Pardonable Lie by Jacqueline Winspear

Author:Jacqueline Winspear [Winspear, Jacqueline]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Historical
ISBN: 9781429900997
Google: 2771InPRaQ4C
Amazon: B0026UNZS6
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2007-03-31T16:00:00+00:00

“ATTENTION. ATTENTION, S’IL vous plaît.” Maisie stood alongside the deserted polished dark wooden counter and called out for assistance. An old man shuffled through the door that led to the back of the hotel. He was dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt, with a small bow tie and armbands that prevented the long sleeves from bunching up around his cuffs.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle.” He smiled broadly, placed his hands on the counter side by side, and spoke in English. “How may I be of service to you?”

Maisie was surprised but did not question how he had ascertained that she was not French. Probably her countenance and dress revealed more about her than she would have liked.

“Monsieur, a dear friend of mine was a guest here during the war, and I hoped you might still have a record of his visit. I am going to his grave next week and want very much to visit the places where he knew some joy before he was killed. Can you help me?”

“It is a pilgrimage, no?”

Maisie dipped her head. “Yes. It is a pilgrimage.”

The man came to the front of the counter and took both of her hands in his, smiling kindly. “Yes, there are some who come, like you, and others who were here and survived the crisis. Do you know when your friend visited?”

Maisie pulled her hand from the man’s grasp and reached inside her document case. She held out a small receipt, now brown around the edges, that she had found tucked inside Ralph Lawton’s journal.

The man pulled a pair of half-moon spectacles from his waistcoat, placed them on his nose, and studied the paper. “Ah, bon.” He turned to Maisie. “It is I myself who issued the receipt.” As tears welled up in the corners of his eyes, he removed his spectacles and pressed the thumb and finger of his right hand to the bridge of his nose. “Excusez-moi, mademoiselle. I saw so many: our own boys, the English and Scottish, the Canadians, the Americans, the Australians. They all came to Paris for a day or two of this or that.” He smiled. “You know, the girls….” Maisie nodded and smiled. “And then they were gone.” He snapped his fingers. “Gone.”

“Can you tell me if my friend came alone to the hotel?”

The man frowned, turning. “Un moment. I will have to find the book.”

He shuffled into the office, where Maisie could hear doors being opened and closed, papers falling to the ground, and the odd expletive from the hotel owner. Eventually he returned, holding a large faded leather-bound ledger in both hands while blowing dust from the top and sides.

“Voilà! I have found the book. Now, let me see.” He placed the ledger on the counter and flipped through the pages, commenting occasionally. “Ah, a regular there, an Irish boy. He visited two years ago with his children and wife.” He shook his head. “If she knew!” The pages turned, all the time with added commentary, about those who died, those who came back, those who had caused trouble.

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