I knew what he was going to say before he said it. ‘You know my methods, Watson. Goldstein’s Theorem of Interconnected Monkey Business.’
Abe Goldstein, the lovable old professor friend of Gideon Oliver in Aaron Elkins’ marvellous mystery series, had become a favourite character of Alan’s, as he had long been of mine. One of Abe’s frequent sayings was that when a lot of funny things were happening together, they had a way of being related. ‘Hey, I taught you that law,’ I said. ‘Not fair to invoke it against me. But you’re right. Two strange things happening in the same place at more or less the same time could be coincidence. Five or six, no. There has to be a pattern. But I’ll be switched if I can figure it out.’
‘Finish your lunch, and we’re going to have an apple tart to follow. Here in the land of Calvados, one must pay tribute to apples. Then – I’m sorry, but I don’t think I have the stamina for Gilly’s exhibit. Perhaps we could go sit in a quiet park somewhere and think it out.’
I actually wanted to do some more exploring in Bayeux. The taste I’d had with Gilly had whetted my appetite for more of the delightful little city. But I knew Alan couldn’t walk very far, so I agreed that a park bench sounded delightful. He consulted the waitress in French I couldn’t follow at all and got directions, and when we got to the car, he suggested that I drive. ‘I can navigate, darling, so you won’t have to read a single sign, and as you’ll be driving on the right … what do you think?’
What I thought was that I’d be terrified. I’d lived in England long enough to become accustomed to driving on the left, and I was afraid I’d make some awful mistake. However, if Alan thought I could do it, I’d have to give it a try or ever afterward count myself a coward.
‘Sure,’ I said in what I hoped was a nonchalant tone, and climbed into the driver’s seat. From the look of his grin, I don’t think I fooled him for a moment.
The whole thing turned out to be so easy I was ashamed of my fears. Traffic wasn’t too bad in the town. That is, it was no worse than in any medieval city built for foot- and horse-travel, and I’d become used to narrow streets and awkward corners in Sherebury. The park was actually out on the edge of town, and was pleasantly cool and green. The school term hadn’t ended yet, so the only children in evidence were pre-schoolers – shrill and energetic, but closely watched by their mothers.
One little boy – I think (it’s hard to tell when everybody wears shorts and shirts) – threw a ball with wildly erratic aim, and it hit my foot. He came running up to get it and, prompted by his mother, said ‘Pardon, madame’ in a sweet, shy voice.
‘Ce n’est rien, mon petit,’ I said, a long-forgotten phrase swimming up from my memory when it was needed. The child giggled, either at my accent or my misuse of his language, and ran away with the ball.
His mother recognized me for an Anglophone, and apologized in English.
‘Not at all. No harm done. He’s a sweet little boy, and his manners are charming.’
‘Thank you, madame. But he is a little girl!’
‘Oh, dear! That’s why he – she – laughed. Not “mon petit” at all, but “ma petite”. It is I who should apologize, for being so unobservant.’
‘She acts more like a boy. It is all right.’
She went back to her child, and Alan and I sat down on the nearest bench. ‘What an adorable child,’ I said. ‘I always turn to jelly when a baby like that speaks perfect French. It sounds so precocious. And then his mother – her mother – has perfect English. I feel distinctly inadequate.’
‘You did just fine, love. Your accent isn’t bad, and you weren’t to know the child was a girl. I couldn’t tell, myself.’
‘Quite a contrast to those brats on the Mont. Oh, I didn’t tell you about them, did I? An American family with perfectly awful kids.’ I related the incident. ‘It’s really why I went on up to the Abbey that day. I’d planned to wait till you got here, but I wanted some peace.’
‘And then you met Peter, and your peace was shattered. Dorothy, do you have your notebook with you?’
‘Do I ever go anywhere without it?’ I pulled it out of my purse.
‘What have you noted so far about our little problem?’
‘Well, Peter and I made a list of sorts.’ I turned to it. ‘I don’t know that we accomplished much. Certainly we didn’t come to any startling conclusions.’
‘Let me see, if you will.’ He looked it over and then handed it back. ‘Hmm. Summary of events, a few stories with enough holes in them to make lace. Not a lot of detail, is there?’
‘Almost none. I guess it was a pretty silly exercise.’
‘It’s a start.’ He sat in thought for a moment. ‘What we need, my love, is a great deal more information about these people. If this were a police case, I’d have a staff looking into their backgrounds.’
‘But it isn’t a police case. No crime has been committed.’
‘You’re forgetting probable art theft. And we don’t yet know what’s happened to Peter’s friend Laurence, nor to the man injured at the Abbey.’
‘Still, the French police have apparently not been called in. And anyway, we don’t have a staff to do research on these people.’
‘No. But we have Peter, and ourselves, and the Internet. And I still have friends back in the Sherebury constabulary who’d be willing to do a spot of checking for me. My dear, if we’re barking up the right tree and there’s some thread that ties all these incidents together, it will be found somewhere in everyone’s past.’
‘Do you have your laptop at the hotel?’
‘Do I ever go anywhere without it? Now, why don’t you make another list, just names this time, and we’ll get to work when we get back to the hotel.’
On our vacation, I thought, but didn’t say.
THIRTEEN
The trouble was, I didn’t even know most of the names. Peter Cummings, A.T. Krider. I had no idea what the initials stood for. Peter’s friend Laurence – no surname. The German woman and the man injured at the Abbey were nameless, as far as I was concerned.
Alan wasn’t worried about little details like that. ‘Phone Peter. He’ll have the details for his friend, and can get a name and so on for the man in the cellar. Krider’s here in the hotel; he won’t be a problem. As for the woman, if she’s still unconscious and they’ve not yet found her identification, I’ll have to use a bit of persuasion on the local authorities, see if they’ve learned anything at all about her.’
‘Will they cooperate?’
‘If I put it to them the right way. You mustn’t forget that Mont-Saint-Michel tourism is the major prop of the local economy, and a tourist nearly drowning on the sands is terrible publicity.’
‘And your French is good enough that they’ll listen to you.’
‘Not up to Peter Wimsey’s standard, but not all that bad. All right now, woman. You’re officially deputized. Phone Peter and invite him over here for a grilled meal.’
‘The grillee being Peter.’
‘Right.’
‘And I’ll go down and ask the hotel staff where to find the nearest reasonably efficient police facility.’
Peter told me he couldn’t get away until the Abbey closed for the day at seven, and it was now only mid-afternoon. I considered a nap, my usual afternoon preference. I was, after all, on vacation. But Alan came up to the room just as I was taking off my shoes. ‘I’m off to Avranches, love. That seems to be where local incidents are investigated, at least in the early stages. I was going to invite you along, but Krider just walked into the bar. He seems settled there for a bit, and I thought you might be able to engage him in some useful conversation. One American to another sort of thing.’ He looked at the shoe I had just removed. ‘Unless of course you’d rather relax for a bit.’
I picked up the shoe and put it back on. ‘I’d much rather nap, thank you very much. But since I’m the one who’s been insisting we had to find out what’s happening, I don’t have much of an excuse for wimping out, do I? You’re not going to have to w
alk much when you get there, are you?’
‘I phoned. There’s a car park close to the building. I’m doing very well, love. Don’t fuss.’
‘You know how talented I am at fretting. Go talk to the nice gendarmes, dear, and I’ll tackle Mr Krider. Oh, and we’re expecting Peter for dinner. He’ll meet us here and then we can decide where to eat.’
‘Agents de police, darling. At least I think so. The police system in France is rather convoluted, and has changed a bit since I was well-acquainted with it. A gendarme is more like a soldier. Armed and all. Or, come to think of it, like a Chicago policeman.’ Alan gave me rather an offhand kiss and hurried away, while I decided how on earth I was to ask a man I barely knew to tell me his life story.
By the time I got to the lobby, though, I thought I had a plan. The first part was a little tricky; I wasn’t sure I wanted to cosy up to a man at a bar like some lady of dubious reputation. Fortunately, he saw me and waved, which gave me my excuse. I walked over to him.
‘And how was your day at the Mont?’ I asked.
‘Fine, fine! Can I buy you a drink? Or is your husband about to join you?’
‘No, Alan’s gone off to Avranches. He’s trying to find a swimming pool.’ Which was true, if misleading. ‘And I’d love a drink. Plain tonic, please.’
The barman, with his array of fine wines and ciders, was disappointed at my request, but filled it graciously, with more ice than they’d have given me in England, and a nice slice of lime.
‘So why a swimming pool? Is he some kind of fitness freak or something? Not,’ Krider added quickly, ‘that it’s any of my business.’
‘He does like to keep fit, but that’s not what this is about. He broke an ankle rather badly a while ago, so his favourite exercise, walking, is out of the picture until the bone has healed a little better. Swimming, on the other hand …’
‘Got it. And swimming in the bay is definitely not recommended. Well, here’s to his full recovery. He’s going to have a hard time seeing the Mont if he’s a little rocky on his pins, though. Definitely not handicapped-accessible.’
‘True, but he’s been here before, so it isn’t a great tragedy. We’ll see what we can without causing him trouble, and I’ve already explored a little before he got here. But you never answered my question, really. Was your visit today successful?’
He looked moodily into his wine. ‘Yes and no. I learned a lot more about the place. It’s got a fascinating history, you know? Going way back before the Abbey was begun.’
I just nodded. I really didn’t want him getting into fifteen hundred or so years of history of the island and the Abbey. Luckily he didn’t seem disposed to lecture.
‘The thing is, it’s all neat and interesting and all that, but it sure didn’t give me any ideas for my book.’
Aha! ‘You know, I’ve been thinking about that. I read a lot, especially mysteries, and I’ve even read some books about writing. Not that I want to write, you understand, I’m just interested in the process. And a lot of really good writers say they begin by writing biographies of their characters.’
He frowned. ‘How can you write a bio of somebody who doesn’t exist?’
‘Well, but that’s the point. You, the author, have to make them exist, make them live, make them real. You can only do that if you know them really well, as well as you know your best friends, or even better.’
‘You mean, I have to make up every detail of their life? But that would make the book way too long, thousands of pages. Bo-ring!’
‘No, the details don’t go in the book, these writers say. But knowing them, knowing what makes your characters tick, lets you know how they’re going to talk and move and act, so you can make them come alive for the reader.’
‘Yeah, I get it. I guess. But I wouldn’t have the first idea how to go about doing that.’
‘That’s what I was thinking about. Suppose you were to start with yourself. Someone like you is probably going to be a character in the book, right?’
‘Well, yeah, I guess. I mean, he’s kinda different, but – yeah, I guess he’s pretty much me.’
‘Okay, so what do you know about him? Start when he’s really young. No, I know what you’re going to say, but the way a child lives has a lot to do with how the adult is going to turn out. “The child is father to the man,” you know. So: childhood.’
It took forever. Mr A.T. Krider (he wouldn’t tell me what the initials stood for) was perhaps the least imaginative person I’ve ever met. My betting was that he couldn’t write a novel to save his life, but after a long afternoon of extracting information bit by painful bit, I had the following:
He’d lived all his life in and around Cleveland, except for four years at Ohio State getting a degree in accounting (with, rather surprisingly, a minor in history). He’d never participated in college sports, having broken a good many bones in various childhood accidents. (‘Clumsy was my middle name.’) He’d thought about a fraternity, but never pledged, saying he thought all that partying and drinking was a waste of time. He’d met his wife at college, but hadn’t seriously considered marriage until he’d begun graduate school. He’d been loath to marry in case he was drafted, but the draft ended, and he decided to marry his sweetheart. They waited till he’d finished his MBA and landed a good job before starting a family. Two daughters, four grandchildren and two more boys expected any minute.
He’d spread his hands when he got that far. ‘That’s it. Not terribly interesting, right?’
‘No. Because you left out the interesting parts. What would you spend all your time doing if you could? What kind of music do you like, what kind of books? Did you like your job, or hate it? What were your parents like, and what did your father do for a living? Where do you fit on the wealth scale, from barely making ends meet to rolling in it? What are your views on politics and religion? What do you absolutely loathe? What scares you, or makes you laugh? Those are the things that make a person who he is. You’ve given me a cardboard cut-out.’
So we’d started over, and I’d finally wrung a few interesting details out of him. I related them to Alan when he came back from Avranches. ‘The man is just about as vanilla as they come,’ I said, holding out a glass. ‘I’ll have a nice little tot, thank you. Mining information is hard work. And where did you manage to find that?’
He held up the bottle of Jack Daniel’s with a look of triumph. ‘Found an off-licence specializing in imported spirits. You don’t want to know how much it cost.’
‘No, I don’t. And thank you very much.’ I took a satisfying sip. ‘Aah.’
Alan poured some for himself. ‘Here we are in France, the home of world-renowned wines. Specifically, we are in Normandy, where cider and Calvados reign supreme. And we’re drinking American bourbon.’
‘Sour-mash whiskey, dear. Bourbon is made in Kentucky. Jack comes from Tennessee. And very nice, too.’
‘But you were saying that Krider is vanilla.’
‘Mostly. There was a faint chocolate or at least cinnamon-flavoured nugget or two.’
‘For example?’ He leaned back in his chair and propped his injured ankle up on the bed.
‘Hurting?’ I nodded at the foot.
‘Mild ache. Nothing serious.’
‘Good. Well, let me do the vanilla part first. Upper middle-class all the way. Undergrad degree in accounting, then an MBA. Middle-management jobs at first, then CEO of a small company, then a larger one. Exemplary husband and father.’
‘According to him.’
‘He didn’t actually put it in those terms, but one wife for almost forty years argues at least some respect for marriage vows. They took a couple of cruises together, that sort of thing.’
‘But she didn’t come with him on this little jaunt to France.’
‘No, and that’s one of the mildly interesting bits. He says it was because their daughter is about to give birth, and that may be the case. But I got the impression that wifey isn’t as enthusiastic about the Mont
as he is.’
‘I’ve wondered about that enthusiasm. I find it hard to believe that a single book, read years ago, could prompt him to leave wife and home and imminent grandsons. Though it is a remarkable book.’
‘That’s another bit, you see. I told you he took his degree in accounting. That was exactly in character. But he minored – sorry, he had a secondary field of study – in history.’
‘I do speak quite a little bit of American, you know,’ said Alan with a grin. ‘Marriage to you has sullied the purity of my English. No, don’t throw that pillow; I’ll spill my drink. And I agree that the study of history is unexpected. Not the sort of field that would guarantee a lucrative income.’
‘That was my reaction. But the real kicker came when I asked him about his hobbies. He hemmed and hawed a good deal, but finally admitted that he’s been taking lessons in … guess.’
‘Something wild and frivolous, I gather from your tone. Piano lessons. No, guitar.’
‘Way off. He’s been learning to paint. And – wait for it – what really fascinates him is illumination.’
‘Not, I gather, as in Thomas Kinkade.’
‘No, more as in medieval monks. He’s been trying to learn how to do illuminated letters, like the ones in—’
‘In recently-surfaced manuscripts, which were perhaps forged.’
He put down his glass and stared at me.
FOURTEEN
‘No. Surely not. Too much of a coincidence.’ Alan picked up his glass again and took a healthy swig.
‘If you’re thinking he might have forged the blasted things, I can’t believe it. He only started painting a few years ago, and in odd hours stolen from his other commitments. Unless he’s extremely talented, he couldn’t possibly have acquired the skills needed to pass his work off as genuine. No, but it’s interesting, isn’t it? And it could explain why he came to the Mont, which once had such a terrific collection of manuscripts.’
‘Many of which still exist at the Scriptorial. Dorothy, he must have known about that museum. But you say he acted as if he’d never heard of it. Why did he tell such a pointless lie?’
The Missing Masterpiece Page 10