The Missing Masterpiece

by Jeanne M. Dams

  It wasn’t a question, really, but I replied, ‘I have. Alan hasn’t, at least not for years.’

  Alan gestured with his despised cane.

  ‘Okay, I get it. If the Abbey were in America, they would have put in an elevator years ago. ADA required.’

  ‘Americans with Disabilities Act,’ I murmured to Alan. ‘Maybe not,’ I went on, to Sam. ‘It’s a church. Churches are exempt. But we digress.’

  ‘Okay. But anyway, you both know the place is built like a Dagwood sandwich. This stacked on top of that, stacked on top of t’other. There are layers on top of layers, built over somethin’ like eleven- or twelve-hundred years. There’s no tellin’ what-all’s under the parts tourists can see. Well, the rumours are that some manuscripts were gonna be burned hundreds of years ago when some churchman decided they weren’t fit to be in an abbey. And some of the monks thought that wasn’t right, so they stashed ’em away someplace safe. Wa’al, life bein’ what it is, those old monks died and nobody remembered that those old books were hidden away, until just lately. Mebbe somebody found somethin’ down there in the cellar. Mebbe somebody far away was cleanin’ out his attic and found an old letter from one o’ the monks tellin’ about the whole business. Don’t know. But when I started hearin’ whispers about it, struck me that those lost books could likely ’a been by Abelard, cause his stuff woulda been a prime target for burnin’. So I got me a plane ticket and come to see fer m’self.’

  I had something like a dozen questions I wanted to ask, but that nurse was going to come back any minute. I contented myself with making notes, hoping I could read my hurried scrawl later.

  Alan said, ‘And how did you come to be out on the sands that day, Mr Houston? Or is it Dr Houston?’

  ‘Shucks, I ain’t been nothin’ but Sam since I was in knee pants. Yeah, I got me a few PhDs, but it don’t make no never mind. I went out on those sands to get my wallet and my passport.’ Suddenly most of the accent was gone. ‘I was up on the ramparts, and somebody bumped against me, and they fell out of my back pocket.’

  ‘Fell out?’ Alan’s voice was full of scepticism.

  ‘Or were pulled out. I felt a bump, and then turned around and saw ’em sailin’ down towards the water. I didn’t think about anything but goin’ after ’em, so I got down all those stairs fast as I could go, tryin’ not to lose track of where they might be. Not easy when you’re runnin’ round ’n’ round the island in circles the whole time. But I got down there and started walkin’ along the rocks, close to the walls, till I reckoned I was just about underneath the tower I’d been standin’ on, but my stuff wasn’t there. That was when somebody called down to me from the wall. I looked up, and I couldn’t see him, but he said he’d seen a wave take ’em just a minute or two before. “They can’t be too far out,” he said. “Just out from where you’re standing.”’

  ‘And the tide was coming in.’ Alan’s voice was level.

  ‘Hey, have I ever lived near an ocean? Can I tell if a tide’s comin’ in or goin’ out? All I was thinkin’ about was my passport and about a thousand euros floatin’ away. So I waded out a little way, and then a little way farther, feeling around for my stuff, and the next thing I know I can’t move anymore, my feet are caught, and those waves are comin’ in higher and higher, and there’s people yellin’ at me – and then I wake up in a hospital bed feelin’ like I’ve been to hell and back. And I’m here to tell you, whoever threw my wallet and passport down there was tryin’ to kill me!’

  ‘And who,’ asked Alan, ‘rescued you, and reported you as a German? And a woman?’

  ‘WHAT!?’

  That outraged cry brought on a coughing fit, and brought the nurse back, with a doctor in tow. They made short work of shooing us out of the room and out of the hospital, with what sounded to me like orders not to come back.

  ‘Well!’ I said when we got back to the car. ‘That answered some questions, but it led to a lot more.’

  ‘Indeed. Fortunately, now we have his story, we do have some trails to follow.’

  ‘But I don’t think they’re going to let us talk to Sam again, not till he’s out of the hospital.’

  ‘And that may be soon. He’s really doing much better. He’s lucky to be alive, you know. I don’t know how long he was under water, but the brain can’t survive very long without oxygen, you know. He could easily have died, or turned into a permanent vegetable.’

  ‘Alan!’ I put a hand on his arm. ‘Someone tried to kill him! What if they try again, after he gets released?’

  ‘That’s why we’re going to the police station before we go back to the hotel. I need to tell them his story and suggest a guard.’

  I stayed in the car while Alan went in and pleaded his case. I spent the time ‘given furiously to think’, as Hercule Poirot used to say.

  The police could do a lot now. Someone must have seen Sam’s wallet and passport go flying. Or if not, they must have seen him running down from the ramparts and out onto the rocks at the edge of the water.

  Someone did see him. The one who picked his pocket and threw his possessions onto the rocks. The one who urged him out into the water, with the tide coming in. But there must, somewhere, be some person who saw that rat. Why had no one come forth?

  The answer to that one was easy. Almost everyone on the Mont on any given day was a tourist. They’re intent on sightseeing and buying souvenirs, and above all, they ‘don’t want to get involved’. They might get tied up and miss their plane home; what a tragedy. I thought about the quarrelling couple I’d seen on the first day, with their badly-behaved children. I could imagine nothing on earth that would have made them go to the authorities, especially when those authorities didn’t speak much English. ‘Nothing to do with us, none of our business.’ I could just hear either the man or the woman saying it.

  Still, the police were going to have to try to find a witness. I wondered how hard they would try. Officers would have to be called in from a bigger force, Caen perhaps, or even Rouen. That would cost money. And, most importantly, there was the risk of offending the tourists, of creating unfavourable publicity, even a scandal. Whatever was bad for tourism was bad for the economy of the Mont, which meant the economy of the region. And what, after all, had happened? A tourist had defied all the warnings and gone wading in the bay when the tide was coming in. He’d gotten wet and taken in some water, but he was all right now. What was all the fuss about?

  Maybe I was being too cynical. Maybe.

  I had worked myself into a fine sulk by the time Alan came back. He was not in the best mood, either.

  ‘Let me guess,’ I said when he’d slid in behind the wheel. ‘They’re not very interested in Sam’s story.’

  ‘They were polite.’ Alan pulled out of the parking space, nearly heading for the wrong side of the road until an angry klaxon brought him to his senses. I didn’t say a word. Alan doesn’t often get into a temper, but when he does, it’s best to let him work himself out of it.

  ‘They want us to deal with it,’ he said when we were out of traffic and on the way back to the hotel.

  ‘Um … deal with it?’

  ‘They don’t have the staff to guard Mr Houston at the hospital. Well, he’ll be safe enough there, I suppose, at least as long as that nurse is on duty. I pity any malefactor who tries to cross her path. But once he’s released, which will probably be tomorrow, the Avranches police want to place him in our custody.’

  I opened my mouth, and closed it again. I couldn’t think of a response that wouldn’t make Alan even angrier. We drove another mile or two.

  ‘The constable seems to think that we’ve taken Houston under our wing, so to speak. He called him our protégé.’

  ‘Have we?’

  Alan considered that for a moment and then smiled. ‘Well, hang it all, I suppose we have, in a way. I was inclined to believe him. What about you?’

  ‘I wondered for a while about that folksy-as-all-get-out accent, but I decided it was genuine. When he�
��s under stress he reverts to the university professor. When he relaxes, the Texan comes out.’

  ‘That really is the way Texans speak? I thought it was only in the movies.’

  ‘No, it’s real. Some of Sam’s accent has been rubbed away, in fact, probably from years in Chicago, where they have their own accent. Not at the University of Chicago, though. Did you know that’s one of the most highly-respected universities in America? I’m willing to bet that good ole’ Sam makes a whopping big salary.’

  ‘So you take him at face value.’

  ‘Alan, my dearest love, after years of marriage to a cop, I’ve learned not to take anyone at face value. Well, hardly anyone. But yes, I think Sam’s telling us the truth, and he may be the only one in this whole mess. So what does the nice policeman want us to do?’

  ‘Keep an eye on him. Steer him away from risky situations. Though how we’re to do that, he didn’t specify. Above all, keep him from making a fuss that might scare away the tourists. It wasn’t said overtly, but the clear subtext was, send him away.’

  ‘Get him out of Dodge. Right. Somehow I don’t think he’s going to go anywhere until he’s figured out who did the deed. And come to think of it, he can’t go much of anywhere without a passport. Are they going to look for it, do you think, now that they know approximately where it might be?’

  ‘I very much doubt it. Once something gets lost in the sands of the bay, it may never turn up again. And in any case—’

  ‘Right. A massive search would be expensive, and might frighten the cash cows. Okay, so where is the guy’s hotel? I forget.’

  ‘L’Ermitage, just down the road in Beauvoir. Small, expensive. Looks luxurious; I checked it on the Net. I suspect you’re right about his income.’

  ‘Well, if we’re to be his sheepdogs, he’s going to have to move, or we are. And we can’t afford a luxury hotel, so he’ll have to deal with the way the other half lives.’

  ‘Which isn’t bad at all,’ said Alan, slotting the car neatly into our reserved space in the hotel car park. ‘Shall we have our nightcap at the bar, or in our room?’

  ‘At the bar, please. I’m not in the mood for bourbon. Maybe some cognac. Or even Calvados. It’s getting chilly.’

  I popped upstairs to leave my purse and visit the loo. When I came down the stairs I stopped at the landing and thought about turning back. For Alan was sitting at a table with three glasses in front of him, and the man sipping at one of them was A.T. Krider.

  TWENTY

  Was I ready for a nice, polite little conversation with Mr Krider? I was not. I wanted to have a quiet, peaceful drink with my husband, talking about nothing important, ignoring the things we would have to do and the decisions we would have to make in the morning.

  I was greatly tempted to go back up to our room and give him a call on his mobile, saying I had a headache and wouldn’t be joining him after all. But there was my drink waiting for me, and the thrifty housewife in me shuddered at the wasted money. Besides, as I stood there dithering, Krider saw me, smiled broadly, and beckoned.

  I said under my breath a couple of words that I don’t often use, and went on down the stairs.

  Alan looked at me with sympathetic understanding, but there was nothing much he could do. I sat down with a false smile pasted on my face and said, ‘Mr Krider! What a nice surprise!’

  He stood, along with Alan. What a polite little man. ‘Well, I saw your husband sitting here all by himself and thought I’d join him. Then you coming down too made it that much better. I ordered Calvados for all of us; Alan here said you liked it, too.’

  ‘I’m getting used to it.’ The fixed smile was beginning to make my face ache. I took a sip of my firewater and decided oh, why not? ‘I’m a bit surprised that you care for it. The last time I knew you to drink it, it rather did you in, didn’t it? Or was it cider that time?’

  ‘Ouch! No, it was just cider, but that stuff has a kick like a mule!’

  Looking back on it, I wondered if Krider had really passed out in Avranches. Or was that just another little deception, designed perhaps to make sure Peter and I thought him somewhat ridiculous, a negligible figure?

  He went on, ‘I didn’t cut a very impressive figure that day, did I? Helluva first impression. I’m not really much of a drinker, and that, along with some meds I was taking, knocked me flat. I’m grateful to you and Peter for rescuing me.’

  ‘We put you in a cab headed for the railway station. I take it you decided you didn’t want to go to Paris after all?’

  ‘The fact is … oh, hell!’ He put his glass down with a thump. Normandy’s liquid gold splashed on the table. ‘Look, I’m tired of telling lies. I get caught up in them, and can’t remember what I’ve said to who, and I’m sick of it. The fact is, I’m here for a very particular reason. And a very private reason, which is why I’ve been stringing everybody along. Have either of you ever heard of a guy named Abelard?’

  It’s a good thing Calvados isn’t the sort of thing one gulps, or I’d have drained my glass and asked for another. It was too much. I hadn’t even begun to sort out what Sam had told us, and now here was another man telling us he was here because of a long dead heretical cleric. A third man, now I thought about it. That had been Peter’s original story, hadn’t it? Looking for missing Abelard music?

  I stood. ‘No, no, stay where you are, both of you. Alan, I’m really, really tired all of a sudden. I’m going to take this lovely stuff up to bed with me, and I’ll bet I’ll be asleep before you even come up. Nice to have seen you again, Mr Krider. Night, love.’

  I suppose it was rude, but I couldn’t bear to hear any more. My mind was full to the top of facts, lies, rumours, speculations, and one bombshell after another. I needed some down time, and I intended to get it, right now.

  I did finish the Calvados before I hit the sack, and maybe it has some special properties that stimulate the brain. At any rate I woke up the next morning after a solid nine hours of sleep feeling energized and ready for action. At least I thought it was morning, and the bedside clock confirmed that, but there was no brilliant sunshine. In fact, it was very dark indeed. And then for an instant there was brilliant light, followed by a long rumble of thunder. A strong gust of wind blew the curtains into the room, and when I got out of bed to go to the bathroom, my feet encountered a puddle. And oh, it was cold! I brought a towel back from the bathroom, mopped up the rainwater as best I could, and closed the window.

  And where was Alan? Gone down to get some breakfast for us, no doubt. I snuggled back under the covers for warmth, and listened to the rain and the thunder, counting seconds between lightning flash and thunderclap. The storm was very close.

  Alan was taking a long time with breakfast. I wanted my coffee. I could make some in the room, of course, but he’d surely be back in a minute with the real stuff.

  And then I remembered. He was going to intercept Peter and take him to the Abbey, and tell him about Laurence on the way.

  I got up, put on a pair of warm pants and a fleecy sweater – clothes I hadn’t really expected to need in France – and went downstairs in search of breakfast.

  Alan showed up before I’d finished my first cup of coffee. ‘I phoned Peter to say I’d pick him up and take him to work. I didn’t imagine he’d want to cycle in this weather, though the storm wasn’t quite so bad then. When I got to his digs, the rain was pelting down and the lightning seemed to be everywhere at once, and they’d phoned him from the Abbey to say several tour groups had cancelled or postponed, so he wouldn’t be needed until this afternoon, if then.’

  ‘Did you get any chance to talk to him about—’ I looked around and lowered my voice – ‘about his friend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He was upset, as you might imagine, but not really surprised. “I knew something had happened,” he said, over and over. “He wouldn’t have just deserted me.”’

  ‘Then why didn’t he get in touch with Laurence’s parents? Or the
police?’

  ‘Those are questions I want to put to him, but I’ll wait a bit. Dorothy, I still don’t quite trust the lad, but I have a good deal of sympathy for him. He was truly distressed; I didn’t want to push him too far until he’s had a chance to deal with the information.’

  The policeman with a heart of gold. I could scarcely get up and kiss him then and there, but I could give him the equivalent look. He smiled and touched my hand. Shocking display of emotion from an elderly couple in public!

  I poured him some coffee and beckoned to the waiter for another pot. ‘Do we have any dates? When Peter came to the Mont, I mean, and when he expected Laurence?’

  ‘I was hoping you knew some of that, from your earlier conversations with him.’

  I shook my head. ‘It didn’t seem important at the time, but let’s see what I can remember. I first met Peter on Thursday. Goodness, was that only last week? It feels like years. He talked about Laurence then, said he’d expected him, but that he’d jumped ship. I think he said he’d heard from him about a week before that.’

  ‘Phone call? From where?’

  ‘No, it was an email. I remember that because Peter was peeved about it, thought it was a shabby way to treat a friend, not even giving him a chance to argue about it. And he said he’d been trying to call him, but he wasn’t picking up.’

  ‘But he didn’t try to reach Laurence’s parents. And he didn’t call the police.’ Alan took a slow sip of coffee.

  ‘Apparently not.’

  We both concentrated on breakfast for a moment or two. Then Alan pushed his plate away. ‘We need to construct a timeline. That can sometimes show a pattern. And we certainly don’t want to leave the hotel until the weather improves.’

  ‘I don’t know how great my memory is, but it might improve with more coffee.’

  With a fresh couple of cafetières in front of us, I pulled out my notebook and pen. ‘I really need something bigger, but this will have to do.’ I ran a line down the page, close to the left side. ‘Where do we start?’