Read Caravaggio's Angel for Free Online Page B

put. ‘He was head of the Italian department at the Louvre.’
    ‘Antoine Rigaut?’ I felt the hairs on my neck stand up. ‘Your uncle? When was this?’
    ‘When?’ Manu looked surprised. ‘I’ve no idea. Yesterday, today? They just found him. Why?’
    I shook my head. ‘I’m so sorry. You’ve been very kind. If there’s anything I can do for you . . .’
    ‘What could you do?’ He held out his hand. ‘ Au revoir .’
    My head buzzed with questions I’d have liked to ask. Who was that on the phone? What sort of accident? When did you last see him? What was he like? But I had to choke them back. Manu had joined the ranks of the bereaved, who operate in a space and time that prohibits these worldly intrusions. We shook hands, and the door shut behind me.
    Before I’d reached the garden gate, however, it opened again and I heard him call out. ‘I didn’t give you my grandmother’s address, did I?’ And he came running after me, a sheet of paper in his hand. ‘Here.’
    I opened my mouth to thank him, but he was already back inside the house, and had shut the door.
    So that impenetrable façade had been just that – a façade. It wasn’t my imagination – he had been hiding something. Before that call, he had not only shown no interest in giving me his grandmother’s address – he had actively avoided doing so. Nor had he told me Antoine Rigaut was his uncle. Then he had heard of his uncle’s death, and all that had changed.
    To do with his father? That was something else I hadn’t asked. But unless there was another brother, he must be the Minister’s son. Of course there might be any number of reasons – privacy, shame – why he might not want to advertise that just now. I tried to remember what Jean-Jacques Rigaut had looked like on that television interview. I had an impression of elongation – but that might easily be post hoc, a consequence of meeting Manu. He had mostly been a huge talking head.
    As the Eurostar sped northwards across the flat fields of the Pas de Calais, I took out Manu’s slip of paper and laid it on the table in front of me. It was torn from a telephone pad, and contained a scribbled name, a phone number, and an address with a 24 postcode. Madame Juliette Rigaut, Château de la Jaubertie, St Front d’Argentat, 24700 Meyrignac. Where could that be? Somewhere in the south-west, most likely, where all the towns end in –ac.
    Now that I had the information I’d wanted, I felt suddenly unsure what to do with it. This was hardly the moment to suggest a visit – the poor woman must be distraught. On the other hand, Manu clearly thought I should call her. And urgently. Why else had he come rushing out like that?
    But perhaps I was reading too much into all this. Perhaps he’d been meaning to give me the address all along, and just thought there was no time to lose. Juliette Rigaut must be getting on. In her late eighties, perhaps even older. She might die at any moment, especially after a nasty shock like this.
    Well, at any rate I’d have plenty to tell Joe. I thought how pleased he’d be, and wondered what he was doing. And realized with astonishment that I hadn’t thought of him – not really thought of him – all afternoon.

5
    Meyrignac, July
    I phoned Joe as soon as I got back to London. He wasn’t in the office, but I left a message saying I had news for him from Paris.
    He called me that evening. ‘Reg? So, what’s this detective work you’ve been doing?’
    I told him, losing confidence with every word I spoke. When it came down to it, it didn’t amount to much. Antoine Rigaut had indeed been the Minister’s brother, but he had died. I’d spoken to a boy who might be the Minister’s son.
    ‘Might be?’
    ‘Well, Antoine Rigaut was his uncle. So unless there’s another brother . . .’
    ‘Didn’t you ask him?’
    ‘It wasn’t like that.’
    ‘But you feel the death’s significant.’
    ‘I think it might be. Though I’ve no idea why, other