Forgive me.

If not for those two words I could have dismissed Hall's claims about my grandfather, I could have a.s.sumed that he was fabricating a scandal, just to sell copies of his book. But now, I feel a terrible uncertainty, a pang of hurt. I thought I knew everything about Grandpa Jim; why had he never told me about Paris?

I try to search for the word, 'Clermont', in the library but find nothing useful. There is no one else I can ask. My grandmother is long dead, my parents long divorced. I doubt that my mother would know, and I'm not on speaking terms with my father, not since he sold the house.

On Friday night I trudge through Cambridge's dark and rainy streets, in search of a friendly face. My hair is plastered to my cheeks by the time I ring a bell, carrier bag in hand. A waft of perfume engulfs me as the door is thrown open, and I smile in relief. Ca.s.s hugs me with one arm and ushers me inside with the other.

'For you,' I tell her, handing over the bag. 'I think I need your help with something.'

Ca.s.s grins as she pulls out a bottle of wine and a large bar of chocolate. 'If you're trying to bribe me, it's working.'

It is cosy in her tiny kitchen, the rain pattering gently on the windows, and I feel at ease for the first time in weeks. Ca.s.s potters around, turning on the record player, while I find a couple of gla.s.ses.

Ca.s.s is one of my few close friends at university. She's two years older than me and, technically, could be my supervisor, although the idea of that makes us laugh too much to consider it seriously.

'Finally.' She sighs, flinging herself into a chair and pushing a stack of papers aside. 'I thought the weekend would never come.'

She pours the wine, filling the gla.s.ses to the brim. Ca.s.s is based at the History of Art department, and everything about her is generous: ma.s.ses of frizzy black hair, infectious smile, always ready with a cheerful word or a sympathetic nudge.

'So,' she takes a sip, 'what's this thing you need help with? You were vague on the phone.'

I tell her about the photograph, about Simon Hall and his so-called scandal. She collapses into giggles when I describe what happened at his talk.

'Can you imagine what he would say if he found this?' I'm flushing with laughter and embarra.s.sment as I hand her the photograph. 'He'd see it as evidence of my grandfather's secret, sordid past.'

'I have to admit, I kind of agree with him.'

'Ca.s.s!'

'Sorry!' She smiles ruefully. 'I know it might be hard for you to consider, but "Forgive me"? Come on, Petra, he must have done something.'

'Well, whatever it was, I need to know,' I insist, reluctant to concede that she's right. 'Hall mentioned a letter that was written to Grandpa; he said it was proof of this scandal. What if it's just a misunderstanding? If I can find out, then I can stop him before it goes any further.'

'Stop Hall?' Ca.s.s asks. 'I think you'll be fighting a losing battle, he is the official biographer, and he sounds pretty determined.'

'He's grave robbing,' I take another gulp of wine, 'and he could cause some serious damage to Grandpa Jim's reputation.'

Ca.s.s holds up her hands in surrender. 'All right, all right. So, you think this photo has something to do with it?'

'I'm not sure. Hall said something about Paris in his talk, and that Grandpa was a young man when ... whatever it was happened.'

Ca.s.s nods vaguely, squinting down at the faces. 'Not much to go on. When did you say this was taken?'

'Nineteen ten, if we go by the date on the back.'

She is silent for a long while, turning the picture this way and that.

'Every famous cafe or salon in Paris was painted at some point,' she says slowly, 'usually by a loner, scratching away with charcoal like the next Toulouse-Lautrec. I'll bet that if this Clermont place was even vaguely well known, somebody drew or painted it.'

'What do you mean? How does that help?'

She grins. 'Get your coat.'

Ten minutes later, we're plodding through leaf mulch, cheeks burning with high spirits as we take a short cut along the black, muddy riverbank. Ca.s.s stops outside the darkened windows of the History of Art faculty. I cool my cheeks with the back of my hands; a couple of large gla.s.ses of wine are having their effect on me.

'It is nine o'clock at night,' I remind Ca.s.s, a little too loudly. 'It'll be closed.'

'Don't be so sure.' She is running her finger down a list of bra.s.s b.u.t.tons next to the entrance, each with a name beside it. 'Let's see if he's here.'

'Who?'

In the depths of the building a bell buzzes fiercely. A long minute of silence pa.s.ses. Ca.s.s is just about to ring again, when the intercom crackles into life.

'Who's there?' The voice does not sound impressed.

'Evan? It's Ca.s.s, Ca.s.sandra Wakeman. Would you mind terribly if we came up to check something? Just for a minute?'

'Do you know what time it is?'

'Please, Evan? We won't be long.'

The sigh that follows sounds pained.

'Wait there.'

'Who is he?' I ask, as Ca.s.s bounces on her heels in expectation. A light flickers on a few floors above.

'Librarian, he's a good sort.'

Finally, Evan unlocks the door, peering out with interest. He's overweight, balding, but has a lively face behind huge spectacles, and an obvious soft spot for my friend.

'Evan, this is Petra.' Ca.s.s flashes her most charming smile. 'She's got a mystery on her hands and is in need of some expert advice.'

'Couldn't this have waited until Monday morning?' He is trying hard to remain peeved, but a smile threatens the corner of his mouth.

'You know how slow the faculty is with visitor cards. Ten minutes?'

Evan's office is in the main library, on the second floor. A desk lamp illuminates a tiny room, crammed with papers, cards, boxes of periodicals and, of course, books. The smell of take-away chips lingers. A bottle of whisky stands half-empty next to a gla.s.s. Evan catches me looking.

'The sole perk of working more hours than I'm paid for.' He smiles. 'Are you going to tell me what you're after?'

Ca.s.s nudges me. Briefly, I explain her theory and what we're hoping to find. Evan takes his time looking at the photograph.

'I hate to break it to you,' he says kindly, 'but this might be a bit of a wild-goose chase. Do you have anything else to go on, except for this name and a date?'

A blush creeps down my neck as I shake my head.

'Sorry, I wish I knew more.'

'Not to worry,' he claps his hands, 'there's no harm in checking the archives. I'll be back in a minute.'

When he returns, his arms are full of heavy ring binders, each stuffed with what look like magazines.

'The archive card does have an entry for that date, and "Clermont",' he pants, face bright, 'but it's vague. Apparently, the reference is in one of these.'

Ca.s.s groans, hefting a few of the folders out of his arms.

'These are exhibition catalogues,' she explains, pushing one at me. 'They list everything that's been exhibited in certain galleries, year by year. We'll have to go through the lot to find out.'

I tell them that I don't want to take up their time, but they both wave away my protests. A warm hush descends upon the room, broken only by turning pages. I look at Evan, frowning over his second folder. Ca.s.s, equally absorbed, is leaning against the radiator.

'Thanks, both of you,' I tell them, touched.

Ca.s.s only winks. 'You know I love secrets.'

My eyes are starting to blur from page after page of tiny writing when Evan yells.

'Here!'

We crowd around the desk, squeezing into the tight s.p.a.ce.

'It's from an independent gallery in London,' he tells us, checking the front page. 'I don't think they're very well funded, but they focus on exactly the period you're interested in. Look, near the bottom.'

It is a reference to a portrait, oil on canvas, c.1910. The artist is Piet Ahlers, the t.i.tle: Mademoiselles at Ptisserie Clermont.

'Evan, you're a genius!' Ca.s.s gushes.

My heart is thrumming, even as I notice the t.i.tle of the catalogue.

'This is old, it's dated nineteen eighty-three.'

'It's the only one I have.' Evan shrugs apologetically. 'I can't say now for certain, but five years ago, that painting was on display.'

Chapter Six.

December 1909 Montmartre was another world; the streets rose and twisted, screaming with advertis.e.m.e.nts for absinthe, cabarets, dancers. Some bars promised heaven, while others offered all the temptations of h.e.l.l. Motor cars and carriages stood waiting for their masters, the men in white silk scarves come to experience the filth and thrill of the underworld. Gui's group were turned away from the larger establishments, their worn clothes unwelcome beneath the lights.

They stumbled deeper into the rabbit warren, to other bars, tatty and pungent with sweat and tobacco, warmed by gaslight and the breath of the crowd.

Here, the girls were not haughty or prim but wild. They flung their arms and twisted their torsos, dancing to the music of accordions and guitars, their hair coming loose as they spun about the floor. A plump brunette took a shine to Nicolas and placed herself on his knee, near emptying his wallet in the process. For the rest of the night he acted as though the rough gin and soda in his gla.s.s was champagne.

Time began to move strangely. Gui's head swam with the cheap perfume, the bodies and liquor. Then, somehow, he found himself inside a room, sprawled out on a pile of cushions. It was dark, the noise of the bar subdued by thick curtains. Smoke drifted about his head. A girl with eyes like shadows knelt beside him, offered him a pipe. Gui took it, shook some coins into her hand.

He had smoked tobacco before, but this pipe was different. It filled his head and burned his lungs with a bitter scent. He dragged upon it for longer and longer, and his limbs turned to lead as he sank into a deep, black oblivion.

Then he was outside, a motor car roaring past. Startled, he tripped and landed heavily in the gutter, biting his lip. Blood flooded his mouth. He spat out what he could onto the pavement. His face throbbed, but at least the pain brought some clarity to his mind. He blotted the rest of the blood away with his sleeve.

He looked around, and found himself hopelessly lost. At home, he had always been able to sense the river, curving flat and wide at the edge of town, grey as the skin of a fish, but not here. He was cold, shivering uncontrollably. How long had he been outside? He wrapped the thin jacket tighter around his chest, but it did little to keep away the chill.

Nausea rolled over him and he retched not for the first time, he suspected. There was a sour taste in his mouth, mingling with the blood from his lip. He searched his pockets for a handkerchief, but they had been emptied, down to the last centime. The city had lured him with its bright smile, shaken him of his money and fled, closing the light and laughter up inside itself like a clam.

From further up the street came the sound of footsteps. Out of the fog staggered a pair of young men, their evening dress dishevelled. Gui croaked a greeting, relieved to see fellow humans in the darkness.

The bottom of a cane whistled past his face.

'Son of a b.i.t.c.h,' one of the men slurred, eyes unfocused. His fine shirtfront was stained with vomit.

Gui let them go, and was faced with yet another empty street. He was afraid and exhausted. Perhaps he should find a doorway to sleep in; he had nothing left to rob, after all. Ahead was a narrow alleyway that twisted in the middle and offered some shelter. One hand on the wall, he ventured forward.

A huge wooden cart was blocking the way. It was stacked high with crates, milk churns, sacks and packages, precariously balanced. There were sounds, m.u.f.fled by the fog, the thump of feet, a pair of horses shifting their hooves.

A woman's voice was giving orders. 'Take the flour to the pantry, Yves. Could we have it the right way up this time? Papa was furious. Marc, no, we'll carry the cream in last, it is cold enough out here for now.'

Gui hunched closer. Golden light was spilling from the doorway, warm, carrying the scent of sugar. It made the fog glow, and through it, he could make out a pair of black leather boots standing on a step, the edge of a skirt. He inched forward.

'Who's there?' the woman called.

He tried to turn away, not fast enough. Before he could run, a man materialized behind him, cuffed him around the head. A strong grip clamped down on the back of his jacket, and he had no choice but to obey as he was pulled towards the building.

The fog gave up a woman's face. She stepped down from the doorway, blue eyes suspicious. She was slim, wrapped head to toe in in furs, her cheeks flushed pink with the cold. She stopped, an arm's length away. Gui couldn't help but notice that they were of a height, to a fraction of an inch.

Dej vu. Abruptly, he was back at the station, winded upon the platform, the same face gazing down at him in shock. It couldn't be the same girl, and yet, he remembered those eyes ... Horrified, he ducked his head to his chest, praying that she wouldn't recognize him.

'Caught him creeping around back there, Mam'selle.' The large deliveryman shook him like a puppy. 'Probably waiting till we were all out of the way so he could have a go. Fetch a good price at the market, these goods.'

'I wasn't!' Gui protested, straining away from the crushing grip on his neck. 'I work for the railway, I got lost on the way home. We were in ...' He groped for details of the evening. 'In a bar, on the hill, and I lost everyone.'

'He likely means up in Pigalle, Mam'selle.'

'I know where he means, Luc.' The girl's accent was impeccable. She was still staring at him.

'Let me see his eyes,' she demanded.

The grip on his collar tightened as he was pushed forward. He was intensely aware of every muscle in his face as the girl grasped his chin, her gloved fingers brushing his injured lip. Gui met her gaze.

Everything stopped: his breathing, the throbbing in his head and lip. He caught the girl's scent, spring flowers and sweat and soap. The light from the doorway clung to the fine down of her cheek. For an instant, her eyes widened. Then time rushed to catch up, and she stepped away abruptly.

'Opium, I wouldn't doubt,' she murmured, rubbing her gloved fingers as if they burned. 'I believe he's telling the truth. By the look of him he's fresh from some backwater. Where is it then?' she asked indifferently, though she avoided his gaze, her cheeks redder than before. 'Brittany? Limousin?'

'Bordeaux,' he whispered. The pain had returned when she'd stepped away, leaving him cold.