The Lost Labyrinth

III

Gaille let herself into Argo's pen to refill his emptied bowls. He danced in joyful circles and snuffled and put his paws up on her, smearing her shirt, his tongue like sodden sandpaper on her cheek, his rapture at seeing her extraordinary, more akin to a reprieve from bereavement than a reunion after a night apart. She couldn't help but be touched by it, by mattering so much to another creature, and she hugged him warmly, while wishing his breath wasn't quite so pungent.

Iain called out farewell as he vanished through the orange trees, the Mauser over his shoulder. She didn't buy his story about wanting to bag some game; they had plenty of food in the pantry. He'd simply wanted the rifle for himself, or to deprive her of it. The thought sobered her. She watched him until he'd vanished into the walnut grove then went back inside, uncertain what to do. A decent mobile signal was the best part of an hour's climb away, even for Iain. Add in time talking, she probably had two hours before he got back. She needed to use that time well, which meant learning more about Petitier's finds and Iain's incursions. She went back into the house, pushed aside the armchair, rolled up the rug, lifted the trap-door and limped down the steep steps into the darkness, fumbling for the lights. She started by double-checking that it had truly been Iain in the photographs, that her imagination hadn't been playing tricks.

It was him all right. No question.

Boots scuffed behind her. For the second time that morning, she looked around to see Iain standing there, the Mauser still slung over his shoulder. 'I knew it,' he said. 'I knew you'd found something.'

'But I only just did a moment ago,' she blustered. 'It was all those photos on his wall. I mean, how on earth could he have had them developed? No one does black-and-whites any more. So he had to have his own darkroom. Don't you see?' She spread her hands, aware she was blathering, unable to stop. 'And it had to be somewhere in the house, because of that vinegar we smelled. Acetic acid, you know. Developers use it as a fixing agent.'

Iain wasn't listening. He was staring in astonishment around the basement. Then he looked back at her, at the folder she was holding. 'What's that?' he asked.

'Nothing.'

He walked over and snatched it from her, throwing her a superior stare as he opened it. 'What the…?' he muttered, when he saw the photographs of himself. His complexion paled as he flipped through them, quickly at first, then more slowly, buying himself time to come up with some kind of story. But he must have realised it was useless. He let the folder and the pictures drop to the floor, then shook his head sadly at her, as though she only had herself to blame for anything that happened now.