And why had he wanted to do that?
The nurse in the room was the kindly sort, rather than the dragon I was half-expecting. She spoke quietly, and of course in French, but even I could tell that she was expressing concern about her patient’s condition, and gently but firmly setting limits to our visit. A finger to her lips told us to speak quietly; and ‘dix minutes’ was easy to translate.
The French police officer stepped forward and sat down beside the bed. Alan told me later what he said, so I know that he introduced himself and then asked the man, in French of course, what his name was.
I needed no translation of his answer. ‘I’m sorry – I don’t speak French.’
The accent was pure Midwest. I couldn’t help myself. I moved to the bed and said, ‘You’re American! And so am I. What on earth were you doing, letting yourself get caught in the quicksand of Mont-Saint-Michel?’
‘Dorothy.’ Alan quietly moved me aside. ‘We do want to know that, sir, but first let me congratulate you on still being alive. It was a near thing, you know.’
‘I do know.’ He paused to cough, and the nurse moved forward, but Alan held up his hand. ‘And what I want to know is,’ the man continued when he could speak, ‘who was the son-of-a-bitch who left me there to die?’
That flummoxed Alan for a moment, so I could say, ‘We still don’t know your name.’
‘Sam Houston. Don’t laugh, and don’t make me laugh. I’ll start coughing. My father was from Texas, but we moved to Chicago when I was fifteen, and I’ve lived there ever since, except for a few years in the Marines.’
Alan managed to get his home address, and his address in France, and then the nurse shooed us out.
‘And after that little bombshell, I need a stiffener,’ I said firmly when we all got ourselves back to the hospital lobby. ‘You ask this nice policeman where we can get some decent whisky, Scotch or American, I don’t care.’
‘We’ve still that bottle of Jack back at the hotel.’
‘And we have to drive back there eventually anyway. Done.’
I spent the short trip to our hotel trying to organize my chaotic thoughts. If I thought nothing made sense before, now I was completely at sea. Why was an American man masquerading as a German woman? Why had he been digging out on the sands of the bay?
He apparently remembered what had happened. Someone was with him. Someone he didn’t know? That person – well, probably a man, given the term Sam had used for him – that man had abandoned him to the tide and the quicksand.
So who did we have now in the cast of characters in this bizarre story? Two Americans, one young, one middle-aged. (No one more than ten years younger than I counts as ‘old’.) Both from the Midwest. I had learned a lot about Krider’s background, but we knew nothing about Sam. The police would find out, though. Now that they had a name and a nationality, they could trace him. A European might not have needed a passport to come here; an American would.
Except – oh, dear. An American friend told me an interesting story a year or so ago. On a holiday from America, she had spent some time in the Channel Islands and had chosen to come to France in a small boat that made day-trip runs to Cherbourg. Her only travelling companion was a French girl who was returning home. When they landed, the girl helped her find the Tourist Information centre, where the staff helped her find a hotel. It wasn’t until she was settled in that she realized no one had asked her – an American – to show a passport. No formalities at the docks – she just walked up into the town. And from there she travelled all over France, never once showing a passport. She hadn’t intended to sneak into the country illegally, but that, in effect, was what she had done.
What if Sam had done the same thing, intentionally or otherwise? Then there wouldn’t be a paper trail the police could easily follow.
Well, that was creating a problem where none might exist, and goodness knows I had enough without making one up!
Back to the cast of characters. Krider, Houston. Krider was more or less taped; Sam would be able to tell us more when he felt better. Then there were two young men about whom we still knew little or nothing. Peter was writing down information about his friend Laurence for Alan. Laurence was English, so Alan could invoke the power of the English constabulary in searching for him. The man in the crypt – well, Peter knew he was from Hertfordshire, and the Abbey had records of the group he came with. And of course his parents might be here soon, if the Abbey officials had been able to reach them. If the poor boy died, though, the true story of what he was doing in the crypt might die with him.
And that’s a terrible thought, Dorothy Martin, I scolded myself. You should be praying for his life because he’s a suffering human being, not because he’s involved in a very odd puzzle. But the fact remains that he could help solve that puzzle – if he lives.
I had reached that point in my unproductive musings when we got to the hotel. Alan parked the car while I went in. The desk clerk called to me. ‘Madame, a note for you.’
That would be Peter’s information about Laurence. I tucked it into my purse and went upstairs.
A knock at the door. Alan’s forgotten his key, I thought. I opened the door to a young waiter, who rolled in a small cart carrying plates, glasses, a bottle, and something that smelled heavenly. ‘Votre tarte tatin, madame,’ he said with a smile.
Well, given the aroma, even I could figure out that meant some sort of apple pie. I fumbled in my purse for a tip, but Alan showed up just then and gave the boy some money.
‘I’d forgotten about dessert,’ I said, sitting down at our minute table with a satisfied sigh. ‘What exactly is it?’
‘An upside-down apple pie, but very much unlike any apple pie you’ve ever tasted. It must be eaten warm, and here’s some crème fraîche to have with it. And some Calvados.’
I dug in, and after the first bite forgot about everything that was bothering me. This was heaven on a plate. I had no idea what sort of apples had been used, but they were in a buttery caramel sauce that enhanced their bright tartness. The tanginess of the crème fraîche set it all off perfectly, and the Calvados – well, it’s true that I’m overly devoted to the pleasures of the palate, but this was pure bliss and I refused even to feel guilty about it. I did manage to refrain from picking up my plate to lick it clean, but it was a near thing.
‘Coffee?’ Alan picked up the silver pot and raised his eyebrows.
‘No, thanks. It might keep me awake.’
‘I ordered decaf.’
I don’t usually have anything to do with decaffeinated coffee. To me the phrase is an oxymoron. But in France it might even taste like the real thing. ‘Well, then.’ I accepted the cup he poured for me and put it down to look for my purse. ‘Now I suppose we should look at what Peter came up with about his friend.’
‘I suppose we should.’ Alan sounded as enthusiastic about it as I.
I made a decision. ‘No. I don’t want to, and neither do you. We’ve had enough of this for the time being. Let’s pretend we’re an elderly couple entitled to our sleep.’
Alan put his cup down, too. ‘My love, you do have brilliant ideas. Although I’m not sure how sleepy I am.’
Somewhat later, we slept very well indeed.
SIXTEEN
I slept late the next morning. It was a perfectly gorgeous morning, and I suddenly realized it was Sunday. At home peals of bells would have reminded us about going to church.
I’m usually groggy first thing, but for some reason I felt wideawake. I nudged Alan, who was still slumbering peacefully. ‘Hey, sleepyhead. It’s Sunday! What are we going to do about church?’
‘Mmff,’ said Alan. I called for coffee and croissants, and while I waited for their arrival, I went downstairs to work out a plan.
When I returned, and Alan had absorbed enough caffeine to re-join the world, we talked about our options. There weren’t many.
‘I doubt there’s an Anglican church nearer than Paris.’ I finished a croissant and licked my
fingers.
‘You’re probably right. So we’d need to go to Mass somewhere.’
‘And I’m sorry, dear heart, but the Abbey is out of the question. There are something like 350 steps. I climbed it once. I’m not sure I could do it again. And with that bum ankle, you couldn’t do it at all.’
‘No lift?’
‘No lift. But while you were emerging from the fog, I went down to the lobby and checked some of the tourist guides. There’s a small parish church, Saint Pierre, about halfway up the village street. The street is cobbled, but I think you can make it if we go slowly.’
‘The service will be in French, you know.’
‘Of course. I do rue the day when the Latin Mass was abandoned. Wherever Frank and I went in our travels, we could go to church and follow what was happening, because we’d heard things like the Lord Nelson Mass, and the B-Minor, and so on, and knew the words in Latin. But it’ll follow the same basic pattern as our Eucharist back home, and French is based on Latin, after all. How hard can it be?’
Alan poured himself another cup of coffee and buttered a brioche. ‘I’m not sure, Dorothy. I hate to sound like an old crock, but the doctor did drill into me that I was to stay off my feet as much as possible. As I recall, it’s a fair walk from where the tram drops one to the Mont itself.’
‘Aha! That’s why I organized a wheelchair for you. Aren’t you proud of me? I took my phrase book and found a picture of the handicap symbol – you know, that stylized wheelchair thing – and the concierge was most helpful. I also learned that the trams are fully wheelchair accessible.’
‘You handled all that in French?’
‘Well … the concierge speaks pretty good English, actually. And there’s a leaflet about the trams – in several languages.’
Alan took a bite of his croissant and a swig of coffee. He looked grumpy.
‘Look, love, I know you hate looking old and feeble. So did I, when I couldn’t walk much right after they did my knees. But you’re not old and feeble; we both know that. It’s just that blasted ankle. What do you care what people think, people who don’t know you and will never see you again?’
‘You are a managing woman.’ He tried to sound cross, but a twinkle was just under the surface.
‘I am, when necessary. And you’d better finish your breakfast and get in the shower. Mass starts at eleven, and it’ll take us a while to get there.’
When I was a girl back in Indiana, no Protestant would have dreamed of entering a Catholic church, or vice-versa. How things have changed – and for the better. For the most part, the various branches of Christianity are far more tolerant of one another, without discarding our deeply-held convictions. And the Anglican diocese of Sherebury isn’t all that Protestant, anyway; we keep to High Church practices which some would consider popish.
All the same, it felt a little odd to be entering a beautiful little church with several statues of Mary and lots of banks of votive candles. We left the wheelchair at the door, and by unspoken consent headed for a pew at the back, in a corner, where we could watch what others did and not be too conspicuous.
‘We probably can’t take Communion,’ I whispered. Alan gave a minute shrug, which I presumed meant he wasn’t sure.
I didn’t have too much trouble following the Mass, which was celebrated very simply. I could not, of course, follow the readings or the brief homily. The congregation was not large; there are only forty or fifty residents of the Mont, not all of whom, I presumed, are churchgoers. Visitors to the village on a Sunday morning would tend to be either tourists, interested in sightseeing, or pilgrims, who would attend church at the Abbey. When it came time for Communion, Alan held a whispered conversation with one of the attendees, who shook his head. We stayed in our seats. Alan made sure to put a fair-sized donation in the collection when it came around, and we stayed to chat with the priest when the service was over. At least Alan chatted; I nodded and smiled.
‘Nice chap,’ said Alan when we were out in the sunshine once more. ‘Now. An omelette chez la Mère Poulard?’
‘It can’t be any better than the ones chez Dorothy, and I can think of a whole bunch of things I’d rather spend our money on, like a proper Sunday lunch. I don’t suppose we could find roast beef and Yorkshire pudding anywhere?’
‘Paris, probably. Some of the big hotels there cater to the English.’
‘Forget it. Let’s see if anything in the village appeals.’
We took our time wandering back down past the shops and cafés, all very busy now that Sunday morning had passed. Alan had refused to use the wheelchair. ‘It’s too hard for you to wheel on the cobbles, and it’s awkward in a crowd. I have my cane and the boot, and your elbow at need.’
I didn’t insist. I’d got him to use it on the way up. I choose my battles. I dragged the thing, folded up and hard to control, behind me, and tried not to show my irritation with it.
There wasn’t a single eatery that appealed to my mood. They were either very limited in menu or very expensive, or both. I did pause now and then to drop into a shop, especially when there was a bench inside where Alan might rest for a bit. One had an intriguing display of tapestries depicting, of all things, illuminated manuscripts, or at least illuminated capital letters. They were somewhat stylized, not as elaborate as the originals, and were, I was sure, machine-made, but they were beautiful. I paused near the doorway to inspect one and check the price, and while I was mentally translating the price into pounds sterling and deciding we still couldn’t afford it, a man collided with the wheelchair, sending it bruisingly against my knee.
‘Can’t you control that thing?’ he snarled. ‘I might have damaged this, and it cost an arm and a leg.’ He was gone, his bulky bundle under his arm, before I could recover and tell him he might have damaged me.
Alan was irate. ‘That chap wants a kick where it would do the most good!’
The pain in my knee was subsiding. A sudden blow always makes them hurt like fury, but it doesn’t last long. ‘I agree. But then he’s a New Yorker, and they’re often like that. Comes of living in constant noise and bustle.’
‘A New Yorker? You know him, then?’
‘No, but the accent is unmistakable.’
‘You caught that in just a few words? I just thought he sounded American.’
‘Would you recognize a Welshman from just a few words? A New Yorker is just as distinctive, to any American. Besides, I’ve encountered him and his temper once before, my first day on the Mont. Once heard, never forgotten. Alan, for heaven’s sake climb into this thing and let me wheel you the rest of the way. It’s really easier that way. And let’s try Avranches for lunch.’
We lingered over lunch, which was very good, but very French. I was beginning to long for English or American food, which just shows how old and set in my ways I’ve become.
‘What now, light of my life?’ asked Alan after we’d finished the last cup of espresso. ‘Back to the hotel?’
‘No, if we go back we’ll just want to take a nap. There must be a place here in Avranches where we can just sit and talk. In some privacy. Is there a library?’
‘Only the one in the Scriptorial, I believe.’
I shuddered. ‘No, thank you. I’ve had quite enough of manuscripts for the time being.’
‘Then what about a church? There’s a beautiful one not far away, Notre Dame des Champs. Looks like a cathedral, though it isn’t.’
‘There wouldn’t be a Mass going on?’
‘I don’t know, love, but at this time of day I’d doubt it. It’s nearly three.’
‘Then let’s try it.’
The church was very beautiful. A long nave, full of light, led to an altar in a small apse. The gothic arches looked so much like those in the Cathedral at home that I was instantly homesick. ‘It’s very well preserved,’ I whispered to Alan.
‘Nineteenth century,’ Alan whispered back, waving the leaflet he had picked up.
‘Oh.’ My nostalgic sentiment die
d a quick death. Alan grinned at me, but forbore to comment until we had found a small niche where normal conversation seemed less impolite.
‘It’s still beautiful, you know,’ said Alan.
‘I know. And I know I’m completely irrational. But I like things to be real, not copies. Our Cathedral is real.’
‘And costs a fortune to maintain in its glorious ancient reality. You would prefer, here, a Victorian red-brick box?’
‘No, of course not. I said I was irrational. It’s just that … oh, it’s the old, stale issue: why is a beautiful copy of a painting or whatever not as valuable as the original? Penny and I talked about it just the other day, and came to no conclusion. One never does. The copy may be beautiful. Well, this church is. If the original is very old, the copy may be in much better condition. As this church is. I suppose that the real problem is that the creative genius that sparked the original has been pirated. It’s not so bad with a building, I guess. This is probably not an exact copy of some other church, and anyway it’s not being passed off as an original Gothic edifice. A painting, now, a forgery of a Renoir, say – that’s just plain theft, no matter how beautiful the forgery might be. It’s the dishonesty of it that makes my blood boil!’
My voice had risen. Alan put a finger to his lips. ‘Easy, love. We’re in a sacred place, even if it is somewhat spurious, to your mind.’
‘You’re right. Sorry,’ I said to Alan, to whatever people might be in the church, and to God. ‘And anyway, that’s not what we need to talk about.’
‘Not directly. But there is a bearing. I’ll get to that in a minute. First, do we believe that all the odd things happening on and around the Mont are connected?’
I took a deep breath. ‘I do, for one. I’ve thought about it and thought about it till my brain is turning cartwheels, and I can’t give any sensible reason for my belief, but yes, I do believe there’s a connection somewhere. What it is, though …?’ I held up my hands in the classic ‘don’t have a clue’ gesture.
‘I agree. And I further believe – without a shred of evidence – that the connection has something to do with manuscripts. Which is most unlike the policeman in me.’
The Missing Masterpiece Page 12
