‘I guess you did.’ We both smiled at the memory. ‘But to answer you, no, you certainly don’t look like a woman. I suppose it’s just barely possible that English spoken with a Texas accent might sound like German to a Frenchman, though it doesn’t seem likely. So that suggests to me that someone misidentified you on purpose.’
‘Why?’
I shrugged. ‘It must have been the person who rescued you who gave the media the wrong information. And you don’t know who that was, right?’
‘I was plumb outta this world when they saved me. And woulda been for good if they hadn’t, so the doctors told me. It was a mighty close shave.’
‘And you might have had permanent brain damage even then. So you’re really lucky. Well, the police will presumably know who fished you out of the drink, so we’ll have to shelve that one for a little while. The other thing I wondered about was the car.’
‘What car?’
‘A car was abandoned in the big parking lot, the one where the shuttles start. It was there for several days, and when the police checked it out and discovered it had been rented by someone from Germany, they assumed it was yours.’
‘Like I said, I got a car and driver in Paris, or at the airport, anyway. Sent him back once he’d delivered me here. I reckoned I could get a cab to take me from here to the shuttle stop, and if I wanted to go somewhere else, there’d be a way to get there.’
I sighed. ‘So we don’t know any more about the car, or the misidentification, or … or anything, really. Every thread seems to lead either nowhere, or into a worse tangle.’
‘Dorothy, I’ve been doin’ some thinkin’, and I’ll tell you what’s got me bamboozled. These attacks, the one on me and the one on that poor kid at the Abbey. They were nasty and all, but neither of us died. I might’ve, except somebody rescued me. That boy might’ve, only somebody found him in time. So I’m thinkin’ maybe we weren’t intended to be killed, only roughed up some. Maybe enough that we’d hightail it outta here and head for home. Now why would anybody be fool enough to risk a jail sentence, or worse, just to get us out of here?’
TWENTY-FOUR
I didn’t have an answer to that one, either, so I was glad when my phone rang. It was, of course, Alan, telling me he was pulling into the car park and would be knocking on the door in a few moments. The fact that he thought it necessary to warn us of his arrival told me that he took very seriously the possible threat to Sam. He even gave me a code knock so I’d know it was him. It all felt a little like the Hardy Boys. And yet – Sam had nearly died; so had the guy at the Abbey. Precautions might seem ridiculous, but my husband is a sensible man, not given to panic. If he thought all this was necessary, I was prepared to take his word.
Alan looked very tired. He came in and plopped down in a chair in a manner very unlike his usual sturdy, unflappable self. I poured him a glass of cognac and started the kettle for coffee, and waited for him to begin the conversation. When Sam opened his mouth and took a breath, I gave him a school-teacherish look, and he subsided.
When the coffee was brewed, I gave it to Alan and ventured, ‘Bad, darling?’
He shook his head wearily. ‘Just confusing, and I do not welcome more confusion just now. The story Mr Douglas told me is very much like yours in general outline, Sam. He has no idea who his assailant was; never saw him, and remembers very little before waking up in hospital with, as he put it, “the great-grandfather of all headaches”.’
‘Did he tell you why he was down in the catacombs, or whatever they call it, the lowest level of the Abbey?’
‘That’s the truly confusing part. He says he was never there.’
‘But … he was found there.’
‘He was unconscious, Dorothy. The last thing he remembers is climbing the many stairs up to the Abbey with his tour group. He had gone ahead of the rest, he says, because he was so fascinated with the structure and wanted a little time to have a good look before the tour actually started. He is an architecture student, and could hardly believe the ingenious ways the medieval builders had solved the formidable problems presented by the site. He had moved off the path and around a corner to study a detail – and that’s all he remembers.’
‘Someone attacked him and took him into the crypt,’ I said.
‘Apparently. Though the other possibility is that he slipped – it was raining, remember, and the rocks would have been wet and treacherous – slipped, fell, hit his head, and wandered in a daze into the first door he saw.’
‘All right, I’ll tell you the reasons I don’t believe that for a moment.’ I ticked them off on my fingers. ‘First, I’ll bet you anything you’d like to risk that his injuries aren’t consistent with falling and hitting his head.’
‘Pathologists’ opinions aren’t always reliable,’ Alan murmured.
‘Aha! So the doctors agree with me. Second, even in the rain, the Mont was swarming with tourists. Not as many up near the Abbey as down in the town, I admit, but still enough that someone would have seen a man “wandering in a daze” and done something about it.’
‘Um … not to cause trouble, ma– er … Dorothy, but if the poor guy was hit on the head, wouldn’t someone have seen that, too? Or seen him being dragged away?’
‘Not necessarily. If Mr Douglas was “around a corner”, as he said, he could well have been hidden from the view of the foot traffic, behind a buttress, or a bush, or whatever. It takes only a second or two to bring something heavy down on someone’s head, and not a lot longer to conceal the body, at least temporarily. Did he show signs of having been dragged, Alan?’
‘The hospital, most reprehensibly, threw away his clothing. A nurse I talked to said it was beyond repair and, when pressed, cited rips and abrasions and ground-in dirt. His skin also suffered some abrasions. None of that is evidence, Dorothy.’
‘Not police-court evidence, no, but an interesting indication, wouldn’t you say? I suppose the police talked to whoever found him at the Abbey.’
‘Of course. It was one of the monks, a somewhat unworldly person whose sole concern was to get help for the man, rather than to take any notice of his surroundings.’
‘Pity. Understandable, but how much more useful it would have been if Brother Cadfael had been there. A fictional twelfth-century monk and amateur detective,’ I said to Sam.
‘Hey, give me a break! I’m a medievalist! I know about Brother Cadfael; been to Shrewsbury and seen what’s left of his abbey.’
I turned back to Alan. ‘And did Douglas tell you why he ran away from the hospital?’
‘He says he doesn’t remember doing that, only waking up in an alley somewhere feeling awful. Whoever found him called an ambulance and he was taken back. My own idea is that someone drugged him and slipped him out.’
‘But why—’
‘Dorothy.’ Alan dropped his hands on his knees in an irritated gesture. ‘I’m tired, and I’m hungry, and I’ve had quite enough of circular conversation that gets us nowhere. Do you think we could find dinner somewhere and talk about something else?’
Alan and I both hate to admit that we’re getting old, but it’s true that we tire more easily than we used to. Sam looked us over and made a suggestion. ‘Look, I don’t know about you two, but after a century or two of hospital food, what I want isn’t terrific French cuisine, but a really good big hamburger. Do you know of any place around here where we could get some?’
Alan actually laughed at that. ‘My dear man, I read only a little while ago, in the Telegraph, that “le burger” is the fastest-growing food fad in France. I’m sure we can find them in Avranches.’
‘Real ones? Not fast food?’
‘Real ones,’ Alan assured us. ‘If you’re ready, we’ll go and ask the concierge where to find the best ones near here. He’s sure to know.’
We found them. We found that they taste even better washed down with some good Beaujolais than with a Coke. Sam had two, along with a mountain of frites, and was a changed man. ‘This is on me,’
he said, when Alan picked up the bill and looked a trifle startled at the total. ‘You’re my guard dogs. Need to keep you fed and happy.’
‘I think I’d better walk back to the hotel,’ I said, getting up with a groan. ‘I’ve consumed about three days’ worth of calories, and I can barely move.’
‘Climb in, old girl,’ said Alan, opening the car door. ‘It’s close to ten miles by road. You can go for a nice walk in the morning.’
‘Assuming I’m ambulatory by then,’ I grumbled.
When we got back to the hotel, though it was early, I was more than ready for a nightcap and bed. ‘Sam, do you like Jack Daniel’s?’ I asked.
‘Sure do.’
‘Well, Alan found a bottle in Avranches the other day, and there’s a little left. We might as well polish it off, since we’re having a very American evening.’ Glasses filled, I raised mine. ‘And here’s to a happy issue out of all our afflictions.’
‘That sounds like poetry,’ said Sam, ‘but I don’t recognize it.’
‘Book of Common Prayer,’ said Alan with a grin. ‘Poetry indeed, by a sixteenth-century archbishop. And an appropriate toast, my dear. Hear, hear!’
There is a theory, especially popular among the often lazy (like me) that going to bed with a problem in one’s mind will produce a solution by morning, by some alchemy of one’s subconscious. The theory doesn’t usually work for me. I go to bed thinking about the problem, I have trouble falling asleep because of it, I toss and turn and keep Alan awake, and we both wake up in the morning out of sorts and no nearer a solution.
This time I’d consumed enough alcohol before bed that an earthquake might not have kept me awake. The morning found me, rather than suffering the hangover I deserved, actually somewhat refreshed and in reasonably good spirits, if no nearer to answers to any of our questions. Alan, however, was so merry and bright as to be distinctly annoying.
He did not, however, expect me to respond in kind until I’d had some coffee. Good coffee, in fact. I surfaced after the second cup. ‘You never made this in the room.’
‘No. Sam ordered it in. He woke up early and had them bring us enough to float a battleship and keep the sailors awake into the bargain.’
‘Sam has Texas-sized ideas, bless him. I do feel as though he’s looking after us, rather than the other way round. And I certainly never heard him come in to use the bathroom. He moves lightly for such a big man.’
‘He has many remarkable qualities. There are croissants and brioches as well, and fruit, and so on. Shall I go down and fetch some?’
‘No, I’m still full from last night. I could maybe face some fruit after I’ve showered and dressed. Do we have any plans for the day, so I’ll know what to put on?’
‘Not yet,’ he said mysteriously. ‘Put on whatever’s comfortable, and we’ll decide later.’
All right, let him have his fun. I finished the last few drops of my coffee and disappeared into the bathroom.
Alan and Sam were comfortably ensconced in our lounge when I went downstairs. There was still a large pile of pastries and a large basket of fruit on the table, and an urn of coffee big enough to destroy my sleep for the next week. It smelled wonderful. I recklessly poured myself another cup and took an almond croissant I certainly didn’t need.
‘We been havin’ us a nice little chat, Dorothy. Alan told me all about your friends Peter and Krider, and we’ve come up with some real interestin’ ideas. Have a sit, and tell us what you think.’
‘Alan, is this what you’ve been dying to tell me ever since I got up?’ I demanded.
‘It is, with some embellishments provided by our friend here. I awoke this morning with an idea. Now those early morning ideas often prove to be illusory, vanishing like the morning mist in the strong light of day, but this one seemed to have some substance, so when I heard that Sam was awake, I came down to talk it over with him, and we’re agreed. At last we may be about to make some progress.’
‘That’ll be a nice change. I’m all ears.’ I absent-mindedly took a banana and began to peel it.
‘Right. For a start, then, the thought that woke me this morning was that Bruce Douglas is a student of architecture.’
‘Yes. You told us that last night.’
‘Architecture, Dorothy. Not medieval studies. Not music, or art. Nothing to do with manuscripts, or Abelard.’
‘Hmm. That’s a bit odd, then. It falls outside the pattern.’
‘That was what I thought, until I had a cup of this excellent coffee and my brain started to function. Then the picture began to form.’
I looked around the room. ‘I only see a picture of the Mont, in a tasteful frame.’
‘Ah, but I have an advantage you have not. I have seen Bruce Douglas.’
‘Alan, you’re being utterly maddening! Spit it out, dear heart, or I’m going for a walk.’
‘Sorry, love, but I had to spin it out a bit. It’s seldom enough that I know something you don’t. I took a picture of Douglas yesterday. I don’t know why, except that something was teasing at my mind even then. Have a look.’
He took out his phone, did some poking, and handed it to me.
‘Wrong picture, dear. Look some more. This is Peter.’
‘No, love. It’s Bruce Douglas. He looks enough like Peter to be his brother.’
‘But that means – wait.’ I paused to think it out. ‘No,’ I said slowly, ‘it doesn’t make sense. My first thought was that someone attacked Bruce by mistake, thinking he was Peter. That would preserve the Abelard connection. But the prime suspect for all the attacks has to be either Krider, only we can’t figure out a motive, or the mysterious missing Laurence Cavendish. And they both know Peter.’
‘Krider didn’t know him until he met the two of you last Friday. But if he had attacked a young man looking like him only the day before, he would surely have reacted at the sight of Peter. And he didn’t, I take it.’
‘No, not at all. I would have noticed. Okay, so we absolve Krider, of that crime at least. And we have to absolve Laurence on the grounds that he would have known he wasn’t assaulting Peter. Not that he would have, anyway, if they’re such friends as Peter’s said. To tell the truth, I’ve been coming closer and closer to the certainty that Laurence was behind the whole ugly mess. But you’ve just destroyed that theory! So honestly, Alan, I can’t agree that we’re making progress. It sounds like we’ve just tied the whole thing into a Gordian knot.’
‘But if you remember your mythology, there was a way around that little problem. And there’s a way around ours. We’re not going to try to untangle the knot; we’re ignoring it. Sam?’
‘Well, y’see, once we got to figgerin’ it all out, an’ figgered it couldn’a been Krider who lured me into the drink, on accounta he wasn’t even around here yet—’
‘Wait a sec. That’s what he told us, but do we know it’s true?’
Alan nodded. ‘He entered France on twenty-one May. I had Henri check with passport control at de Gaulle airport. That’s the day after Sam’s little swim.’
Sam grinned. ‘Little slog, y’mean. I reckon I know how all those mammoths felt at La Brea. Anyhow, so we knew it wasn’t Krider, and we’d already worked out he wasn’t the one who attacked the poor kid Douglas. So then there’s this missing Laurence What’s-is-name, who’s maybe a no-goodnik, and maybe could’ve gone for me – except why? – but for sure wouldn’t have bashed Douglas, cause he’d’ve know he wasn’t Peter.’
‘If Peter was the one aimed for,’ I murmured, but nobody paid any attention to me.
‘So if it wasn’t Krider and it wasn’t Laurence, then it had to be somebody else.’
I refrained from the scatological remark that sprang to mind.
‘And before you say what you’re thinking, dear heart, listen further. We have not, as you believe, opened up the field of suspects to all the humans in the area at the relevant times, not unless we posit that the attacks were random.’
‘Okay, okay, we don’t thi
nk that. We’re pretty sure they have something to do with those elusive, perhaps mythical Abelard manuscripts. How does that help?’ I picked up the last brioche and spread it with jam.
‘Who else is deeply concerned with the manuscripts?’
‘Well, Peter, but he was the one who got you involved, Alan. To my mind that clears him.’
‘Probably. Who else?’
‘Nobody – oh. Oh!’
‘Exactly. The shadowy third figure in the scam. The one Peter won’t name, claiming Laurence never told him. The artist from America. And where is he at this juncture? We haven’t the slightest idea, have we?’
‘So what’s the odds he’s right here, tryin’ to get ever’body else outta the way so there’s only him and Laurence to share the take?’
I shivered. ‘Or maybe – only him.’
TWENTY-FIVE
The men decided breakfast was in order, coffee and pastries being insufficient for masculine appetites. They also decided not to order it in, and I heartily agreed. I was already getting cabin fever. How long, I wondered, would it be before this whole mess was cleared up and we could stop spending all our time with Sam? Not that I didn’t like Sam, but I had a feeling I was going to get very tired of being joined at the hip.
The hotel served an excellent breakfast. Alan and Sam tucked in, but somehow I wasn’t terribly hungry. I couldn’t resist another cup of coffee, though, and by the time the men had finished eating I thought I could probably fly to the top of the Abbey and back. ‘Look, I need a walk,’ I said, scraping back my chair. ‘Come with me, you two, and we can talk on the move. I’ve had enough caffeine to fly into little pieces if I have to sit still.’
‘Well, we can’t have that, can we?’ Alan turned to Sam. ‘Are you agreeable? It’s both of us, or neither, I’m afraid.’
Sam sighed. ‘Walkin’s not my favourite thing, y’understand, but can’t let a lady out all on her lonesome. Sure. I’ll just poke my head out the door to see if we need jackets.’
The Missing Masterpiece Page 19
