The Confectioner's Tale Part 13

He addressed the eldest of the four women. She sat at a desk, writing a letter. She was fully clothed, a gown hugging her figure like a second skin, right down to the ends of her wrists.

'I do, Puce,' she said evenly. 'She only left two days ago. You are ...?'

The attention was turned to Gui. He felt like an exhibit, on a plinth to be examined.

'Guillaume du Frere, apprentice chef,' he blurted out.

'You are looking for accommodation?'

'I am, but ...' His eyes found flesh again and he transferred his gaze to the rug. 'But I am not sure whether we have understood each other.'

'I understood you were looking for a room?' said the woman.

'I am.'

'Well, would you like to see the one I have spare?'

An oil lamp threw shadows onto the wooden stairs as they climbed, making the walls full of impossible angles. They circled one landing and then another before the steps ran out. Here, the ceiling was low. Gui imagined that if he punched upward, his fist would emerge through the roof into the cold night air.

'There are three rooms on this floor,' Madame said, searching through a ring of keys. 'The one at the end is occupied by a clerk, the other by Isabelle, one of the ladies you met downstairs.'

The door swung open. A shaft of light from the moon slanted through a narrow window. It looked out onto a vast mess of rooftops, chimneys and walls jutting into the sky. At one end of the room, the ceiling sagged, the wall bulging out to meet it. A metal-framed bed was wedged next to the chimney, the fireplace taken up by a tiny potbellied stove. There was a nightstand with a faded bowl and s.p.a.ce for little else.

Madame was telling him about the rent, how much per month, how much in advance, where he could find the water closet. The price would swallow up more than half of his pay, and there was still his mother to think of, but all Gui could see was the bed in the corner. He imagined how warm it would be with the stove lit, how quiet; a place where he could close the door and be alone.

'I will take it,' he announced.

Later, he lay wrapped in his blanket on the bare mattress, listening to the wind as it threaded its way through the window in gusts, until he was almost convinced that he could hear the sea.

Chapter Twenty-Three.

May 1988 I wait nervously outside the university library. I wish Ca.s.s hadn't wanted to meet here, when there are certain supervisors I'm trying to avoid. Exams have begun, and the faculties, the libraries are all too quiet, undergraduates shut up for hours on end in the examination halls throughout town.

In the distance I see Ca.s.s approaching, pus.h.i.+ng her bicycle and looking elegant in a red sundress. I sigh inwardly at my scruffy top and jeans, but beckon her over to where I'm lurking behind the steps.

'You're acting like a fugitive,' she laughs, s.h.i.+fting her books. 'I come bearing gifts.'

We settle on a bench and Ca.s.s brandishes a piece of paper in my direction.

'Here. Evan dug this up. He's had it for a week or two, but I didn't see him in the faculty until this morning.'

It's a copy of a photograph. A group of people, dressed in smartly b.u.t.toned white. They are arranged in lines outside a shop front, with grand arched windows and ornate stonework. Two darker-clothed figures stand in the middle. One is a tall man in early middle age, the other a young woman. Her face is pale beneath a slanted hat, cold and distant. It is the same girl, once again, and above her, curling letters form a sign.

'Ptisserie Clermont!' I burst. 'Where did you get this?'

'Evan has a friend at the British Library who works in the photography archive,' Ca.s.s tells me. 'He called him, asked a few questions and voil! Apparently the photographic record hadn't been labelled correctly, but his friend remembered seeing it. Explains why your favourite biographer has never come across it.'

'Ca.s.s, it's her.'

'The girl from your grandpa's photograph?' she asks, leaning in.

'Yes, and the painting.'

We hunch over the picture, heads touching.

'I knew she was connected with it,' I say. 'Do you think that's her husband, next to her?'

'Too old, her father more like. Look, at the bottom, someone's labelled it,' Ca.s.s squints. 'Monsieur J. P. Clermont.'

'Which would make her-'

'Mademoiselle Clermont.'

We sit back in silence.

'When do you think this was?' I ask.

'No idea. Judging by the clothes, 19101911, perhaps?'

'It must be 1910 or earlier. From Allincourt's letter, it seems that the place closed later that year.'

'You'd have to check with the archive to be sure, only be careful who you ask. This copy didn't exactly come through the usual channels.'

I try to thank her, but she brushes it aside.

'Thank Evan. I think he's rather taken with your mystery.'

'I think he's more taken with you.'

Ca.s.s rolls her eyes.

'What about your "friend" Alex?' she says, with a devious smile. 'I hear he stopped you from running off before the end of term last night. Anything you want to tell me?'

'No!' I laugh. 'We're just friends.'

'Oh yes, that's definitely all there is to it.'

'Nothing's ever happened,' I tell her, though I can't help but remember the way I hugged him last night, the way he almost said something but didn't.

'Not yet.' She smiles slyly. 'Look, I have to go in a minute, but there's another thing. I asked a few of the French History professors if any of them had heard of Stephen Lefevre, the man who wrote that book about the letters. Turns out he gave a talk here, a few years ago. He's very old now, retired apparently, somewhere down south.'

I let out a long breath, taking in the information. I thought I was at a dead end, but now, new roads are opening, stretching off into the distance.

'So?' prompts Ca.s.s. 'What're you going to do?'

The suns.h.i.+ne is bright in my eyes. I tap the heels of my plimsolls on the tarmac as I think.

'I'll start with Lefevre,' I decide, trying to visualize a plan. 'He might be able to tell me more about those letters. Hall will have read my notes, so he'll know about Lefevre too, but maybe I can get there first. Then I have to get hold of that article somehow. I'm starting to think it will answer more than a few questions.'

'You could track Lefevre through his publisher,' Ca.s.s suggests, climbing to her feet. 'They'd have his contact information.'

Once she's gone, I race to my room and drag out a duffel bag, throwing in a change of clothes, my toothbrush and the library book. Before I have a chance to think twice, I'm out the door, squas.h.i.+ng the bag onto the handlebars of my bike.

Outside, the day is turning bl.u.s.tery, shadows of clouds scudding upon the pavement. My hair whips across my face in fine strands as I pedal through town. Start with what you know, I tell myself, like the gaps in a crossword.

In a cafe near the station, I borrow a copy of the Yellow Pages. The cover is ripped and stained from countless late-night patrons thumbing for taxis. Thinking of Ca.s.s's suggestion, I look for Lefevre's publisher. There is a matching entry, so I jam a few coins into the payphone.

'Good morning, Kingsley Press?'

It is a woman's voice, quick and abrupt. This might not be as easy as I'd hoped.

'Yes, h.e.l.lo there.' I do my best to match the professional impatience. 'I'm calling from the University of Cambridge. We'd be interested in contacting one of your authors, but don't have any details on record here, I was wondering if you could help.'

'Who did you say you were?'

'My name's Anna,' I lie, hopefully in a convincing manner. 'I'm the President of the History Society.'

'I see. Which author were you were interested in contacting?'

I can tell from her tone that she's not inclined to be helpful, but I plough on.

'His name is Stephen Lefevre. I believe he gave a talk here some years ago, we'd like to invite him back.'

There is silence on the other end of the phone.

'Stephen Lefevre?' she asks eventually. 'You're sure?'

'Yes, we'd be very interested in-'

'Look,' the woman is suspicious, 'is there something going on here?'

'I'm sorry?'

'There's been no interest in this author for years, and then I get two calls in the same week requesting his details.'

I clutch the phone, forgetting about the greasy earpiece.

'Two calls?'

'Yes, several days ago,' the woman says impatiently, 'someone researching for a biography-'

'What did you do?' I interrupt.

'Excuse me?'

I bite back the urgency in my voice. 'I mean, did you pa.s.s on the details?'

'No, I didn't,' the woman sounds guarded, to say the least. 'I recommended that he contact Mr Lefevre's agent. They should be able to pa.s.s on any correspondence.'

'And they are?'

'Hyatt and Smith. Are you going to tell me the real reason you both want to find Mr Lefevre?'

'I'm afraid I have to go, thank you so much for your help.'

My heart is racing as I slam down the receiver. The woman behind the counter gives me a sidelong glance, and I manage a weak smile before I sink back into a chair. Hall is looking for Lefevre too, and he is ahead.

's.h.i.+t.'

I kick the table and un-drunk tea slops onto the sticky surface. I try to think rationally. Several days ago, the woman said. That means Hall has at least two days' head start on me. I use the Yellow Pages once again to locate Lefevre's agent.

The answer there is even shorter than the one I received from the publisher. They do not hand out authors' details without prior consent. Any correspondence would be forwarded as appropriate.

Running low on change, I make one last attempt with Directory Inquiries. The phone starts bleeping for me to insert more coins, but not before I hear the answer from the operator as he tells me that the name 'Stephen Lefevre' is listed as ex-directory. At least if I haven't managed to get anywhere, then neither has Hall.

It's only when I reach the counter that I find I've spent all my money on the telephone. I poke aimlessly in my purse. A few coppers, a b.u.t.ton.

'Allow me,' says a voice over my shoulder. 'Bring over a couple more, if you would.'

Whyke touches my arm.

'Care to join me?'

We sit at the table that I have just vacated, my previous cup of tea still growing cold in its mug, hard water sc.u.m floating on the surface.

'How did you know I was here?' I ask awkwardly. It seems the easiest question.

'I recognized your bike parked outside. Going somewhere?'

The duffel bag sits conspicuously on its own chair. I hadn't realized that Whyke knew what bike I rode, or that I rode a bike at all. The teas arrive and just as I open my mouth, Whyke holds up a hand.

'I think it's my turn to speak, if you'll let me?'

I nod, taking one of the mugs.

'Firstly,' he sighs, 'I'm sorry for the way I spoke to you. I understand why you were angry.' He sips his tea and grimaces, before adding sugar lumps. I know better than to interrupt. 'Why do you think you were a.s.signed to Dr Kauffman for extra tuition, Petra?'

'I supposed it was because you knew I was struggling,' I answer, as steadily as I can, 'and you reported it to the faculty. Kaufmann has a reputation for whipping people into shape, especially with two weeks until my review.'

A wisp of a smile appears on his face.