meet the fourth member of our party off the train. Henri Martineau, rapscallion curé of Taupinière and long-time accomplice (dupe?) of Ingaza, was evidently an essential part of our enterprise, his principal qualification – other than the linguistic one – being an acute expertise in the art of metal detecting.
‘Oh yes,’ Nicholas had said, ‘set old Henri loose with one of those things and he’s like a pig turning up acorns. Makes a small mint out of those Picardy battlefields – though the idiot blows it all on booze and betting. But believe me, if anyone can locate that stuff, he will. Snout and mind like a prime ferret.’ I do not often believe Ingaza, but having seen photographs of the cleric during the paintings débâcle and heard a little of his language and manner from newspaper reports at that time, I was prepared to credit every word. The prospect of a rendezvous at the station was not an enticing one, and I asked why Nicholas could not do it himself. He explained that a transaction of some delicacy was being conducted in Brighton and that he needed to keep telephone tabs on Eric to ensure that all went smoothly. ‘After which,’ he added, ‘I intend taking a little nose round the Folie to get the lie of the land – test out the accuracy of the map.’
‘You could take Bouncer,’ suggested Primrose brightly.
‘No,’ was the short response. ‘Bouncer and I have little in common; and besides, the last thing I need is a dog trailing at my heels when I’m trying to be unobtrusive.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘discretion is not his finest point, and in any case I doubt whether he would trail at your heels – much more likely to be plunging ahead bellowing his lungs out among the rabbit holes.’ I cast a kindly look at the dog who returned it with a grumbling sigh and settled himself deeper into the basket beside the cat. They both began to snore gently.
It had to happen of course … Clinker and his entourage. The nightmare I had been dreading, and of which Primrose had been so dismissive, manifested itself the very next morning. (Few concessions from impatient Fate.)
I had risen later than intended and, leaving the others wrangling over the last and rather emaciated croissant, wandered into the village in search of something more substantial at the bakery. However, entry proved difficult, for its doorway was occupied by a woman of enormous bulk, and although she was speaking French to the girl inside, the familiar hectoring tones struck chill to my heart. Voice and girth made her unmistakable: Myrtle, Clinker’s sister-in-law and my querulous neighbour at his luncheon table four months previously. I doubted whether she would remember me (not distinguished enough), but where there was Myrtle there was surely Gladys – who most certainly would. I backed away, hunger subsumed by fear; and turning down a small alleyway scuttled into a conveniently placed pissoir . Less well camouflaged than a wartime pillbox and affording poorer protection (legs on show), it nevertheless had the properties of both haven and lookout post. Here I skulked, squinting through the narrow slits at the enemy in the square.
Sure enough, as Myrtle lumbered from the shop bearing armfuls of cakes and baguettes, she was greeted by another woman, taller, less huge but beefy: Gladys. The two sisters exchanged a few words and then, as luck would have it, proceeded in my direction. They paused momentarily at the corner of the alley where they seemed to be in dispute over Myrtle’s shopping. ‘No,’ I heard Gladys say firmly, ‘there is certainly not room for those things in my bag.’ (She was wearing a large canvas rucksack slung over one shoulder.) ‘As you well know, it’s my best sketching satchel, and I do not propose having my pencils and paints mixed up with all that pastry and flaking crust! If you were going to buy so much I cannot imagine why you didn’t bring something with you. Lavinia has endless
‘Oh yes,’ Nicholas had said, ‘set old Henri loose with one of those things and he’s like a pig turning up acorns. Makes a small mint out of those Picardy battlefields – though the idiot blows it all on booze and betting. But believe me, if anyone can locate that stuff, he will. Snout and mind like a prime ferret.’ I do not often believe Ingaza, but having seen photographs of the cleric during the paintings débâcle and heard a little of his language and manner from newspaper reports at that time, I was prepared to credit every word. The prospect of a rendezvous at the station was not an enticing one, and I asked why Nicholas could not do it himself. He explained that a transaction of some delicacy was being conducted in Brighton and that he needed to keep telephone tabs on Eric to ensure that all went smoothly. ‘After which,’ he added, ‘I intend taking a little nose round the Folie to get the lie of the land – test out the accuracy of the map.’
‘You could take Bouncer,’ suggested Primrose brightly.
‘No,’ was the short response. ‘Bouncer and I have little in common; and besides, the last thing I need is a dog trailing at my heels when I’m trying to be unobtrusive.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘discretion is not his finest point, and in any case I doubt whether he would trail at your heels – much more likely to be plunging ahead bellowing his lungs out among the rabbit holes.’ I cast a kindly look at the dog who returned it with a grumbling sigh and settled himself deeper into the basket beside the cat. They both began to snore gently.
It had to happen of course … Clinker and his entourage. The nightmare I had been dreading, and of which Primrose had been so dismissive, manifested itself the very next morning. (Few concessions from impatient Fate.)
I had risen later than intended and, leaving the others wrangling over the last and rather emaciated croissant, wandered into the village in search of something more substantial at the bakery. However, entry proved difficult, for its doorway was occupied by a woman of enormous bulk, and although she was speaking French to the girl inside, the familiar hectoring tones struck chill to my heart. Voice and girth made her unmistakable: Myrtle, Clinker’s sister-in-law and my querulous neighbour at his luncheon table four months previously. I doubted whether she would remember me (not distinguished enough), but where there was Myrtle there was surely Gladys – who most certainly would. I backed away, hunger subsumed by fear; and turning down a small alleyway scuttled into a conveniently placed pissoir . Less well camouflaged than a wartime pillbox and affording poorer protection (legs on show), it nevertheless had the properties of both haven and lookout post. Here I skulked, squinting through the narrow slits at the enemy in the square.
Sure enough, as Myrtle lumbered from the shop bearing armfuls of cakes and baguettes, she was greeted by another woman, taller, less huge but beefy: Gladys. The two sisters exchanged a few words and then, as luck would have it, proceeded in my direction. They paused momentarily at the corner of the alley where they seemed to be in dispute over Myrtle’s shopping. ‘No,’ I heard Gladys say firmly, ‘there is certainly not room for those things in my bag.’ (She was wearing a large canvas rucksack slung over one shoulder.) ‘As you well know, it’s my best sketching satchel, and I do not propose having my pencils and paints mixed up with all that pastry and flaking crust! If you were going to buy so much I cannot imagine why you didn’t bring something with you. Lavinia has endless
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