by James Runcie
‘Yes.’
‘That is unusual. Women don’t normally tell men their age the first time they meet them; unless of course you know more than you are saying?’
‘I have told you all I can.’
Keating banged on the table. ‘For God’s sake, man, you’ve come out with enough lies. Let’s get to the truth. How well do you know her? Is she your girlfriend? Don’t let us make it unpleasant for you.’
There was a silence. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Sidney, shocked by the outburst from his friend, the like of which he had never seen before. ‘Tell us.’
Graham Anderson stared down at the floor and answered the question. ‘She is my daughter.’
He had met Celine’s mother, Alexis Ducroix, in Paris in the 1920s. It was the summer before he went to university and his father had paid for the trip, saying that it would make a man of him, and Graham Anderson had assumed that one of the points of this extended holiday was to lose his virginity.
‘I rented a studio in the Rue Descartes and went to all the nearby bars, cafés, cabarets and eventually the circus where I finally drank enough absinthe to summon the courage to ask Alexis if she’d like to go dancing at the hall in Rue Cardinal Lemoine. After that evening I went to see her on the trapeze every night. The show people had such stories. One of the older members claimed that he had even seen Blondin’s great act of making an omelette while on a tightrope. I was thrilled by the excitement and the danger and yet, at the same time, I felt protective of Alexis. I wanted to be the one to catch her if she fell; I told her that I wanted to be her net, that I would always be able to support her. It was a ridiculous idea, really, since I had only just stopped being a schoolboy. But we were young and in love, walking hand in hand on the quays by the Seine, drinking Chambéry cassis in the Closerie des Lilas, sharing cassoulet at the Rotonde. But the timing was wrong, as any fool could have predicted . . .’
‘So you came home.’
‘I had no more money and there was a university to go to. Alexis went on the road with the Cirque Rancy and eventually the letters stopped and we lost touch. We only met again in the 1930s by which time both of us were married to other people.’
Sidney guessed that Celine had been the result of an all-too-temporary reunion.
‘We can’t be sure that the woman in the painting is the same Alexis,’ the Director continued. ‘She’s seen from below and afar, her features are indistinct and it’s a work of Impressionism.’
‘I can’t believe you think that,’ Keating began. ‘You know it’s her.’
‘It’s true that Celine’s mother trained at the Cirque d’Hiver in Paris and joined a troupe that toured Normandy and the Seine-Maritime every summer. She would have been about seventeen when Sickert was there and so it’s possible that she is the subject. But I’m pretty sure she never saw the finished painting, and we never spoke about it . . .’
‘That, too, seems strange.’
‘It was before we knew each other. But it’s a pity, I’ll admit. I’d like to have known what she made of him.’
‘She must have seen him at work?’
‘Not necessarily. He could just have been sketching and worked up the painting later. Besides, you can’t concentrate on anything else if you’re doing a double somersault between two trapezes thirty feet in the air.’
‘She will have had a taste for the dramatic: like her daughter.’
‘I see what you are driving at, and yes, she was a show-woman. I used to think about her every time I passed the painting. I was never completely sure that it was she but I liked to pretend it was and that I could still see her every day. It’s why I couldn’t possibly have stolen it. Why take a painting that you can look at all the time? Then Celine arrived. She’d done the research, convinced herself that it was a portrait of her mother, and telephoned to make an appointment.’
‘Which was the Saturday before last?’ Keating checked.
‘That is correct. I am sorry I did not give you this information before.’
‘And you still didn’t tell her the story?’
‘I couldn’t. I didn’t want to have to go into all this.’
‘You could have saved us valuable time. So now, at least, we know why she would have wanted to steal the painting.’
‘If she genuinely thought it was of her mother then that is, of course, possible, but I don’t want to incriminate my own child.’
Inspector Keating cut in. ‘She’s done quite a good job of incriminating herself.’
‘Why did you keep the fact that she is your daughter a secret?’ Sidney asked.
‘Cowardice, probably; or because the story of her past had been so clearly and tragically explained to her that I didn’t want to confuse it further.’
‘Tragically?’
‘Alexis was killed in Dieppe shortly after Operation Jubilee in 1942. Her husband had already died of drink. Celine was six years old when she was taken in by the owners of one of the hotels in Dieppe.’
‘Which one?’ Sidney asked.
‘The Hotel de la Plage.’
‘So she was born in 1936, which makes her twenty-six today. Did you ever meet her as a little girl?’
Inspector Keating interrupted. ‘How can you be sure that she’s your daughter?’
‘Her mother wrote to me at the beginning of the war, just after the German tanks took over Paris. She remembered that my parents lived in a stately home and sent the letter there. She didn’t want money, she was very firm about that, but she wanted to tell me the truth just in case anything happened. Which it did.’
‘How did you know she had died?’
‘I didn’t at first. I tried to find her after the war. My wife and I weren’t getting on well and I found it difficult to adjust to peacetime. I went to the circus and one of the old boys told me everything.’
‘And you weren’t tempted to find your daughter?’
‘I went to the hotel in Dieppe. I didn’t stay there but I waited in the Café des Tribunaux. It was 1948. Celine was twelve years old. I saw her coming home from school. It was the briefest of moments. Her hair was in a ponytail and she was carrying a music case. I wondered what instrument she played and if she was happy. She looked it. And I didn’t want to do anything to disturb that contentment so I said nothing and left the next day. Seeing her was, perhaps, enough. And then I recognised her as soon as she arrived in the museum.’
‘I still can’t believe you didn’t tell her,’ said Keating. ‘It’s unfair to keep her in the dark.’
‘She has her adopted parents.’
‘But not the true ones.’
‘They’re still alive?’ Sidney asked.
‘And at the same hotel. They know the truth but Alexis told me that she had made them swear not to tell our daughter. She wanted her to think well of the man she had said was her father. She was loyal that way.’
‘And you really haven’t seen Celine since her stunt in the art gallery?’
‘I wish I had, and that I could have done more for her. Perhaps if I had told her then she wouldn’t have involved herself in all this drama.’
‘And you have never met her friend Quentin Reveille?’
‘I don’t involve myself in conceptual art.’
‘I’m not sure I believe you.’
‘I think I’ve told you enough truth for one day.’
Sidney could see that the Director was desperate for the conversation to end.
‘You don’t suppose there’s any possibility that Celine has nothing to do with this? That someone saw what was going on and just seized the moment?’
‘To take that particular painting at that specific time?’ Keating replied. ‘No chance.’
Shortly after this encounter the two friends agreed to meet at the unusually early hour of opening time in order to talk about what to do next. The Inspector thought that, despite the Director’s late confession, he was unlikely to be involved. ‘I can’t believe a man would make his daughter walk naked through a g
allery in order to steal a painting.’
‘That is because you are a father yourself. I still think it’s possible.’
‘As likely as Reveille?’
‘Who has an alibi.’
‘I don’t believe that it holds water.’
‘There are witnesses,’ Sidney reminded him.
‘Yet he is also an expert in making people look where he wants them. He could have had an assistant take his place in the studio, or created some other sleight of hand while he made his way to Cambridge.’
‘You mean people assumed he was working because there was such a lot of banging about; whereas it doesn’t mean that he was the one doing the banging?’
‘But he would have had to leave London for four or five hours and no one we talked to in the museum has given us anything like his description. You’re quite sure no one looked anything like him, Sidney?’
‘I am.’
‘Unless he dressed as a security guard.’
‘I suppose that’s possible. Like the postman in that G.K. Chesterton story. No one notices a postman.’
‘I don’t suppose they could all be in it together. Celine, Reveille and Anderson?’
‘All three?’ Sidney asked. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘What about poor old Omari Baptiste? Are you still sure it can’t have been him?’
‘I keep thinking that it could be the girl acting on her own.’
‘But how, Sidney? She had no clothes on.’
‘But what if she stole the painting before her dramatic act of nudity?’
‘Then why go to all that trouble? It seems very far-fetched.’
‘It’s a good way of showing she had nothing to hide. I wouldn’t mind looking at her fur coat.’
‘It would take some nerve.’
‘But that’s just what she’s got.’
‘I’ll telephone Williams. I hope they are still in London.’
‘And I’ll get on to the museum. I just wonder if anyone left a change of clothes in the Ladies’.’
‘Are you sure about this, Sidney?’
‘Of course not, Geordie, but the girl has by far the best motive. We must cherchez la femme fatale.’
The following evening Sidney’s mother telephoned to complain that she had heard from Amanda that her son had been in London so why hadn’t he paid a visit? Did he now consider himself too busy to see his own family? His father was recovering from flu, his sister Jennifer had finally agreed to marry her boyfriend and his brother Matt was becoming increasingly active in the CND movement. She only hoped that her other son had no such plans as she couldn’t abide the sight of vicars trying to make themselves modern in this world when they should be concentrating on the next. When was he next in London, was he involving himself in any criminal activity (she had heard rumours) and what were his plans for Christmas? If the family were to have a gathering in London on Boxing Day she needed to know now so that she could make a start on the cake and the pudding.
It all seemed a very long way away and Sidney had only just put down the receiver when Inspector Keating telephoned to say that no change of clothes had been found in the Ladies’ at the Fitzwilliam Museum and that when Inspector Williams turned up to interview Celine and Reveille he had found no one at home. The couple had vanished.
‘Where the hell do you think they’ve gone?’
‘Well,’ Sidney answered. ‘If I was a young girl, and I wasn’t sure of my mother’s appearance, and if I had no picture of her but discovered a painting, then I’d take it over to France and ask my adopted parents. All we have to do is check in at the Hotel de la Plage, Dieppe.’
‘Then what are we waiting for? Let’s get over there.’
‘I have a wife and a job and I’m not sure that I can afford the trip.’
‘You could bring Hildegard too; combine it with a little holiday.’
‘She has her teaching which she takes very seriously. She will also need some convincing that I will have any proper time with her. She knows me rather too well.’
‘And that is a blessing.’
‘Indeed it is.’
‘Then ask her. And if she doesn’t want to come, tell her it will only be one or two nights and that I can’t go without you. You’ll then have to promise her something by way of compensation: an exotic holiday to Rome or the south of France; something like that.’
‘That might be rather costly.’
‘Not if you get the promotion the Archdeacon was telling me about.’
‘There are conditions, Geordie . . .’
‘Why are rules made if not to be broken?’
Sidney smiled. ‘And you a police officer . . .’
Amanda was amused by her friend’s news when they met at the Savoy a few days later. She insisted that they drank Churchills, a lethal concoction that the barman had created in honour of the great statesman, mixing whisky with lime juice, vermouth and Cointreau. A first would take the edge off the day, a second would ease the nerves and a third would surely make any man, let alone a clergyman, inarticulate. Sidney was determined on restraint.
‘What is interesting is why you have to go to France at all?’ Amanda asked. ‘It is surely the business of the British and the French police. If anyone else were to be involved it should surely be someone from the Fitzwilliam. Mr Anderson, for example . . .’
‘He is considered too partial.’
‘You mean he is still a suspect?’
‘You suggested it, remember?’
‘I can’t be expected to recall everything I have said, Sidney, no matter how perceptive or witty. It’s all off the top of my head. I suppose you think they must have spirited the painting out of the country.’
Sidney explained his theory and Amanda asked, ‘Are the police paying you for this? Isn’t it going to be rather expensive?’
‘I fear so.’
‘Do you need a loan?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Or a gift? Do you think ten or twenty pounds would do it?’
‘I think the ferry is about three pounds, and then there’s the hotel, food and petrol.’
‘Keating will surely pay for most of that. I’m not sure I’m prepared to subsidise the police. I pay my taxes, after all.’
‘I think ten pounds would be fine.’
‘I’ll give you twenty.’
‘That’s too much.’
‘I don’t want you going short and I do accept change. The only thing I insist upon is that you buy Hildegard a proper Christmas present with some of the money.’
‘That seems rather indulgent.’
‘Believe me. It will be a wise thing to do. I only have your own interests at heart.’
Sidney tried not to show his concern. ‘We’ve had to be rather thrifty recently, Amanda. I don’t want her to think that I’ve been throwing money about.’
‘I’m not talking about extravagance. I was just making a suggestion. Some nice French perfume would do, for a start.’
‘I can never remember which one she likes.’
‘It’s Shalimar, Sidney. Even I know that. I’ll write it down for you so you don’t forget. Another cocktail?’
‘It will be the death of me.’
‘No, Sidney, it won’t. Something else, probably something rather criminal, will be the death of you. This will only cheer you up and it is my treat. Besides, what could be nicer than cocktails in the Savoy with your oldest friend? All you have to do in return is listen to me tell you about the most divine man I’ve just met . . .’
The two men travelled to Newhaven and caught the night ferry to Dieppe. Keating had formulated a cover story to explain their visit to France. He and Sidney were to be brothers, both of whom had taken part in the Normandy landings, and they were on a tour of the region for old times’ sake. They could not stay long as they would need to be on the road to Caen the next day.
As the ferry approached Dieppe at first light Sidney felt sick. It wasn’t from the journey, but memory. He
remembered waiting in the great belly of a Landing Ship Tank in the war, making its way to Juno Beach in the middle of the night with a heavy sea running. He had been on the right flank of a convoy of ships many of which had barrage balloons tethered above that soared skywards, then dropped out of sight as the flat-bottomed LST rolled and pitched over the waves. The coastline had been fortified by the occupying Germans and bristled with guns, concrete emplacements, pillboxes, fields of barbed wire and mines. Before the infantry landed on the beach, the artillery launched a saturation barrage against the enemy defences.
When the ramps lowered he had disembarked and waded ashore. He was then engaged in the most haphazard and deadliest run of his life. It was impossible to know if he was making the right decisions or not. He had to put what trust he had in God and chance, working his way through obstacles and around minefields before facing the German guns. His comrades raced across the beaches through the curtain of machine-gun fire, rushed the pillboxes and eliminated the German strong-points with Sten guns, small-arms fire and grenades as a truck with petrol-filled jerricans exploded nearby.
It could hardly have been a greater contrast to see the same coastline by daylight and in peacetime. Anyone approaching might have thought that there had been no war. The two men checked in at the Hotel de la Plage and decided on an early lunch.
The hotel patron was a tall man with a faint air of Monsieur Hulot about him. He had thick high eyebrows, a surprised expression and a prominent Adam’s apple that looked like a forgotten gobstopper still waiting to go down. His wife was far smaller, well preserved, and in a simple black dress that had seen better days.
Guy and Delphine Girard were solicitous in their provision of lunch, insisting that the two men tried a little cidre bouché before they partook of the Coquilles Saint Jacques, Veau à la Dieppoise, Petit Suisse cheese from Gournay-en-Bay and a slice of tarte aux pommes.
Inspector Keating remarked that after a lunch like that it was amazing the French ever got any work done. He finished his cider and reminded himself as much as Sidney that they should concentrate. ‘Don’t give the game away too soon. We don’t want them getting suspicious.’
