'I didn't report anything. I knew you had reservations, but I was confident you would resolve them in time.'

I start to point out the reality of the situation, but Whyke hasn't finished.

'The truth is all of my students have been a.s.signed other tutors. The university has put me on probation.'

The words stretch between us, interspersed with the clinking of dishes, the whirr of an electric fan.

'Have you ever looked at the university league tables?' he continues. 'It probably hasn't concerned you much, but my college takes its position rather seriously. The higher we score, the more funding we get. Apparently, not one of my students has achieved a first-cla.s.s grade in the last five years.'

'But you've never taught for good marks,' I protest, 'everyone says.'

'Do they? That's the problem. This year, if any of my students fail, or get lower than average grades, I will be considered a millstone around the college's neck and sent on my way.'

I start to speak, but his expression stops me.

'It's not so great a surprise,' he says gently. 'It's true; I've never cared much about exam work.'

'Professor, I'm sorry, but I don't think there's any way I'll get a first. It'll be a miracle if I even pa.s.s.'

'Listen to me.' Whyke leans forward, more decisive than I've ever seen him. 'I want you to forget everything I said the other day. If I get dismissed it will be no one's responsibility but my own. If you've found something that you think is more valuable than your studies, then I won't stand in your way. I only want to be sure you've considered everything thoroughly, because there will be consequences.'

I nod slowly. 'I have.'

'I thought you might see it like that.' He grins. 'Well then, what do we have to go on?'

I tell him everything, about the clues I've collected so far, the photographs and the girl, the painting, my grandfather's article, the letters and Mr Lefevre. Face burning, I explain about Hall and the whereabouts of the evidence.

'He sounds like a pleasant character,' Whyke says sardonically. 'In which case, I think you'd be right to start with Lefevre.'

I remind him that I've already tried, but he's climbing to his feet, checking his watch and dumping a handful of change onto the table.

'That's for the tea.' He points. 'Now, I take it you were on your way to the station?'

'I was going to go back to the Newspaper Library.'

'Don't buy a ticket just yet. I'm going to locate Mr Lefevre, and you might want to consider paying him a visit.'

'How?'

Whyke is scrawling a telephone number on a napkin with a leaking biro.

'Just be at the station in an hour's time,' he tells me. 'Call my number at the faculty. I should have the details then.'

Before I can question him further he is gone, leaving a mess of sugar and coins behind him.

It feels strange to stand waiting at the station in the middle of the afternoon when I'd normally be studying. The platform clock is pointing at quarter to two as I dial the number Whyke has given me. At first it doesn't work, until I see that one of the scrawled numbers is a three rather than an eight. I try again and it's engaged. There is a train leaving for London in five minutes. The third time I dial, Whyke picks up straight away.

'Petra?' he answers breathlessly.

'Yes, I'm here.'

'Sorry, I had to call someone at the University of Ess.e.x.'

'That's all right. Have you found Lefevre?'

'Yes. It took a little more asking around than I thought, but a friend of a friend met him at a conference a few years back. He doesn't have a telephone, apparently, so you'll have to go and see him in person.'

'OK.' I fumble for my notebook. 'Where is he?'

'You're not going to like this ...'

'Cornwall!' I yelp down the phone when he tells me. 'How on earth am I going to get there?'

'Well, unless you want to write to him-'

'I don't have time to write.' I glance up at the departures board, and sigh. 'This is going to be a long day.'

'I suggest you get moving then. Here, have you got a pen?'

Chapter Twenty-Four.

February 1910 Gui's first weeks at the ptisserie did not go as well as he had hoped. He was just another skivvy for the most part, the lowest of the order, and the visions he had of becoming a real ptissier, of spinning glorious confections like Monsieur Carme, seemed further away than ever.

He had seen Mademoiselle Clermont only once since his first day. He had been hurrying back to the kitchens after his break when the door of the office had burst open. She had dashed out, her head lowered, and had collided with him before he could step aside. For the s.p.a.ce of a breath, his hands had rested upon her arms, hers upon his chest. Her face was drawn and pale, tears reddening her lower lids. He had frowned in concern, opened his mouth to ask her what was wrong, but before he could speak she had shaken her head and pulled away.

He had watched her duck through the private door that led to the apartments above. The warmth that had flooded the s.p.a.ce between their bodies stayed with him long after she had disappeared from view.

Gui wondered whether she was still at odds with her father. Sometimes, he thought he could feel Monsieur Clermont's attention on him as he worked in the kitchen, but whenever he looked over, the chef was engrossed in ingredients, or sketches, or conversations with Josef.

The kitchen had its own language, one Gui did not yet understand. He was allowed to work with Chef Ebersole for a few hours a day, but mostly he was shoved aside and left to follow as best he could. Every time he was asked to prepare a bain-marie, or fetch a savarin mould, his stomach turned over. Sometimes, Maurice would give him a nudge in the right direction, but when the older chef was busy, he was at the mercy of the other apprentices. Some of them were friendly, but others were downright malicious.

Before he learned not to listen to them, he handed Ebersole a bottle of cochineal rather than vanilla, and was banished to the ovens for the rest of the week. 'Minding the ovens' was a punishment in the kitchen, the most menial task. He struggled to keep them at a constant temperature; bricks had to be soaked and replaced to create steam, shelves arranged and rearranged. He fared better than most, being used to furnaces far larger and hotter, but by the time the weekend arrived, his hands were red with blisters and scalds.

One night, dog weary, he returned to his new home on the Rue de Belleville. He met his neighbour Isabelle on the landing, and she tutted in sympathy over the burns.

'You work too hard,' she told him, leaning in her doorway.

Over her shoulder, Gui glimpsed walls covered with cut-out paper flowers and landscapes, lace drapes pinned above the bed. Isabelle did not entertain clients here. Madame had a strict rule that all visits took place in the private cabinet rooms downstairs, but even so, he looked away.

'I must work hard,' he said quietly. 'This is my chance.'

Her smile was twisted. She bid him goodnight and went downstairs.

With only one day left of his sentence at the ovens, Gui tried to work hard, to be cautious. Yet the Sat.u.r.day shift was notoriously long and hectic. Losing concentration, he leaned in too far and scorched a huge hole in the front of his jacket. He swore and batted at himself, but the damage was done.

'Josef will thrash you for that,' his fellow oven worker told him, a boy with a permanently red nose who had taken against Gui from the start.

'He won't if he doesn't find out.' Gui pushed his sleeves to the elbow, but red-nose only gave him a haughty expression and turned away. Gui hitched his ap.r.o.n up around his ribs to cover the hole. A few minutes later, he saw the other apprentice sidling towards the office, and hurried to catch up with him in the corridor.

'Where are you going?'

The young man stopped in his tracks, mouth souring with dislike.

'Nowhere,' he told Gui.

He heard voices then, Josef's booming tones and Clermont's quieter ones, heading towards them. The other apprentice tried to lunge past, but Gui grabbed him and used all his weight to shove him into the cloakroom.

The door swung closed behind them just in time. Gui was so intent on listening to the voices in the corridor, on not being caught, that he didn't see the first blow coming. It caught him on the ear and he stumbled backwards, tripping over a pair of boots. The apprentice came on again, fists clenched. His blows were not heavy, but he was wiry and fast; Gui took another to the face before he could surge upward and retaliate.

He shoved the other young man, hard. The apprentice stumbled and fell. Gui heard a tide of chatter coming towards them from the kitchen and took his chance to escape.

He kept his head down as the other chefs pa.s.sed, arms crossed, and no one noticed the state of his uniform. In the scullery, he threw one of the washing tunics over his ruined jacket. His nose was dripping; he swiped it with the back of his hand and saw blood. He blotted it with one of the rags and prayed that it wasn't broken.

He was shaking, he felt sick and hollow from the fight. It would only be a matter of time before his presence was missed at the ovens. He could not afford to have his pay docked for the damage to his uniform; it was barely enough to cover the rent at Madame's as it was. As for brawling on duty ...

He plunged his arms into a sink full of water and tried to hide his bloodied nose when two chefs entered, laden with dirty mixing bowls.

'Well, he'd been fighting with someone,' one of them said.

'Still, I can't believe that Josef sent him packing without a word,' snorted the other.

'I can. He was on his last warning.'

'Who else was involved, do you reckon?'

'We'll find out when someone gets back from break looking a mess, won't we?'

They dumped the stack of bowls in the deep sink, splashing Gui with suds. He stared down into the water. He couldn't believe that he had been so stupid; his one chance at a future, at something better. He was not going to lose it because of a skinny tell-tale.

He waited until the corridor outside the scullery was empty, then ran down its length to a door at the other end. If anyone saw him walking through it, he would be dismissed for sure.

Thankfully, it was the middle of the day, a quiet time. He encountered no one as he crept up the polished stairs towards the Clermonts' apartment. He knocked, heart thundering down to his stomach, arms clenched tight behind his back to hide their shaking.

The door opened with a gust of warm air. It smelled like flowers and tea.

'Guillaume!'

Mademoiselle Clermont stood there, her eyes widening at the state of him. She wore dark pink today, a lace collar tight and high on her neck. An ornate hairpiece of silk flowers was twined about her head.

'I'm looking for Patrice,' he stuttered.

She seized him by the arm, pulled him inside. Their feet were m.u.f.fled by thick carpet.

'Who's there, Jeanne?'

Gui froze. There was someone else in the apartment.

'A mistaken caller, Aunt,' said Mademoiselle Clermont loudly. 'They were looking for Madame Bescanon along the hall.' Her voice was cool and even, but Gui could hear the breathlessness below the surface. 'I must just take a moment for myself, if you don't mind.'

'Are you feeling unwell, Jeanne?' the older woman's voice called.

'No, no, I won't be long.'

She dragged him along the hallway to a second door, pushed him inside and followed him in, locking it as quietly as possible. When she turned, her cheeks were burning red.

'What are you doing here?' she demanded in a whisper.

The room was high and airy. Heavy curtains framed the windows, as well as a four-poster bed with an ornately carved headboard. A smooth satin eiderdown covered crisp sheets. With a jolt, Gui realized that he must be in Mademoiselle Clermont's bedroom.

'I am sorry,' he stammered, shrugging off the washing tunic to reveal the blood-spattered, burned uniform. 'I needed help and I thought of Patrice ... I didn't know who else to ask.'

'What on earth happened?'

'Another boy saw me burn my jacket. He was going to tell Josef, and I tried to stop him, but then he hit me.' Gui sniffed and tasted blood at the back of his throat. 'I didn't want to start a fight, but I can't afford to lose any pay.'

Mademoiselle Clermont had drawn back from the ruined garment, turning towards the door. 'Guillaume, I'm sure that if we explained to Josef-'

Gui s.n.a.t.c.hed at her arm before she could reach for the handle.

'No! If I'm seen with you, I'll be fired on the spot.'

She stared at his fingers, burned and scarred, closed around the fine lace of her sleeve.

'What happened to your hands?' she murmured.

Abruptly, he recalled the feel of her in his arms, her hands locked around his neck as he battled through the floodwater, the warmth he had felt between them in the corridor. He let go. A strange expression flickered across her face. Then she seemed to make up her mind, and pushed him towards a dressing table that was tucked into an alcove.

'Sit down,' she ordered, and opened a drawer.

Gui caught a waft of lavender. She drew out a handkerchief, embroidered with leaves and flowers and the word 'Jeanne'. She shook it free of its folds and wet it with some lotion from a bottle.

'Here,' she handed it to him, 'we should clean up your face, for a start.'

Gui stared in horror at the fine linen.

'I can't use this,' he told her quietly, 'I'll ruin it.'

'No matter,' she said carelessly, searching through a forest of bottles and jars. 'I have hundreds.'

Gingerly, Gui dabbed at his nose, wincing at the rust-coloured smears that came away on the clean, white surface.