"I hope I should have better sense than to put my trust in you ever again, Mr. Hargreaves."
Much to my chagrin, he kissed my hand very sweetly, looking intensely into my eyes the entire time. I had nothing to say.
I did not return to the Meurice but instead directed the driver to take me to Cécile's house. As the cab took me across the river to the Left Bank, I could not stop thinking about what had transpired between Colin and myself on the Pont-Neuf. Try though I did to redirect my thoughts, my mind remained full of the memory of his body pressed against mine. It horrified me that a man whom I believed to have played a significant role in the disappearance, if not demise, of my husband could elicit such a physical response from me. I shuddered, wondering if our encounter had been an attempt by Colin to distract me from my purpose. The cab approached Cécile's grand house on the boulevard Saint-Germain, where my friend opened the door for me herself. I was thankful she had remained home for the evening, and after she scolded me violently for running off so thoughtlessly, she embraced me and sat me down next to her in the blue drawing room.
"I don't think I've ever seen you so flushed, Kallista. I know that my reprimand cannot have affected you so greatly. Pray, what is going on?"
"Oh, Cécile, it's just the photograph-" I stopped.
"You don't fool me for one second, chérie. It's been hours since you left Renoir's studio." She narrowed her eyes and scrutinized me. "Have you been alone this whole time?"
"Yes. No. I saw Mr. Hargreaves briefly and do not wish to discuss it."
Knowing Cécile and her seemingly clairvoyant ability to detect clandestine romantic interludes, I felt certain that she knew exactly why my face had turned red. I sighed, resigned to the fact that I had little hope of escaping from a conversation during which I would be coaxed into revealing every detail of my encounter with Colin.
"Ah." Cécile looked at me knowingly. "We shall discuss it later. Do not think that I shall forget; Monsieur Hargreaves fascinates me. But for the moment I am infinitely more concerned with your reasons for rushing out of Renoir's. It is obvious, of course, that your missionary friend is not all that he appeared to be."
"Clearly not." I walked over to a dainty eighteenth-century desk and seated myself in its matching chair. "I think the time has come to consider very carefully what is going on. There are two problems before us: the first being the question of Philip. Is he alive or dead?" I did not look up as I said this. Despite having spent a great deal of time that afternoon trying to come to terms with the probability that my dear husband was in fact dead, I had failed miserably. "Second is the issue of the forgeries and thefts from the British Museum."
"I fear this discussion calls for very strong coffee," Cécile said, ringing for a servant. I frowned. "I realize that you despise it, but it will fortify you."
"I suppose," I replied, pulling a piece of paper from the desk's drawer. "I shall take notes. Let us begin with the question of Philip."
"What evidence do we have that suggests he is alive?"
"The letter Arthur received, the rumor Ivy heard, and the story Mr. Prescott told when he delivered the photograph to me. Obviously we cannot precisely trust Mr. Prescott. Philip did not give him that picture."
"No. If anything, your good friend Andrew did," said Cécile, directing her footman to place a large coffee tray on a table near her. I added an extravagant amount of cream and sugar to the hot brew she gave me, the end result being almost drinkable.
"I find it difficult to believe that he would do such a thing, but I must admit to the possibility," I said. "I cannot imagine what would motivate him."
"Did he have any other reason for desiring to go to Africa?" Cécile asked. "He certainly agreed quickly to making the trip. Could he have been too short on funds to go on safari this year? Perhaps he hoped to combine purposes, knowing that if he went to find Philip, you without question would insist on paying his way."
"I suppose it is possible. But doesn't it seem an extraordinary thing to do? I had already told him I would pay for everything."
"He could have set the plan in motion before you told him, or he wanted to ensure that you wouldn't change your mind."
"Maybe he thought that my getting the picture in such a circumstance would put my mind at ease during what he knew would be a difficult trip. He may be reasonably confident that Philip is alive, and hoped to reassure me."
"From what you have told me, it appears that Andrew is the type of man who likes drama and extravagance, so your explanation could be true. But it does seem unlikely."
"I am going to wire the Anglican Church Missionary Society immediately, asking for more information on Mr. Prescott. Whatever the explanation, Andrew has not been truthful."
We sat quietly for several minutes before Cécile interrupted the silence. "I am afraid that I do not trust Andrew much at this point, Kallista," she stated flatly, shaking her head.
"Nor do I, and I do not wish to travel into Africa with a man whose motives are not perfectly clear." The knowledge that Andrew had so deliberately deceived me hurt me deeply. I hardly knew what to think. "I don't want to abandon Philip, but I cannot depart for Africa until I know why Andrew has lied to me."
"Of course not, chérie. But for now there is nothing to do for Philip. And do you not find it strange that you have been thrust into the center of two mysterious situations? Perhaps they are connected," Cécile suggested.
"It is possible," I admitted.
"Perhaps solving one question will lead toward the answer to the other." Cécile fed a small biscuit to Caesar, who swallowed it before Brutus could attempt to steal the treat. Brutus begged for one of his own, but she refused him, doling out what she believed to be a small measure of justice against the dog's namesake.
"There may be some sense in that, Cécile. At any rate, you are right that we cannot prove anything about Philip as long as I am in Paris." I crumpled the piece of paper that I had filled with random scribbles and placed a clean one in its place. "I think we must determine from whom Philip purchased his stolen artifacts. That person may also have directed Mr. Attewater to make the copies."
"You must try to get more information out of this Attewater character."
"He's in London. I shall send him a letter, but I do not expect him to give much assistance. He has made it perfectly clear that he will not reveal his contacts."
"It is understandable, I suppose. His discretion ensures his commissions as much as his talent does," Cécile said. "Have you any other ideas?"
"I believe Colin to be involved." I shared with Cécile my theory that Philip had decided to stop his involvement while Colin had insisted on continuing. She did not take to my hypothesis as readily as Ivy had.
"It is, of course, possible. We have no evidence to the contrary." Cécile shrugged and then smiled. "Perhaps it is time for you to expand your own collection of antiquities. I should hate to waste all those fascinating contacts I made in the black market. Could you lure Philip's contact to you?"
"Yes, but if Colin is at the heart of all this, he shall recognize me and protect his own identity."
"True. Well, I shall have to do it myself. About what piece do you think I should inquire?" Cécile asked, looking rather pleased with herself.
I realized immediately that she had never intended to allow me to rob her of the pleasure of returning to the nefarious world of illegal antiquity trading. I envied her the adventure and wished that I could conjure up something equally interesting to undertake myself.