The Book of Lost Fragrances

Twenty-two

THE LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE

12:55 P.M.

The wind had slowed to a breeze, and the cyclists, two couples from London who often traveled together, were enjoying a respite and some lunch by the shore of the river. The past three days spent exploring the forty-kilometer-long estuary, sprinkled with islands and edged by marshes, had proved to be everything the travel agent had promised: a haven for bird watching, perfect for fishing, and when they wanted to get off their bikes, there was more than enough to see and do in the ancient cities nearby. Sylvie had a degree in French history and entertained them all with her anecdotes that were always spiced with salacious or gruesome details. Her husband, Bob, joked that she was a walking repository for the dark side of history.

“During the French Revolution,” she was saying now, “there was a victory here for the Jacobites in 1793 that was very important, but what the area was most famous for was the hundreds of thousands of Republican marriages that took place here.”

“Why do I get the feeling that’s not something as simple as a Bush marrying a Cheney?” Olivia said.

They all laughed, and Sylvie continued. “It was a term that referred to a Jacobite method of execution. The antireligious revolutionaries stripped men and women-most were priests and nuns-and, standing them back to back, tied their wrists together, took them in a boat onto the river and then baptized the union by throwing them into the water, where they eventually drowned.”

They looked at the churning current that was pulling north, heading out to the sea, as she finished. “They didn’t call it the Reign of Terror for nothing.” Reaching forward, Sylvie dipped her fingers in the water as if cleansing them after telling the story. The sunlight glinted on a rock that had-she looked closer. Was that a credit card sticking out from under it? She reached down. It wasn’t a rock. It was a soggy wallet.

“What have you got?” Bob asked as he came up beside her.

“Someone must be pretty upset,” she said as she showed him.

“When we go back to town, we should drop it off with the police.”

“There’s more than that to show the police,” John called from a few feet away. “Look at this.” He held up a black loafer.

“That shoe doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the wallet,” his wife, Olivia, said. “You’re always seeing something suspicious.”

Bob inspected the wallet. “Is there a label in the shoe?”

“Yes. J. M. Weston.”

“I’m betting these things belong to the same man, then.”

“But anyone could buy Weston shoes. We’re in France,” Olivia said.

Sylvie argued her case for her husband. “Expensive shoes, expensive wallet,” she pointed out. “Washed up on the shore of the Loire four feet away from each other.”

“Is his name in the wallet?” John asked. “There seem to be initials inside the shoe, under the tongue. How rich do you have to be to have your friggin’ initials inside your shoes?”

“Rich enough to live in one of the most exclusive areas in Paris,” Bob said. “Are the initials R.L.E.?”

John raised his eyebrows and looked from one face to the other. “So it’s the same bloke,” he said finally. “I think we’d better find a bobby.”