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details are confidential.’
    ‘Yes, of course,’ I falter, staring at the piece of paper in my notebook. It was stupid to have pinned my hopes on one picture. The curator is asking me if I’m all right. I swallow with difficulty, pushing down my disappointment.
    ‘Yes, thank you anyway.’
    ‘Young lady?’ His voice stops me in my tracks. He is smiling. ‘If it’s important, I do have a facsimile.’
    Back in the reception, he pulls cardboard tubes from a long cupboard. It is warmer here, the smell of coffee pervading the air. The curator and his sister are friendly, ask about my research. I tell them about the thesis I am writing, about my interest in the belle é poque . I can’t quite bring myself to mention Grandpa Jim.
    ‘I was a historian once,’ the curator says brightly, squinting at labels. ‘Studied Classics. Didn’t stay on, though. Ran off to art school halfway through. Here we are.’
    He struggles to extract the roll of paper, using a couple of mugs as paperweights. A black-and-white copy of a painting is stretched out on the desk. It shows a fairly ordinary tableau, a pair of hazily painted women reclining in café chairs, cups or glasses at their fingertips.
    One of the women catches my attention. She is at the front of the table, the painter’s main subject, her head turned as if she has noticed something just beyond the frame. My neck prickles. It is the woman from my grandfather’s photograph.
    ‘Who is she?’ I murmur.
    The curator has pushed his glasses onto his forehead and is surveying the picture with something like tenderness.
    ‘A young lady, enjoying afternoon tea with her friend, I suppose.’
    I look for a long time. There’s an arresting quality about the girl and I study her face, captured more fully in paint than in a blurred photograph. Her skin is pale, save for some shading high on her cheeks to suggest a flush. Her hair is painted as a dark sweep above a high-necked gown. She looks taut, as though she is about to spring to her feet.
    ‘I don’t suppose you know anything about this place, Pâtisserie Clermont?’ I ask, straightening up.
    ‘Afraid not,’ the curator says. ‘I’ve always assumed it was just a café, named after the owners.’
    I stare in astonishment. The idea that ‘Clermont’ might be a person hadn’t even occurred to me. It’s such an obvious suggestion I could kick myself.
    ‘Hope it’s been of some help,’ the curator continues, re-rolling the copy. ‘The work isn’t a masterpiece. Ahlers was a rather average painter, but I miss the mademoiselle and her friend. I think they were just starting to like me.’
    ‘Why did you sell it? If you don’t mind me asking?’
    He smiles ruefully. ‘To be honest, we needed the money. You’ve seen the state of this place for yourself. Besides, the buyer was quite intent on possessing it.’
    I desperately want to ask him more about the painting – who bought it and why – but I know he’ll only tell me it’s confidential. I thank him, and shoulder my bag.
    He stops me as I turn to leave.
    ‘Would I be right,’ he murmurs, ‘in assuming that your interest in this painting is more than simply academic?’
    I feel the heat rise to my cheeks.
    ‘How did you know?’
    He smiles kindly. ‘Call it a hunch.’
    At the door, I find him reaching for my hand. He shakes it warmly, wishing me luck. It isn’t until I reach the street that I open the scrap of paper he pushed secretly into my fingers:
    Mademoiselles at Pâtisserie Clermont , Ahlers, 1910
    SOLD: 01/08/1983
    Monsieur G. du Frère, Bordeaux 33000

Chapter Eight
    December 1909
    Pâtisserie Clermont. The words plagued Gui. They were strangely familiar, like an old school hymn, half-forgotten.
    ‘You’re a fool if you’re going to go,’ Nicolas told him bluntly as they sat in the canteen, slurping bowls of onion soup with the other men. ‘I’ve heard stories like this: rich girl lures poor young man into the house for devious purposes.