‘Speak to him.’ Edgar slumped forward, crossing his arms across his solar plexus, all the energy draining suddenly out of him. ‘Speak to him. Send him away.’
David put the cross down on the table and made for the door. ‘Jim?’ His voice was croaky. ‘Jim, it’s all right. I’m here.’ He walked out into the kitchen, taking deep breaths, feeling as though he had been let out of prison. With a huge, body shaking sigh he leaned his arms on the kitchen table, his head in his hands.
‘Are you sure you’re all right, Mr Tregarron?’ Jimbo had been standing in the doorway. He moved forward, his face creased with concern. ‘You look white as a sheet, mate. What’s happened?’
David forced himself upright. ‘Just a bit tired. Sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a fright. I didn’t realise I’d left the door open.’
‘No problem. As long as everything’s OK.’ Jimbo hesitated. ‘There’s nothing wrong through there, is there?’
David shook his head.
‘I’ll go on back to work then. I had to go into Ipswich this morning to collect some parts.’ He still hadn’t moved. ‘Shall I put the kettle on for you? You look as though you could do with something hot.’
David shook his head wearily. ‘No. Thanks Jimbo. I’m fine. Perhaps I’ll make some later.’ He forced himself to smile. ‘I’m going back to London today. I’ll look in on you before I go and give you back the key.’
He stood watching as the young man at last turned to go. As the door closed behind him he had a tremendous urge to call him, but somehow he resisted it.
He had to go back.
33
‘Luke, I have to visit the place where my mother lived.’
‘Oh, Joss!’ Luke sat up and stared at her. ‘We came here to leave all that behind.’
‘I can’t leave it behind, Luke.’ She shook her head. ‘All I need to do is look. See where she stayed. I’ve got the address. I need to know she was happy here in Paris.’
‘And how will you know that?’ He took a deep breath. ‘Joss, she’s been dead for years. I don’t suppose anyone is even going to remember her.’
‘They might.’ She clenched her fists. ‘It’s not so long. Please, Luke. I’ll go alone if I have to.’
He sighed. ‘You know I won’t let you do that.’
She gave him a shaky smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘All right. I give in. Let’s get something to eat then we’ll go and find it. Then, please, can we relax and enjoy ourselves again? For our last few days?’
She pushed back the bedclothes. ‘Of course. I promise.’
Rue Aumont-Thiéville was in the 17th arrondissement. Their taxi driver dropped them off in a short street of what looked like purpose-built ateliers. Looking up at the huge studio windows Joss took a deep breath. ‘It was here. Here that she lived with Paul after she went to join him.’
‘Are you going to knock?’
She bit her lip. ‘Doesn’t one look for the concièrge? Or don’t they exist any more? I seem to remember that they are supposed to know everything about every one of their tenants in Paris.’
Luke grinned. ‘They’re dragons. Direct descendants of the tricoteuses who sat at the foot of the guillotine knitting, counting heads as they fell into the basket!’
‘You’re trying to put me off.’
‘Not really. I know nothing will do that.’ He put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Go on. Ring the bell.’
The young woman who opened the door to them looked nothing like a tricoteuse. She was smart, well made up, and spoke fluent English. ‘Monsieur Deauville? Yes, he still lives here, Madame.’
Joss glanced at Luke, then she turned back to the young woman. ‘Perhaps you remember my – that is, his …’ she floundered to a stop. It had suddenly dawned on her that she did not know if her mother had remarried or not. ‘Madame Deauville,’ she went on hastily. ‘She died about six years ago.’
The young woman made a face. ‘Pardon, Madame. My mother was here then. I’ve only been here two years. All I can say is that there is no Madame Deauville now.’ She shrugged. ‘Do you wish to go upstairs?’
Joss nodded. She glanced at Luke. ‘Do you want to come or would you rather go for a walk or something?’
‘Don’t be silly.’ He stepped inside after her. ‘Of course I want to come.’
The lift was wrought iron, small, ornate and terrifying. It carried them with unbelievable slowness up to the third floor where they heaved back the gate and stepped out onto the bare scrubbed landing. It took several minutes for the door to be answered. Paul Deauville was, Joss guessed, in his eighties, tall, white haired, astonishingly good looking and full of charm. His smile was immediately welcoming. ‘Monsieur? Madame?’ He looked from one to the other in enquiry.
Joss took a deep breath. ‘Monsieur Deauville? Do you speak English?’
His smile broadened. ‘Of course.’
He was dressed in an open-necked shirt and heavy wool sweater. There were tell-tale paint stains on his sleeve.
‘Monsieur, I am Laura’s daughter.’ She stared at him anxiously, half expecting a rejection as a look of shock then astonishment and then at last delight played across his expressive features. ‘Jocelyn?’
He knew her name.
Her face relaxed into a smile of relief as she nodded. ‘Jocelyn,’ she confirmed.
‘Oh, ma chérie!’ He put out his arms and pulled her to him, planting a kiss on each cheek. ‘At last. Oh, how long we waited, Laura and I, for this moment.’ He drew back suddenly. ‘You knew – forgive me – you knew she was dead?’
Joss nodded.
He echoed her nod, then he seized her hand. ‘Please. Come in. Come in. This is your husband, no?’ He released her to give Luke’s hand an equally warm squeeze.