Page 57 of The Midnight Carousel

To begin with, Laurent had perceived a minor blur at the edges of his vision.

Then it had grown increasingly difficult to study the newspaper without holding the pages at arm’s length.

Now all but the largest script is lost to him, and he struggles to write his crime reports.

It is a most irksome by-product of the descent into middle age, but there it is.

He will need to visit an ophthalmologist for reading glasses.

He checks the clock on the mantelpiece. If he hurries, there is time for an eye test.

‘Odette!’ he calls.

There is no sound save for his voice echoing off the long, stone walls in the hallway.

He finds her in the garden. ‘There you are,’ he says with a faint smile. ‘I was looking for you all over the house.’

Odette is crouched on the ground, trowel in hand, planting bulbs for the spring.

The country life is good for her and puts a little colour into her plain face.

It is good for them both, in fact. With three times the space of the Parisian apartment, Laurent has requisitioned the quietest room downstairs as his own study.

He has his own bedroom too. And bathroom.

‘The child needs fresh air, as do you,’ he had announced two years ago, when he could no longer bear the suffocating feeling of the apartment in summer.

He had also hoped a change of scene might revive the marriage.

Since Laurent has kept his job in Paris, they have maintained the apartment there as his pied-à-terre.

Even with spending less time in close quarters, it didn’t take long to discover that they had taken their problems with them.

Things were brought to a head when Laurent realized how much he dreaded the return commute to Maromme on a Friday evening.

Duty, sacrifice, honour, are all very well, but he has come to understand that his mother had stayed in an unhappy marriage, and Laurent is tormented by what happened to her.

Earlier this year, Laurent broached the subject of a separation.

Odette appeared relieved. By mutual agreement, it was decided that the current arrangement of Laurent weekending in Maromme would continue in order to enable Amélie to spend time with her father while giving Odette some leisure time.

It suits Laurent well, and for a while they rubbed along fine without the pressure of having to get on.

But lately she has seemed irritated by the interruptions to her life that his presence brings.

‘It’s difficult to move on with you staying here so much,’ she has complained on more than one occasion.

It is a valid point, but Laurent fears what any further change would mean for Amélie and his relationship with her.

At ten years old, his daughter is an interesting companion and has become quite the chatterbox.

They discuss ballet and doll’s houses, and draw together, and visit museums and tea rooms, and take little tours on steam trains.

It reminds him of the good times with his mother, and takes the edge off his loneliness.

Predictably, his father was appalled by Laurent’s change in marital status.

‘I don’t know why I expected more of you,’ he had bellowed before Laurent strode off.

The relief was immediate. It felt like an ugly, festering weight of judgement had been lifted from him.

Days turned to weeks and then months without any contact between the two men.

Half expecting to experience some form of grief from this estrangement, Laurent was surprised that the feeling of lightness only increased over time.

They have still not spoken, and Laurent is uncertain whether they ever will again.

But he takes it as a blessing not being viewed as a disappointment all the time.

It makes him kinder to himself, more understanding of his own flaws.

Odette wipes her face with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of soil on her forehead, and stands.

‘I did tell you I was going to be outside, Laurent,’ she replies, unable to restrain her annoyance.

‘You did,’ he admits, now remembering. ‘I just came to tell you that I need to go into town, but I shall be back in time for the teddy bears’ picnic with Amélie.’

There is a pinch around Odette’s mouth. ‘Since you’re going, could you buy a baguette while you’re out, please. It will save me a trip later.’

‘Of course.’

Maromme is a pretty little town near Rouen, with quaint residences, and it is only a leisurely, twenty-minute stroll from the house along a dirt track that winds through lush, Normandy forest turned orange at this time of year.

He is rather a celebrity here. The Great Parisian Detective, he is known as by the locals, solving the country’s worst crimes.

The priest waves from the church steps. ‘Bonjour,’ Laurent calls back.

He tips his hat at the elderly women gossiping on the corner, smiles at a group of small boys playing marbles in the street and passes the bakery, the scent of sweet pastries reminding him of Odette’s request. What is it that she wanted?

No matter, it will come to him before the return journey.

The premises of the ophthalmologist sit just beyond the main square. The receptionist looks up from her paperwork. Were it not for the expression of boredom on her face, she might be quite attractive in a wholesome, red-cheeked country sort of way.

‘I would like to see your eye doctor, please.’

She doesn’t even try to stifle a yawn.

‘Monsieur Duval is busy, so you’ll have to wait a while,’ she replies.

‘That is fine,’ Laurent says and takes a seat.

His mind drifts to Maisie, as usual. In the hope of winning her back, he has written again, several times, in fact, with the news of his separation from Odette.

He also added other details: his emotions, everything he feels for Maisie decanted into several short paragraphs describing the weather or the view from the train window.

Receiving no response, Laurent is unaware whether he is forgiven, or if his missives even reach their destination.

As a way to feel a connection to Maisie, he pours his efforts into continuing the search for her parents instead.

Deciding against writing to Sir Malcolm until he had something more substantial to share, Laurent contacted Yousuf Choudary’s old university.

Information supplied from a professor and two former friends has led him to believe the couple are still alive, but that they left Paris for rural France three years ago.

It has seen Laurent travel to Provence, where he had a particularly illuminating talk with a Madame Florian.

After thirty minutes of waiting to be seen, impatience takes over.

Scanning the room, his eyes alight on a pile of dusty books in one corner.

All are thick, scientific manuals written in French apart from one– The American Journal of Ophthalmology 1921– slimmer than the others and in English.

It looks as dry a read as the sawdust in the carousel factory, but it is better than tapping his foot on the floor with nothing to do.

Holding the publication two feet from his face, he begins reading a series of articles written by eminent clinicians specializing in the health of the human eye.

There are complex technical terms, and tedious hypotheses on retinas and irises.

By page eight, his eyelids are fighting to stay open.

But then he reaches a report by Dr William Wilmer on the curious story of one of his patients, known only as Mrs H.

Laurent’s interest perks up. Because of the difficult English phrases, it takes him fifteen minutes to reach the conclusion, but he is engrossed.

If what he has read is true, it could change everything. Buried in the pages is a clue, an answer, possibly the answer, to the mystery that had begun with Gilbert Cloutier twenty-three years ago. His pulse races as he rereads one paragraph in particular.

With some force, he slams the book shut and jumps up. The receptionist jumps too, dropping her pen.

‘I would very much like to see Monsieur Duval now, if possible,’ he requests. ‘And to take this journal with me.’

Without waiting for a response, he bursts open the door at the back and enters a small space where a well-built man with a long beard is snoring in a chair.

‘Monsieur Duval, I must have a pair of reading glasses immediately. And the use of this journal. Here’s twenty francs for your trouble.’

The ophthalmologist wakes with a loud snort. There is something about the man’s manner that reminds Laurent of Constable Segal.

‘But it takes three weeks to make the correct lenses. I have only Madame Leroy’s replacement spectacles, which she is to collect later,’ Monsieur Duval replies, indicating a small box on his desk.

‘Then I shall take those. It is a matter of life and death.’

Ignoring the ophthalmologist’s objections about tailor-made prescriptions, Laurent marches from the premises– the journal under one arm, the reading glasses stored safely in his jacket pocket– and heads home, sailing past the shops, including the patisserie.

He needs to get to America. And urgently.

Maromme is not too far from Le Havre, and he will catch the first passage to New York.

If no tickets are available, he will charter a ship.

In truth, he will cross the Atlantic in a hot-air balloon if necessary.