Sherebury. Alan is English, and we’ve lived there since we married several years ago. He was to have come with me, but the ankle intervened. It’s healing nicely, and he hopes to join me in a few days. I could call and see if he has any ideas. He knows almost everybody in town, and the ones he doesn’t know, our neighbour Jane Langland does.’

  ‘Is he an academic, then?’

  I smiled. The wine was making me mellow. ‘No. But he’s had a good deal of experience with – I suppose you could call it research. Investigation might be a better word.’ Peter was looking baffled. ‘He’s a policeman, Peter. Or he was; he’s retired now. He was chief constable of Belleshire for many years.’

  ‘I wish he were here, then. He might have some ideas about searching for the lost.’

  Well, that added another point to his honesty score. ‘Actually …’ I thought better of what I’d been about to say, and closed my mouth firmly.

  ‘What? You’ve had an idea. I can tell. That mobile face of yours.’

  ‘Only a passing notion. Not worth passing on. If you’re not going to eat that pastry, could you pass it over? I don’t know what it is, but it looks wonderful.’

  I finally managed to get rid of Peter, once he realized that he wasn’t going to pry anything more out of me, and then, instead of indulging in my overdue nap, I went down to the lobby and sought out a computer.

  I was back in my room and thinking about some supper when the phone rang. I answered it eagerly.

  SIX

  ‘Hello, love. How are you getting along in the wilds of Normandy?’

  ‘Quite well, now that the sun’s out. I went up to the Mont this morning, and managed not to make a fool of myself on the wet cobblestones.’ I had decided not to tell him about my fall in the Abbey, not until he was here with me, anyway. He’d worry, and I wasn’t really hurt. Bruises and general aches and pains don’t count. ‘More to the point, how are you doing? When can you get here?’

  ‘Almost certainly by Monday. I’ve been behaving myself; the doctor was pleased when he saw me today. He has restricted me about stairs, though.’

  ‘That’s bad news. The Abbey is all stairs. Though you wouldn’t absolutely have to go to the Abbey. There are a lot of interesting shops in the village, and other things to do in the area, but of course you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Not the details. Helen and I visited before the children were born, but after that it got too complicated. And after she was gone, I buried myself in work. So I don’t remember as much as you think. And if I can’t manage the stairs to the Abbey, there’s always another time.’

  I felt my usual twinge of disorientation. I’m still not used to living in a place where the great European destinations were so close as to make ‘another time’ easily doable.

  ‘There’s that,’ I acknowledged. ‘And until you get here I can check out interesting places we can reach by car, where you won’t have to do too much walking. Oh! I just thought! Can you drive?’

  ‘The doctor suggests I hire a car with automatic transmission. It’s my left ankle, don’t forget, and there’s really nothing to do with one’s left foot in one of those. In fact, I’d thought you might venture to do some of the driving. What with no gears to shift, and keeping to the right – what do you think?’

  ‘Hmm. And you could read the maps, and the signs in French – you know, it might work at that. But I sure wish you could get here sooner. I’m getting really antsy about a museum in Avranches. At least I think that’s the name of the place. A town near here?’

  ‘Avranches, yes. Pleasant little place, as I recall, but I don’t remember it having a museum worth visiting.’

  ‘It’s new. Built this century, I think, though a lot of the online information about it is in French, and you know how great my French is! The thing is, it’s where the Mont-Saint-Michel manuscripts ended up. I just heard of it today and I want to see it. Did you know about the Abbey library being taken away when the French Revolution closed all the churches?’

  ‘Vaguely, and I can hear that you’re panting to tell me all about it.’

  Apparently it’s not only my face that betrays my thoughts. ‘We-ell, I met a very nice young man today who told me the story.’

  ‘And you’re planning to run off with him, are you? You’d better hurry. Monday isn’t all that far away.’

  ‘Yes, but you don’t run all that fast, do you?’

  He snorted.

  ‘Actually, it’s a great story.’ I dropped the silliness and told him the story Peter had told me, about the manuscripts and the Scriptorial and Abelard, and Peter’s quest for the missing songs. ‘He has a friend who was going to help him, an archaeologist, but he bailed out at the last minute.’

  I could just see Alan’s face. ‘And you don’t have to describe your reaction. I can guess.’

  ‘I didn’t say a word to him!’ I said indignantly, and realized too late that I’d given myself away.

  ‘Aha! But you were thinking.’

  ‘Well, okay, yes, but it’s ridiculous. Can you see me, with two titanium knees and a bad case of claustrophobia, crawling around in the crypts of the Abbey or wherever, looking for lost sheets of vellum?’

  ‘I can see you thinking about it. Knees and phobia notwithstanding, you love the idea of adventure.’

  ‘I love it more when you’re around to share it with me.’ I was suddenly a little teary, which was ridiculous in a woman my age who was going to see her husband in a few days.

  ‘I will be soon.’ He’d heard the almost-tears. ‘Meanwhile, I’ve an idea. Why don’t you get this young Lothario to drive you to the Scriptorial? Avranches is only a few minutes away from the Mont, and you could see the town and the manuscripts, and ask the museum people all the questions you want.’

  ‘Not unless they speak English. I can order a meal and ask about a train timetable – sort of – and even then I don’t always understand the answers.’

  ‘Somebody will speak at least some English, and they’ll certainly have guidebooks in several languages. Tourists come to the Mont from all over the world, and I’m sure the museum wants to cash in on that trade. And your boyfriend can always help you out.’

  ‘I suppose … yes, Alan, it’s a good idea. Unless Peter has to work at the Abbey tomorrow. But I can phone and find out. That is, I suppose there’s a phone number in the guidebook I bought.’

  ‘Bound to be. Now, About Monday …’ And we made plans about when and where to meet, and I rang off.

  I went down to dinner wondering why I hadn’t told him Penny’s story about manuscripts. Probably because I would have had to mention my vague suspicions of Peter, and I wasn’t ready to do that. Well, there was no evidence, I insisted to myself. It wasn’t that I was beginning to take this young man under my wing. Alan said that I always did that at some point in an investigation, and that once having settled where my sympathies lay, I refused then to consider any signs that pointed to
the protégés guilt.

  That certainly was not happening here. Certainly not. I defiantly had another glass of wine to quiet my sceptical half.

  The next morning tested my patience to the limit. The minute I was dressed, I looked in the Mont-Saint-Michel guidebook and found several phone numbers that might prove useful. As I began to punch in the first one, the community at the Abbey itself, I remembered I had never bothered to learn Peter’s last name.

  Great. I was about to call a monastic community, probably disturbing them in their work or prayer or whatever they spent their days doing, to ask for a person whose full name I didn’t know.

  In French.

  The pen of my aunt is on the bureau of my uncle. That was not likely to be of very great help, and all the rest of my French had deserted me.

  I wiped out what I’d punched in and started over with the number of the Tourist Information Centre. I had started to speak before I realized that I was listening to a recorded message. Presumably it was telling me the office was closed. At least I was spared hearing that my call was very important to them, since I couldn’t understand a word.

  Well, okay, there was still the number for the Abbey, different from the one for the community. The gift shop, maybe?

  ‘L’Abbaye du Mont-Saint-Michel,’ said the voice.

  Well, that didn’t tell me much. I gulped and took a deep breath. ‘Um … parlez-vous anglais, s’il vous plaît?’

  ‘Yes, madame. May I help you?’

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. ‘Oh, thank goodness. My French is awful. But I don’t know if you can help me. I need to speak to one of your guides, a volunteer named Peter. He’s English, and I’m sorry, but I don’t know his last name.’

  ‘I do not know who that might be, madame.’ The voice clearly indicated that she didn’t much care, either.

  ‘Is there anyone else who might help me? The person who schedules the volunteers, maybe? It’s really important that I speak to this gentleman.’

  ‘I regret, madame.’

  ‘Wait! Don’t hang up! If I come up to the Abbey, who could I ask?’

  ‘The Abbey is closed to visitors today. Thank you, madame.’

  One doesn’t bang phones down anymore, but the click in my ear had a very final sound.

  I went down to breakfast in no sweet mood. When I’m out of sorts, I want food, real, solid food. Alan is right about that, as he so often is. Croissants and brioches and café au lait are all very well in their way, but they’re no substitute for the English breakfast I was craving. Carbohydrates don’t take the place of fat and protein.

  When I’m at home, I’m quite happy with cereal and fruit. Which just goes to show how contrary and perverse I can be.

  I ate what was set before me. The fact that it was delicious didn’t improve my mood one bit, and when my phone rang, and I didn’t recognize the number, I snapped a ‘Yes?’ that sounded furious even to me.

  ‘Oh, dear. Is this Mrs Martin? Dorothy Martin?’

  ‘Yes. Who’s calling?’

  ‘This is Peter, Peter Cummings. We met yesterday at the Abbey?’ He sounded ready to hang up any minute.

  ‘Oh, Peter. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning! I’m sorry I sounded like a witch, but I was annoyed. Mostly with myself, for failing to get your number, or even your last name. How did you find my number, though?’

  ‘I remembered you said you lived in Sherebury. It’s not all that big a town, and you looked like someone who would go to church, so I phoned the Cathedral. They knew right away who I was talking about, so someone rang up your husband, and he said they could give me your number.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad they did. Now look, before we go any further, I want to write down your number. I do know it’ll be on my phone, but I don’t trust electronic gadgets. They fail just when you need them most. Peter … Cummins, was it?’

  ‘Cummings.’ He recited the number, and I wrote it in the tiny notebook I always carry with me.

  ‘All, right, good. Now, you called me, so you go first.’

  ‘I called with bad news, I’m afraid. I thought you might be planning to go up to the Abbey again today, and I wanted to tell you that you can’t.’

  ‘I know. I called them this morning when I was trying to find you. They were very snippy, I must say, and didn’t even explain why they’re closed. I thought they were open every day.’

  ‘They are, usually. The fact is … well, you know that man who was missing from the tour yesterday?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, suddenly full of foreboding.

  ‘He’s been found.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘You already knew about it?’

  ‘No. Your voice tells me this story is not going to have a happy ending.’

  ‘No. He was down in one of the crypts. His head was … rather badly damaged. They don’t know if he’s going to recover.’

  ‘Accident?’ Another terrible ‘accident’ at the Mont, I was thinking.

  There was a silence. I thought I could hear Peter swallow.

  ‘They think not. Mrs Martin, when did you say your husband would be here?’

  SEVEN

  ‘Peter, where are you? We need to talk.’

  ‘At home. My home here, I mean. I’m staying with a family in Ardevon, friends of my parents.’

  ‘Where’s Ardevon?’

  ‘Not far. It’s a very small village, a hamlet really, a few kilometres from your hotel.’

  ‘So you have a car.’

  ‘No. A bicycle.’

  I thought for a moment. ‘All right. I had been trying to call you because I wanted to suggest you show me the Scriptorial. Here’s what I’d like to do. I think I can rent a car in Avranches for delivery to me here, but it may take a while. Since the weather is fine today, could you cycle over here to my hotel to meet me? Then, when the car comes, we can deliver the driver back to Avranches and then go to the Scriptorial. If you’re willing, that is. I do want to talk to you about this latest development, because … well, I’ll tell you when I see you. Is it a deal?’

  ‘What do you—?’

  ‘Not on the phone, if you please, Peter. How long will it take you to get here?’

  ‘Twenty minutes.’

  ‘Right. I’ll see you then.’

  ‘But I want to know—’

  ‘I need to phone for that car, Peter. And after that I’m calling Alan. See you in a bit.’

  I took a deep breath when I’d ended the call, and then went downstairs to try to find someone who could help me with car rental.

  I got lucky. An American man who was checking out was just about to return his rented car to Avranches, and offered to give me a lift.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but I can’t leave for a little while. A friend is coming with me, and he’s getting here by bicycle, so—’

  ‘I’m in no hurry,’ he said in a Midwestern accent that made me instantly homesick. ‘Just getting a train to Paris, and it doesn’t leave till late this afternoon. Maybe we could see the town together. If you want, I mean,’ he added, and I could have kicked myself. A companion for the day didn’t suit me at all, but the old adage about beggars and choosers came to mind.

  ‘I’m not sure what Peter’s plans are, so can we leave it open?’ I said weakly.

  My benefactor looked at me more closely, started to say something, and then changed his mind. ‘Fine. I’ll have some coffee while we wait. Want to join me?’ Before I could reply, he said, ‘Ma’am, I’ve got a wife and kids and four grandchildren back home.’

  I accepted that as his intended reassurance of his honourable intentions, and grinned. ‘Well, in that case … but I need to make a phone call first.’

  I repaired to a far corner of the lobby and called Alan. He answered on the first ring. ‘Listen, love,’ I said in a low tone, ‘I can’t say much, but there’s a good reason why I’d like you to come as soon as you can get here. I’m fine – no emergency – but my friend from the Mont and I nee
d your advice and expertise ASAP.’

  ‘A police matter?’

  ‘Yes.’ I saw Peter walk in the door. ‘I have to hang up. If you can fly into Avranches, I can pick you up. I’m hiring a car today. I’ll tell you everything later.’

  ‘I don’t think Avranches has an airport, but I’ll get there somehow. I’ll ring you with a time and place. Don’t go and do something that would get you hurt!’

  I clicked off with a lighter heart. Alan was coming! All would soon be well with my world.

  I went over to Peter and said, ‘Slight change of plans. Follow my lead.’ I led him to the table where the American man was sitting waiting for coffee and said, ‘This is my friend Peter Cummings. Peter, this nice man has offered to drive both of us into Avranches, where he can return his rental car and we can get one. I’m sorry—’ to the man – ‘but I don’t know your name. I’m Dorothy Martin.’

  ‘Krider. A.T.’ He shook hands with Peter, gestured both of us to sit down, and looked from one of us to the other, quite obviously trying to size up our relationship. Peter, in jeans and a T-shirt and sweating slightly from his bike ride, wasn’t an obvious boy-toy, nor did I seem the type – years older, generations older than he …

  I took pity on Mr Krider and put him out of his misery. ‘I met Peter yesterday when he was guiding a tour of the Abbey and I took a stupid fall. We discovered a mutual interest in music and old manuscripts, which is why we wanted to visit the Scriptorial today. My husband wasn’t able to come with me – an ankle injury that wasn’t quite healed – but he’ll be here in a day or two, and I thought I’d like to see what’s in Avranches so we can revisit the best places together. Peter, Mr Krider has no obligations until late this afternoon, and would rather like to see Avranches with us, if you have no objection.’

  I looked hard at Peter, my head turned away from Mr Krider, and made a face that I hoped he would interpret.

  He wasn’t sure what I wanted him to say. ‘Well … that’s certainly an idea …’

  ‘If you have other plans, I sure don’t want to interfere,’ said Mr Krider in a subdued voice, and I suddenly felt sorry for him. He was probably missing his family and his home in … I was guessing Ohio. He had a sort of Ohio feeling about him, somehow.