The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper(24)

“Thank you.” Arthur eyed the pile and wondered where to start. “Is Lord Graystock up yet?”

Kate shook her head. “He’s a late riser. I won’t see him until past lunch, especially after all the drinking he did last night. He’s not used to it these days.”

“I enjoyed the evening.”

“Me, too. After breakfast, and after we’ve looked at the photos, I will give you a lift to where you want to go.” She handed him a handful of photographs. “These are all dated 1963. I also included 1962 and 1964 to be certain. You have a browse and see what you can find.”

Arthur took the photos. There were lots of images of girls wearing flowing dresses, or with smooth beehives and wide kohl’d eyes, laughing, partying, posing. Part of him didn’t want to discover that his wife had been part of Graystock’s harem—another number, a gifter of something that had won her a tiger charm. “Why did so many people come here?” he mused aloud.

“I was the Kate Moss of the day,” Kate said. “Graystock was devastatingly handsome, albeit eccentric. Our house was open for artists, performers, for dreamers, for travelers. Some were attracted by our glamour, others needed a retreat. Some loved the tigers. It went on for many years, until Graystock began to take too many drugs. He became paranoid and aggressive. Slowly, people began to disappear from our lives. I’m the only one who stood by him. I loved him and so did the tigers. We fit together somehow. It works.”

Arthur almost flicked past the photo of the handsome man wearing a black turtleneck jumper and tight black trousers. His hair was slicked back and he stood with confidence, with one hand on his hip, staring at the camera with smoldering intensity so at first Arthur didn’t notice the petite lady who stood to the side of him. Then he saw that it was Miriam. His wife was standing with this strutting peacock of a man and gazing at him, her eyes full of admiration.

A wave of nausea flooded over him at the sight of her with another man. He took a gulp of his orange juice to wash it away. He had no idea he was capable of such jealousy, but the thought of Miriam and this man curled up in bed together made him want to clench his hands into fists and punch something hard. He turned the photo to show Kate. “Do you know who this is?”

Kate gave a short, sharp laugh that didn’t suit her. “That is Fran?ois De Chauffant aka the most arrogant man who ever lived. Graystock and he were friends in the sixties. He stayed here many times, with many different women. One night he and Graystock sat in the front room drinking too many brandies and Graystock told De Chauffant a family story that had been passed down through generations. A year later De Chauffant published his new book—and it was Graystock’s story. He called it Stories We Tell. It should have been named Lies I Tell. He had the audacity to claim that it was his own family story. Tsk. After that, the men did not speak any longer. In my view, this was no loss.”

“He was a novelist?” Arthur took the charm bracelet from his pocket.

“Ha. So he said. He was a stealer of ideas. A pompous Frenchman who broke Graystock’s heart.”

Arthur had felt uncomfortable yesterday, as he thought of how Miriam had acquired the tiger charm from Graystock. Since then he tried to convince himself the charm was just one of many that Graystock gave away willy-nilly. But now it was leading to his discovery of another chapter of Miriam’s life, to what might be a love affair with this De Chauffant fellow.

Arthur thought back to the photos of himself at this time. He hadn’t slicked back his hair, or worn tight trousers. He never wore black. It was too rebellious or dark. Just from this photo, Fran?ois De Chauffant symbolized danger and antiestablishment. He looked exciting and tempestuous. How had Miriam gone from this man to Arthur? Had De Chauffant and his wife been lovers? It was a question that he didn’t want to ask.

When he’d met Miriam she seemed so pure. They hadn’t made love until their wedding night and he never imagined that there had been anyone else. But now he had to reassess. He tried to remember their dates but nothing had given him the impression that Miriam was experienced, that she’d had a passionate love affair with a French writer. He felt as if someone had tied his intestines in a knot.

He tried to fathom out where such emotion had come from. He’d never had need to be jealous. His wife didn’t flirt with other men. If he ever did see a man eyeing her with interest, as men did, then he felt rather proud.

Kate laid her hand on his shoulder.

“This is Miriam. I’m sure of it,” Arthur said.

“She is very pretty. I do not remember her, though.”

They looked at the bracelet together. Kate touched the book charm. “A book. De Chauffant was a writer. It could be...”

Arthur was thinking the same thing. He pinched the charm between his thumb and forefinger.

“Have you opened the book?” Kate asked.

Arthur frowned. “Opened it?”

“There is a tiny clasp on the side.”

The more closely Arthur looked at the book, the more blurred it appeared. He wished he had brought his eyeglass. He hadn’t spotted the tiny clasp. Kate bent and rummaged in a kitchen cupboard and produced a large magnifying glass. “This should do the trick.”

They peered through it together and Kate unfastened the book. It fell open to reveal a single page, in gold not paper. On it was inscribed Ma Chérie.