The Missing Masterpiece

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘Yes. The accent, and the attitude. Not only the tearing hurry and the rudeness, but that insulting assumption that money can solve any problem. I don’t want his money, Alan. Where shall we donate it?’

  ‘Oh, the Abbey, I think, don’t you?’

  We had our coffee, at an exorbitant cost which Sam insisted on paying, and then Alan pronounced himself fit and ready for the climb to the Abbey.

  We took it slowly, and made Alan sit at every possible opportunity, by the simple expedient of claiming a need to rest ourselves. It wasn’t much of a fib, at least for me. I was still shaken by the nasty little encounter. It wasn’t the sort of thing one expected in a place like the Mont. Granted, it was now more tourist attraction than holy place, at least down in the village, but many of the tourists had come on a pilgrimage of sorts. Why on earth had that man come here? And stayed – I counted back – over a week?

  As on my first day, the crowds thinned considerably as we neared the stairs up to the Abbey, and the higher we climbed, the more people gave it up, so that when we finally got to the entrance and the gift shop, we had plenty of room to rest.

  As we were catching our breath, I saw Peter slip away from a small group of employees. He came over to us.

  ‘Peter! It’s lovely to see you, but I thought you were going home.’ He looked awful, grey and tired and about twenty years older than he really was.

  ‘I was. There didn’t seem to be any reason to stay here. I’ll never find anything now, even if there’s anything to be found. But there’s nothing much for me in England now, either. My job was only a stop-gap. And it’s high season here; the Abbey needs me. So I’m staying on for a little while at least. I really do care about Abelard, and this way I’ll be close to the Scriptorial and his work.’ He smiled, a wry smile with no pleasure in it. ‘The police will be happy. If they decide I’m a murderer after all, they’ll know where to find me.’

  ‘Peter, my dear—’

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t give you a tour, but I’m booked solid for the rest of the day.’ He waved and hurried off to lead his group.

  ‘Collateral damage,’ I said to Alan.

  He nodded. ‘Always. From every crime, but murder is the worst. Everyone involved is hurt. And of course he’s not blameless himself. What seemed almost like a prank to begin with led in the end to Laurence’s death.’

  Sam shook his head, and we sat thinking about the unhappiness in the world.

  TWENTY-NINE

  I stood, eventually. ‘Well, we’re here. We might as well take the tour, with those audio things. We don’t have to do the whole nine yards, Alan, if you’re not up to it. Promise you’ll admit it if your ankle starts to hurt?’

  ‘Yes, nanny,’ he said, but the smile robbed the remark of its sting. He allowed Sam to give him a hand with standing up, while I went over to get the audio devices.

  Without Peter’s helpful and witty comments, the tour was pretty bland. Oh, the place was amazing, but somehow, for me it was just a complicated pile of rock. We moved at a faster pace than the group Peter was guiding, so they came in to the refectory just as we were going out.

  I clutched Alan’s arm. ‘Look,’ I said in the lowest tone I could manage. I had remembered just in time how whispers can carry, especially in such a ‘live’ space as this high, vaulted chamber. ‘At the end of Peter’s tour group.’

  Alan took a quick glance and frowned back at me. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  The door led to a staircase leading down. I didn’t know where it would take us. I didn’t care. Sam, after looking back, took the lead and moved rather faster than was really safe on the steps. He beckoned urgently and mouthed ‘C’mon!’

  After a few steps there was a turn, with a niche, with a convenient stone bench. We moved into it. ‘What’s that guy doing here?’ asked Sam, and his voice, though quiet, was belligerent.

  ‘I don’t know, but I don’t like it one bit. I saw him look at Peter … anyway, Alan, give me his card, will you?’

  There was a window in our little niche; lots of light poured in. I held the over-elaborate card up to the light, trying to read it. When I deciphered the lines of small print, I gasped.

  ‘What is it, love?’ asked Alan urgently.

  I read part of the card to him: ‘“David Grant Gallery, Fine Manuscripts, Tenth to Sixteenth Century, New York and London”. And, Alan, he’s up there with Peter!’

  ‘And a crowd. Don’t forget the crowd, my dear.’

  ‘Crowds are slow to react. We have to go back up there!’

  ‘You two stay here,’ said Sam, in a voice that he must have used back when he was a Marine. ‘I can take care of that sidewinder!’

  Alan started to object, but I shook my head. ‘Sam’s younger than we are, and a lot more fit now that his lungs are more-or-less back to normal. And he has a pretty good grudge against Mr Grant, if the man is who we think he is. I’m betting he can cut him out of the group as slick as a cowboy going after a troublesome calf.’

  ‘And what precisely is he going to do with his calf when he’s roped him?’

  ‘Who knows? I suppose we’ll find out.’

  ‘And what, incidentally, is a sidewinder?’

  ‘A rattlesnake, I think. Some kind of snake, anyway. Appropriate.’

  We were chatting mindlessly, I knew, to keep from running upstairs to join Sam in the fray. But it didn’t work. The voices echoing from the refectory were growing louder and more raucous by the moment. Alan and I stood up in the same split second. ‘Yes,’ he said, and we started to move.

  It’s a good thing we didn’t move far. The man we’d identified as David Grant came pelting down the stone steps, heedless of their danger, with Sam right behind him, bellowing like a bull, and Peter bringing up the rear. On up the stairs we could hear sounds of distress and confusion as Peter’s abandoned tour group wondered what on earth was going on.

  Alan had pushed me back in the niche, out of the way of the chase, but once they had passed, we followed – much more slowly. Alan had already broken his ankle once, and though I’d suffered nothing more than scrapes and bruises on these ancient staircases, I remembered very well how hard they were. It wouldn’t help anyone if we were to fall and require aid ourselves.

  ‘I hope they don’t kill themselves,’ I said, almost to myself, as we felt our way gingerly down the worn treads. Alan didn’t feel the remark required a response.

  They were well out of sight when we heard a series of thumps and clatters and cries of anguish or fury – I couldn’t tell which.

  I wanted to run. I didn’t dare, and Alan couldn’t. We moved as fast as we could, though, and a couple of turns later came upon a shambles.

  Sam and Peter were both getting up off the floor, slowly and with grunts of pain. Blood was streaming down Sam’s face; one elbow of Peter’s white shirt was rapidly turning red. Papers were scattered about them, and in the midst of the papers, something that looked like a brown leather sheath.

  The other man was nowhere to be seen.

  Alan took control. Pulling a large handkerchief out of his pocket, he pressed it to Sam’s head, just above his right eye. ‘Have you another, Dorothy? This one will soak through.’

  I didn’t, but I had a packet of tissues in my purse. I handed them to Alan and then turned to Peter. ‘Anything broken?’

  ‘I don’t … no, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then take off that shirt. We can make it into a bandage for Sam’s head. Scalp wounds bleed like crazy.’

  ‘But he’s getting away! We need to—’

  ‘You need to get yourselves patched up. We’ll deal with the rest later. How far away is the nearest first-aid station?’

  He led us there, limping and bleeding. With a few fifes and drums we’d have looked quite a lot like the Spirit of ’76.

  While we cleansed and bandaged them, they tried to tell us what had happened.

  ‘I went up to him just as he was moving toward Peter,’ he said, his accent nearly va
nished. ‘He was carrying a book in both hands. I didn’t like the look of it, or of him. He was planning something, but I couldn’t tell what. Ouch.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I went on dabbing with the alcohol-soaked cotton. ‘I didn’t want to use peroxide so close to your eye. Go on.’

  ‘So I got between him and Peter, just casual-like. He said something I’m not going to repeat. We’re still inside a church. Then he tried to shove me aside, but I don’t shove all that easy. So he shoved at one of the tourists, who didn’t like it much, and Peter saw what was going on and told him, pretty sharp-like, that it was a closed tour group. And that was when he pulled the knife out of the book.’

  ‘Knife!’ said Alan and I in horrified unison.

  ‘So I went to tackle him, and he broke away.’

  ‘And you both followed him, and both fell,’ I said, nodding. ‘We saw that part.’

  ‘You didn’t see all of it,’ said Peter grimly. ‘Sam was getting really close to him, so he threw the book at us. Literally. It hit Sam on the head, and then I tripped over it, and over Sam, and by the time you arrived on the scene he was gone. Who is the maniac, anyway?’

  ‘We think he’s the mysterious forger.’ That was Alan. ‘We need the police.’ He pulled out his phone.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no signal in here, sir,’ said Peter. ‘The walls are too thick. I can sometimes get one if I step outside – but the terrace isn’t very near.’

  Alan held up his hands in frustration. ‘Take us there. I’m moving pretty slowly, though. My ankle’s playing up, drat it! No, look, you go with Sam and Dorothy, and I’ll try to find someone who can phone from the landline here. One of us will get through. You’d better make the call, Peter, because of your good French.’ He gave him the number. ‘Tell them the man is named David Grant, and that he’s suspected of murder and theft and any number of other charges. Can you give them a good description?’

  ‘Between the three of us, we can,’ I said firmly. ‘Let’s get going.’

  The Abbey was rapidly filling up with tourists, who gave us curious looks as we made our way to the terrace. Peter knew the back ways, of course, off the main route, but there was still a lot of ‘sorry’ and ‘pardon’ and once or twice a brief ‘no, it’s nothing’ or ‘ce n’est rien’ when Peter met other guides who knew him and were taken aback not only by his T-shirted informality but by the damaged appearance of two of our party.

  The terrace was swarming with tourists. Peter pulled out his phone, checked for a signal, and entered the number Alan had given him. I expected a good deal of bureaucratic hassle, but Peter was savvy enough to mention ‘Monsieur Nesbitt de la police Anglaise’, which apparently smoothed the way. I couldn’t follow Peter’s end of the conversation past that point, but from his expression and the many repetitions of ‘merci’ at the end, it was satisfactory.

  ‘So now we wait,’ I said, sounding, and feeling, dispirited.

  ‘And now I go try to make my peace with the Community,’ said Peter, and he didn’t sound much happier.

  ‘Dorothy,’ said Sam after Peter had left, ‘I got two questions. First, where the Sam Hill are we?’

  ‘I don’t have a clue. But we’d better stay here, because Alan can find us here.’

  ‘Right.’ He sighed. ‘And second, what’s this all about? We thought we had an idea, but now I’m just about as confused as a chameleon on a plaid blanket.’

  ‘Me, too. I’m only certain that we’ve gotten ourselves mixed up in something criminal, and I’m pretty sure that that nasty guy Grant is at the bottom of it all. Other than that …’ I shrugged. ‘Want some ibuprofen? I’ll bet you’ve got one doozy of a headache.’

  Peter re-joined us after a time. ‘Alan’s a bit rocky,’ he said. ‘Two of the Community are helping him down to meet the police at the entry gate. They’re planning to comb the place for Grant, but you know what a warren it is. Not just the Abbey, but the whole island. They’re also going to post a guard at the gate, but with the tide out at the moment, the bloke could walk across the sands.’

  ‘He’d be fairly conspicuous,’ I pointed out.

  ‘And damn stupid,’ growled Sam. ‘Sorry – confounded stupid.’

  ‘It would be poetic justice if he got caught in quicksand,’ I said. ‘And I should apologize for that remark, too, Sam. Most unkind and unforgiving.’

  He grunted.

  ‘How did you do with the Community, Peter?’ I asked.

  ‘They’re not happy. They do realize I’m not entirely to blame, but they don’t like disruptions here. This is a house of prayer, even though they’re not cloistered. They will consider whether I will be allowed to continue to volunteer. But I’m leaving, in any case. I’ve done nothing here but create trouble.’

  I sighed. The young can be so unbending, so inclined to black/white judgements. ‘Think about it, Peter. You said yourself there’s nothing much waiting for you in England. In any case, I doubt the police will let you leave for a while. You’re a material witness in today’s affair, and probably in a good deal more involving Grant.’

  Sam looked at Peter in an odd way. I wasn’t sure what was going on behind that speculative gaze, and I was too tired to try to work it out.

  We made our way down through the labyrinth of stairs and passageways, out into the brilliant sunshine of a very hot day.

  I was very cross by the time we reached the gateway at the bottom of the street. I, who love the old and quaint, was heartily sick and tired of cobblestones and a narrow street thronged with tourists and foreign languages being spoken all around me. All I wanted at that moment was my big old house and spreading green lawn back in Indiana, with some hamburgers on the grill and a pitcher of iced tea in the fridge. And no sound louder than the quarrelsome chatter of the squirrels.

  Failing that, I wanted Alan. And he was off with the police somewhere.

  We left a message at the gate telling Alan we were going back to the hotel, in case he came back looking for us, and I climbed aboard the shuttle in no sweet mood. Peter, sunk in his own misery, was silent, and Sam prudently left both of us to our thoughts.

  ‘Shall we find some lunch somewhere?’ he ventured when the shuttle had dropped us off in the village-cum-shopping-mall.

  I shrugged. ‘If you want. I don’t care. Everything is overpriced here.’

  ‘Of course it is. How about I buy us a picnic? We can get some bread and cheese and wine over there.’ He pointed across the parking lot. I nodded wearily and followed him, Peter trailing behind, looking like a lost sheep dragging his tail behind him.

  The food was probably excellent. This was France, after all, and it’s hard to go wrong with crusty bread and aged cheese. I used it as fuel, not noticing what I ate, but it did perk me up a little. I’d refused the wine in favour of apple juice, knowing anything alcoholic would send me right to sleep. When we got back to the hotel, though, I thought I’d have a glass of wine at the bar and then take a nap. I was more than ready for one, and there didn’t seem to be anything more useful to do.

  Sam had other ideas. ‘Did you leave your bike here when you went up to the Abbey this morning, Peter?’

  ‘Over there.’ He jerked his head toward a crowded bike rack.

  ‘Locked, I hope?’

  Peter just gave him a look.

  ‘Good. Then let’s find a cab and go back to l’Hermitage for a pow-wow. We’ve got a powerful lot of thinking to do.’

  There went my glass of wine and nap.

  THIRTY

  Sam was right, of course, but I resented it all the same. I wanted to drift way and forget all about this place and our troubles, forget about a young man lying dead, forget, especially, about a medieval monk named Abelard.

  But I knew, somewhere in a still-functional part of my brain, that I wouldn’t be able to forget, nor would I be able to sleep. Might as well get on with it. I pulled up my figurative socks, ordered a pot of strong coffee from room service, and sat down in the least squashy of the armchairs in our
little lounge.

  ‘It’s your agenda,’ I said to Sam.

  ‘No, ma’am,’ he said firmly. ‘No agenda. Brainstormin’. We’re goin’ to think about all this sh— stuff that’s been happenin’, and we’re goin’ to figger out what to do next. Peter, you’ve been in on this from the git-go. You start.’

  He spread his hands. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say. I never knew Grant. Laurence was close-mouthed about him. I had the feeling there was something dodgy about him.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I said in some exasperation, ‘if he was forging manuscripts.’

  ‘More than that, I mean. And don’t ask me what. I don’t know. It was just a sense that perhaps there wasn’t much the chap would stick at.’

  ‘Like murder.’

  ‘No! I never thought that! Who would? I just had the idea that he wouldn’t be too worried if our plan, Laurence’s and mine, turned into something illegal.’

  ‘And Laurence?’ I asked. ‘How did he feel about that?’

  ‘I don’t think he liked it much, but he wasn’t – I shouldn’t say it – but he wasn’t a very strong character. He … sort of drifted, you know?’

  ‘With parents like his, I don’t wonder,’ I said, rather tartly.

  Sam cleared his throat. ‘Any other impressions about Grant? His interests, his way of life – anything?’

  ‘I don’t think Laurence actually knew him too well. They’d met when Laurence visited New York and popped into his gallery. He sold genuine medieval artefacts, Laurence said. Or at least he – Laurence – thought they were genuine, though I suppose … anyway, I had the impression Grant was doing quite well for himself. New York’s almost as expensive as London, you know, to live, I mean, or do business. Laurence said it was quite a nice gallery, not large, but well-appointed and in a posh part of town.’

  ‘So.’ Sam leaned over the coffee table with an air of concentration. ‘It seems that Grant’s been hangin’ around here for a while now. I’m guessin’ he hasn’t been stayin’ in some cheap motel. Not that there are any cheap ones in these parts! But you know your way around here. Where would you think he’s been holin’ up?’