Free The Confectioner's Tale by Laura Madeleine Page A

against the suede of her glove and told Gui how she saw him: poor and dirty, with ill-fitting clothes, coal dust ingrained beneath his fingernails. To his anger and shame he felt hot tears gathering in his eyes as she placed the coin in his hand.
    He stared at it, knowing that she was doing the same. He knew he should thank her, tried to say the words, but could not. Then he was running, out into the freezing downpour, back towards the grey side of the river, where coins were scarce and where a woman like Mademoiselle Clermont would never care to venture.

Chapter Eleven
    April 1988
    I board the train feeling glum. I’ve come away from my visit home empty-handed, or as near as. Mum caught me, when I was halfway through packing up Grandpa’s papers. I tried to explain about Hall, about the photograph, but she told me that I was being ridiculous, that they weren’t mine to take.
    Technically she’s right; they’re part of Grandpa Jim’s estate, of which my dad is the executor. Grandpa never got round to changing his Will before he died, and so my father has full control, even though they barely spoke. Apparently, he has given Hall permission to read and use whatever he wants. I argued with my mum about it, but in the end I could see she was getting upset, so I backed down, had no choice but to leave them where they were on the table.
    Of course, she didn’t know about the letter that was already in my notebook. I pull it out, excitement overcoming my guilt, and start to read:
Jim ,
I was sorry to miss you last week in Paris. I was in town for all too short a time, and my business did not permit me to linger.
I did, however, have the good fortune to acquire a copy of The Word, and your article, before departing the city of light for the dull landschaft.
What a scandal! You must have had your nose to the ground, or were you lurking in the corner, scribbling away under cover of rum baba? I cannot believe you did not witness the event first-hand, so vivid were your descriptions, especially of the illustrious M. Clermont and his sorry apprentice: ‘shaking the young Bordelais the way one would a pup’. Marvellous.
I need not tell you that you will go far, dear boy, for I know you harbour ambitions above and beyond the penny sheets. If ever you need introductions in London, do not hesitate to use my name. I will take the liberty of making a few enquiries among the literati; your observations on the social quagmire that is Paris would make for fascinating reading in a more robust form than the dailies.
I shall be sure to notify you by telegram when I am expected to return to France, so as not to miss another meeting, although thanks to your most thorough coverage I hear that P. Clermont is closing its doors. I shall have to find another place to indulge my sweet tooth! Rest in peace, Clermont’s!
Until then, I am yours, &c,
L. Allincourt
    I nearly spit the coke that I’m drinking all over the letter and have to apologize to the man sitting next to me as I recover from a coughing fit. Eyes streaming, I peer at the name again. L. Allincourt.
    Lionel Allincourt was arrested in 1915 for high treason. He had been passing information to Germany for years, a huge blow for the Foreign Office, where he held an influential position. It’s something every history student reads about. He killed himself in prison, or was killed, before a trial could take place. I search for the date on the letter: June 1910. Less than five years earlier.
    I start to feel a bit sick. An original letter, from L. Allincourt, and I’ve been toting it around in my bag with the rest of my notes. The coke roils uncomfortably in my stomach. Hall will definitely notice that it’s missing.
    Caught between horror and exhilaration I stand in the middle of Charing Cross, staring at it. Grandpa Jim knew Allincourt – knew him well, from the sound of the letter. My grandfather must have moved amongst high society then, in Paris, one way or another. The scandal