‘Yes, well—’
‘He’s back at the hotel now, waiting for you to turn up.’
Martine emerged from the back room, having dealt with her telephone caller. Her dark eyes, dancing, travelled from Simon’s face to mine. ‘You are much in demand, I think, this morning. All these men come looking for you.’
Simon, bless his heart, said: ‘I’m looking for Christian, actually. Thought you might know where he is.’
She arched a curious eyebrow. ‘Christian?’
‘Yeah. I wanted to borrow … something.’
‘If he is not at home …’
‘He isn’t.’
‘Then you might try in the next street,’ she advised him, ‘around this corner. He talked last night about making a drawing there.’
Simon, to my surprise, showed no desire to hang about chatting to Martine. Thanking her, he turned to me. ‘You should probably come with me,’ he decided, ‘so we don’t lose you again.’
There was little point in staying, I thought glumly, as heavy footsteps sounded on the front step and an elderly couple entered the gallery, calling out a greeting to Martine. She saw us graciously to the door, her eyes faintly puzzled as they met mine over our handshake. ‘Was there something else, Mademoiselle, that you were wanting to ask?’
‘No.’ The lie fell heavy as a lump of lead.
‘It’s only that …’ She stopped, and shook her head, and the bemused expression cleared. ‘No matter, it is nothing. Enjoy your day, the both of you.’
The day, I found, had swiftly changed its character. The sun now hung, suppressed, behind a screen of dull grey cloud, and the air smelled faintly of motor oil and coming rain.
Simon took the lead and I followed him, head down and deep in thought. So deep in thought, in fact, that at the next corner I nearly ploughed straight into Christian Rand without seeing him. Not that it would have mattered to Christian – he probably wouldn’t have noticed. The young artist was lost in contemplation of a different kind, staring with half-seeing eyes at the bakery across the road.
Neil Grantham was something of a recurring theme this morning. He was standing next to Christian now, head back and hands on hips, his calm gaze focused on the same building. I looked, saw nothing too remarkable, and offered my apologies to Christian for so nearly tripping over him.
At first I thought he hadn’t heard, but then the roughly cropped blonde head dipped forward slightly, in a silent nod of acknowledgement.
‘Working, eh?’ asked Simon, and again the artist nodded, not moving his eyes.
‘I must tear down this building,’ he said, slowly, ‘it spoils my composition. But how … how …?’
I shot Neil a quizzical glance.
‘He doesn’t mean it,’ he assured me. ‘He does it all in his head, you see – pulls things down, or lumps them closer together, to make a better picture. Artists can do that sort of thing.’
‘Oh.’ I hadn’t really taken Christian literally, if only because knocking down a building required a physical energy that seemed quite beyond him, somehow – but it always helped to have a proper explanation.
Neil smiled, understanding. ‘I only know because my brother paints, and he tears things down all the time. He’s very much like Christian, actually, my brother is, though his paintings aren’t nearly as good.’
‘You’ve a talented family, then.’
He shrugged. ‘It comes from my mother, I suppose. She used to sketch, and teach piano.’
‘So what did your father do?’ Simon asked drily. ‘What was he, a writer? Actor? Opera singer?’
‘He worked for British Rail.’ The boyish grin was like a flash of light.
I looked away and checked my watch again. ‘I’d best find Paul,’ I said. ‘Excuse me.’
I left the three men standing like a mismatched group of statuary in the middle of the street, with Simon chattering on to Christian about borrowing a shovel and bucket. Rather like a child going to play at the seashore, I thought with a smile. Well, perhaps he’d find his treasure, after all. No harm in trying.
The hotel bar was closed until the lunch hour, but I found Paul sitting in there anyway, reading in the semi-darkness. He put Ulysses down when I came in, and stretched, his expression relieved. ‘Well, it’s about time. I was starting to get worried.’
‘Sorry.’ I sat down, stretching out my own weary legs. ‘I went out rather early, for a walk along the river.’ I didn’t mention meeting the cat, or Neil – for some reason, that part of my morning seemed private and not for sharing. But I did tell Paul about Lucie Valcourt, and how we’d fed the ducks together earlier, and what she’d said about her uncle’s English friend.
‘Wow,’ he said. Leaning back, he absently rumpled his hair with one hand. ‘So you think Muret might have been the guy who was supposed to meet your cousin here in Chinon?’
‘It certainly sounds like it, don’t you think? I mean, he could have read the journal article at Victor Belliveau’s house. They knew each other.’
‘Only everybody so far says he didn’t know English.’
‘I know.’ I frowned. ‘And I haven’t figured out yet why he would be interested at all in what my cousin wrote about. There are so many questions. I was going to ask Martine about it, actually. I went round to the gallery this morning.’ I smiled. ‘But it was rather too crowded to talk properly, and I’m not sure I would have had the nerve to ask anything, anyway. I mean, it isn’t done, is it? Not when you hardly know a person, and it’s her ex-husband you’re asking about, and he’s only been dead a week. Still,’ I told him, brightening, ‘I’m having lunch with Armand Valcourt, and he might be able to—’