Free The Confectioner's Tale by Laura Madeleine Page B

certainly seems to have taken place amongst the upper classes; it must be the same one that Hall is investigating. No wonder he couldn’t resist.
    An odd chill prickles the back of my neck. It’s clear that whatever happened, it happened at Pâtisserie Clermont. The photograph of the girl comes instantly to mind, the painting, and the thing that scares me most, my grandfather’s handwritten plea: Forgive me.
    By the time I unlock the door to my room, a plan has formed. All I need to do is find a copy of the newspaper mentioned in Allincourt’s letter, The Word , and read the article for myself. In my preoccupation, I almost miss a note, scrawled on the pad that hangs next to my door.
    Hi P , it says in a messy, spiky hand. Came round this morning but you’re not in. Sorry haven’t caught up for a bit – lab’s been crazy. Pub tonight? Al x
    The pub is quiet on a Sunday evening. I lurk in an alcove near the open fire, flick through the newspaper someone has left on the table. It isn’t long before I push it aside in disgust. My dad’s name glares at me from the byline of an article about a famous actress’s drug addiction.
    A gust of cold air ushers Alex in. I wave him over, pointing to a second pint next to my own. He grins back, unwinding a scarf as he heads across the sticky carpet. It’s a tradition of ours to hide out in one of the locals, rather than braving the chaos of the college bar.
    Cass teases me mercilessly about Alex, no matter how many times I tell her that we’re just friends. We met when his housemate dated one of mine for a while. I think they were trying to set us up. Nothing ever happened, but I can’t help but smile whenever I see him, with his permanently untidy brown hair and his terrible taste in T-shirts. He’s in the second year of a Physics Ph.D. Neither of us have a clue what the other one is saying when we complain about our research, but we always end up laughing.
    ‘Got you a lager,’ I say as he sits down. ‘If you’re quick, it might still be cold.’
    ‘Thanks.’ He sinks into the chair with a mock groan and takes a sip. ‘And where have you been? I came by but you were out. On a Sunday! I was going to buy you a bun.’
    I make a face. ‘Sorry, I was visiting my mum.’
    ‘Thesis progress on a scale of one to dismal?’ he asks, eyeing me shrewdly.
    I run my hand through my hair. I haven’t brushed it today and must look a state, but with Alex, it doesn’t matter.
    ‘Dismal. You?’
    ‘Scientific breakthroughs take time,’ he says airily. ‘Why is yours so bad?’
    I start to explain about Hall, about my grandfather, why I’ve been neglecting my work. He listens patiently, and I find myself telling him everything: the girl, the painting, the letter, and then, hesitantly, about Grandpa Jim asking for forgiveness.
    He taps his chin when I’m done, mulling over my words. I’d forgotten what a good listener he is.
    ‘This whole scandal, it has to be something to do with her then,’ he says, ‘the girl.’
    ‘I think so too, but there’s nothing to prove it.’
    ‘Except for those words, “forgive me”.’ I wait for him to continue, but instead he stares intently at a beer mat, shoving it around the table. When he next speaks his voice is uncharacteristically serious. ‘Do you think your grandfather was, you know …?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Do you think he was, maybe, in love with her?’
    Alex is flushing pink, right to the tips of his ears.
    ‘No,’ I say, too quickly. ‘Something like that, he would’ve told me. We talked about how he met my grandma often enough.’
    ‘It’s not exactly the kind of thing he would confess to his granddaughter, P. Perhaps there were things he didn’t want you to know.’
    ‘Why does everyone think that?’ I try to swallow back the lump that has risen in my throat. ‘If that’s true, then it means he lied to me …’
    ‘I’m not saying that he lied.’ Alex’s voice is soft. His hand hovers at the edge of the