“I’ll come with you.” He reaches for his coat.
“No, stay. You never know what you might overhear.”
His hand is still on his lightweight charcoal overcoat. “I don’t want you walking around Boulogne by yourself at night.”
I force a smile onto my lips. “I’ll hardly be tramping around the streets. Our inn is right around the corner, and I’ll just grab a bite at that brasserie on my way.”
“Only if you’re certain.” He releases his grip, and the coat falls back onto the chair.
“I am.”
I stumble outside, saddened by the men’s speculations. Slowly ambling down rue de Lille, I make my way to the brasserie where I directed Agatha: the blue-awninged La Pierre Chaude. I’m a bit earlier than the seven o’clock we’d set to meet, but it will give me a chance to record all the information I’ve gathered. And make sense of it, if I can.
As soon as I gaze around the restaurant, I wonder if I’ve made a poor choice; the restaurant is empty except for one gray-haired gentleman supping alone. Then I remember that it’s unfashionably early for French diners and follow the hostess to a table for five.
I sip on a glass of the house white wine, pull out my little notebook, and begin to jot down what I’ve learned. As I write, it seems to me that the disappearance and murder have been carefully orchestrated. The death of Miss May Daniels is no random act of violence and certainly no drug deal gone wrong.
The magnitude of my suppositions washes over me, and more sadness for the life cut short takes hold.Such a terrible waste,I think. Tears trickle down my cheeks. Before I can dab at them with one of the simple but serviceable cotton squares I keep in my handbag, an embroidered linen handkerchief appears before my face.
“I say, madame, you look in need of this,” my fellow diner says in an Englishman’s English.
“Thank you, sir. But I have one of my own.” I reach for one from my handbag.
“Always happy to help a maiden in distress,” he says, tucking his handkerchief back in the pocket of his brown tweed jacket.
His voice bears a note of disappointment. Judging by the lines around his eyes and on his forehead and by the whiteness of his hair, I’d place him around sixty-five to seventy years of age. Clearly English from his accent, and clearly dining alone. Had he hoped that his gesture would earn him a little company?
“How did you know that I’m English?” I ask, figuring the least I could offer is a bit of kindly conversation.
“One develops a sixth sense of it when one has lived here as long as I have. I daresay I can spot a countryman—or countrywoman, for that matter—from a good bit off.”
“Have you made Boulogne your home long, then?”
“For the better part of a decade. Passed through here during the Great War and always had a longing to return. When I retired from the navy, I made the move.”
“Have you found French life to your liking?”
“I have. One could wish for a few more English compatriots from time to time, but it is a pleasant existence otherwise,” he says, then asks, “Are you here as a tourist? I have some first-rate lesser-known sites I could recommend.”
“Thank you kindly, but I’m actually here with my husband. He’s reporting on the situation with the English nurse, Miss May Daniels.”
He shakes his head. “Ah, I was very sorry to read about that. The locals don’t like to talk about it much—scared it’ll impact the tourist trade—but I’ve kept abreast of it in the English papers.”
“Very sad business,” I remark, thinking of his comment about the locals. Certainly the millinery shopgirl shared that fear of negative economic impact. Could it also account for the reticence of the French authorities to work with their English counterparts?
“I see that it has hit you hard,” he says. “You know, a British friend of mine—Mr. Marks—spotted the missing nurse alone in the little park near rue de Lille the day of her disappearance.”
“I assume your friend shared this with the police.”
“He left for England not long afterward. Every year, he spends several months with his daughter in Yorkshire. But I assume he spoke with the authorities.”
“Did your friend mention what time he saw the young woman?”
He shakes his head. “None of his letters referenced that. You’d have to ask him for the precise details.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back in Boulogne?”
“He usually returns in April and stays through October.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws a slim leather address book. “Let me note his address in Yorkshire for you in the event you’d like to speak with him sooner rather than later.”
