“I’ll ask. I’m sure he’ll help if he can.”
Baillard slipped the ring on to his thumb. “Please convey my gratitude to Yves. It must have cost him dear to take this. He has no idea how important his quick thinking may turn out to be.” He smiled. “Did he say what else was discovered with the bodies?”
“A dagger, a small leather bag with nothing inside, a lamp on-”
“Vueg?” he said in disbelief. “Empty? But that cannot be.”
“Inspector Noubel, the senior officer, apparently pressed the woman on this point. Yves said she was adamant. She claimed shed touched nothing but the ring.”
“And did your grandson think her truthful?”
“He didn’t say.”
“If… someone else must have taken it,” he muttered to himself, his brow furrowed in thought. “What did Yves tell you about this woman?”
“Very little. She is English, in her twenties, a volunteer, not an archeologist. She was staying in Foix at the invitation of a friend, who is the second in charge at the excavation.”
“Did he tell you her name?”
“Taylor, I think he said.” She frowned. “No, not Taylor. Perhaps it was Tanner. Yes, that’s it. Alice Tanner.”
Time stood still. “Es vertat?” Can it be true? The name echoed inside his head. “Es vertat?” he repeated in a whisper.
Had she taken the book? Recognized it? No, no. He stopped himself. That made no sense. If the book, then why not the ring also?
Baillard placed his hands flat on the table to stop them trembling, then met Jeanne’s gaze.
“Do you think you could ask Yves if he has an address? If he knows where, Madomaisela-?” He broke off, unable to continue.
“I can ask,” she replied, then added: “Are you all right, Audric?”
“Tired.” He tried to smile. “Nothing more.”
“I had expected you to be more… pleased. It is-at least, could be- the culmination of your years of work.”
“It is so much to take in.”
“You seem to be shocked by the news rather than excited.”
Baillard imagined how he must look: eyes too bright, face too pale, hands shaking.
T am excited,“ he said. ”And most grateful to Yves and, of course, to you too, but…“ He took a deep breath. ”If perhaps you could telephone Yves now? If I could speak with him in person? Perhaps even meet?“
Jeanne got up from the table and walked into the hall, where the telephone stood on a small table at the foot of the stairs.
Baillard looked out of the window to the slopes that led up to the walls of the Cite. An image of her singing while she worked came into his mind, a vision of the light falling in bright slats between the branches of the trees, casting a dappled light on the water. All around her were the sounds and smells of spring; pinpricks of color in the undergrowth, blues, pinks and yellows, the rich deep earth and the heady scent of the box trees either side of the rocky path. The promise of warmth and summer days to come.
He jumped as Jeanne’s voice called him back from the gentle colors of the past.
“There’s no answer,” she said.
CHAPTER 24
Chartres
In the kitchen of the house in rue du Cheval Blanc in Chartres, Will Franklin drank the milk straight from the plastic bottle, trying to kill the taste of stale brandy on his breath.
The housekeeper had laid the breakfast table early that morning before going off duty. The Italian coffee percolator was on the stove. Will assumed it was for Francois-Baptiste’s benefit, since the housekeeper didn’t usually go to such trouble for him when Marie-Cecile was away. He guessed Francois-Baptiste was also sleeping late since everything was immaculate, not a spoon or knife out of place. Two bowls, two plates, two cups and saucers. Four different types of jams as well as honey stood next to a large bowl. Will lifted the white linen cloth. Beneath it were peaches, nectarines and melon, as well as apples.
Will had no appetite. The previous night, to pass the time until Marie-Cecile appeared, he’d had first one drink, then a second and a third. It was well after midnight when she put in an appearance, by which stage, he had drunk himself into an alcoholic haze. She’d been in a wild mood, keen to make up for their argument. They hadn’t gone to sleep until dawn.
Will’s fingers tightened around the piece of paper in his hand. Marie-Cecile hadn’t even bothered to write the note herself. Once again, it had been left to the housekeeper to inform him she’d gone out of town on business and hoped to be back before the weekend.
Will and Marie-Cecile had met at a party to launch a new art gallery in Chartres back in the spring, through friends of friends of his parents. Will was at the beginning of a six-month sabbatical traveling around Europe; Marie-Cecile was one of the backers of the gallery. She’d hit on him rather than the other way round. Attracted and flattered by the attention, Will had found himself pouring out his life story over a bottle of champagne. They’d left the gallery together and been together ever since.
Technically together, Will thought sourly. He turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face. He called her this morning, not sure what he wanted to say, but her phone was switched off. He’d had enough of this constant state of flux, never knowing where he stood.
Will stared out of the window at the little courtyard at the back of the house. Like everything else in the house, it was perfectly designed, and precise. Nothing as nature intended. Light gray pebbles, high terra-cotta planters with lemon trees and orange trees along the back, south-facing wall. In the window box, rows of red geraniums, their petals already swollen by the sun, stood tall. Covering the small wrought-iron gate in the wall was ivy, centuries old. Everything spoke of permanence. It would all be here long after Will was gone.
He felt like a man waking from a dream to discover the real world was not as he’d imagined. The smart thing would be to cut his losses, no hard feelings, and move on. However disillusioned he felt about their relationship, Marie-Cecile had been both generous and kind to him and, if he was honest, had kept to her side of the bargain. It was his unrealistic expectations that had let him down. It wasn’t her fault. She’d broken no promises.
Only now could Will see how ironic it was he’d chosen to spend the last three months in precisely the same sort of house he’d grown up in and had fled to Europe to escape. Cultural differences apart, the atmosphere in the house reminded him of his parents’ place back home, elegant and stylish, somewhere designed for entertaining and display rather than as a home. Then, as now, Will had spent much of his time alone, rattling from one immaculate room to another.
The trip was Will’s opportunity to work out what it was he wanted to do with his life. His original plan had been to work his way down through France to Spain, gathering ideas for his writing, getting inspired, but since he’d been in Chartres, he’d barely written a single sentence. His subjects were rebellion, anger and anxiety, the unholy trinity of American life. Back home, he’d found plenty to rage against. Here, he’d been left with nothing to say. The only subject that occupied his mind was Marie-Cecile and it was the one subject off limits.
He finished the last of the milk and threw the plastic bottle into the rubbish bin. He took another look at the table and decided to go out for breakfast. The thought of making polite conversation with Francois-Baptiste turned his stomach.
Will emerged out of the pass corridor. The high-ceilinged entrance hall was silent except for the precise ticking of the ornate grandmother clock.,
To the right of the stairs, a narrow door led down to the extensive wine cellars beneath the house. Will grabbed his denim jacket from the newel post and was about to cross the hall when he noticed one of the tapestries was crooked. It was only a little out of line, but in the perfect symmetry of the rest of the paneled hall, it stuck out.