Page 53 of The Night Before Christmas
Her stomach rumbled and she idly opened one of the tiny packets of biscuits on the side table. Chocolate chip shortbread. This really was a good hotel. As she munched, she turned her attention back to the photo while the kettle popped and fizzed behind her on its slow journey to boiling point.
And then she saw it.
There, in the bottom corner of the picture, in tiny capital letters. BISSON. The photographer’s name was Bisson.
The shortbread ended up in a small heap on the carpet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
‘Thanksso much for seeing me, especially on a Sunday afternoon,’ blurted out Felicity, as soon as Madame Bisson opened the door.Slow down, she told herself,be cool… and promptly tripped up the step on the way in. Madame Bisson caught her in surprisingly strong arms. Felicity caught a scent of lavender and white musk.
‘We knew you’d come eventually. Just maybe not this soon!’ she said, laughing lightly.
‘I’m only staying for a few days,’ said Felicity, apologetically.
‘It’s fine. Honestly. Come on through.’
Felicity followed her along the hallway anxiously and there, sitting in a small but very comfortable-looking lounge, with the fire blazing and an ancient chocolate Labrador asleep on a rug, was, presumably, Mr or Monsieur Bisson. His face looked rumpled, as though he may have been napping. The dog raised its head and wagged its tail in greeting but didn’t get up. The room smelled of elderly dog and Old Spice.
‘Have a seat, my dear,’ said the man in a clipped British accent, waving his hand, and she took a seat opposite him. He gestured towards a teapot and cake stand on the table between them, encouraging her to help herself.Oh God help me, shethought as she lifted the heavy pot and poured the rather stewed tea carefully into a delicate china cup on their beautifully white tablecloth. She could feel Bisson studying her face intently. Her hand was shaking just a little but she managed not to spill it.
When she looked up, he smiled easily. He had crinkles around gentle brown eyes, a balding greying head and shoulders that were slightly hunched against the back of his armchair. He was resting his slippered feet on a carpeted foot stool. She would have guessed he was about ten years older than his wife.
‘So, my dear,’ he said when she was settled and had recklessly begun munching on a piece of Battenburg without anticipating that, of course, they’d be expecting her to speak.
His wife (‘Cherie’) seated herself on the large sofa next to Felicity.
‘Tell me what you want to know,’ he said, gently.
Felicity hastily swallowed a mouthful of somewhat dry pink sponge, and said, ‘Tell me everything you know about Le Manoir, please.’
Mr Bisson (‘Albert,’ he said, ‘but everyone calls me Bertie’) told her what he knew. He told her the history of the house, when it was built, how it had housed a minor royal for a few years, how Queen Victoria had once visited for tea during a tour of the area. All things she already knew from her own research. She listened patiently, nodding politely, and let him speak. His words washed over her, they had a lovely, poetic quality, and she felt a bit sleepy in the warm room. It occurred to her how safe she felt with these people. She didn’t find that often.Whatever you do, Felicity, don’t fall asleep in this random stranger’s house. That would be terribly bad form.
When he finally finished, she thanked him and then took a deep breath.
‘Can you tell me why the family left, monsieur?’ she said, tentatively. ‘Your wife mentioned that it’s owned by the banknow? Is that correct?’ She picked up another piece of cake without thinking about it, then decided it would be rude to put it back on the plate and shoved it into her mouth in one go instead.
‘It’s Bertie, my dear. And one question at a time, if you please,’ he replied, not unkindly.
‘Yes. I’m sorry,’ she managed to mumble, trying not to spit pink crumbs all over the carpet.
‘It’s okay, my brain just works a bit slower than it used to, that’s all. Yes, it’s owned by the bank. It was repossessed about twenty years ago when they could no longer afford the bills. Family break-up, as I understand it. I suppose it was an expensive place to keep.’
Felicity nodded. She swallowed the last bit of cake and opened her mouth to respond, but no words were available to her, suddenly.
‘I heard they moved to England,’ he continued, studying her closely. ‘Somewhere up north, I believe. I’m afraid I can’t be more specific.’
She nodded again as a single tear escaped from her eye and wandered down her cheek.Keep it together, she told herself sternly.
‘And you were the photographer, right?’ she said, thrusting the newspaper clipping towards him, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand.
Bertie took it but didn’t look at it. ‘Yes, I was the photographer.’
‘And…’ She trailed off, her voice catching in her throat. ‘And did you know the family at all?’
‘A little,’ he said, nodding his head slowly. Then he looked at her with solemn eyes. ‘You look just like her, you know. Except for the red hair, of course. That’s all yours.’
Felicity’s heart started to flip and bang against her rib cage.
