AllFreeNovel
Share Us
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—”
“I beg your pardon?” Paul cut in, with an incredulous smile. “You’re what?”
“Having lunch with Armand Valcourt,” I repeated. “And you can wipe that smug look off your face, Paul Lazarus, because I really don’t—”
“OK, OK.” Paul lifted both hands in self-defense. “And it’s not a smug look, I’m just jealous, that’s all.”
Jealous? Heavens, I thought, he surely didn’t think of me that way, did he? “Paul—”
“Hardly seems fair, you eating lunch with a rich guy while I’m stuck with cheese-on-a-bun and Simon.” He grinned at me. “Where’s he taking you?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Somewhere disgustingly expensive, I’ll bet. There are a couple of gourmet restaurants down the rue Voltaire, the kind of restaurants where they have six forks, you know the type. What time are you meeting him?”
“At noon.” I turned my wrist to read my watch. “Oh, Lord, it’s just gone eleven now, and I haven’t even showered.”
“Go on then, I’ll cover for you.” He leaned back in his seat and reached for the tattered paperback. “Just remember your mission, Dr. Watson.”
“And that is?”
“Get the man drunk and ask him about Didier Muret.”
“Right.” I smiled, and turned to leave. “Let’s hope he tells me something useful, then.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t. I, for one, would feel a whole lot happier knowing there was no connection between Martine’s husband and your cousin.”
He didn’t need to tell me why. My own mind had already gone this route a few hours earlier, and reached the same unsettling impasse: if my suspicions were correct, then Harry had been here in Chinon last Wednesday, feeding ducks with Lucie and chumming with her uncle Didier. And by Thursday morning, Didier Muret was dead.
