‘With the date Sam fell into the bay.’
‘Let’s see. I have to work back. Gilly and I left Sherebury – when?’
‘On the twelfth. That was a—’ he consulted the calendar on his phone – ‘a Monday. Two weeks ago. Then you stayed in Paris a few days, and then went to Bayeux, and left on—’
‘Wait a minute.’ I dove into my purse. ‘Ah. Here it is. The train ticket, which nobody bothered to collect, says “21 Mai”. And that was the day I talked to Penny, and she told me about the German woman, as everyone thought then, who nearly drowned the day before. So the twentieth.’ I wrote that down in the small column on the left, and ‘Sam falls in’ opposite it. ‘I’ve left some space at the top, because Peter got to the Mont before that, but we don’t know exactly when, do we?’
‘No, but we will. You’d best leave quite a lot of space between entries, to fill in new information. So you got to the Mont on the twenty-first, a Wednesday.’
‘Got to Pontorson. I didn’t actually make it to the Mont until the next day, Thursday. That was when I met Peter and he told me that taradiddle about searching for manuscripts. Except it might not all have been lies. Now that we’ve had two other people mention Abelard, there might be something to it.’
‘Agreed. Anything else for the twenty-second?’
‘Not that I can think of. But the next day, a lot happened. The best was that you arrived! But that comes near the end of the day. So let me think. I tried to call Peter at the Abbey, but it was closed for the day. Then Peter called me and told me why: the injured young man. We’ve got to find out his name!’
‘I’ve made a note about it. Go ahead.’
‘Okay, so Peter was upset about the guy and wondered if you could come and help. I called you … no, first, I decided to rent a car, and met Krider, who drove Peter and me to Avranches and went with us to the Scriptorial. He seemed like a nice enough guy, but he was phony from the word go. Did I tell you what he said about his son wanting to become a Benedictine and all that nonsense?’
‘Briefly, yes.’
‘And how he lied about not speaking French? Well, anyway, he went to lunch with Peter and me, and drank too much cider, and we poured him into a cab. And I kept trying to call you, and getting panicky because I couldn’t reach you.’
‘I was on a plane, love.’
‘Yes, when I got your call from Cherbourg, Peter pointed that out and I felt like an idiot. It’s just that …’
‘I know, dear heart. I rather like it that you’re concerned about me. But go on.’
‘Okay, from here on it’s your story as much as mine. Peter told us the injured man had disappeared from the hospital. Then he gave you his tale about what he’s doing here – the second version, or third, I’ve lost count. And you laced into him, pretty fiercely, for you.’
‘I don’t like being lied to, especially when someone has asked for my help, and then hinders me at every turn. All right, so that’s Friday, three days ago. Then on Saturday, Krider tells us his entertaining little tale about being a prospective novelist.’
‘And we got away and got in a few hours of holiday. Alan, I want to go back to Bayeux when this is all over. It’s such a neat town, and I haven’t seen nearly enough of it. And you still haven’t been to Gilly’s show.’
‘We’ll do that, and I’ll take you to Honfleur, which I think you’ll like, and Giverny, which I know you’ll love. Monet’s garden, you know.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s getting on for lunch time, and the rain still resembles Niagara.’ He consulted his phone cum computer cum fount of all information. ‘There’s a full moon tonight. With all this water about, the high tide this evening might be very high indeed. It’s something to see, I’m told, when it comes “galloping” in to the bay.’
I shuddered, thinking about Sam. ‘I’m not sure I actually want to see it. It’s sort of scary. But let’s finish our timetable, and then we can decide what to do next. I can’t say I’m very hungry, and I certainly don’t want to go out. Okay, so we’ve got to Krider and his novel – fictional in every sense. After we got back from Bayeux, you find out about Sam, that he’s an American man, not a German woman. We have to find out what that’s all about, Alan!’
‘We do. We also need to see if the police have traced that abandoned hire car.’
‘And the passport, and the money. And decide what on earth we’re to do with Sam when he’s dumped on us. And that brings us to today.’
Alan looked out the lobby windows. ‘This weather is certainly frustrating. We need to talk to a number of people and follow up a number of trails, but I’m not keen on taking a shower in my clothes.’
There was a flash of lightning, and a thunder peal sounded almost immediately.
‘Gosh, that was close! Look, dear. I can only think of one productive thing we can do under the circumstances.’
‘A nap?’ he said hopefully.
‘The elements are making too much of a racket. I couldn’t sleep, let alone … Anyway, what I want to do is find out everything I can about Abelard. He’s a major character in this mess. People have lied about him and pushed him into the background, but he keeps cropping up. What I’d like to do is find a good book about him, but that’s impossible at this stage. Even if I wanted to go out in this tempest and find a library, anything they had would be in Latin, or French. But there’s always—’
‘The Internet!’ we said together.
TWENTY-ONE
There was, we found, a good deal of information about Abelard to be found online. Alan let me use his laptop for the search; he logged on to the lobby computer that was provided for hotel guests. After about an hour, we compared notes.
‘Quite a guy, this Abelard,’ I commented, stretching and twisting my head around to get rid of the tension in my neck. ‘From what I was able to gather, the odds were about even of his becoming Pope or being burned as a heretic.’
‘I don’t think they burned heretics at that stage of the game, but he was certainly convicted of heresy at least once, and excommunicated.’
‘But somebody, I forget who – one of his friends – got that decision reversed. I confess I tried to figure out just what was so awful about what he taught and wrote. All that made sense to me was that he thought people should question everything about their beliefs, Let me find what I wrote down … ah, yes. “The key to wisdom is this: constant and frequent questioning, for by doubting we are led to question and by questioning we arrive at the truth.” I can see how that might have made him unpopular with church authorities. But beyond that idea, I got totally lost. I think maybe abstruse philosophy is not my cup of tea. Speaking of which, I’m finally hungry. How about you?’
‘A bit. Do we still have any cheese and biscuits, or other picnic fare?’
‘A couple of biscuits, is all. I think we’ll have to go downstairs and see what they have to offer.’
There wasn’t a lot of choice on the menu. Lunchtime was almost over, and they were out of nearly everything, but a French cook can always whip up an omelette and some ‘frites’, those skinny strips of fried potato that resemble what Americans call French fries a lot more than the English version, ‘chips’.
As we were polishing off the last of the glass of white wine that accompanied our modest repast, Alan’s phone rang. It was Peter. I listened in.
‘They’re not going to need me at the Abbey at all today. The storm’s keeping everyone away. I thought I should let you know. I don’t imagine you’ve heard any more about Laurence?’
‘I’m afraid not. My English contacts will phone if they learn anything new.’
I asked Alan to give me the phone. ‘Hi, Peter, it’s me. Listen, Peter, do you have any books about Abelard? I mean, with you here in France?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He sounded puzzled and a bit wary.
‘I’d like to borrow one. If there’s one that uses plain English and doesn’t wander off into philosophical jargon.’
‘Well, he was a philosopher
, you know.’ Now the tone was amused.
‘I thought he was a theologian.’
‘Back then there wasn’t a lot of difference. But I do have one book that’s written for the layman, and certainly you may borrow it. Why, though?’
‘Because Alan and I have trolled the Net and found a lot of information, but almost nothing that gives me a feeling of what the man was actually like. He’s at the centre of what’s going on here, Peter, I’m sure of it, and we want to know more about him.’
‘Umm. Sure, okay. I can drop it off tomorrow if the rain tapers off.’
‘Look, you’re going to think I’m obsessive about this, but I really want to read it now. It’s such a horrible day for doing anything outside. If I sent Alan after it, could you give it to him?’
Alan raised his eyes heavenward, and gave a meaningful look out the window, where one would not have been surprised to see an Ark under construction. Peter acquiesced, somewhat reluctantly, I thought, and we ended the call.
I thought an apology was in order. ‘I’d go myself, Alan, but I’m not sure how to find the house. And I’m sorry to be so insistent about it, but something’s eating at me about Abelard and the manuscripts, and I really, really need to try to track it down.’
‘I know, love. The itch that must be scratched. Let me take a closer look at the weather and see what’s possible.’
He left the dining area for the lounge, where the large windows would give him a panoramic view. Just as he reached the door of the room a thunder clap was followed instantly by a lightning flash, and I came to my senses. This was ridiculous! An obsession was one thing. Sending the dearest person in the world into danger was another. I went to call him back, and he met me.
‘It’s hopeless, darling. Between the rain and the wind and the tide, the roadway will be submerged in places. We’ll have to wait out the storm. Meanwhile I’ll let Peter know I’m not coming, and then we can work out what we’re to do about lodging for Sam when the time comes.’
Still feeling guilty about asking Alan to risk the drive, I went out to the lobby and spoke to Jacques, the concierge. ‘I hope you can do something for me. No one seems to be at the desk just now.’
Jacques gave one of those eloquent Gallic shrugs. ‘No new guests will come in the storm. François, he takes a little moment for the lunch.’
I nodded. ‘So maybe you can help us. Tomorrow or the next day, Alan and I are expecting a … a friend to come to stay with us. Is there another room for him? It will be for perhaps a week.’
Jacques was a stout man with a round, cheerful face, but now it fell. ‘But, Madame, there is no room at all. The high season, it begins in two, three days. The school holidays, you comprehend. Already we have turned away many, and today more were coming, but for the storm. You and Monsieur are booked in until the middle of next week, it is understood. Your room is reserved for you. But another guest, no. I regret. I am desolated. But what will you do?’
‘Oh, dear. No, I do understand. We will just have to try to find another place for our guest.’
‘But Madame does not understand. There will be no rooms at all, anywhere. This is the time when all the world comes to the Mont. It is very good for business, but me, I do not like it. It is too busy, and the guests sometimes are rude. It is better like now, when we can talk and be friends. No?’
‘Yes. Yes, much better.’
Another guest wandered up and asked Jacques something, and I turned away. Oh, dear, indeed! What on earth were we going to do with Sam? He couldn’t stay here, and we certainly couldn’t afford his posh hotel, pleasant though it might be.
Well, it was a change from fretting over that stupid book, anyway.
After a while I left Alan keeping an eye on the weather and plodded back up to the room to lie in bed staring out at the soggy, dispiriting world. What wouldn’t I give right now to be in my own cosy parlour with a cat or two on my lap and Watson at my feet, and a nice fire crackling away, even if it was almost June?
I didn’t have long to wallow in despondency. My phone rang. ‘Time to surface, my love. Peter is here, and he brought the book.’
‘I’ll be right down.’
I gave my hair a quick brush and put my shoes back on, and picked a couple of towels in case Peter was dripping, but his rain gear was quite efficient. His sandals were wet, but as he said, they’d dry faster than closed shoes, and weren’t too uncomfortable.
‘I think you’re very brave! I didn’t expect you until the storm passed.’
‘A tourist in the B & B next door needed to catch a train, so his host gave me a ride.’
‘We’re having coffee,’ said Alan. ‘Same for you?’
What I really wanted was about a gallon of hot tea, but I wasn’t at all sure what tea would be like in a French hotel. I decided not to chance it. ‘Sure. But not espresso. Café au lait.’
‘I brought you the book, Dorothy. It’s not exactly light summer reading.’ He reached into his backpack and brought out a heavy bundle wrapped in a plastic bag. ‘I’d like it back when you’ve finished.’
‘Oh, my. Well, I doubt I’ll get all the way through it, but thank you. It’s plainly a lot more comprehensive than Wikipedia.’
Both the men laughed, but Peter looked a little shocked. ‘Um … I’m afraid … that is, you do know that …’
‘That Wikipedia can’t always be taken as gospel. Yes, I do know, and if I were doing serious research I’d turn elsewhere. But for a cursory overview of a subject, it isn’t bad, especially if you look pretty closely at the references cited in the articles.’ I had unwrapped Peter’s book as I spoke. ‘This one was cited a number of times, which gives me a useful cross-check. Thank you, Peter. I’ll treat it with great care and make sure you get it back.’ I put it back in its plastic bag and laid it on the spare chair at our table.
‘Peter and I had a little chat while we waited for you,’ said Alan, his voice so carefully casual that all my senses went on high alert. ‘You know we both wondered, you and I, why he didn’t call either the police or Laurence’s parents when he seemed to disappear.’
I haven’t seen anyone blush for years, but Peter went red from his neck to the roots of his blond hair. ‘I said I’d rather talk about it when you were here, Dorothy. That way I’d only have to say it once.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The truth is, I’ve never got on well with Laurence’s parents. He … they still treat him like a child. He’s twenty-four, the same age as me, but they keep him in leading strings. He spends almost all his holidays at home, and his mother wants to know every move he makes.’
‘He’s an only child?’ I asked.
‘Yes. There were an older brother and sister, but they drowned one summer. The family were in Antibes for a holiday. They’re not short of a penny, that family. The kids got bored, so they went for a swim and never came back. It was weeks before their bodies turned up, so of course their mum and dad were frantic. Laurence was home with a nanny, or he probably would have died, too.’
‘One can understand why that might make his parents a bit over-protective,’ said Alan.
‘Yes, and I get that. But he’s not a kid now, and they still try to keep him wrapped in cotton wool. I was really surprised when he said he would come here to work with me. I thought Mummy dear would invent some reason he had to stay with her, not go off to some scary foreign town.’ His voice was full of sarcasm. ‘So when he sent me that note, I just assumed he had succumbed to his mother’s wishes, and I was furious. When he didn’t respond to emails or phone calls, I just got more and more angry for a while, but then I began to get worried. But I didn’t want to talk to his parents. I knew his mother would fly into hysterics, and it would somehow be my fault that he’d vanished. So …’
‘I see. So you’ve defended your decision not to notify his parents.’ I wasn’t happy with Peter just now, and my voice reflected my feelings. ‘And precisely why did you not go to the police, once Laurence’s absence became prolonged?’
P
eter looked around the room. It was half empty and rather quiet, except for the steady drumming of the rain. He swallowed hard and lowered his voice to a thread.
‘You see – that is, I’m not sure – it’s possible that some of the things Laurence and I planned to do … well, they might not be considered quite … in short, the police might—’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Peter, spit it out! You and Laurence are – or were – involved in something illegal.’
He put a finger to his lips. ‘No! Not exactly illegal. Or at least …’ He hesitated.
‘Perhaps,’ said Alan, getting to his feet, ‘it would be better to continue this conversation in a more private place.’ He nodded toward the stairway. ‘I’ll join you in a moment.’
Our room was small, but with a little care it could accommodate three people. I arranged the two chairs for Alan and me. Peter could sit on the bed or the luggage stand. Neither would be particularly comfortable. Pity.
When Alan came in, he was accompanied by a waiter, who put a tray on the table. A bottle of white wine, glasses, little bowls of snacks.
‘If I’m to hear a confession, I require some sustenance,’ said Alan. ‘Perhaps we all could use a little something. Peter, I’ve no wish to turn this discussion into an interrogation, which is why I’m keeping it informal. But I must remind you that I’m still a sworn police officer, though retired and out of my jurisdiction. If you tell me anything that requires police attention, I am in conscience bound to report it to the authorities in Avranches. Understood?’
‘Understood, sir.’
‘Good. Hand me your glass.’
I wasn’t sure I was quite ready to treat Peter like a friend, but Alan had a point. An informal discussion was more appropriate at this point than a grilling. I held out my own glass to be filled, and helped myself to a handful of little crunchy things. I wasn’t sure what they were, but they looked and smelled good.
‘Right,’ said Alan. ‘The floor is yours.’
Peter put his glass down. ‘I’m not eager to talk about any of this, but I have realized that I must. As you have guessed, Dorothy, it’s all about Abelard and his works.’
The Missing Masterpiece Page 16