The Missing Masterpiece

by Jeanne M. Dams

  The day was warmer, now that the rain had gone, and there were lots of sidewalk cafés nearby. We chose one that looked inexpensive, ordered coffee, and gave each other speculative looks.

  ‘You wanted to talk to me earlier,’ said Peter. He sounded accusing. ‘It sounded important.’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t want to say much in front of Krider. I’m really glad now that I didn’t, because he’s up to something. I don’t know what, but did you hear him speaking fluent French just before you came into the room, back at the Scriptorial?’

  ‘No. So that’s why you pretended you’d just got there.’

  ‘Right. I didn’t want him to know that I knew. He suspected though. That’s why he made that stupid remark about picking it up fast.’

  ‘So what were they talking about?’

  ‘I haven’t the slightest idea. I can sometimes understand a little, if it’s spoken really slowly, but these two sounded like a couple of Parisian cabbies.’

  ‘But I don’t understand. Why would he want us to think he couldn’t speak French?’

  ‘Again, I have no idea. But that isn’t the only thing he lied about. I never heard such an unlikely tale as that tarradiddle about his “research”. Nobody would pay anyone to look up stuff on the Internet that they could perfectly well find themselves. So that got me wondering about the rest of his story, his son the would-be monk and all that. I’ll join a convent myself if any of that is true. I just wish I had any idea what sort of game he’s playing.’

  Peter gave me a long, thoughtful look and finally said, ‘Mrs Martin, who are you? Or what are you?’

  ‘That was the other thing I wanted to tell you. And the name is Dorothy, remember? But it’s true I’m not exactly what I seem. Or I am, but … I’ll start over. I’m a perfectly ordinary retired schoolteacher, originally from Indiana. But when I first moved to Sherebury, I became involved quite by accident in the investigation of a murder actually in the Cathedral. That was how I met Alan, who was still chief constable of Belleshire at the time. And then there was another murder, and … well, I discovered I was rather good at talking to people and putting two and two together. So I’ve become a sort of unofficial consultant to the community when something odd happens.’

  ‘Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘Oh, no, not at all! He was brilliant, and besides, he was a professional.’ I thought about mentioning some of the famous fictional amateur detectives and decided this child was far too young to have read Christie or Sayers or the rest of the splendid crew from the Golden Age of detective fiction. And it was time to change a subject which always embarrassed me. ‘So what I’d like to do is sit down with you and make some lists about what’s been happening. Things we know, questions we need to ask, that sort of thing.’

  Peter didn’t look impressed. ‘I suppose we could, but why? I can’t see that it will accomplish anything.’

  ‘It will help to organize our thoughts, so when Alan comes we can present him with a clear picture of events. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t like muddles, in my house or in my mind. If you’ve finished that coffee, let’s find a cab and pick up my car, and then you can drive me back to my hotel.’

  NINE

  ‘I can’t do this legally, you know,’ said Peter as he slid behind the wheel of my rental car. ‘My name isn’t listed as a driver. And I’m not brilliant at driving on the wrong side of the road. You’d be a safer bet.’

  ‘But I’m not brilliant at driving in France. And it’s been quite a while since I’ve driven on the right, myself. It’s only a few miles. Just drive as if you had a fragile old lady in the car, which isn’t far from the truth, and you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Fragile – hah!’ But he started the car, backed it out of its space, and set off. His white knuckles and set face reminded me of myself, the first few times I’d tried to drive in England. I smiled and closed my eyes. If he thought I was relaxed about his driving, it might help.

  Somewhat to my surprise, we got back to the village, or whatever it was called, where my hotel was, without incident. I hadn’t thought to book a parking place in the hotel’s small guests-only lot, but Peter stayed with the car while I went in and took care of that detail, and then we settled in the bar over glasses of mineral water. Neither of us was ready yet for anything stronger after that cider!

  I took my small notebook out of my purse. ‘Now. What was the first odd thing that happened?’

  ‘Eve ate the apple,’ he responded promptly.

  I grinned. ‘Yes, well, that was the beginning of it all, but I was thinking of more recent events. And more local.’

  ‘For me, it was Laurence letting me down.’

  ‘Laurence?’

  ‘My archaeologist friend.’

  ‘Oh, yes. When exactly did you find out he wasn’t coming?’

  ‘What does it matter? It nearly put paid to my whole project.’

  ‘I’m trying to put things in chronological order. You were already here at the Mont, right?’

  ‘Yes. That would have been at the very beginning of May. I expected him to join me shortly, but instead there was a note saying he’d be delayed. And then he sent me that email crying off. And then I tried to phone him, several times, but he never answers. Well, I told you.’

  ‘Yes, you did, and I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now … hmm. Peter, has he ever been hard to reach before?’

  ‘No. That’s why I’m so annoyed. It’s a slap in the face, not answering when he knows it’s me … oh.’

  I watched as it sank in. ‘Exactly. Not like him, is it? That note. Was it handwritten?’

  ‘Typed. Looked like a print-out. I did wonder at the time, if he was going to go to the bother of writing something, why he didn’t just email it to me. Mrs … Dorothy, you don’t think something has happened to him?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I do know Alan will want his full name and address and phone number – all that.’ I’d been busily writing down everything Peter had said, and now turned a page. ‘All right, we’ll come back to that. Now the next thing, I believe, is the lady who got caught in the quicksand. Have you heard anything about how she’s doing, by the way?’

  ‘No. Why are you including her on the list? She’s nothing to do with Laurence, or me, or the chap from the tour. I think he should be next.’

  ‘How do you know she has nothing to do with the rest? I don’t know that, and it’s another peculiar thing. No one seems to know why she was out there on the sands digging. They’ve said it was for mussels, which I think is nonsense. She’s German. I refuse to believe that a foreigner came here with not only the desire, but the equipment, to dig for mussels that she probably had no place to cook, anyway.’

  ‘Aha! Now who’s jumping to conclusions? She could have been visiting friends or family in the area who told her about the famous Mont-Saint-Michel moules, and so she went out to dig some for them.’

  ‘Aha yourself. In that case, why have your purported friends/family not told the authorities that’s what she was doing?’

  ‘Maybe they have. Have you been watching the news, or reading the papers?’

  ‘No, and it wouldn’t have made me any wiser if I had. My French is virtually confined to please and thank you and where’s the loo. We could ask the concierge, though. Well, you could ask the concierge. He speaks quite a lot of English, but I think you’d get more information.’

  He got up and went to the desk, and came back shaking his head. ‘The woman is making progress, medically, but she’s still unconscious, and no one has come to identify her or even inquire about her. So you’re probably right. Not here with someone she knows.’

  He looked so disconsolate I hastened to cheer him up. ‘Never mind. It was a good idea, and asking the question put us a little further forward. At least we know now what theory we can discard. And speaking of identifying her, surely the hotel or wherever she was staying has reported her missing, right?’

  ‘So far, the police haven’t been
able to trace where she was staying, at least not that I’ve heard.’

  ‘Then how do they even know she’s German? No ID, no passport …’

  ‘Actually, they don’t, I suppose, but when she was screaming for help, it was in German, according to the bystanders.’

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser. It’s almost as if she was deliberately flying under the radar. So do we know anything more about this woman?’

  ‘Can we posit an unfamiliarity with the sea and tides? She apparently didn’t consult the tide tables.’

  ‘Yes. Full points for that. Neither, apparently, did she read the warning signs. Or are they written only in French?’

  ‘No, English and German as well, and something else – maybe Italian or Spanish.’

  ‘Then the woman is either stupid or arrogant. They often go together. She thought she knew better than the authorities.’

  ‘Or whatever she was hunting was so important to her that she thought she could risk it,’ said Peter soberly.

  ‘Yes. What was she hunting?’

  ‘Nobody knows.’

  ‘But we can make some guesses. We’ve ruled out shellfish. What else could one expect to find in quicksand?’

  ‘It’s said that the sands will sometimes thrust to the surface things that have been buried for a long time.’

  ‘I’ve heard that too,’ I said, ‘but never, come to think of it, from a reliable source. Mostly in novels, come to think of it. I have no idea whether it’s true. If it is, whatever comes to the surface would have to be pretty sturdy stuff. Sand and saltwater would be pretty hard on most things.’

  Peter was silent.

  ‘What?’ I said after a moment. ‘You’re thinking of something.’

  ‘No. It’s too stupid.’

  I waited.

  He cleared his throat. ‘It’s only that I was thinking … um … do you know anything about the history of Normandy?’

  ‘Precious little. I know about William, of course, who conquered England. Actually, I didn’t know a whole lot even about him until I saw the Bayeux Tapestry. Americans aren’t taught much European history, or at least they weren’t when I was a child.’

  ‘You know about the Vikings?’

  ‘Oh, please! I’m not that ignorant. Besides, I’ve spent a bit of time in Scotland over the years, most recently in Orkney. Reminders of the Vikings are all over the place there, from runes carved in one of the tombs to the language, which still has strong Norwegian roots. Norway is only a few miles … oh. Wait. Norway. Norsemen. Norman. Good grief!’ I smacked my forehead. ‘Talk about stupid! It never occurred to me. You’re telling me the Vikings came here, too, and that’s how the place got its name.’

  ‘Roughly speaking, yes. It was a long time ago, of course, and I don’t remember all the details, but what comes to mind when you think of Vikings?’

  ‘Rape, loot, pillage. Those three words are always included in any Viking story.’

  ‘Yes. Loot.’

  ‘But what … oh, no. You’re not suggesting that hoary old legend about Viking gold? C’mon. After … what? A thousand years of the fastest and highest tides in Europe? Even supposing there had once been Viking gold buried in these sands, which I for one don’t believe for a moment, it couldn’t possibly still be here.’

  ‘I told you it was stupid.’ He sounded sulky.

  ‘So you did. And I insisted you tell me your idea, anyway. Sorry.’ I sighed. ‘We’re not accomplishing much, are we? I think I need some coffee.’

  So we had some strong coffee and a pastry or two, which I certainly didn’t need, and went back rather half-heartedly to my list.

  ‘So we have your colleague deserting you for unknown reasons and then a German woman digging on the sands for some unknown reason and nearly drowning. Then what?’

  Peter gave me an odd look. ‘You turn up.’

  ‘Peter! There’s nothing odd about that. I’m a tourist, remember? The Mont does attract a certain number of them.’

  ‘You’re also by way of being an investigator, and you ask a lot of questions.’

  I sat silent for a moment. ‘And you don’t know a thing about me except what I’ve told you,’ I said slowly. ‘All right, that’s fair enough, if you’ll let me include you on my list of oddities. Your presence here is a lot more questionable than mine.’

  ‘But I’ve told you—’

  ‘You’ve told me a story. You seem like a pleasant young man, and I would be inclined to believe you, if it were not for the stolen manuscripts.’

  ‘I– what do you mean, stolen manuscripts?’

  ‘You either know perfectly well what I mean, or you’re not such an expert in the field as you claim.’

  ‘I never claimed to be an authority on manuscripts! My interest is in Abelard, and especially his music.’

  ‘Which you could not reasonably have expected to find here.’

  I let the comment lie there.

  Peter moved his coffee cup around on the table. Tore the paper off a packet of sugar cubes.

  ‘Oh, all right, so I didn’t tell you everything.’

  ‘You’re not a student.’

  ‘No.’

  I waited.

  He sighed. ‘I was a student, but now I work for an art dealer in London, a small shop in Chelsea. He was brought one of the manuscript pages that you seem to know about. Their circulation isn’t general knowledge.’ He quirked an eyebrow.

  ‘An artist friend told me. Go on.’

  ‘My boss wasn’t mad keen to buy it. The seller wasn’t very prepossessing and the provenance looked iffy. William – the boss – knew about my interest in Abelard and the twelfth century in general. He thought I might be able to learn something about the business, and I’ve been wanting to come back to the Mont, so …’ He spread his hands.

  ‘Your friend who was going to come and help? Is he real, or just another fairy tale?’

  ‘He’s real, only he’s a medievalist, not an archaeologist. And I am truly worried about him. Art thieves aren’t any less prone to violence than any other criminals. I do wish he’d answer his phone calls.’

  ‘Mmm. And now we have two more odd things, the man who was injured at the Abbey, and Mr Krider, who has told us a story with as many holes in it as a sieve.’ I ran a hand through my hair. ‘What do you suppose he’s up to?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t think anymore. I’m going to phone the Abbey and see if they’re open tomorrow. The least I can do is work another day or two before I tell them I’m leaving. They really have been good to me, you know.’

  ‘So why would you want to leave?’

  ‘I’m not learning anything about the stolen manuscripts. Or forged, or whatever they are. I can’t stay away from my job forever when I’m not making any progress with what William wanted me to do.’

  ‘I hope you’ll stick around for another few days. Alan’s coming, remember. Maybe he can help us make sense of all this. But while you’re on the phone to the Abbey – if you can get through – why don’t you ask them about the guy who got hurt? They might give you details they wouldn’t tell just anybody.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘And then we’ll have a good meal, and talk about what’s been happening.’

  Meanwhile I was going to call Alan and pick his brains. I couldn’t imagine what he might know about an American named A.T. Krider, but he would have some ideas about ways to find information. And all right, so I just wanted to hear his voice. It had been a frustrating day.

  It continued to be. Alan wasn’t picking up. I tried both our landline and his mobile. Voicemail on the landline, ‘Not in service’ on the mobile.

  Unlike me, Alan was very good about remembering to charge his mobile, and he almost never turned it off.

  I immediately went into panic mode. Something’s happened to him. He’s fallen again and reinjured his ankle. He’s had a heart attack! He’s in the hospital dying, and I’m not there!

  ‘There’s some news, but you may not–
what’s the matter?’ Peter had reappeared.

  ‘I can’t reach Alan! I can’t think what’s happened!’

  Peter might be young, but he was observant. He went to the bar and brought me back a glass with something amber in it. ‘Drink this.’

  ‘What is it? I don’t want—’

  ‘Brandy. Drink it.’

  I took a swig. It was raw stuff, not fine cognac, but it did the trick. I shuddered and sat down. ‘Thank you. I guess I needed that. I just … it’s foolish of me, I suppose, but Alan is very good about staying in touch, so I worry when I can’t reach him.’

  ‘He’s a reliable sort?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Then he’d make sure someone let you know if something had happened to him.’

  ‘Oh. You’re probably right.’

  ‘Of course I’m right. Now stop worrying, finish the rest of your medicine while I get myself a glass of wine, and let me tell you my news.’

  I wasn’t very interested in his news, and I couldn’t stop worrying. But I settled back and made myself look like I was listening.

  ‘I don’t know for certain if it’s good or bad news,’ he began.

  I tried to look interested.

  ‘I phoned the Abbey, you know, and I got through to the volunteer coordinator, who was very pleasant. I said I might be leaving soon, and he pleaded with me not to go, so I said I’d think about it. And then I asked about the wounded tourist, how he’d happened to be in that part of the Abbey and so on. It is closed off to everyone, by the way, even the community, because it’s unsafe.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ I looked at my phone, willing it to ring.

  ‘Dorothy, do listen to me,’ he pleaded. ‘This may be important.’

  ‘Not as important as Alan. Not to me.’

  ‘Yes, but you want to hear this. My friend at the Abbey said they had no idea how the chap got into the area, that they didn’t know what had happened, only that someone in the Community heard a noise that sounded like something falling and went to investigate. Carefully, you understand, because the place is unstable. The monk was afraid something had subsided, or something else had happened that might threaten the Abbey. So when he went in with a torch, he found this chap lying on the ground with a whacking great dint in his head. They all rallied round, then got him up and out and into an ambulance.’