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Authors: Stephen Lloyd Jones
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explain it. My name is Nicole Dubois. This is my mother, Alice. The doctor bit is also true. I earned my Ph.D at Paris-Sorbonne. My field is early medieval history, the same as you. I lecture at the university in Lille.’
Charles extended his hand in mock formality. ‘Well, Doctor Nicole Dubois. It’s good to meet a fellow academic.’ When Nicole placed her hand in his he nearly jumped at the sensation of her fingers on his skin.
She treated him to a tired smile. ‘I don’t know where we go from here.’
‘Catch-22.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You don’t feel able to confide in me, and I can’t help you until you do.’
She sipped tea. ‘We need to get to Paris. We’ll be safe there, both of us. We have identities we can use in France. Préfontaine, others.’
He frowned. ‘OK.’
‘We’re not professional criminals, Charles, if that’s what you’re thinking. Yes, we have other identities, documentation, but none that would stand up to the scrutiny of an international border. When we travel it’s under the names on our passports. Coming here was a risk. We planned to visit only briefly. With the car crash, insurance report, investigation, there will be an easy trail. And without passports to leave England . . .’ She left the sentence hanging.
‘What were you looking for at Balliol?’
‘Charles, I can’t tell you that. It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s for your own sake. I’m not in any personal danger. Not really. But it’s not the same for anyone close to me. It is better you do not know. Believe me.’
‘You can’t expect me to—’
Her temper flared. ‘Charles, have you listened to anything I’ve said? I will tell you what I can, but not that. I don’t even know you.’
‘My exact words earlier when you asked me if I trusted you.’
‘That was different.’ She glanced around the kitchen, at the copper pots hanging from the ceiling rack, at the vase of lilies on the windowsill. When she looked back at him, her face had changed. Hardened. ‘How do I even know you’re who you say you are?’
He sat back in his seat. ‘That’s an odd thing to say. You met me at the university. You’re in my house.’
Alice Dubois leaned forward and laid a hand on her daughter’s arm. She spoke for the first time, in accented English. ‘Nicole, you can find out. Validate him. If that’s the only way you can trust him, then do it.’
Nicole looked at her mother, then back at Charles. ‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Four years. Since I—’
‘Tell me something about this room. Something only you would know.’
‘Like what?’
‘Anything. Just something I can verify.’
He cast about. A line of cookery books stood on the work surface, squeezed between two mason jars.
‘There’s a small notebook bound in brown paper in that stack. My mother’s old recipe book. Sellotaped towards the back is a folded recipe for pavlova taken from a magazine. There’s a cross mark in pencil on it,’ he told her. ‘The pavlova was a disaster.’
Nicole rose from the table, found the book and riffled through the pages. She found the scrap of paper tucked at the back, and the cross in the location he had described. She came back to the table and laid it down for her mother to see. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry that I had to—’
‘Don’t apologise. Look; stay here, tonight. The spare room is already made up. We can talk more later if you want. And if you don’t, fine. I’m afraid I don’t have much in the way of supplies. So let me pop out. I have a few errands to run first, but I can pick up some food and make us dinner. Perhaps all this will become clearer after that.’ He stood, hoping that by demonstrating his full trust in her she would begin to lower her defences. ‘Treat the place as your own. Use anything you need. I’ll be gone for a couple of hours at most.’
Nicole stared into the tea leaves at the bottom of her cup.
Charles returned at seven o’clock that
Charles extended his hand in mock formality. ‘Well, Doctor Nicole Dubois. It’s good to meet a fellow academic.’ When Nicole placed her hand in his he nearly jumped at the sensation of her fingers on his skin.
She treated him to a tired smile. ‘I don’t know where we go from here.’
‘Catch-22.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You don’t feel able to confide in me, and I can’t help you until you do.’
She sipped tea. ‘We need to get to Paris. We’ll be safe there, both of us. We have identities we can use in France. Préfontaine, others.’
He frowned. ‘OK.’
‘We’re not professional criminals, Charles, if that’s what you’re thinking. Yes, we have other identities, documentation, but none that would stand up to the scrutiny of an international border. When we travel it’s under the names on our passports. Coming here was a risk. We planned to visit only briefly. With the car crash, insurance report, investigation, there will be an easy trail. And without passports to leave England . . .’ She left the sentence hanging.
‘What were you looking for at Balliol?’
‘Charles, I can’t tell you that. It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s for your own sake. I’m not in any personal danger. Not really. But it’s not the same for anyone close to me. It is better you do not know. Believe me.’
‘You can’t expect me to—’
Her temper flared. ‘Charles, have you listened to anything I’ve said? I will tell you what I can, but not that. I don’t even know you.’
‘My exact words earlier when you asked me if I trusted you.’
‘That was different.’ She glanced around the kitchen, at the copper pots hanging from the ceiling rack, at the vase of lilies on the windowsill. When she looked back at him, her face had changed. Hardened. ‘How do I even know you’re who you say you are?’
He sat back in his seat. ‘That’s an odd thing to say. You met me at the university. You’re in my house.’
Alice Dubois leaned forward and laid a hand on her daughter’s arm. She spoke for the first time, in accented English. ‘Nicole, you can find out. Validate him. If that’s the only way you can trust him, then do it.’
Nicole looked at her mother, then back at Charles. ‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Four years. Since I—’
‘Tell me something about this room. Something only you would know.’
‘Like what?’
‘Anything. Just something I can verify.’
He cast about. A line of cookery books stood on the work surface, squeezed between two mason jars.
‘There’s a small notebook bound in brown paper in that stack. My mother’s old recipe book. Sellotaped towards the back is a folded recipe for pavlova taken from a magazine. There’s a cross mark in pencil on it,’ he told her. ‘The pavlova was a disaster.’
Nicole rose from the table, found the book and riffled through the pages. She found the scrap of paper tucked at the back, and the cross in the location he had described. She came back to the table and laid it down for her mother to see. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry that I had to—’
‘Don’t apologise. Look; stay here, tonight. The spare room is already made up. We can talk more later if you want. And if you don’t, fine. I’m afraid I don’t have much in the way of supplies. So let me pop out. I have a few errands to run first, but I can pick up some food and make us dinner. Perhaps all this will become clearer after that.’ He stood, hoping that by demonstrating his full trust in her she would begin to lower her defences. ‘Treat the place as your own. Use anything you need. I’ll be gone for a couple of hours at most.’
Nicole stared into the tea leaves at the bottom of her cup.
Charles returned at seven o’clock that
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