The Remaining Voice by Angela Elliott Page A

“Only I’ve something that might interest you.”
    “Is it… dare I ask… is it a wonderful piece of porcelain? I am in love with porcelain. The feel, the colour, even the smell…”
    “No. No. Better than that.”
    “Better than that? A painting. No, no let me guess… a piece of jewellery.”
    “No, better still. When can I come?”
    “Whenever you wish. An old man like me does not go out much, you know. This afternoon at three? It will give me a chance to have a wash.” He chuckled. He might be old but he had not lost his sense of humour.
    “This afternoon then, at around three.”
    “That would be wonderful. I look forward to seeing you. A bientôt cherie.”
    I replaced the receiver. I should take him something – a small gift, but what? What do you give a man who has dedicated his life to objets d’art? It came to me in a flash. Of course, I would take him something from Berthe’s apartment. Something portable and yet enticing. I wanted him to see the painting, but I could not very well take it off the wall and put it in a taxi. It was simply too big – and in any case I wanted Jacques to have something he could keep. I did not think either my father or grandfather would mind, provided the object had little worth but much to tell by way of a story. That was what Jacques Le Brun loved most about his antiques – the story. Well, I thought. If he likes a story, I’ve got that.
    *
    I took a taxi to the Rue Tronson du Coudray. The wind was blowing from the north-east and the clouds threatened more rain. I thought I had managed to slip through the front door without being noticed by Armand Pascal, but when I was halfway up the stairs I heard his voice in the foyer.
    “Madam… Do you have a moment?”
    I stopped in my tracks. “Damn it,” I whispered. “Not really,” I shouted back at him.
    “Oh, that is a shame. My father asks after you.”
    “Tell him… tell him I will be down later. I am busy right now.”
    “Huh… si vous le dites ,” I heard him groan. The rest of his utterances were lost in the well of the stairs. I carried on up. It would be useful to hear what the old man had to say, if only because he had actually known Berthe – but then there was the singing and I wanted to know about that too. I would choose something to give to Jacques and then I would go see what Michel Pascal had to say for himself.
    There is nothing quite like entering somewhere where no clock ticks, no faucet drips, and there are no foot falls on the parquet floor from other occupants. So desiring was I for distraction that I almost wished the singing to start up. I left my coat on the stand in the hall and took up my apron. Fastening it around my waist, I entered the drawing room. I wanted to move the big chair away from the far door so that I could get through into the rooms beyond. Somehow, during my cleaning and collating session on the previous day, I must have pushed the chair back against the door. I struggled for a couple of minutes, until I thought I had made enough space to slip through the gap. Until that point I had not looked at the painting over the mantle, nor made any particular observations save that the shutters were open, and the box of crockery and books were stacked, as I had left them…
    …but the painting had been slashed from top to bottom.
    Horrified, I reached up to finger the torn canvas. It had definitely been intact when I left the day before. Someone had been in and vandalised it. I instantly thought of Armand Pascal and his father. They must have a key. It could not be the old man. He surely could not manage the stairs. But Armand…
    I practically flew down the stairs and hammered on their door.
    “ Oui ,” said Armand, opening the door. He had a mouthful of baguette and spluttered out crumbs as he spoke.
    “Have you seen… have been up… do you…?” I could not get the words out, I was so mad.
    Armand held his hand up, as if to ward me off.
    “ Ce qui se passe ?
    I