Which was easier said than done. The boys’ room was the mirror image of my own, except that where I had one huge bed they had two narrow ones, one neatly made and strewn with maps, the other rumpled and half buried beneath a set of curtains, still anchored firmly to the curtain-rod. Three spreading piles of clothing, sorted by colour, rose like miniature Alps from the carpet at my feet. There was very little room to stand, let alone sit.
Paul had solved the problem by sitting on the cluttered desk, feet braced against a chair that had been buried thick in newspapers. He resumed his seat now, while I made my cautious way around the mounded clothing to perch upon a corner of the neater bed by the window.
Simon, I thought, had a point – the window did look better without curtains. It stood fully open to the morning air, and the jumbled sounds of traffic, talk and fountain drifted upwards from the square beneath, like some discordant modern symphony.
Paul was still on hold, and humming to himself.
‘Any joy?’ I asked him.
‘Sort of. The library isn’t open yet, but the staff is there. This guy’s just gone to ask the librarian if he knows anyone who—’ He broke off suddenly, and bent his head. ‘Yes, I’m still here.’ A shorter pause, and then: ‘Yes. I’m a student, you see, and I’m writing a paper on … that’s right. And I was told there might be someone here who might be good to talk to. Pardon?’ He leaned forward to scribble a few lines on the pad of paper at his side. ‘Yes, I’ve got that. Belliveau, that’s B-e-l-l …? You don’t have the telephone number, do you? Yes, of course, I understand. Well, I’m sure it won’t be a problem. Thanks so much.’ He replaced the receiver with a smug expression, and struck a match to light a cigarette. ‘Well, that was fun.’
‘You want to watch out, Sherlock,’ I said drily. ‘Big brother might walk in and catch you smoking.’
‘Simon,’ Paul informed me, savouring the words, ‘isn’t here. He left half an hour ago, with the Whitakers.’
‘Simon’s gone off with Jim and Garland?’ I couldn’t quite believe my ears. ‘Why on earth would he do that?’
‘Because they were going to Fontevraud, where your Queen Isabelle is buried. Simon thought there might be clues there, as to where she hid her treasure.’ Paul shrugged. ‘But mostly he went because I reminded him today is Tuesday, our weekly laundry day, and Simon really hates the laundromat.’
I smiled slowly. ‘You’re a whopping sneak.’
‘I know.’
‘And how are we supposed to play detective, might I ask, if we have to do your laundry?’
‘Thierry and I have it all under control.’
‘You didn’t tell Thierry?’ I asked, startled.
His eyes held soft reproach. ‘Of course not. I promised, didn’t I? I only told him you and I were taking off to do some sightseeing on our own, and could he help us keep it secret from Simon?’
I smiled. ‘Well, that’s torn it. He’ll be thinking we’ve gone sneaking off to do something romantic.’
‘Nah.’ Paul grinned. ‘We could do that right here at the hotel. Besides, Thierry knows me better than that.’
‘What, I’m too old for you?’ I teased him.
He shook his head. ‘Hardly. But I’d never hit on someone else’s woman.’
‘Someone else’s …?’
‘Anyhow,’ he changed the subject, picking up his notepad. ‘Do you want to know what I’ve just found out?’
I stopped frowning and leaned forward. ‘Please.’
‘Well, the librarian only knows of one man who reads foreign history journals and takes an interest in the tunnels – a local poet by the name of Victor Belliveau.’
‘Victor …’ I tried the name, experimentally.
‘Was that the name your cousin mentioned, on the phone, do you think?’
I shook my head. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘Because it sounds like this might be our guy, it really does. Apparently he’s been poking around the tunnels for years, making maps and things. Kind of a personal obsession. So if this Belliveau did write your cousin, then your cousin might have met with him when he was here in Chinon. Assuming, of course, that he was here. It can’t hurt to ask.’ Paul checked his notes again. ‘He lives just outside Chinon, sort of. I’ve got the address, but there isn’t any phone number. The librarian doesn’t think he has a phone. Our Monsieur Belliveau is a true artiste – a little bit eccentric.’
‘But you said he doesn’t live far from here?’
Paul shook his head. ‘Just up the river, past the beach. A fifteen-minute walk, maybe. Do you want to go there first, then? Or would you rather start by taking another look around the Chapelle Sainte Radegonde? I’ve got the key.’
‘How did you manage that?’
Another shrug, more modest than the first. ‘I just went round to Christian’s house this morning, before breakfast, and asked him for it. Christian’s like Neil, he wakes up with the birds, and I figured he wouldn’t mind.’
‘Well, I’m most impressed, I really am. You’ve had a busy morning, Sherlock.’
‘Morning isn’t over, yet,’ he reminded me. ‘So where do we start? The poet or the chapelle?’
I took a moment to consider the options. The Chapelle Sainte Radegonde, I thought, was the more appealing prospect, and I was quite certain Harry had been there, but then again … I rubbed my thigh unconsciously, recalling the hellish climb along the cliffs, and the endless winding steps that led back down again.