The Confectioner's Tale (16 page)

The sunshine is bright in my eyes. I tap the heels of my plimsolls on the tarmac as I think.

‘I’ll start with Lefevre,’ I decide, trying to visualize a plan. ‘He might be able to tell me more about those letters. Hall will have read my notes, so he’ll know about Lefevre too, but maybe I can get there first. Then I
have
to get hold of that article somehow. I’m starting to think it will answer more than a few questions.’

‘You could track Lefevre through his publisher,’ Cass suggests, climbing to her feet. ‘They’d have his contact information.’

Once she’s gone, I race to my room and drag out a duffel bag, throwing in a change of clothes, my toothbrush and the library book. Before I have a chance to think twice, I’m out the door, squashing the bag onto the handlebars of my bike.

Outside, the day is turning blustery, shadows of clouds scudding upon the pavement. My hair whips across my face in fine strands as I pedal through town.
Start with what you know
, I tell myself,
like the gaps in a crossword
.

In a café near the station, I borrow a copy of the Yellow Pages. The cover is ripped and stained from countless late-night patrons thumbing for taxis. Thinking of Cass’s suggestion, I look for Lefevre’s publisher. There is a matching entry, so I jam a few coins into the payphone.

‘Good morning, Kingsley Press?’

It is a woman’s voice, quick and abrupt. This might not be as easy as I’d hoped.

‘Yes, hello there.’ I do my best to match the professional impatience. ‘I’m calling from the University of Cambridge. We’d be interested in contacting one of your authors, but don’t have any details on record here, I was wondering if you could help.’

‘Who did you say you were?’

‘My name’s Anna,’ I lie, hopefully in a convincing manner. ‘I’m the President of the History Society.’

‘I see. Which author were you were interested in contacting?’

I can tell from her tone that she’s not inclined to be helpful, but I plough on.

‘His name is Stephen Lefevre. I believe he gave a talk here some years ago, we’d like to invite him back.’

There is silence on the other end of the phone.

‘Stephen Lefevre?’ she asks eventually. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes, we’d be very interested in—’

‘Look,’ the woman is suspicious, ‘is there something going on here?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘There’s been no interest in this author for years, and then I get two calls in the same week requesting his details.’

I clutch the phone, forgetting about the greasy earpiece.

‘
Two
calls?’

‘Yes, several days ago,’ the woman says impatiently, ‘someone researching for a biography—’

‘What did you do?’ I interrupt.

‘Excuse me?’

I bite back the urgency in my voice. ‘I mean, did you pass on the details?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ the woman sounds guarded, to say the least. ‘I recommended that he contact Mr Lefevre’s agent. They should be able to pass on any correspondence.’

‘And they are?’

‘Hyatt and Smith. Are you going to tell me the real reason you both want to find Mr Lefevre?’

‘I’m afraid I have to go, thank you so much for your help.’

My heart is racing as I slam down the receiver. The woman behind the counter gives me a sidelong glance, and I manage a weak smile before I sink back into a chair. Hall is looking for Lefevre too, and he is ahead.

‘Shit.’

I kick the table and un-drunk tea slops onto the sticky surface. I try to think rationally. Several days ago, the woman said. That means Hall has at least two days’ head start on me. I use the Yellow Pages once again to locate Lefevre’s agent.

The answer there is even shorter than the one I received from the publisher. They do not hand out authors’ details without prior consent. Any correspondence would be forwarded as appropriate.

Running low on change, I make one last attempt with Directory Inquiries. The phone starts bleeping for me to insert more coins, but not before I hear the answer from the operator as he tells me that the name ‘Stephen Lefevre’ is listed as ex-directory. At least if I haven’t managed to get anywhere, then neither has Hall.

It’s only when I reach the counter that I find I’ve spent all my money on the telephone. I poke aimlessly in my purse. A few coppers, a button.

‘Allow me,’ says a voice over my shoulder. ‘Bring over a couple more, if you would.’

Whyke touches my arm.

‘Care to join me?’

We sit at the table that I have just vacated, my previous cup of tea still growing cold in its mug, hard water scum floating on the surface.

‘How did you know I was here?’ I ask awkwardly. It seems the easiest question.

‘I recognized your bike parked outside. Going somewhere?’

The duffel bag sits conspicuously on its own chair. I hadn’t realized that Whyke knew what bike I rode, or that I rode a bike at all. The teas arrive and just as I open my mouth, Whyke holds up a hand.

‘I think it’s my turn to speak, if you’ll let me?’

I nod, taking one of the mugs.

‘Firstly,’ he sighs, ‘I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you. I understand why you were angry.’ He sips his tea and grimaces, before adding sugar lumps. I know better than to interrupt. ‘Why do you think you were assigned to Dr Kauffman for extra tuition, Petra?’

‘I supposed it was because you knew I was struggling,’ I answer, as steadily as I can, ‘and you reported it to the faculty. Kaufmann has a reputation for whipping people into shape, especially with two weeks until my review.’

A wisp of a smile appears on his face.

‘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 assigned 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-class 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 pass.’

‘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 Essex.’

‘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 pâtisserie 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
pâtissier
, of spinning glorious confections like Monsieur Carême, 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 space 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 space 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 Saturday 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 apron 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.