Background
Charles and Helen, who have been investigating the mystery of the French letter, split up following a revelation about Helen's sexuality, and Charles leaves France to spend some time alone in England.
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...from Chapter 36
Alone at last and looking forward to a week or two of solitude, I gradually became aware of a silver-haired gentleman in a well-cut coat, who was eyeing me from a nearby table. His pink shirt set off a black silk tie with blue diagonal stripes that proclaimed him to be an Old Etonian. I raised my glass, then turned slightly away.
A few moments later, he was at my side and, attracting my attention with a discreet cough, he opened with, "I say, old chap. Sorry to intrude and all that, but it's Brandon, isn't it? Charles Brandon, the famous travel writer? Mind if I join you?"
Well, what could a chap say? "Of course, my dear fellow! But you have me at a disadvantage, for though your face seems familiar, I can't immediately recall your name."
"Brockenhurst. Forgive me. Sir David Brockenhurst. I am somewhat of a fan of yours, in a roundabout way."
He signalled the waitress and ordered a Vichy water before making a steeple of his carefully manicured hands. I noticed his signet ring had a boar's head on it, and sighed inwardly, hoping that he wouldn't turn out to be too much of a bore himself. Hoping, in fact, that he'd sink back into the woodwork again after having made make his interest known to me.
As things turned out, that was not to be the case.
Chapter 37
No doubt, Sir David sensed my reserve, and there was an awkward pause before his conversational gambit began.
"What a coincidence it is, bumping into you like this, Brandon. Have you just arrived from your latest travels, or are you about to set off on some new gastronomic adventure?"
What's that to you? I thought, but I answered civilly enough. "I've just come in from Paris on the Eurostar. Now, as you can see, I'm whiling away some time until the rush hour subsides... and what about you, Sir David?"
"Oh, please - you can drop the formalities, old chap. Call me David." I demurred with a thin smile, knowing that he didn't really mean it. Even if I reciprocated his invitation to be on first name terms, he would no doubt continue to call me Brandon. English class distinctions are not broken that easily.
I said nothing but held him in my gaze as I waited for him to answer my question. However, the waitress chose that moment to arrive with his Vichy water. He took a sip. "Not as good as your bubbly, but I'm off the grog for a while. Stomach ulcers, don't you know? The curse of living too well."
I couldn't have given a damn about Sir David's stomach and, anyway, it was more than likely the ulcers were a fabrication. I knew from personal experience that they left one feeling irritable and out of sorts, and certainly in no mood to engage complete strangers in idle chit-chat.
"What a coincidence," he continued, "us being on the same train together. I'm surprised we didn't bump into each other. We could have spent an hour or two in pleasant conversation. "
I wasn't at all surprised, but I was mightily relieved. The thought of being trapped with him drivelling on for the entire journey sent shivers up my spine.
"I imagine that might have been because you were travelling First Class," I said, "a luxury we humble writers can seldom afford."
"Short of ready cash, eh? What a curse! Never mind - I have a proposition that might interest you and provide you with the wherewithal to travel First Class as often as you like."
I was surprised and offended by the way he spoke of my financial position. How dare he presume from my remark that I was poverty-stricken. It was gauche, and out of character with my image of an Old Etonian and a Knight of the Realm. I decided to retaliate by taking him up on the offer to call him David.
"As a matter of fact, David..." I gave the name slight emphasis and paused to relish his reaction, "I prefer to travel cattle class. One meets such interesting people." (I could almost smell the garlic breath that swirled around my lie.)
"Quite, quite... I understand. You writers are always on the lookout for interesting characters, your stock in trade I suppose. Grist to the mill, eh?"
"Something like that... and, if you don't mind me asking, what took you to Paris at this time of the year... David?"
He burbled on, ignoring the intended sleight, "Visiting an old pal of mine, Gaston Arnoux. Bit of a bounder, really, but we enjoy each other's company. High jinks, and all that."
I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Sir David's affected way of speaking, a parody of English upper-class banter, was something he put on purely for my benefit. I smelt a rat.
"Gaston Arnoux, did you say? No relation to Colonel Neville Arnoux, I suppose?"
"Can't say that I know. Though I believe his father was a military man. No idea about his name, rank and number, and all that. Not something Gaston would ever have talked about. The two of them didn't see eye to eye. A rich old bastard - that's where all of Louis' money came from of course." Sir David laughed. "The old boy would be turning in his grave if he knew what he does with it, dabbling on the fringes of the art world, living the high life in Paris, and goodness knows what."
"Interested in art, is he? Anything in particular?" I was keeping the old fool talking, not so much on the slim chance that his friend was related to Colonel Arnoux, but more immediately because it's not easy to give one's full attention to delicacies like oysters and crab while thinking of something intelligent to say.
"Mainly the artists of Montmartre. You know, people like Degas, Matisse, Renoir and Toulouse-Lautrec."
"Artists that you wish your grandfather had had the foresight to buy a century ago," I said between mouthfuls.
"Exactly! ...and it seems that his grandfather did. That was the basis of his fortune. The esteemed ancestor had a particular interest in that funny dwarf fellow, Toulouse-Lautrec."
"Really?" Suddenly, Sir David was becoming more interesting than my West Country mussels. "I wouldn't mind meeting up with your friend one day. I have a similar interest." I pushed my plate to one side and swilled my last mouthful down with a draught of sparkling Rosé.
"Perhaps that could be arranged. I shall be back in Paris in a fortnight, and I have a suspicion that you might be, too."
"Whatever gives you that idea?"
"The little proposition I mentioned - assuming you are interested?"
"That would depend."
I weighed my words carefully, for any interest I might have was counterbalanced by my suspicions about this chance meeting. What was there to trust about this unlikely knight with a plum in his cheek, who appeared to be offering me some shady deal?
The odds were against him being able to provide a connection with Colonel Arnoux. Yet I couldn't afford to ignore a possible lead. After all, the colonel - according to Alain Gaudin - was the author of the letter written to his grandmother, Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin, back in 1903...
Without thinking, I felt in my jacket pocket for the envelope from the Paris Stamp Market. Then I remembered, much to my annoyance, that Alain still had it, together with the letter it once contained.
Author Notes
List of characters:
Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Sir David Brockenhurst - a chance acquaintance, met at St Pancras Station
Helen Culverson - a woman of some mystery, also a travel writer, who seems to have become Charles's girlfriend.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor, who was involved in a serious accident, and seems also to be involved with the Mafia in some way.
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Francoise Gaudin - an intellectually disabled woman living in Versailles.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Gaston Arnoux - an unknown quantity at this stage, a dilettante.
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