The Missing Masterpiece

by Jeanne M. Dams

  I shrugged. ‘He’s been telling one lie after another since I met him. For that matter, so has Peter.’ I held out my glass. ‘Can you reach the bottle without getting up?’

  He poured me another splash. ‘Enough?’

  ‘A gracious plenty, as a southern-born friend of mine used to say. Okay, it’s your turn. What did you find out from the police in Avranches?’

  ‘Not a great deal. The Survivor of the Bay, as they’re calling the mysterious person – le Survivant de la Baie – is still unconscious.’

  ‘Isn’t that more than a little odd, Alan? I mean, she might have been unconscious for a little while, but it’s been days now. I don’t suppose she could be faking it?’

  ‘Probably not, not for health professionals. The coma is very worrisome, because it might indicate brain damage. That’s not uncommon in cases of near-drowning, you know. The hospital staff don’t yet have a firm prognosis, but they would like to locate next of kin.’

  ‘Not easy, unless they’ve found some identification.’

  ‘Not yet. They have come to some provisional conclusions, however. There is, in the car park for the Mont, a car that has not been moved for several days, nor has anyone been seen approaching it.’

  ‘Which car park? The one here, or down the road?’

  ‘The big one, down the road – as you put it in your quaint American fashion.’

  He knew he was safe from a pillow attack as long as he held his glass. I contented myself with sticking out my tongue at him.

  ‘Of course, the police investigate any car that’s been apparently abandoned. For one thing, in the present state of madness in the world, the thing might be rigged to blow up. When it’s a hire car, with someone paying money for every day the car sits there empty, suspicions increase.’

  ‘So they checked this one out,’ I said, ‘and discovered it was rented by some rich Swiss banker who – let’s see – is staying at a hotel actually on the Mont and found it more convenient just to leave the car where it was.’

  ‘No. Clever idea, but wrong, my dear. They investigated and found that the car was hired by a man named Carl Philipp Bachmann, with an address in Leipzig.’

  ‘Oh, well, not our drowned woman, then. Or nearly drowned. Whatever.’

  ‘As you told me, wait for it. Of course they tried to get in touch with anyone at that address.’

  ‘Tried? No one else lives there?’

  ‘No one lives there, full stop. There is no such address, and apparently no such person. Rather an ingenious alias, don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t – oh! Bach. Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach. And from Leipzig, yet. Did he – the real C.P.E. Bach, I mean – ever live there?’

  ‘His father J.S. did, at least, for the last twenty-five or so years of his life. It’s reasonable to suppose the son was there at some stage. But we’re wandering from the point, which is that the car was hired under a false address.’

  ‘Wouldn’t the guy have had to show a passport?’

  ‘Perhaps not, within the EU, only a driving licence, and if the chap at the agency was rushed, he might not have paid close attention. All they really care about is a valid credit card.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that obvious intent to deceive made the police even more suspicious.’

  ‘Indeed. They called in the help of other judiciaires, with bomb-sniffing dogs, the lot. They found nothing at all amiss with the car.’

  ‘And anyway it has nothing to do with the … what did you call her, the survivor of something?’

  Alan’s face took on a remarkable resemblance to the way our cat Samantha looks when she’s just finished lapping up the cream she’s spilled on the table. ‘Survivant,’ he said, watching me.

  ‘Yes, okay, so your French is good and mine isn’t. You don’t have to rub it in.’

  ‘Your French is coming along nicely, but you’ve forgotten some of the grammar. Nouns, you will remember, are either masculine or feminine in gender.’

  ‘Right. I assume there’s going to be a point to all this eventually.’

  ‘You’re getting testy, love. More bourbon?’

  ‘More information! And no more French quizzes.’

  ‘I was trying to give you a hint. The noun survivant is masculine. The feminine would have an e on the end, survivante.’

  ‘Oh. That’s funny, isn’t it? Are you sure you didn’t just hear it wrong?’

  ‘I saw it in writing. Also, I know I got it right, because they gave me one other piece of vital information.’

  He paused. I gave him a look.

  He grinned. ‘The doctors and nurses learned very quickly that le Survivant is a man.’

  I was still reeling from that shock when someone knocked on the door.

  ‘That’ll be Peter, I expect,’ said Alan softly. ‘We invited him for dinner, remember? Not a word of this to him, love.’

  I just nodded.

  We offered Peter a drink, which he refused, saying all he really wanted was a gallon or so of water. The day was hot, and he’d been up and down stairs at the Abbey all day. So we went downstairs and snagged a table, and asked for a large pitcher of water while we chose our meal and our wine.

  ‘How were things up at the Abbey today? Back to normal?’ Harmless question, just making conversation while I tried to get my mind working again. The survivor of the bay was a man. Why masquerading as a woman? Why had the police not released that information?

  I missed Peter’s reply, but caught Alan’s follow-up question. ‘And did Krider enjoy his visit?’

  ‘I can’t really say. He deserted me in the gift shop and I never found him again.’

  ‘The gift shop! I wouldn’t have thought he’d have much interest in souvenirs. He doesn’t seem the type to take home “A present from Mont-Saint-Michel”.’

  ‘No.’ Peter grinned. ‘Might I have another glass of water, please? No, he was looking at the manuscripts.’

  The waiter arrived just then. I ordered the first thing I saw on the menu, which turned out later to be some sort of seafood dish. The other two ordered, and Alan got the wine decision out of the way as quickly as he decently could, wine being a sacred matter in France. As soon as the garçon was out of the way, I swallowed and said, nonchalantly, ‘Manuscripts?’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Peter. ‘You sound upset.’

  So much for nonchalance. ‘Swallowed the wrong way. I didn’t know there were manuscripts in the gift shop.’

  ‘Modern copies, of course. I think some of the monks and nuns may make them. They’re still rather expensive, but it turns out Krider’s fascinated by them. Even fancies himself a copyist.’

  I didn’t quite groan, but I exchanged an eloquent look with Alan. All that work, all my patience extracting from Krider something Peter found out in a few minutes!

  I’m not often at a loss for words. Au very much contraire, as anyone will tell you. But Alan saw that I was struggling for a conversational gambit, and said smoothly, ‘Have they heard any more up at the Abbey about that poor chap who fell down in the crypt, or wherever it was, and then vanished?’

  Peter looked sober. ‘They’re not talking a lot about him. At least, the members of the community aren’t. They’re all about silence and peace, you know. Even when the cares of the world invade their sanctuary, they pray about it rather than fretting about it. It’s rather a serene, sensible way of dealing with troubles, actually.’ He looked and sounded a little defensive about voicing this outrageously uncool sentiment.

  I found my voice. ‘You’re quite right about that. I’m a confirmed fretter, myself, and it’s so unproductive. I wish I could develop the habit of serenity. There are far worse ways of handling problems than wrapping them in prayer. But you implied that other people at the Abbey – the lay employees, I suppose – are in fact talking about that poor boy.’

  ‘Quietly. They’re rather expected to conform to the philosophy of the community, even though they’re not officially part of it. But of course the
y talk among themselves, in the gift shop and when the guides get together. The gist of it is, the chap’s been found. He didn’t get very far from the hospital before he collapsed, and they brought him back, but he isn’t doing well at all. In fact, the word is that his family has been asked to come.’

  ‘They think he’s dying?’

  The waiter, who had reappeared with our wine, took a step back at the sound of the distress in my voice. ‘Monsieur?’ he asked doubtfully.

  Alan reassured him, and the wine ceremony proceeded, but when it had been poured and the waiter had retreated, I wanted to know more about the young victim. ‘Where is his family?’ I asked. ‘The leader of the group he was with sounded English.’

  ‘Yes, the group was from Hertfordshire, organized by St Albans Cathedral. It’s a great pity their holiday ended so badly. Well, it was more of a pilgrimage, really. St Albans was once a Benedictine abbey, as you may know.’

  I shook my head; Alan nodded his.

  ‘The biggest and most important one in England, according to their records,’ Peter went on. ‘Among their claims to fame is the only English Pope, Adrian IV, who came from the town – his father was a monk at the abbey – and a notable scriptorium in the twelfth century.’

  ‘Aha! Another tie to manuscripts!’ I took a sip of my wine, discovered its excellence, and took another. ‘This can’t all be coincidence. It just isn’t possible that at least three people concerned with manuscripts would come to the Abbey at the same time, and one of them would be grievously attacked. There’s a rat i’ the arras, or something rotten in the state of Denmark, or whatever cliché you prefer. And Peter, you still haven’t heard anything about your missing friend? Because if something’s happened to him, too …?’

  ‘I know. I’ve tried every way I can think of to reach him. No luck.’ Peter looked beseechingly at Alan. ‘I know you’ve retired from the constabulary, sir, and I hate to ask, but is there a way … that is, do you know …?’ He ran down.

  ‘You want me to set in motion a search for your friend.’ Alan’s voice was neutral.

  ‘Well … I do realize you can’t officially … but I had hoped …’

  ‘Oh, for the love of Mike!’ I’d had enough. ‘Just come out and say it. If Alan can’t do it, he’ll say so, but stop pussyfooting around! He doesn’t bite, you know.’

  ‘Yes, all right. Yes, sir, if there’s a way you can look into his disappearance, I’d be grateful.’ He took a sip of wine. I suspected his mouth was dry.

  ‘There are people I can ask. Unofficially, as you point out. Dorothy, may I borrow your notebook?’

  I felt under the chair for my purse, and then remembered. ‘Oh, I don’t have it, because I left my purse up in the room. I can run up—’

  But Alan had summoned the waiter and addressed him in French too rapid for me to follow, and then turned back to Peter. ‘He’ll bring us some paper and a pencil. I want you to write down everything you can tell me about this chap. Full name and address, phone number or numbers, email address or addresses, place of business, contact information there, names of friends and family members – the lot. If you don’t have it all at your fingertips here, find it at your lodging, or get it somehow. The more information you can provide to me, the less I’ll have to ask my colleagues.’ He took a healthy swig of his own wine, and then added, ‘And if I find you have been lying to us, or concealing something vital, I’ll call off the search and have my friends begin to investigate you! Ah, here’s our dinner. We’ll stop talking about problems and concentrate on this admirable food.’

  Alan the Chief Constable had spoken.

  FIFTEEN

  Peter was understandably somewhat subdued for the meal, and made only brief replies to our attempts at conversation. When we got to the matter of dessert, he asked to be excused. ‘That was a terrific meal. You’ve been feeding me so well, I’m going to need a new belt. But I truly don’t want anything more, and I should go and get to work on that information you wanted, sir.’

  ‘You do that, and leave it at the desk for me. And remember—’

  ‘The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I’ll remember.’

  ‘Good lad. Dorothy and I will … yes?’

  The waiter had appeared at his side, handed him a piece of paper, and then asked a question. It appeared to be about dessert, because Alan said something that included the word ‘pommes’ – I recognized that one as ‘apples’ – and ‘Calvados’. The waiter went away, and Alan unfolded the paper.

  ‘I had a good deal of wine, Alan. If you’re going to give me applejack as well – what is it?’

  For his face had changed. He handed the piece of paper over to me, but it was in a handwriting I found nearly illegible, and in French. I raised my eyebrows.

  ‘Oh, sorry. I forgot. It’s from the police in Avranches. The survivant is awake and able to speak. They promised to let me know, and said I might visit if I wished.’

  I stood. ‘What are we waiting for?’

  The waiter, who had obviously read the note he gave Alan, spoke to him as we headed for the door. I suppose he was saying he’d save our dessert and drinks for us. I didn’t care at the moment. I wanted to talk to this woman – er, this man – who’d caused such consternation, in so many ways.

  ‘I don’t suppose she – he – will speak English, though, will he?’

  ‘Most educated Europeans do. If in fact he is European. He gave a false German address; he could be from almost anywhere.’

  ‘Oh. Of course.’ Alan turned out of the hotel car park. ‘Where are we going? I never asked where the hospital was.’

  ‘Avranches. A polyclinique.’

  I nodded to show I could figure out what that meant.

  ‘French lessons, as soon as we get home,’ he said, but his mind was on other things.

  So was mine. ‘Alan, does any of this make any sense to you? I keep trying to find a pattern, and every time I think I do, the kaleidoscope turns and I’m back where I started.’

  ‘We don’t know enough, love.’

  ‘We don’t know anything!’

  ‘Perhaps we will, soon. No point in speculation now.’

  I continued to speculate all the way into Avranches, but I did it silently. Alan was right, of course, but it was maddening to have a few pieces of a puzzle and not even get a start on the picture.

  ‘But what if it isn’t the same picture?’ I said aloud.

  ‘Mmm?’ said Alan, who was getting into a bit of traffic. Avranches is not a big city, and the dinner hour was nearly over, but all the drivers on the road seemed intent on homicide, at high speed.

  ‘Just an idle thought,’ I said quickly, trying not to wince or scream as we passed a big black car, a limousine of some sort, with a red sports car coming at us. We had at least an inch to spare. I’d talk about my idea at a more propitious time.

  It was a depressing idea, though. What if all these pieces belonged to different puzzles? What if it was not one set of peculiar events, but several, unrelated to each other? Then, even if we solved one, the others would remain, tantalizing us.

  And it wasn’t just a question of peculiar events, either. That guy at the Abbey had been attacked, and might die. That’s murder! And what about Peter’s friend, who might be anywhere, or – the thought came unbidden – or nowhere? There was no assurance that he was still alive, and quite a lot of suspicion that he might not be.

  Did it all really revolve around medieval manuscripts? What an unlikely source of trouble, or so I would have thought. And yet that famous book, The Name of the Rose, dealt with just that idea. At least I thought it did. I’d read it when it first came out in English, and my memory of it was pretty vague. And then there was the Ellis Peters book, one of the Brother Cadfael series, with several important scenes in the scriptorium of the abbey at Shrewsbury. I remembered that one better than the Eco book, but the scriptorium there served merely as a quiet and relatively private setting for an angry scene to be played out. The w
ork done there, the manuscripts themselves, played no part.

  Could that be the case here? Maybe the manuscripts were simply some sort of background for … well, for something fairly nasty, if a young man lay near death because of it.

  Unless it was all meaningless, all unconnected. The kaleidoscope gave another turn, and the pattern dislimned.

  The hospital’s visiting hours had ended, but a uniformed gendarme, or agent, or whatever he was, was stationed by the front desk, waiting to escort us to the patient’s side. He spoke to Alan in low tones as we walked through the rather complicated maze of corridors. As the language was French, I didn’t even try to eavesdrop. They’re all alike, I was thinking. All hospitals everywhere. They look clinical, despite their best efforts at sweetness and light. They smell of disinfectant fighting somewhat unsuccessfully against other, more menacing odours. And they’ve all grown, like Topsy, making a map the first thing one should acquire upon entering. Though I’ve never known a hospital that offered maps. Perhaps they don’t want people wandering unsupervised through the maze.

  I was thinking about hospitals to avoid getting back into the kaleidoscope, searching hopelessly for answers. When we arrived at the room, I was suddenly not sure I wanted to go in. ‘Alan!’ I whispered urgently. ‘I don’t even know his name!’

  ‘Neither does anyone else at this stage,’ he replied, patting my hand. ‘All shall be well.’

  It was part of one of my favourite quotes from Dame Julian of Norwich, the fourteenth-century English mystic, who is famous for her serene proclamation, ‘All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.’ It never fails to calm and refresh my troubled spirit. I smiled gratefully and went into the room.

  The man lying in the bed looked very ill indeed. He had tubes in his nose and his arm, and wires hooked up here and there. In health I thought he might be a big, husky man, but now he looked shrivelled. His face was a pasty grey, but there was a dark, heavy growth of beard. I wondered how he could have maintained a disguise as a woman; he must have had to shave twice a day, at least.