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Thierry looked rather flushed, and more than a little pleased with himself. Garland mistook his cheerful distraction for an inability to understand.
“We… thought… you’d… disappeared,” she repeated, in a louder voice.
“Ah.” He grinned, and broadening his accent so that he sounded exactly like a music hall actor pretending to be French, he asked her very slowly: “Would… you… like… a… drink?”
Even Jim smiled at that, but Garland missed the joke completely. “Oh, that’s very much better, Thierry,” she congratulated him. “You see? I told you if you kept on practicing, your English would improve in no time.”
Thierry shrugged, a modest little shrug. I didn’t trust myself to look up again until after he’d brought the drinks.
For the next half hour I sipped my kir and smiled politely. When it became apparent that the Whitakers were rooted to their seats for the remainder of the evening, and that Paul and I would have to wait until breakfast to talk any further about Harry, I excused myself with a rather convincing yawn and started up the winding stairs.
Alone in my room, I closed my fingers thoughtfully round the little silver coin, still nestled deep within my pocket, and wandered over to the window. The night air was thick and full of dampness. In the square below, the street lamps spread warm yellow pools of light upon the smooth black pavement, and water spilled from the fountain like an iridescent rain.
Beside the fountain, the little spotted dog yawned and stretched as the breeze went shivering through the acacias.
The gypsy glanced swiftly upwards, expressionless, at my window, then looked away again and lit a cigarette with unhurried fingers. It was only the darkness, I told myself, that was giving things this air of melodrama. The gypsy had every right to be sitting in a public square, and he might have been looking at anything, really, not just at my window. But still I latched the window firmly, securely, and twitched the heavy curtains closed before I crawled beneath the covers of the wide bed, shutting my eyes tightly into the pillow like a child seeking comfort in the long uncertain night.
Chapter 17
“…we give you, being strange
A licence: speak, and let the topic die.”
Paul answered my knock at the door next morning with the telephone slung from one hand and the receiver cradled close against his cheek. Smiling, he motioned me in, not missing a beat in his conversation. He was speaking in French. “Ah. I see. Yes, I’ll wait, it’s no problem.” Fingers cupped round the mouthpiece, he smiled again. “Come on in,” he told me. “Have a seat.”
Which was easier said than done. The boys’ room was the mirror image of my own, except that where I had one huge bed they had two narrow ones, one neatly made and strewn with maps, the other rumpled and half buried beneath a set of curtains, still anchored firmly to the curtain-rod. Three spreading piles of clothing, sorted by color, rose like miniature Alps from the carpet at my feet. There was very little room to stand, let alone sit.
Paul had solved the problem by sitting on the cluttered desk, feet braced against a chair that had been buried thick in newspapers. He resumed his seat now, while I made my cautious way around the mounded clothing to perch upon a corner of the neater bed by the window.
Simon, I thought, had a point—the window did look better without curtains. It stood fully open to the morning air, and the jumbled sounds of traffic, talk and fountain drifted upwards from the square beneath, like some discordant modern symphony.
Paul was still on hold, and humming to himself.
“Any joy?” I asked him.
“Sort of. The library isn’t open yet, but the staff is there. This guy’s just gone to ask the librarian if he knows anyone who—” He broke off suddenly, and bent his head. “Yes, I’m still here.” A shorter pause, and then: “Yes. I’m a student, you see, and I’m writing a paper on… that’s right. And I was told there might be someone here who might be good to talk to. Pardon?” He leaned forward to scribble a few lines on the pad of paper
at his side. “Yes, I’ve got that. Belliveau, that’s B-e-l-l…? You don’t have the telephone number, do you? Yes, of course, I understand. Well, I’m sure it won’t be a problem. Thanks so much.” He replaced the receiver with a smug expression, and struck a match to light a cigarette. “Well, that was fun.”
“You want to watch out, Sherlock,” I said drily. “Big brother might walk in and catch you smoking.”
“Simon,” Paul informed me, savoring the words, “isn’t here. He left half an hour ago, with the Whitakers.”
“Simon’s gone off with Jim and Garland?” I couldn’t quite believe my ears. “Why on earth would he do that?”
“Because they were going to Fontevraud, where your Queen Isabelle is buried. Simon thought there might be clues there, as to where she hid her treasure.” Paul shrugged. “But mostly he went because I reminded him today is Tuesday, our weekly laundry day, and Simon really hates the laundromat.”
I smiled slowly. “You’re a whopping sneak.”
“I know.”
“And how are we supposed to play detective, might I ask, if we have to do your laundry?”
“Thierry and I have it all under control.”
“You didn’t tell Thierry?” I asked, startled.
His eyes held soft reproach. “Of course not. I promised, didn’t I? I only told him you and I were taking off to do some sightseeing on our own, and could he help us keep it secret from Simon?”
