'Since you work for the railway,' he said, 'which I know for a fact is located on the Left Bank, how did you come to be here tonight?'

Gui swallowed. He could hear the anger, the suspicion, in Clermont's voice, barely contained. 'I heard from the news vendor at Austerlitz that this district was going to be hit bad,' he tried to explain, 'water coming up from the tunnels and that. I remembered the kitchen here is below street level. I wanted to be of use ...'

'Do not lie to me,' Clermont sneered. 'What did you do to my daughter?'

Gui's temper flared.

'I've done nothing, other than try to help,' he said angrily. 'I know two places in this city, my work and your ptisserie. I couldn't help there, so I thought to lend a hand here. I would be sorry that I ever came, were it not for that fact that I was able to keep Mam'selle Clermont from harm ...'

To his surprise, the older man held up his hand, rubbing at his eyes with the other.

'Very well, boy.' He sighed, studied Gui again. 'If I have been discourteous, blame a father's natural concern. A daughter is a precious thing, and Mademoiselle gave me cause for alarm. I suppose you should rest here tonight. Patrice will see that you have everything you need.'

The valet had entered silently from another door, a pile of neatly folded clothes in his arms.

'Put him in the guest bedroom, Patrice,' Clermont continued.

'Of course,' agreed the valet. 'Although may I make a suggestion, sir? The doctor recommended constant warmth. Seeing as the guest bedroom has not been aired, a bed set up by the stove might be better suited?'

'I leave him in your hands. I will speak to you in the morning, du Frere.'

Gui watched the door swing closed behind Monsieur Clermont. He was already dreading the idea of another interview.

'Well, that was an impa.s.sioned speech you gave.' The valet was shaking out the clothes. 'With rhetoric like that, you should be on the stage. "I would be sorry that I ever came!" Stirring.'

Gui took the clothes with a mocking smile. He unfolded clean underwear, much too large but serviceable, a pair of thick, brown trousers, a cream shirt with a small darn on the cuff, a matching brown waistcoat, a pair of slippers.

'There is a tie also,' Patrice told him. 'But at this stage in the proceedings, it would be gilding the lily.'

'Why should I not stay in the guest bedroom?' challenged Gui, hopping into the trousers. 'Are you afraid I'll steal the fittings?'

The valet gave a snort of laughter. 'Not at all. The guest bedroom was how should I put this? decorated by Monsieur's sister. I merely supposed that given today's excitements you would prefer something simpler.'

Gui had to admit that the valet was right. The thought of spending the night alone in a vast and expensive bedroom terrified him.

'Thank you,' he told the man, who was tying an ap.r.o.n over his elegant black suit.

'It is my job, young man, but in this case, also my pleasure. Now, I have been instructed to see you are fed. Monsieur has already taken supper, but I shall forage in the larder for another repast. No doubt the cook will berate me in the morning.'

The man disappeared into a small closet, whilst Gui lowered his aching limbs into a chair at the table.

'I suggest some of this broth that Cook made for Mademoiselle,' came Patrice's m.u.f.fled voice. 'A little Toulouse sausage, some cheese perhaps ...'

Gui wolfed down whatever was put in front of him, hunger a gnawing pit in his stomach. Fresh bread and b.u.t.ter, a savoury broth made from chicken, then sausage and a slab of cheese, cake made with pears, milk to drink. It was the best food he had ever tasted and he stuffed himself to capacity, knowing that he would not see a feast like this again for a very long time. Eventually tiredness forced him to slow, although he wished he could go on eating for ever.

Patrice, meanwhile, bustled about the kitchen, emptying the bath and stowing away the tub. Now he wrestled with the legs of a truckle bed. While he wasn't looking, Gui s.n.a.t.c.hed up the leftover food, wrapped it in a napkin and hid it in the jacket, to take back for Nicolas. Then he stood to help, his stomach like an inflated balloon. Patrice kept up his constant stream of humorous insults, but despite the jibes, Gui realized that he liked the valet.

Later, he lay sleepily between crisp sheets. The kitchen lamps had been dimmed to a soft glow. It must have been late, but Patrice had promised to keep him company. He sat, smoking foreign tobacco in his shirtsleeves.

'Why did you return to the ptisserie today?'

Gui stirred at the sound of the valet's voice. The older man looked down at him, the question in his eyes.

'For Mademoiselle,' Gui told him, too exhausted to lie. 'I came for Mademoiselle Clermont.'

He did not see the valet's face turn serious, surveying the ash that hung from the end of his cigarette, nor hear his mumbled response, many minutes later.

'As I feared.'

Chapter Fifteen.

April 1988 The book lies open in my lap. I've read the relevant page a hundred times already, but I turn to it again.

Sending a letter was an unreliable business in early twentieth-century France: especially when a recipient did not want to be found. Hopeful correspondents were often left to the mercy of the regional system, under the wider Post and Telegraph Office. Lacking a correct address, the best a letter writer could do was to address their message POSTE RESTANTE to the nearest town office and hope that the receiver might one day turn up to look for it.

An excellent surviving example exists in the form of twenty such letters, delivered to the central office of La Poste in Bordeaux between mid 1910 and 1914. The sender in each case gave only the initials, 'J.S.' on the reverse of the envelope. The post office ledger indicated that the intended recipient, a Monsieur G. du Frere, collected the first of these missives, yet never returned for any that followed.

The letters cease after 1914, no doubt due to the continent-wide devastation wrought by the Great War. Being one of the best surviving examples of pre-war poste-restante correspondence, the majority of the collection is held in storage at The Musee de La Poste, Paris, except for one letter, which is in the hands of an archivist. Due to laws surrounding secrecy of correspondence, the seals on the envelopes have never yet been broken. As such, we are unlikely ever to know the story behind this remarkable collection.

I close the book with a sigh. The elation that came with the discovery in the library has long faded. Now, to add to the mysterious photograph, I have a story of undelivered mail. Linked to 'du Frere', the initials 'J.S.' can't be a coincidence; they must refer to my grandfather. But even if they do, what does it prove? I know less than when I started.

Ca.s.s and I are on our way down to London. She's going to a new exhibition, while I pay a visit to the newspaper archive, to see if they have a copy of my grandfather's article. I shouldn't be here. I should be in my room working, but the desire to read my grandfather's article the hope that it will be the missing piece is just too strong to ignore.

The day is warm as we emerge into King's Cross. Ca.s.s wishes me luck, arranges to meet me at the library in a few hours' time. I plunge onto the tube to head north. It's quiet in Colindale, a lazy Sat.u.r.day afternoon, but by the time I approach the stark, brick library I'm buzzing with excitement.

I enquire at the front desk about finding a copy of The Word. The librarian checks her records; as I hoped, they have it archived. She tells me that since the publication was short lived, the entire back catalogue is available on one roll of microfilm, along with a few other English-language newspapers. I begin to fill in a request slip, but she frowns down at the clipboard in front of her.

'Seems it's already out,' she says briskly, 'accessed about an hour ago. Do you want to go and find whoever has it, see if you can take over afterwards?'

I follow her directions to a room at the back of the building, apprehension growing in my stomach. Who else apart from me could possibly be interested in one obscure newspaper article? Sure enough, a figure is hunched in front of a monitor, dressed in a familiar pullover. I swear and turn away. Too late.

'Petra!' Hall's voice reaches out into the hallway.

Reluctantly, I retrace my steps. He has risen from his chair, blinking after the brightness of the viewer. I cross my arms, ready to stand my ground, though part of me twists uncomfortably at the memory of taking the Allincourt letter from his folder in the middle of the night.

'What?' I demand.

'Petra, we've ... got off to a bad start.' He smiles weakly. 'I behaved appallingly last time we met. I'm sorry.'

I don't move. He takes this as permission to continue.

'I'll admit, I hadn't realized how close you were to Stevenson, but your mother filled me in, about the problems with your dad, and the divorce ...' He trails off, perhaps sensing it isn't the wisest topic. 'Look, I don't want to cause upset,' he finishes, rubbing his temples, 'or to make either of our lives difficult. How about we try to stay out of each other's way from now on? Make this as painless as possible.'

I'm not sure what game he's playing, with this sudden change of tone. I shrug non-committally, hoping that will satisfy him.

'Fine.'

'Good.' He smiles shrewdly. 'Now, I suspect you're here to look at The Word?'

I can't help the blood rushing to my cheeks. 'You know I am.'

'Well, I'm finished with it,' he says, scooping up his papers and notebooks. 'How about we make a deal? You take a look now, and when you're finished, we have a chat about the Allincourt letter. Would you be willing to let me take a copy? Then we can leave each other be.'

Suspicion threatens to hold me back, but the article is right in front of me: once I've read it, I'll know what my grandpa did. I'll know whether Hall has a real case. What if he does? a small voice hisses in a corner of my mind, but I ignore it, dump my bag on a chair. Hall is still fiddling with his papers as I settle down in front of the monitor.

'I can see why you don't get along with your father, if it's any consolation,' he says abruptly.

I turn in surprise. He looks up from his packing and grimaces.

'I've offended you again-'

'No,' I agree, though my voice is cautious. 'We're not the best of friends. It's no secret.'

Hall pauses.

'What happened? If you don't mind me asking.' His face is crumpled with concern as he perches upon the desk. 'Between them? Your dad and Stevenson?'

I stare at him, trying to see through his act, but he seems sincere. I guess there's no harm in setting him straight.

'Dad's career, more than anything,' I tell him bluntly. 'Grandpa hated the tabloids. He said they ruined people's lives, picking up their weaknesses and mistakes and parading them about for the world to jeer at. He used to say that no one had the right to do that.'

Hall has the decency to look awkward. He mutters something about leaving me to it, says he'll meet me in the entrance hall in ten minutes, when I've finished reading.

Relieved to be rid of him, I scoot forward on the seat and begin to crank the handle. The article is no longer on the screen. I search back through the microfilm for the correct date. The pages scroll past my eyes, tiny print leaving patterns on my retina. When I still haven't found it after a minute or two, I reach for my bag, for the reference number on the request form that I shoved in there.

My hand closes upon nothing. It's gone, and so is Hall.

Chapter Sixteen.

January 1910 'But why does he want to see me?' Gui whispered, his stomach churning as Patrice pushed him along the corridor.

'Ours is not to guess why, young man. You have been summoned, that is all. Try not to hunch, it will stretch the jacket.'

A door opened onto a grand room, half panelled with dark wood and lined with books. Gui had never seen so many in his life. It was warm, a fire crackling in the grate. Monsieur Clermont was sitting at a small table, next to a stranger. He beckoned Gui over to a chair.

Gui obeyed, the carpet deep and soft beneath his shoes. He looked around for Patrice, but the valet had disappeared.

'Du Frere,' said Clermont, 'this is Monsieur Edouard Burnett, an old friend of this family. Edouard, this is the young man I told you of, Guillaume du Frere.'

The second man said nothing, but offered his hand. He had a neat, black beard and a face marred by pockmarks. Beads of rain clung to his oiled hair, the only thing that hinted at the biblical conditions outside. Gui gripped the proffered hand, alarmed at its softness. His own fingers were rough with calluses along the joints, scored with burns from the furnaces.

'Monsieur Burnett and I have something of import to discuss with you, du Frere. Will you take a cup of coffee?'

Gui blinked in confusion. Patrice had reappeared, a tray balanced on his arm. He stared at the silver pot, the delicate china, and tried to recall what few manners he had learned from his mother.

'Thank you,' he managed, as Monsieur Clermont poured for him. 'You have been very generous.'

'You did not think me so last night,' the older man pointed out. 'In fact, you were most indignant. Sugar?'

'I ... I did not ...' Gui stuttered.

'I am jesting, du Frere.'

Clermont poured for himself and settled back. Burnett was not joining them.

'Now,' he said, 'I want you to tell me about yourself. Where are you from? That accent is not of the le-de-France.'

'Bordeaux,' Gui answered. The coffee was hot and burned his lip. He tried to keep his eyes from watering. There was a silence. He had the feeling that Clermont and Burnett were holding a private conversation in their heads.

Unsure what to do, Gui took another sip of coffee.

'Does your family have a trade?' Clermont pressed.

'No, sir. My mother works in a factory.'

'But your father?'

'He's dead.'

'I see,' the older man said slowly. 'What did he work at, before?'

'Labouring. He died the same year I was born. My grandfather raised me, mostly. He was a plasterer.'

'A n.o.ble profession.'

'As n.o.ble as yours,' he rejoined, before he could stop himself.

There was a silence, as though he had dropped a handful of mud onto the polished table. Both men were staring at him.

The door squeaked, breaking the stillness. They all three looked up. Mademoiselle Clermont stood in the doorway. She was dressed in a patterned, satin robe and was leaning on a crutch. Evidently, she hadn't expected them to be there, for her hand flew to her neck and then she was gone, the door juddering behind her.

At the table, Monsieur Clermont sighed.