Especially at Sainte Sirène, Rafael thought, but he didn’t say it out loud.
Alain rose and said his farewells, leaving them to their coffees and their thoughts. Rafael followed him outside.
‘What other injuries?’ he asked softly.
Alain gave him a look, half warning, half resignation. He probably felt he shouldn’t have mentioned it, but he also knew Rafael would not let it go. ‘Some bruising around the neck.’
‘Bruising?’ Rafael asked.
Alain gave a slight shrug. ‘That’s for the coroner to say, but there is no sign of foul play. I suspect he may have done it to himself, as he…’ He brought his hands up to his own neck. ‘Well, I’ve seen it quite often with drowning victims. Simon Poullain was the last one.’
‘Simon?’ Ari’s voice was unusually sharp and made them both turn. She’d followed them to the entrance hall. Rafael didn’t know why, but God, he wished she had not.
‘Yes, Simon Poullain,’ Alain said and Rafael noticed the notebook was already in his hand again. ‘You knew him?’
Alain didn’t know. Why would he? Simon Poullain was history here, a death in the past, just one more accident, the records quietly shelved and almost forgotten.
Ari’s voice turned glacial. ‘I was engaged to be married to him.’
Alain didn’t reply at first. He made another note, the pen scratching at the paper too loudly. Then he said something neither of them expected. ‘My sincerest condolences, Dr Walker. He was a good man.’
‘He…he was,’ she replied, more softly now, and wrapped her arms around her chest again, her face pale as parchment. ‘Is that not…isn’t it weird? Both of them? With the same…’ Words failed her and she looked desperately at Rafael for help.
He drew in a steadying breath. ‘Perhaps the coroner can tell us why they would both have these marks?’ he asked Alain.
‘I’m sure he will try. I really have to get on.’
‘Keep in touch,’ Rafael told him and Alain didn’t say another word, just got into his car and drove off.
Ari was still there when he turned around, staring at him.
‘Is he really saying Thierry and Simon died in the same way?’
Evasiveness came as second nature to him. He really didn’t want to visit this. ‘In that they both drowned?’
She narrowed her eyes. She saw everything, didn’t she? She saw straight through him. ‘You know what I mean.’
The curse. Themari-morgen.Thegroac’h. Ys. Dahut. All of those things swarmed to the forefront of his mind. He didn’t have an answer. Not one he was able to articulate anyway. It was all his fault. That was his fear.
‘I don’t think ancient curses figure in Alain’s worldview.’ He closed the door and walked back to join her. Carefully, he reached out to rest a comforting hand on her shoulder. She didn’t pull away. If anything, she seemed to lean in towards him, unbending just a little, welcoming his touch. The warmth of her skin beneath the light cotton shirt was unexpected. ‘I can drive you back to the house, if you want.’
‘No.’ She shook her head as she said it and looked up into his face, her coral-reef eyes so bright, glittering. ‘I wanted to ask you for access to your archive since I’m here. I found something, I think. I’d like to see if I can corroborate it here. You have maps, don’t you? Old ones?’
‘Of course. Whatever we can help with.’
There was a book missing from the shelf. Rafael hadn’t noticed it before, but the gap was like a broken tooth, drawing his eye instantly. He didn’t say anything, not at first, but he saw it, nonetheless.
Ari, meanwhile, took in the library like it was a sacred space, her head tilted back, her blue eyes wide in wonder, as she turned slowly around. ‘I had no idea you had this tucked away. You should have led with this. You aren’t Ariel after all, are you? You’re the Beast.’
Which made her Belle. He let his lips quirk into a smile but said nothing. If she wanted to think him the Beast, that fitted. Curse and all.
‘It’s not mine. Not really. My family collected it. Mémé looks after it now.’
It was strange to see it through her eyes – a place of beauty and wonder, polished mahogany shelves which had stood in the same place for lifetimes, the mullioned windows letting the sunlight stream across the oak floor. Bound volumes and boxed materials crowded the shelves, some piled on the desk, a world away from the stark lines of his office back in Paris, or even the neat regimented shelves of the study next door.
His, but not his. Not really. This belonged to his family line, and some of them had made it their life’s work to preserve it. All that information on Sainte Sirène and its history, on its folklore and legends, on the people who had lived here, no matter how humble.
He ran his hand along the shelf with the missing book. Someone else had been in here. Mémé? She didn’t tend to remove things though. She liked to read in here sometimes, mainly in the afternoons. The library was her pride and joy. She had nurtured it all these years. She’d know, wouldn’t she? Surely she would.
