The Missing Masterpiece

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘No, it’s not. When you were a working policeman, you often knew more about a case than you had evidence to prove. Instinct counts.’

  ‘Not in a court of law. Be that as it may, I can’t bring myself to ignore my strong feeling that there’s too much about manuscripts in all this mess for pure coincidence.’

  ‘I don’t actually believe in coincidence, anyway. The universe is an orderly place.’

  Alan raised one eyebrow.

  ‘Oh, I know, the world is a mess, everywhere you turn. But there are patterns. Patterns always emerge, given enough distance from a situation – distance in space or time, or both.’

  Alan uttered a dry, sceptical sound. ‘The distance may sometimes be astronomical. Or geological, if we’re talking about time.’

  ‘I know that!’ My voice was rising again. I tempered it. ‘Yes, you’re right. But I still say the reason we’re not making sense of this case it that we’re too close to it. We can’t see the patterns. The trouble is, I can’t work out a way to step back, so to speak.’

  ‘Ah. That’s where I was heading. We were talking about copies, forgeries, and their relative value. I think we need to go back to Penny’s story about the possibly forged manuscripts coming into the art market.’

  ‘Okay, but what—’

  ‘Try to forget everything that’s happened since you heard that story. What did Penny actually say?’

  ‘Now you’re acting like a policeman again. Question the witness. Alan, so much has happened since, and I always hate to admit it, but my memory …’

  ‘Isn’t what it was. Neither is mine. What’s to prevent our talking to her, right now?’

  ‘But … oh.’ Years of living in England have not dispelled the American mindset that France is Very Far Away and a phone call to or from there is Almost Impossible and, if possible, Very Expensive. I looked at Alan, who almost always knows what I’m thinking, and pulled out my mobile.

  ‘Not here, love, don’t you think? You’ll get a better signal outside.’

  So we went back into the hot sunshine, moved into the shade of the north side of the church, which was also, fortunately, away from traffic noise, and I placed the call to Penny in Wales.

  SEVENTEEN

  Penny sounded far away. Her voice seemed to echo. ‘Penny, it’s Dorothy. Where are you? You sound like you’re in a cave.’

  ‘Almost. Let me call you back.’

  The line went dead and we waited several minutes for the call-back.

  ‘Is this better?’ The voice was now clear.

  ‘Much. Look, is this a bad time to call?’

  ‘No, it’s fine. I was just coming out of an old slate mine. It’s a wonder there was a signal at all. What’s up?’

  ‘I won’t ask what you were doing in a slate mine. The very thought makes my knees go wobbly.’ It was true. My claustrophobia kicks in even when thinking or reading about dark, enclosed places.

  ‘All right, I won’t tell you. What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s a long story, but Alan and I find ourselves embroiled in a series of odd events here at Mont-Saint-Michel, and he thinks the whole thing might have to do with medieval manuscripts. Yes, well, I said it was a long story. So he wants to know what you told me about the manuscripts that keep turning up. I can’t remember exactly. I’ll give him the phone.’ I also handed him the notebook I always keep in my purse, and a pen.

  His side of the conversation wasn’t very informative, consisting mostly of affirmative noises, but then I perked up my ears. ‘And is there any hint of just where these might be coming from?’

  Darn. I should have asked that when Penny and I first talked. Of course I hadn’t known then that the matter would come up rather urgently in a few days. Only hadn’t she said something then about not knowing their origin?

  Alan thanked Penny, said, ‘Yes, I’ll certainly tell her,’ and ended the call.

  ‘She sends her love, and says she’ll tell you all about the slate mines one day.’

  ‘I don’t think I want to know. But what did she say about the manuscripts?’

  ‘What you had told me. That they were showing up on the market, no provenance, no history. Of course dealers are wary, but they are of excellent quality, and appear to be genuine. The more reputable dealers won’t touch them, but in the nature of things not everyone is so particular, so some of them are being sold for quite fabulous sums.’

  He stopped there, but his face had that ‘wait for it’ look.

  ‘And?’ I demanded.

  ‘And, just within the past few days, some of them have been traced back to …’

  ‘Mont-Saint-Michel!’

  ‘Aha! Thought I’d catch you. Not at all. They’ve been traced to America.’

  It was a good thing we were no longer in the church, because I was seized by a minor fit of hysterics. ‘It wanted only that!’ I wheezed when I could speak. ‘A German woman who turns out to be an American man, drowning in quicksand! An English archaeologist who turns out to be an art detective. An Englishman of unknown profession getting coshed in a French abbey, then disappearing and reappearing again. Another Englishman disappearing, apparently permanently. And now ancient works of ecclesiastical art coming from America. America! A country which, at the time these works were presumably produced, was still inhabited by aboriginal peoples who knew nothing of Christianity. Get me into a straitjacket and take me away!’

  ‘You’ve forgotten the American man who claims to be here because he has a thing about the Mont, and who just happens to be an artist dabbling in manuscript techniques,’ said Alan drily. ‘Suppose we get out of here and give you a chance to recover, and then I have a plan.’

  I didn’t say a word on our way back to our hotel. My mind refused to work at all. The expression ‘blank mind’ took on a whole new meaning for me. Alan chivvied me into the hotel, sat me down at a table in the lobby/lounge, and ordered strong coffee and a large chocolate croissant.

  ‘That coffee,’ I said after one scalding, bitter sip, ‘could trot a mouse, as some of the out-of-date English authors used to have their characters say.’

  ‘Good. I told them that was what you needed. If that and the chocolate can’t bring you back to rationality, I’ll go ahead and send for that straitjacket. Drink up.’

  It was awful stuff. I hadn’t known the French could make bad coffee, but I found that if I stirred enough sugar and milk into it, I could get it down, and maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. Just very, very strong. I polished off the croissant to take the taste away, and sat back. ‘All right. Sanity restored. Of course I may never sleep again.’

  ‘Good,’ he said again. ‘You were worried about wanting a nap. Perhaps we’ve averted that. Now.’ He looked around the room. It was filling up. Low conversations provided a background buzz, and most of what I could hear was in French. ‘Shall we go up to the room, or would you rather talk here?’

  ‘Seems safe enough here. We’ll need to keep an eye open for our friends, though.’

  ‘Right. Now what I had in mind was this. I’d like to start from the supposition that all these people are lying to us, every single one of them, to one degree or another. Let’s dig out what we really know about them – know of our own knowledge, not from what they’ve told us – and see where that leaves us.’

  ‘Gosh.’ I tried to think of what I knew about any of them. ‘There sure isn’t much.’

  ‘No. But possibly more than we think. Where shall we start?’

  ‘How about with the first thing that happened – the drowning?’

  ‘The near-drowning. Fine. We know that it was first reported to the news media that a German woman had nearly drowned.’

  ‘But it wasn’t! It was an American man.’

  ‘Now, now! It is a known fact that the report was about a German woman. We’ll leave that for now, but it is suggestive, don’t you think, that lies crop up at the very beginning? It will be very interesting to winkle out who lied to the press, and why.’ He mad
e an entry in the notebook. ‘We do know that the nearly-drowned person is a man and that he is American. We have a name, which may or may not be true, and a story about his being left to die. Again, a possible lie.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure the name is true. Do you know who Sam Houston was, in American history?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Well, I’m a trifle foggy on the details, but I do know he was president of Texas after it had won its independence from Mexico, and then governor when Texas became part of the United States. He’s the big hero in Texas; there’s a huge military base in San Antonio named after him. The point is, the name is too well known to be used as an alias. It would be like you trying to call yourself – um – Henry Tudor. It wouldn’t wash.’

  ‘Almost blasphemy.’ Alan agreed with a nod. ‘And so attention-getting it would defeat your purpose, if you were trying to hide. I understand what you’re saying. But suppose we went on a little jaunt to America, and I introduced myself as Henry Tudor. Would anyone notice?’

  ‘Oh. I suppose it would depend on how well educated they were. But probably nine people out of a random assortment of ten wouldn’t blink an eyelash. Americans aren’t taught a lot of English history. I get your point. Sam wouldn’t be running much risk with that name here in France. But honestly, I still think it’s for real. His embarrassment when he told us seemed genuine. I don’t suppose they’ve found his passport yet?’

  ‘Not so far as I know. I’ll ring the police in Avranches again tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, that’s that for now, then, but we can come back to him later. Excelsior! The next things come in a bunch. I met Peter, and he spun me a fine story about Abelard and his works, and then—’

  ‘No. Stop there. What do we know for a fact about Peter?’

  ‘Not much. He’s English, or has an incredibly good ear.’

  ‘Ear?’

  ‘For an accent. Well, you’ve heard him. His is so Oxbridge it could cut glass. Even though he didn’t go to either great university, or he says he didn’t. He claims to hold a degree from Exeter. But we have only his word for that.’

  ‘Easy enough to check, though.’ He made another note.

  ‘Assuming the name he gave us is genuine.’

  ‘Again, easy to check, if we can get hold of his passport.’

  ‘Alan, he might not be carrying his passport. Do you, travelling to France? I do, travelling or not, but it’s because I always had to, as an American. I don’t know what will happen when Britain officially leaves the EU, but for now …’

  ‘Well thought out, but yes, I do always carry mine. In these uncertain days, one never knows when identification will be required. But even before the terrorists grew so bold, I carried mine routinely, as a matter of habit. Pack bag, pick up passport. A young man might not have formed that habit. We can but try, and if we can’t find one, we’ll try to have a look at his driving license.’

  ‘He doesn’t drive. Not here, anyway. Bicycle.’

  Alan sighed. ‘One might be tempted to think he was trying to conceal his identity. I’d think he would have had to show some form of identification to get the job at the Mont.’

  ‘He’s a volunteer. They might have wanted ID, even for that – but on the other hand, they might not.’

  ‘Woman, there is such a thing as carrying caution too far! If the boy has some identification, we will find it, somehow. Passing on. What else, if anything, do we know about him?’

  ‘He’s educated, whether at Exeter or somewhere else. Everything about him gives that away. And he truly does know a lot about Abelard. Even if the story he told me was just an elaborate red herring dragged across my path, it was full of details that could easily be checked on the Internet.’

  ‘Or obtained from that source in the first place.’

  ‘Yes, but why would anyone bother? Just on the off chance that he might require an excuse to be at the Mont?’

  ‘He could have mugged it up to tell the Abbey community.’

  ‘Now who’s being overly cautious? Anyway, he didn’t want them to know what he was up to.’

  ‘Or so he told you. In fact, he told you two different stories to explain his presence here, neither of which may hold a grain of truth.’

  It was my turn to sigh. ‘All right, don’t rub it in. There are at least a few grains, though, unless we’re wildly off base about everything. He’s really on a quest having something to do with medieval manuscripts, or I’ll eat my hat.’

  ‘That’s as fine a hash of mixed metaphors as I’ve heard in months. I’ll have to be more careful in future about loading you with caffeine. It seems to have odd effects on your brain. Have we finished for the moment with Peter?’

  ‘Not quite. Alan, he truly wanted you to investigate the disappearance of his friend, and the accident, or whatever it was, to the tourist at the Abbey. He wasn’t running from the police; he was positively holding his breath till you could get here.’

  ‘A point in his favour, I agree.’ He made a note. ‘Of course he knew that I’m retired, with no official standing.’

  ‘And we’re in France, where you’d have no standing anyway. Yes, but it’s plain to me that he really does not know what happened to those two men, and he’s genuinely worried about them.’

  ‘I’ll give you that. Very well.’ He consulted his notebook. ‘Peter Cummings, if that is his name, is English and well-educated. He is also, and you’re not going to like this bit, a member of the upper classes.’

  ‘Alan! What a thing to say! Why does that matter, and how do you know, when we’re not even sure of his name?’

  ‘As to how I know, how do you know he’s an educated man? His whole demeanour proclaims his class. And it matters because, A, it means there are certain things we can predict that he will do, or not do, in certain circumstances. Not an infallible guide, certainly, but it might sometimes shorten the odds. And, B, it will make him easier to trace, once we’re sure of his name. He certainly went to a public school, and the much-maligned Old Boys Network can be very useful.’

  Thus spake the policeman. I simply bowed my head in acknowledgement and said, ‘On to his vanishing friend?’

  ‘We do know some things about him, or at least I have the information Peter gave us. I’ve not had a chance yet to check it.’

  ‘Can we drop the caution for the moment and assume Peter’s told you the truth about him? Let’s have it.’

  Alan pulled a piece of paper out of his breast pocket and began to read. ‘“Laurence Cavendish.” There’s surely another upper-class lad for you. “Age twenty-six. Addresses The Larches, Doddington, Kent and New College, Oxford.” Whew! The air is getting thin up here. Then he lists several phone numbers, an e-mail address, and the names of several friends, with apologies that he doesn’t have their addresses or other contact information.’

  ‘That’s too easily checked not to be true.’

  ‘It would seem so. I’ll phone Derek soon and put him on it. What did Peter tell you about him?’

  ‘First he said he – Laurence – was an archaeologist, and then said that wasn’t true, that he was a medievalist.’

  ‘Hmm. It will be interesting to know whether New College offers degrees in either field.’

  This time I was thinking along with him. ‘Because there may very well be a man named Laurence Whatever-it-is living in Kent and studying at New College, but who isn’t missing and never intended to join Peter here in the first place.’

  ‘You, my dear, are beginning to develop the cynical mind of a detective. Pity. You used to be so open and trusting.’

  ‘That was before I knew you. And I don’t know about you, dear heart, but I need two things in quick succession, the loo and a glass of something tall and cold. Be right back.’

  When I returned, there was a frosty glass of something with a wedge of lime floating in it, and lots of ice. ‘Ah! I do love the French attitude toward ice.’ I took a healthy swig. ‘And they use English gin. Good for them. What’s th
at, cider?’ I pointed to Alan’s glass.

  ‘When in Rome, do as the Romanians do. Excellent cider. And it was I who told them you required as much ice as tonic. Have some snacks before I snaffle them all.’

  ‘You’ll need them to offset the cider. But they look good.’ I took a handful of nuts and a couple of those delectable little pickles known as cornichons.

  ‘Right. Where were we?’

  ‘Talking about Peter’s friend Laurence.’

  ‘Ah, yes. And reaching a dead end, until I can get Derek on the blower and confirm some of what Peter’s given us.’

  ‘Couldn’t you call him now?’ Chief Inspector Derek Morrison, once Alan’s right-hand man in the Sherebury constabulary, could easily have climbed the ladder all the way to the top on Alan’s retirement, had he wanted to, but he had preferred to remain a detective. ‘That’s what I’m good at, and it’s what I enjoy,’ he had told Alan. ‘Administration’s not my cup of tea.’ So he was now the best detective in the force, nearly ready for retirement himself, and a dear friend who was always ready to give us a helping hand with one of our unofficial investigations.

  ‘Sunday afternoon? Surely we can give the man a little peace.’

  ‘It’s not official, and nothing that requires anything more than a phone call or two. You know he’d love to hear from you. He doesn’t need to do anything about it today, but it would be nice to get things going first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Very well.’ Alan picked up his phone, conceding the point with a speed that told me he was just as anxious as I to see some daylight.

  Derek was at home. He had a booming voice; I could hear almost every word he said. He would be delighted to help. Of course, no trouble at all. If he could just have the particulars …

  Alan read them to him. Derek asked him to repeat them and he did.

  There was a long pause at the other end of the line. Then I heard a long sigh. Alan looked at me and held the phone a little away from his ear so I could hear more clearly.