The Confectioner's Tale (11 page)

Patrice, meanwhile, bustled about the kitchen, emptying the bath and stowing away the tub. Now he wrestled with the legs of a truckle bed. While he wasn’t looking, Gui snatched up the leftover food, wrapped it in a napkin and hid it in the jacket, to take back for Nicolas. Then he stood to help, his stomach like an inflated balloon. Patrice kept up his constant stream of humorous insults, but despite the jibes, Gui realized that he liked the valet.

Later, he lay sleepily between crisp sheets. The kitchen lamps had been dimmed to a soft glow. It must have been late, but Patrice had promised to keep him company. He sat, smoking foreign tobacco in his shirtsleeves.

‘Why did you return to the pâtisserie today?’

Gui stirred at the sound of the valet’s voice. The older man looked down at him, the question in his eyes.

‘For Mademoiselle,’ Gui told him, too exhausted to lie. ‘I came for Mademoiselle Clermont.’

He did not see the valet’s face turn serious, surveying the ash that hung from the end of his cigarette, nor hear his mumbled response, many minutes later.

‘As I feared.’

Chapter Fifteen

April 1988

The book lies open in my lap. I’ve read the relevant page a hundred times already, but I turn to it again.

Sending a letter was an unreliable business in early twentieth-century France: especially when a recipient did not want to be found. Hopeful correspondents were often left to the mercy of the regional system, under the wider Post and Telegraph Office. Lacking a correct address, the best a letter writer could do was to address their message POSTE RESTANTE to the nearest town office and hope that the receiver might one day turn up to look for it.

An excellent surviving example exists in the form of twenty such letters, delivered to the central office of La Poste in Bordeaux between mid 1910 and 1914. The sender in each case gave only the initials, ‘J.S.’ on the reverse of the envelope. The post office ledger indicated that the intended recipient, a Monsieur G. du Frère, collected the first of these missives, yet never returned for any that followed.

The letters cease after 1914, no doubt due to the continent-wide devastation wrought by the Great War. Being one of the best surviving examples of pre-war poste-restante correspondence, the majority of the collection is held in storage at The Musée de La Poste, Paris, except for one letter, which is in the hands of an archivist. Due to laws surrounding secrecy of correspondence, the seals on the envelopes have never yet been broken. As such, we are unlikely ever to know the story behind this remarkable collection.

I close the book with a sigh. The elation that came with the discovery in the library has long faded. Now, to add to the mysterious photograph, I have a story of undelivered mail. Linked to ‘du Frère’, the initials ‘J.S.’ can’t be a coincidence; they must refer to my grandfather. But even if they do, what does it prove? I know less than when I started.

Cass and I are on our way down to London. She’s going to a new exhibition, while I pay a visit to the newspaper archive, to see if they have a copy of my grandfather’s article. I shouldn’t be here. I should be in my room working, but the desire to read my grandfather’s article – the hope that it will be the missing piece – is just too strong to ignore.

The day is warm as we emerge into King’s Cross. Cass wishes me luck, arranges to meet me at the library in a few hours’ time. I plunge onto the tube to head north. It’s quiet in Colindale, a lazy Saturday afternoon, but by the time I approach the stark, brick library I’m buzzing with excitement.

I enquire at the front desk about finding a copy of
The Word
. The librarian checks her records; as I hoped, they have it archived. She tells me that since the publication was short lived, the entire back catalogue is available on one roll of microfilm, along with a few other English-language newspapers. I begin to fill in a request slip, but she frowns down at the clipboard in front of her.

‘Seems it’s already out,’ she says briskly, ‘accessed about an hour ago. Do you want to go and find whoever has it, see if you can take over afterwards?’

I follow her directions to a room at the back of the building, apprehension growing in my stomach. Who else – apart from me – could possibly be interested in one obscure newspaper article? Sure enough, a figure is hunched in front of a monitor, dressed in a familiar pullover. I swear and turn away. Too late.

‘Petra!’ Hall’s voice reaches out into the hallway.

Reluctantly, I retrace my steps. He has risen from his chair, blinking after the brightness of the viewer. I cross my arms, ready to stand my ground, though part of me twists uncomfortably at the memory of taking the Allincourt letter from his folder in the middle of the night.

‘What?’ I demand.

‘Petra, we’ve … got off to a bad start.’ He smiles weakly. ‘I behaved appallingly last time we met. I’m sorry.’

I don’t move. He takes this as permission to continue.

‘I’ll admit, I hadn’t realized how close you were to Stevenson, but your mother filled me in, about the problems with your dad, and the divorce …’ He trails off, perhaps sensing it isn’t the wisest topic. ‘Look, I don’t want to cause upset,’ he finishes, rubbing his temples, ‘or to make either of our lives difficult. How about we try to stay out of each other’s way from now on? Make this as painless as possible.’

I’m not sure what game he’s playing, with this sudden change of tone. I shrug non-committally, hoping that will satisfy him.

‘Fine.’

‘Good.’ He smiles shrewdly. ‘Now, I suspect you’re here to look at
The Word
?’

I can’t help the blood rushing to my cheeks. ‘You know I am.’

‘Well, I’m finished with it,’ he says, scooping up his papers and notebooks. ‘How about we make a deal? You take a look now, and when you’re finished, we have a chat about the Allincourt letter. Would you be willing to let me take a copy? Then we can leave each other be.’

Suspicion threatens to hold me back, but the article is right in front of me: once I’ve read it, I’ll know what my grandpa did. I’ll know whether Hall has a real case.
What if he does?
a small voice hisses in a corner of my mind, but I ignore it, dump my bag on a chair. Hall is still fiddling with his papers as I settle down in front of the monitor.

‘I can see why you don’t get along with your father, if it’s any consolation,’ he says abruptly.

I turn in surprise. He looks up from his packing and grimaces.

‘I’ve offended you again—’

‘No,’ I agree, though my voice is cautious. ‘We’re not the best of friends. It’s no secret.’

Hall pauses.

‘What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.’ His face is crumpled with concern as he perches upon the desk. ‘Between them? Your dad and Stevenson?’

I stare at him, trying to see through his act, but he seems sincere. I guess there’s no harm in setting him straight.

‘Dad’s career, more than anything,’ I tell him bluntly. ‘Grandpa hated the tabloids. He said they ruined people’s lives, picking up their weaknesses and mistakes and parading them about for the world to jeer at. He used to say that no one had the right to do that.’

Hall has the decency to look awkward. He mutters something about leaving me to it, says he’ll meet me in the entrance hall in ten minutes, when I’ve finished reading.

Relieved to be rid of him, I scoot forward on the seat and begin to crank the handle. The article is no longer on the screen. I search back through the microfilm for the correct date. The pages scroll past my eyes, tiny print leaving patterns on my retina. When I still haven’t found it after a minute or two, I reach for my bag, for the reference number on the request form that I shoved in there.

My hand closes upon nothing. It’s gone, and so is Hall.

Chapter Sixteen

January 1910

‘But why does he want to see me?’ Gui whispered, his stomach churning as Patrice pushed him along the corridor.

‘Ours is not to guess why, young man. You have been summoned, that is all. Try not to hunch, it will stretch the jacket.’

A door opened onto a grand room, half panelled with dark wood and lined with books. Gui had never seen so many in his life. It was warm, a fire crackling in the grate. Monsieur Clermont was sitting at a small table, next to a stranger. He beckoned Gui over to a chair.

Gui obeyed, the carpet deep and soft beneath his shoes. He looked around for Patrice, but the valet had disappeared.

‘Du Frère,’ said Clermont, ‘this is Monsieur Edouard Burnett, an old friend of this family. Edouard, this is the young man I told you of, Guillaume du Frère.’

The second man said nothing, but offered his hand. He had a neat, black beard and a face marred by pockmarks. Beads of rain clung to his oiled hair, the only thing that hinted at the biblical conditions outside. Gui gripped the proffered hand, alarmed at its softness. His own fingers were rough with calluses along the joints, scored with burns from the furnaces.

‘Monsieur Burnett and I have something of import to discuss with you, du Frère. Will you take a cup of coffee?’

Gui blinked in confusion. Patrice had reappeared, a tray balanced on his arm. He stared at the silver pot, the delicate china, and tried to recall what few manners he had learned from his mother.

‘Thank you,’ he managed, as Monsieur Clermont poured for him. ‘You have been very generous.’

‘You did not think me so last night,’ the older man pointed out. ‘In fact, you were most indignant. Sugar?’

‘I … I did not …’ Gui stuttered.

‘I am jesting, du Frère.’

Clermont poured for himself and settled back. Burnett was not joining them.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘I want you to tell me about yourself. Where are you from? That accent is not of the Île-de-France.’

‘Bordeaux,’ Gui answered. The coffee was hot and burned his lip. He tried to keep his eyes from watering. There was a silence. He had the feeling that Clermont and Burnett were holding a private conversation in their heads.

Unsure what to do, Gui took another sip of coffee.

‘Does your family have a trade?’ Clermont pressed.

‘No, sir. My mother works in a factory.’

‘But your father?’

‘He’s dead.’

‘I see,’ the older man said slowly. ‘What did he work at, before?’

‘Labouring. He died the same year I was born. My grandfather raised me, mostly. He was a plasterer.’

‘A noble profession.’

‘As noble as yours,’ he rejoined, before he could stop himself.

There was a silence, as though he had dropped a handful of mud onto the polished table. Both men were staring at him.

The door squeaked, breaking the stillness. They all three looked up. Mademoiselle Clermont stood in the doorway. She was dressed in a patterned, satin robe and was leaning on a crutch. Evidently, she hadn’t expected them to be there, for her hand flew to her neck and then she was gone, the door juddering behind her.

At the table, Monsieur Clermont sighed.

‘My daughter. I am afraid she has grown into a rather wilful young woman.’

‘She has been spoiled.’

The unfamiliar voice belonged to Burnett. Gui glanced over, shocked that the man would speak so openly.

‘You have been blessed with three boys, Edouard. Sons are infinitely less trouble than a daughter.’ Clermont shifted his bulk in the delicate chair. ‘Monsieur Burnett is not only a friend, du Frère. He is my business partner, and in charge of my legal affairs. Do you understand what that means?’

Gui nodded slowly, although he did not, entirely.

‘Reputation is everything in this city,’ Clermont continued. ‘The rich are meticulous about where they place their custom. My establishment cannot be touched by scandal. Monsieur Burnett is right; my daughter has been over-indulged. Now she has behaved in a way that might serve to ruin her prospects. I will be blunt. Do you intend to tell anyone of what transpired yesterday?’

‘No, I … I’d have no one to tell.’

‘Do not play us for fools, boy,’ Burnett said, though he remained perfectly motionless. Gui felt as though he were being watched by a spider. ‘How much will it cost to ensure you do not gossip about what happened? Come now, your sort always know the value of these things.’

Gui could only gape in anger. He surged to his feet, although for what purpose he did not know. Burnett only watched him with disdain.

‘Is that what you think of me?’ Gui spluttered. ‘That I came here looking for
money
?’

‘Well, what do you want?’ Monsieur Clermont asked coolly. Both men remained unruffled by his outburst. It made him feel like a child throwing a tantrum. ‘I remain mystified as to your motives, du Frère,’ Clermont continued. ‘If I believed you had come here to take advantage of my daughter, you would be sitting behind bars right now. In which case, I can only assume that you are looking to turn this situation to your advantage—’

‘I don’t want your money,’ Gui interrupted, his heart beginning to race. ‘That isn’t why I came.’

‘Yes, we established that …’ Clermont said with mock patience.

‘I want a job.’ The words tumbled out of Gui before he could prepare himself. ‘A job,’ he forced himself to repeat, ‘here, in the pâtisserie. I don’t care what the work is and I swear, I’ll never breathe a word to anyone about what happened yesterday if you agree.’

He tried to hold his chin straight, but couldn’t bring himself to look either man in the face. He could feel their astonishment, and for one, dreadful moment he thought that they would start laughing. Finally, Clermont spoke.

‘A job,’ he said slowly, the hint of a smile twitching his lip. ‘I must admit I am surprised, if not wholly shocked. The request may not be quite so absurd as it sounds.’

‘If I may—’ Burnett protested with a sneer.

‘I must interrupt you, Edouard,’ said Clermont. ‘I know what you will say, that the boy has no experience, little schooling. However, these are modern times. They seem to suit the bold and the young.’