Where Memories Lie
A Novel
By Deborah Crombie
William Morrow
Copyright © 2008
Deborah Crombie
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-06-128751-0
Chapter One
The vast stucco palaces of Kensington Park Road and
the adjoining streets had long ago been converted into
self-contained flats where an ever-increasing stream
of refugees from every part of the once civilized
world had found improvised homes, like the dark-age
troglodytes who sheltered in the galleries and boxes
of the Colosseum.
-Sir Osbert Lancaster,
All Done from Memory,
1963
The day was utterly miserable for early May, even
considering the expected vagaries of English weather. At
a few minutes to four in the afternoon, it was dark as
twilight, and the rain came down in relentless, pounding
sheets. The gusts of wind had repeatedly turned Henri
Durrell's umbrella wrong side out, so he had given up,
and trudged down the Old Brompton Road with his head
down and his shoulders hunched against the torrent,
trying to avoid losing an eye to carelessly wielded
umbrellas that had proved stronger than his own, and
dodging the waves thrown up by passing automobiles.
Pain shot through his hip and he slowed, wincing. He was
nearing eighty, and the damp did quite unpleasant
things to his joints, even without the stress of an
unaccustomed jog.
What had he been thinking? He should have stayed at the
V&A until closing, then perhaps the worst of the storm
would have blown through. He'd met a friend at the
museum's café for Saturday-afternoon tea, always a
pleasant treat, but his haste in leaving had been
inspired by his desire to get home to his flat in Roland
Gardens and its seductive comforts-his book; a stiff
whisky; the gas fire; and his cat, Matilde.
Jostled by a hurrying passerby, Henri stopped to recover
his balance and found himself gazing into the windows of
Harrowby's, the auction house. A poster advertised an
upcoming sale of Art Deco jewelry. An avid collector,
Henri usually kept up with such things, but he had been
away for a spring holiday in his native Burgundy-where
the sun had shone, thank God-and missed notice of this
one.
The auction was to take place the following Wednesday,
he saw with relief. He could still buy a catalog and
peruse it thoroughly-if he hadn't missed the four
o'clock closing time, that is. A quick glance at his
watch showed one minute to the hour. Henri shook his wet
umbrella, showering himself in the process, and dashed
through Harrowby's still-open doors.
A few minutes later, he emerged, cheered by his
acquisition and a friendly chat with the woman at
reception. The rest of his walk home seemed less
laborious, even though the rain had not abated. He
toweled himself off and changed into dry socks and
slippers, with Matilde impeding the process by purring
and butting against his ankles. He decided on tea rather
than whisky, the better to ward off a chill, and when
the pot had steeped he lit the gas fire and settled
himself in his favorite chair, the catalog resting
carefully on his knees. It was beautifully produced, as
Harrowby's catalogs always were-the house had never been
known to lack style-and Henri opened it with a sigh of
pleasure. Making room for the insistent cat, he thumbed
through the pages, his breath catching at the beauty of
the pieces. He had taught art history before his recent
retirement, and something about the clean, innovative
shapes of this period appealed to him above all others.
Here, the master artists were well represented; a
diamond and sapphire pendant by Georges Fouquet, a
diamond cocktail ring by Rene Boivin-
Then his hand froze. An entry caught his eye, and his
heart gave an uncomfortable flutter. Surely that
couldn't be possible?
He studied the photo more closely. Henri appreciated
color, so diamonds alone had never thrilled him as much
as pieces that set platinum against the red, blue, or
green of rubies, sapphires, or emeralds, but this-
The brooch was made of diamonds set in platinum, a
double drop that reminded him of a waterfall or the
swoop of a peacock's tail. The curving style was unusual
for Art Deco, where the emphasis had been highly
geometric. But the date of the piece was late, 1938, and
the name-the name he recognized with a jolt that sent
the blood pounding through his veins.
Shaking his head, he stood, dumping Matilde
unceremoniously from his lap. Then he hesitated. Should
he ask to view the piece before taking any action? But
no, the auction house would be closed now until Monday,
and he doubted a mistake in the attribution, or in his
memory.
He slipped the catalog carefully back into its bag and
carried it into the hall, where he donned his wet boots
and coat once again, and reluctantly left the shelter of
his flat.
"Why the bloody hell did it have to rain?" Gemma James
dropped supermarket carrier bags on her kitchen table
and pushed a sodden strand of hair from her face.
Rivulets from the bags pooled on the scrubbed pine
table. Grabbing a tea towel, Gemma blotted up the water
as Duncan Kincaid set down his own load of dripping
plastic.
"Because it's May in London?" he asked, grinning. "Or
because the patron saint of dinner parties has it in for
you?"
She swatted at him with the damp towel, but smiled in
spite of herself. "Okay, point taken. But seriously, I
meant to do the flowers from our garden, and now that's
out. Not to mention that between boys and dogs, the
house will be a sea of mud."
"The boys are with Wesley, probably making themselves
sick on Wesley's mother's sweets and watching God knows
what on the telly. As for the dogs, I will personally
wipe every trace of muck from errant paws, and I can run
down and get flowers from one of the stalls on
Portobello." He slipped his arm round her shoulders.
"Don't worry, love. You'll be brilliant."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Where Memories Lie
by Deborah Crombie
Copyright © 2008 by Deborah Crombie.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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