‘Chief, you may not like this, but I’m already searching high and low for one Laurence Cavendish. He was reported as a missing person three days ago, and as his father is an MP, every force in the country has been alerted, not excepting the Met. How do you come into it?’
EIGHTEEN
Alan told Derek he’d call him back. We went up to our room for greater privacy, and using the speaker on his mobile, Alan and I told Derek the whole story.
‘But you see, Derek, we don’t know how much of what Peter told us was the truth, because he certainly made up a lot of stuff when I first met him. Apparently he didn’t make up the story about Laurence being missing, though.’
‘No. He had told his parents he was going to France for a week or two.’
‘He still lives at home?’ Alan interrupted.
‘He lives in college, though he spends some holidays with his parents. They live in rather a grand house not far from Canterbury, so it’s a pleasant place to relax. They’re a close family, and as he is their only child he’s rather careful about respecting their parental concerns. One gathers his mother is rather delicate.’
Apron strings still firmly attached, eh? I rolled my eyes; Alan nodded.
‘The holidays haven’t begun yet, have they?’
‘No, the long vac doesn’t begin until mid-June. However, as Cavendish is a graduate student, and is not sitting for any examinations this term, he is more or less his own master. What he told his parents was that he was pursuing some research in the old French abbeys. He’s by way of being a medievalist.’
The English have their own delightful euphemisms. I rolled my eyes again, and Alan mouthed ‘dilettante’.
‘So if he was supposed to be away in any case, why did his parents get the wind up?’
‘He had told them he’d call when he arrived in Normandy. He was to fly to Paris, where he planned to take a train to Pontorson. Well, he arrived in Paris; the airline confirms that. After that – nothing. There is no record of his catching a train from Paris, and they’re checking these things much more carefully these days.’
‘Indeed.’ Alan and I both sighed.
‘If he used any other form of transport – bus, taxi, hired car – we’ve not yet been able to trace it.’
‘He could have hitched a ride,’ I said tentatively.
‘Dorothy, as far as we can tell, he could have caught a low-flying UFO to Mars or been teleported to the Enterprise. There is simply no trace of him after he left the gate area at Charles de Gaulle.’
There seemed to be nothing to say to that. Alan assured Derek that he’d tell him at once if we learned anything on this side of the Channel, and Derek promised the same cooperation.
After Alan ended the call, we looked at each other. ‘We have to tell Peter,’ I said.
‘Yes. You’d better let me do that. His reaction might be instructive.’
I let that go. I’m pretty good at reading faces, and detecting lies after forty years of teaching school is second nature, but Alan is a trained detective with a healthy measure of intuition. And I’d failed to spot Peter’s first round of lies immediately. Yes, Alan was the man for this job.
‘Right away?’ I asked, looking at my watch.
‘No. It’s nearly dinner time, and we’ve given that chap quite enough meals. I’ll call him later and ask … No. I’d rather take him unawares. Do you know where he’s staying?’
‘Only that it’s in Ardevon, not far from here.’
Alan poked at his phone, swiped fingers here and there, and performed other mystic rites. Me, I use my phone for phone calls, but I do realize it can do almost anything if you give it the right commands.
Alan looked up. ‘There’s only one reasonable way for a cyclist to get from Ardevon to the Mont. He’d have to go up this road.’ He pointed to a line on the screen. I nodded with what I hoped was an intelligent look. ‘He might branch off here, or here, but to start, he’d be here. I propose to drive there first thing tomorrow morning and intercept him as he’s on his way to the Abbey. And, dear heart, I’d rather you didn’t come with me.’
‘You think I’d offer sympathy. You’re right. I might. But on the other hand, I might not. I’m not feeling terribly sympathetic just now toward that young man. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I have this feeling it’s nothing good. And I’m really worried about his friend.’
‘Yes. It isn’t easy for a living person to disappear for any length of time these days.’
I gulped at the word ‘living’ and changed the subject. ‘How hungry are you? Shall we go down for some dinner?’
‘Actually, I’m feeling rather like a stuffed sausage. Too much to eat in the past few days, and too little exercise. Perhaps we could go across the street to the shops and pick up some snacks, instead?’
‘Can you walk that far?’
‘Don’t insult me, woman! The doctor said I could do anything I liked, so long as it didn’t cause pain. I’m to stop the moment it begins to hurt.’
I knew my husband well enough to take that remark with about a tablespoonful of salt. He would define ‘pain’ in any way that suited him, up to debilitating agony. However. ‘That sounds like a good idea. They have some wonderful pâté. At about three times what it ought to cost.’
Alan shrugged. ‘Of course. Shall we?’
We made it to the shops just in time. It seemed they closed early on a Sunday. The selection was somewhat limited, but there was one little tin of pâté left, and a lovely chunk of Brie. There were of course apples – certainly from storage, in May, but still probably edible – and one small crusty roll. ‘I still have some cream crackers, and we can get some ice and chill this, and it’ll be a perfectly fine supper.’ I held up a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc that looked okay, though I’d never heard of the vineyard.
There were still some plastic wine glasses left from my improvised picnic with Peter earlier in the week. Alan and I set out our food on the tiny table in our room, using paper napkins filched from the hotel lounge for plates. I cut the cheese in half using the Swiss Army knife I’m never without, while Alan filled our wastebasket with ice from a machine (an amenity I thought we probably owed to the many American tourists who had passed through over the years).
While we waited for the wine to chill, Alan got out the notebook with his jottings about our various characters.
‘Let’s see. We can add a little to our profile of Peter. He was telling the truth about Laurence Cavendish, at least up to a point. He is in fact a graduate student and he did in fact plan to come to France.’
‘And he has indeed disappeared.’
‘We don’t know why he came to France, only what Peter told us, and what Laurence told his parents. That could all be a network of lies.’
‘Yes.’ I dismissed the unproductive thought. ‘Very well, who’s next?’
‘The nameless victim of the apparent attack in the bowels of the Abbey.’
‘But he isn’t nameless, really. The police know who he is, or they couldn’t have sent for his parents. And the people leading the tour know. We just haven’t taken the trouble to find out.’
I hadn’t meant it to sound like an accusation, but it came out that way. Alan said, ‘We’ve been a bit busy.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. His name doesn’t matter right now, anyway. Let’s call him John Doe.’
‘Isn’t that name usually used for murder victims in the States?’
‘So I gather from fiction, anyway. Don’t you think it’s appropriate? If he dies, he’ll be a murder victim. Oh, Alan, we shouldn’t be flippant about it. The poor man!’
He busied himself with an entry in the notebook. ‘Facts: he was a member of a group tour from St Albans.’
‘Perhaps a fact. Peter gave us that information, remember.’
‘Too easily checked to be a lie, I’d have thought.’
‘You’re probably right. And he failed to assemble with the group when they were ready to begin the tour of the Abbey, t
hough he had been on the tram from the village.’
‘Peter again?’
‘No, this time an impeccable source: me. I was there when the tour group assembled, and heard Madam being furious because one of her sheep had gone astray.’
Alan’s attention sharpened. ‘This was the group that Peter led through the Abbey?’
‘Yes, the group I joined. I shouldn’t have, really, but they were rather a large group, and in some disarray because of the missing man, so I thought I’d tag along. I’d paid my entrance fee!’ I added defensively, and Alan smiled.
‘No one’s going to arrest you for defrauding the Abbey, love. But how did Peter react to the chap going missing? Anything interesting there?’
‘You have to remember I didn’t know Peter at all at that point, but as far as I remember he acted just as one would expect. Annoyed, but trying to remain patient and polite to the paying customers. If he was at all distracted or upset, I didn’t notice. There was nothing at all to hint that he knew anything about the missing guy, or cared particularly.’
‘Then that may be all we can set down about the poor chap, at least until I call the Avranches police tomorrow and see what they know about him.’
‘I do hope he’s going to be all right. I said a prayer for him in church this morning.’
Alan smiled. ‘So did I. I assume that an Anglican’s prayers will still ascend from a Catholic church. Now, before we tackle the two most confounding characters of all, why don’t we see if that wine is chilled?’
NINETEEN
It was, and after a cool refreshing glass of it, and a sampling of our snacks, I felt ready to tackle our two knottiest problems. ‘How about we do Krider first? We haven’t touched him yet.’
‘Your wish is my command, dear lady.’
‘Oh, yeah? Since when? But I’ll take it when I can get it. Okay, A.T. Krider. I have a fairly complete bio of him in that notebook somewhere.’
Alan flipped pages. ‘My word,’ he said when he had read a little. ‘How in the world did you get him to tell you all this?’
‘I made like a teacher. He told us he was trying to write fiction. I told him I’d read somewhere that many writers of fiction begin by creating biographies of their characters, and when he said he wouldn’t know how to begin, I suggested he start with a bio of himself and go from there. Then the leading questions seemed natural.’
‘Hmm. Ohio born and bred. Degree in accounting. You told me those bits. Minor in history, interested in illuminated manuscripts, which is the only interesting nugget.’
‘All of it, of course, as reported by Krider himself. I’m inclined to believe most of it, though, because I don’t think he’s bright enough to realize I was fishing for information. And it didn’t come out like someone making up a story as he went along.’
‘Hmm. Not jury evidence, but a reasonable conclusion. What don’t you believe?’
‘That nonsense about why he’s here. First he was scouting out the Abbey because his son was thinking about being a monk. Then he didn’t have a son, he was just here because he’d been fascinated by the Mont ever since he read the Adams book. Then he was going to write a book himself, a novel set here. That man couldn’t write a novel if someone was going to pay him a million dollars a word. He simply hasn’t the imagination.’
‘So why is he here, really?’
‘If we knew that, we’d know a lot about why they’re all here, wouldn’t we? Alan, it all ties together somehow, but it’s beginning to look like those knots in illuminated letters, all convoluted, with no beginning or end.’
‘I think an interview with him is in order. Soon. The stakes have been raised now that we know for certain that Laurence is officially missing. If he’s still staying at the hotel—’
Alan’s phone made its odd burbling sound.
‘Hello? Oui, c’est moi.’ He listened intently for a few moments, then uttered a little more French and ended the call. ‘That was the police in Avranches. Mr Houston is awake and feeling much better, and is eager to talk to both of us.’
I picked up my purse and followed him out of the room.
The nurse on duty was not the pleasant one we’d seen before. It was obvious just from her body language that she disapproved of us and all our works, and her conversation with Alan, in whispered French, left no doubt. I couldn’t understand a single word, but I knew exactly what she said, anyway.
Alan dealt firmly with her tirade, and closed the door after her so rapidly that he almost nipped the heels of her sensible shoes.
‘What was that all about?’ Sam asked from his bed. He was sitting up and looking much healthier – some colour in his cheeks and some strength to his voice.
‘She isn’t happy about our being here,’ said Alan moderately. ‘She thinks you’ll overtire yourself. She wants us to stay only five minutes.’
‘Damn five minutes! Sorry, ma’am. But I’ve got things to say, and I’m going to say them if it takes all night. You tell that witch I’ll have a relapse for sure if I’m not allowed to get all this off my chest!’
‘Do you mind if my wife takes notes? And I should make certain you understand that this interview is strictly unofficial. I am here only through the good offices of the Avranches police, who are allowing me to take a statement from you, because of the language barrier. I have, I repeat, no official standing.’
‘I’m not worried about that. I want the police to know what happened, and I’m darned if I want some official translator taking down every word I say and maybe getting half of it wrong. But I’d like to know who I’m talking to.’
‘My name is Alan Nesbitt, and this is my wife Dorothy Martin. I was a chief constable in England for some years.’
‘And I was a schoolteacher in Indiana before I retired and moved to England and married Alan. So now you know where you are.’ Alan handed me the notebook he had put in his pocket. I got out a pen and sat ready.
Sam ran a hand through his hair. ‘Blamed if I know where to start. It’s all pretty complicated.’
‘How about telling us why you came to Mont-Saint-Michel?’
‘I’ll have to go back a ways first, I guess. I told you I live in Chicago. You know anything about Chicago?’ He looked at me, and I nodded.
‘I do, Mr Houston. My first husband and I used to visit the museums there often, take in the Chicago Symphony, that sort of thing.’
‘Then you’d know Hyde Park.’
Alan looked a little startled, and I grinned. ‘There’s one in Chicago, too,’ I explained. ‘Only it’s not a park, just a neighbourhood, near the University of Chicago. Incidentally, Barack Obama and his family lived there for years – when they weren’t living at a somewhat more famous address.’
‘Right,’ said Sam. ‘Well, that’s where I live. I teach at the university. Medieval studies.’
Ah. I made a note, but didn’t comment.
Sam saw my interest in my mobile face, though. ‘Aha! That means somethin’ to you, doesn’t it? I’ve been readin’ newspapers, as soon as they let me have ’em. I can read French, I just can’t speak it worth a damn, or understand it at all. And I hear a lot of funny things have been going on around here.’
‘You might say that.’
‘And they all seem to have somethin’ to do with the Mont. Me almost drownin’ on the sands, some poor kid gettin’ bonked on the head down in the sub-basement, another one fallin’ off the face of the earth. Nobody seems to have a clue what it’s all about.’
‘We have one idea,’ I said, glancing at Alan. He nodded. ‘We think everything somehow has something to do with medieval manuscripts.’
‘I don’t know about everything, I only know about my part. I’ve been pretty cagey about it up till now, but I reckon it’s time to come clean.’ He shifted in his bed. ‘Could you reach me that glass of water?’
The nurse came in. It’s a pity nurses have forsaken their starched uniforms and caps, because her demeanour cried out for starch. She addressed Alan
in furious tones and issued an obvious command.
Sam roared at her. I don’t know how much English she understood, but someone who spoke only Swahili could have followed the gist of his profane remarks. She retreated, very much on her dignity. Again, I lamented the lack of starch. Poor woman!
‘She’ll be back,’ said Sam with a sigh. ‘She’s one of the old school.’
‘You were saying,’ I prompted.
‘Right. Manuscripts. You’ve put your finger on it, ma’am. Have you ever heard of Peter Abelard?’
And there it was. The connection. But what about him? I nodded. So did Alan, We waited for Sam to continue.
‘Good for you. Most people haven’t, these days, and he was one of the most famous men of the twelfth century.’
‘Sic transit gloria mundi,’ murmured Alan, earning a look of surprise and respect from Sam.
‘Wow. I guess English policemen are a speck better educated than the American breed. Anyway, yeah, you’re right. Worldly glory passes away, all right. But I’ve made a specialty of him all my life; taught about him, read about him, got obsessed by him, you might say. I knew the Abbey here had once had some of his manuscripts, and I was mighty intrigued by that.’
His accent became thicker the longer he talked – and his vocabulary more colourful. You can take the boy out of Texas, I mused, but …
‘See, Abelard was judged to be a heretic. Not by everybody, but he was tossed out on his … er … backside more than once. So it was kinda peculiar that a big, famous Abbey would set out to copy his stuff.’
He shifted again, and again I handed him the water.
‘So okay, you know about the French revolution and all that. And the manuscripts all went to Avranches, and most of ’em crumbled away over the years.’
‘We know most of this part of the story.’ I couldn’t help butting in. ‘We’ve met a young man who volunteers up at the Abbey, who’s also interested in Abelard and the manuscripts. You probably know that three of Abelard’s survived. They’re at the Scriptorial.’
‘Yes, ma’am. But there were rumours that the Abbey still had some, hidden away somewhere. You’ve been to the Abbey.’
The Missing Masterpiece Page 14
