The Missing Masterpiece Read online

  ‘No. It is marvellous stuff, Gilly. You know it is, and I’ll tolerate no false modesty. Now here we are, and we’re going to concentrate on the serious business of enjoying superb French cuisine.’

  I had had the concierge teach me how to tell the waiter that we had only a little French, and knew only a little about haute cuisine, and wanted him to compose a meal for us. ‘Et du vin, bien sûr!’ I hoped I got the request for wine right.

  ‘Entendu, madame, mademoiselle. Un repas pour les anges, je vous le promets!’ And seeing the blank look on my face, he added, ‘Antoine will bring for you a meal fit for the angels in heaven!’

  I thanked him and then cast about for another subject to keep Gilly from asking about Alan. ‘Have you had time to see the tapestry yet?’

  ‘No, I thought we’d wait and do that when—’

  ‘After your opening, of course. You’ve been much too busy for sightseeing. You know, I have actually been here once before. Maybe I told you. I was just out of college, I mean university.’

  ‘I do speak some American, you know,’ she said, grinning.

  That took me off on a tangent. ‘I remember once when a woman at passport control in Gatwick asked me if I was visiting England for a vacation – not “on holiday”. I must have looked surprised, because she said, “Oh, I’m bilingual.” With that perfectly straight face that used to make it impossible for me to tell if an English person meant to be funny. Ah, here’s our wine.’

  The wine steward explained that this was a little something to go with our first course. At least I think that’s what he said; unlike Antoine, he either couldn’t speak English or didn’t care to. It was only a half-bottle, so I didn’t think it was meant for the main course. Nor do I know what it was, except that it was white, and fruity without being sweet, and a perfect match for the seafood dish that was set before us a moment later. I don’t know what that was, either, though I recognized scallops and tiny shrimps. Whatever it was, it was divine.

  The main course was beef. I could tell that much. It was served in a sauce that was obviously devised by a magician. With it there were little balls of potato, cooked in some ingenious way, and tiny thin French beans, and another vegetable I didn’t recognize. The wine steward brought a lordly bottle of something red, tasted it himself (obviously, and correctly, not trusting our palates), decanted it in front of a candle, and finally poured it for us with gestures that turned the simple act into a religious rite. Ginny and I were perilously close to giggling by the time he left us to our enjoyment.

  We hardly talked at all during our meal. Course succeeded course. A crisp, tart salad followed the beef, and then a selection of gorgeous fruits and a platter of assorted cheeses, along with the dessert course which was something creamy and frothy and sweet. A different wine had accompanied each course, the dessert one something that tasted of apricots and summer sunshine. I looked with real regret at the cheese which was waiting forlornly on the table; it looked wonderful, but there was no way I could eat another bite of anything.

  ‘I may never eat again,’ said Gilly, with a sigh, ‘but oh, it was worth it. I should warn you I may run off with Alan, if he makes a habit of providing meals like this. When is he getting here tomorrow?’

  I was mellow enough with the wine to keep my composure. ‘My dear, he can’t come. I didn’t want to tell you, but I knew you’d ask eventually. The ankle isn’t healing as fast as we’d hoped, and the doctor wants him off his feet for at least another week. He’s so terribly sorry. This lovely dinner was his way of cheering me up, and of course of congratulating you on a fine show.’

  ‘How does he know it’s a fine show? He hasn’t seen it.’

  There was just a little petulance in her voice.

  ‘He’s seen your work. And he knows you’re a perfectionist.’

  The waiter had caught the change of mood and approached, appearing distressed. ‘Do the ladies require something else? Something is not right?’

  ‘Everything is perfect, Antoine.’ After all that wine, I’d given up any attempt to speak French, and anyway Antoine’s English was fine. ‘It was an incredible meal, and we are grateful. Could we have, perhaps, some coffee?’

  ‘Ah, oui, l’espresso, peut-être?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dorothy,’ said Gilly when he had left. ‘I didn’t mean to sound like a spoilt child. It’s only that I’m really disappointed. And I know you are, too. But once the opening is over, we’ll have a wonderful time seeing Bayeux together. You probably know lots of out-of-the-way places. You were saying you’ve been here before?’

  ‘Only once, almost fifty years ago. I told you I was just out of college. My parents took me on a package tour, and I honestly don’t remember a thing about it except the tapestry, and not much about that. And didn’t you say they’ve built a new museum for it?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Just a new display at the old museum.’

  ‘Well, anyway, we’ll see that, and of course the cathedral, and anything else Yves and Hélène say we mustn’t miss. When Alan first called, I was so upset I’d thought about going home after tomorrow, but …’

  ‘But you’re feeling better after that amazing meal.’

  ‘And a gallon or two of wine didn’t hurt. Gilly, do you know anything about etiquette in French restaurants? Would they allow us to take some of that cheese back to the hotel? I can’t possibly eat it now, but wouldn’t it make a great lunch tomorrow?’

  Antoine had brought our espresso, and was hovering nearby. I think he had taken us under his wing, two ladies all alone – and one of them young and beautiful. Mais oui, of course the two lovely ladies could take home some of the cheese, he would package it up for us, and was there anything else he could do for us?

  ‘Only l’addition, s’il vous plaît.’ I was proud of remembering that high-school French phrase for requesting the bill, and Antoine tactfully pretended that my accent was understandable.

  It was late when we got back to the hotel, but I knew Alan would be waiting for a report. ‘Okay, you win,’ I said when his sleepy voice answered. ‘You were right as usual.’

  ‘Good food and good wine did the trick?’

  ‘Superlative food and wine, served by a delightful and most attentive waiter. I rather fell in love with Antoine. You don’t even want to know how much it cost; you may as well start the bankruptcy proceedings first thing in the morning. I imagine Gilly will visit us in the poorhouse. But yes, I’m feeling a lot better, and we have plans to see everything there is to see in Bayeux as soon as the opening is over. But you needn’t think I don’t miss you. I hate sleeping alone.’

  ‘There’s always Antoine.’

  He hung up before I stopped sputtering.

  THREE

  The opening went as openings always do, with additional flair provided by the French influence. The wine was probably as cheap as it always is on such occasions, but in France even a cheap wine can be special. Hélène, we discovered, had made the hors d’oeuvres herself; she was obviously a talented cook. Gilly was, of course, the star of the hour, and with Yves or Hélène at her side to translate when necessary, she graciously accepted the compliments showered upon her. More to the point, she sold a number of the smaller pieces, and there was a great deal of interest in the new line of Biblical figures. All in all, the evening was a great success which left both of us too exhausted to do anything afterwards but fall into bed.

  The next day was Sunday, so Gilly and I went to the beautiful cathedral for a service neither of us could understand very well, and then for the next couple of days we played tourist. Bayeux is an interesting town, part medieval, part modern, though there isn’t nearly as much new construction as in many old towns in Europe. Bayeux was spared much of the devastation during World War Two because neighbouring Caen took most of the heat in the Battle of Normandy. Much of Caen was destroyed, mostly by the Allies; most of Bayeux remains. I read about all that in a guidebook, and felt guilty, as I always do w
hen thinking about the damage ‘our side’ inflicted on the great treasures of Europe, not to mention the hundreds of thousands of civilians we killed. Okay, yes, I understand that war is hell and ‘collateral damage’ (horrid term!) is inevitable. That doesn’t make me feel one bit better when I look at pictures of Dresden. Or Caen.

  So we saw the museums, including, of course, the Tapestry Museum, housed in a medieval palace but an entirely modern display, dimly lit, climate-controlled, the lot.

  The Bayeux Tapestry is not a tapestry at all, really, since it’s embroidered rather than woven. It shows, in remarkable detail, the events leading up to the Norman Conquest and the Battle of Hastings. 1066 and all that, as a popular spoof history book has it. I learned a great deal about it when Alan and I spent a holiday in Alderney, in the Channel Islands. The people of Alderney recently finished a project, with the help of notables like the Prince of Wales and his wife, ‘completing’ the tapestry; the original ends in a ragged edge and is presumed to have had extra panels leading up to William’s coronation at Westminster Abbey. The Alderney Finale, as it’s called, had hung in the Tapestry Museum for a time until its return to Alderney, where Alan and I saw it.

  Looking at the original, all 230 feet of it, I was struck by how little the colours had faded in the past 900-plus years, and how well the Alderney Finale had copied the original. ‘Not so shabby, those eleventh-century needle workers,’ I whispered to Gilly. Something about the place seemed to demand a church-like demeanour.

  We saw everything we could fit into the short time at our disposal, and on the last day visited the gallery one more time to thank Yves and Hélène.

  ‘Hello, Dorothy,’ said a voice from a corner, and when its owner turned around I had to look twice to make sure I believed my eyes.

  ‘Penny Brannigan! What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘I do paint,’ she said, trying to hide a smile. ‘I do occasionally visit galleries.’

  ‘But isn’t this a little off your beat?’

  ‘I’m having a little holiday, resting up before the wedding season goes into high gear. I’ve never seen the tapestry before, and when I saw Gillian’s name on a poster, I had to pop in and see her recent work.’

  I met Penny some years ago on a brief trip to Wales. Penny’s an expat like me, and a talented amateur watercolourist, though by profession a cosmetologist. She’s from Canada originally, but has lived for years in a small town in north Wales. Alan and I have run into her from time to time, most recently at a retirement party for a friend of Penny’s. And not long before that, Penny helped us solve a rather nasty problem at Sherebury’s art college.

  ‘You remember Penny, Gillian?’

  ‘Of course. Without you, Penny, that frightful man might still be wreaking havoc at the college.’

  ‘Well, he couldn’t be allowed to stand in your way, at least. Gilly, your work was always good, but now – I’m stunned! I hope you’re going to let me treat you both to coffee, or lunch, or something.’

  ‘Oh, drat, Penny. We both have to catch trains in a little while. Gilly has to get to Paris for a plane back to England, and I’m taking a train to Mont-Saint-Michel.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  We looked at her, puzzled at her response.

  ‘Oh. You hadn’t heard.’

  ‘Heard what, for heaven’s sake, Penny?’ I frowned.

  ‘It was on the news this morning. A woman was caught on the sands yesterday as the tide was coming in. She nearly drowned, and as it is she took in enough water that they’re not sure she’ll survive.’

  Oh, dear, indeed. I sat down on the nearest chair. ‘That’s terrible news. I had no idea – I mean, I knew about the incredible tides, and the quicksand, but somehow I didn’t think people still tempted fate that way. What was she doing out there, anyway?’

  ‘Look, Dorothy,’ said Gilly, ‘you want to hear all about this, and I simply must get to the railway station. Yves is driving me, and he’s standing outside looking at his watch. It doesn’t matter what train you get, does it?’

  ‘Not really, I suppose.’

  ‘Then you stay and let Penny take you for coffee, and I’ll hear the details later. Penny, so nice to see you again, and Dorothy, darling, bless you for being my moral support!’ She air-kissed both of us and sprinted out the door.

  It was early for lunch, so Penny and I went back to my hotel. I’d checked out, but we could get coffee in the bar, and Penny bought us each a pastry. ‘Because talking about disasters requires some fortification.’

  ‘So,’ I said when we had settled. ‘Tell me all you know about this.’

  ‘It’s only what I heard on the news. The woman is German; I forget her name, if I ever heard it. She was apparently travelling alone; nobody seemed to know much about her. Including why she was out on the sands at a dangerous time.’

  ‘Why would anyone go out on them at any time? The quicksand of Mont-Saint-Michel is legendary.’

  ‘But there are always people who think they know better than the authorities. I’ve never been to the Mont, but friends have told me there are warnings about walking on the sands posted all over the place, and yet people still do it. And I suppose if you venture out at low tide and get stuck, there’s time for help to reach you. But this woman must have ignored the tide tables.’

  ‘And you say you got all this from the news? In French? I’m impressed. I can barely catch one word in ten. I’ve been relying on the Internet in English, but they don’t feature a lot of world news.’

  Penny laughed. ‘My French is pretty rusty, but I was watching in the lounge of my hotel, and a kind soul sitting next to me translated.’

  ‘Well, then, I don’t feel quite so stupid. But really, no one knows why she was there?’

  ‘Pardon, madame.’ Our waiter, who spoke excellent English, had overheard our conversation. ‘There has been further news. The lady was digging, it is said. Perhaps for les moules – comment dit-on—?’

  ‘Oh, I know that one! From a menu somewhere. Mussels, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ah, oui, merci. The mussels of Mont-Saint-Michel, they are famous, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘But – a visitor, a foreigner – why would she be digging for mussels?’ I objected.

  The waiter replied only with an eloquent Gallic shrug, as if to imply that the actions of foreigners were always inexplicable.

  ‘I don’t believe it for a moment,’ I said in a low tone, when the waiter was out of earshot. ‘It makes no sense at all.’

  ‘I agree, but we may never know unless the woman recovers. And even then …’

  ‘Post-traumatic amnesia. Is that a real term, or did I just make it up? Anyway, the condition is real enough. Oh, well. I just hope Alan doesn’t happen to see that item on the news. He worries about me quite enough without fear of something like that.’

  ‘Where is Alan, by the way?’

  I explained. ‘And I’m hoping he’ll be able to join me at the Mont. Although what he’s going to do there with a bum ankle I can’t imagine, if it’s as steep and crowded as it looks in pictures.’

  ‘He’ll manage. I have great faith in Alan’s ability to do anything he wants to.’

  I laughed. ‘There’s that. The polite term is perseverance. Back in Indiana they’d have called him stubborn as a mule.’

  ‘Just keep him off the sands, in case he takes it into his head to investigate the place where the accident happened. And you stay away, too.’

  ‘Don’t worry. There wouldn’t be anything to see, anyway, several high tides later. Did you read about the one a while back that covered even the new bridge?’ And we chatted about the tides there and in Canada’s Bay of Fundy, which is near Penny’s former home and has the highest tides in the world. That led us into a discussion of our human preoccupation with the biggest/highest/most of anything.

  ‘I can’t believe the prices people are paying for art these days,’ I said, absent-mindedly taking a bite of a second pastry. ‘That Picasso that went for al
most $180 million? It’s insane.’

  ‘And when one thinks of painters like Van Gogh, who sold almost nothing and died bitter and mad …’

  ‘And now people pay small fortunes for his work. It’s almost criminal.’

  ‘Mmm. And speaking of criminal, there’s been an odd little trickle of art crime lately. At least it’s thought to be crime. A few medieval manuscripts have been coming on the market, and no one knows – or will admit to knowing – where they’ve come from.’

  ‘Stolen? But surely there aren’t all that many just lying around for someone to steal.’

  ‘Stolen, or possibly forged. I don’t know all the details, but there’s been a little buzz about the whole thing in the art world.’

  ‘But what are they? Illuminated pages of something? I’d have thought that forging such a thing would take far too long to make it profitable.’

  ‘Oh, some manuscripts can go for huge sums; you wouldn’t believe. I read about a book of fifteenth-century poetry being auctioned at Christie’s the other day for a couple of million pounds.’

  I gasped.

  ‘Of course that was a complete book, with lots of illuminations. The works I’ve been told about are single sheets, I believe sheets of music, but as I said, I haven’t heard many details. If they’re real, they could still be worth quite a lot to a collector.’

  ‘Or even if a buyer can be convinced that they’re real.’

  And that led us to the old controversy about why a beautiful forgery wasn’t worth just as much as an original work of art, and I got so wrapped up in it I had forgotten the time until Penny said, ‘This has been delightful, but shouldn’t you be thinking about that train you need to catch?’

  ‘Oh, good grief, yes!’ I looked around for our waiter, but Penny smiled and put her hand on mine.