Page 59 of The Secrets of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #1)

He found himself one day in a rough, run-down sort of area, where there were a lot of small warehouses and artisan workshops.

A canal came down to the river and there was a complex of cuts, wharfs and locks.

He watched the boats working for a bit, then, wandering on, came to a sort of street market.

It was not selling food, but pots and pans, household goods, things of that nature.

One stall caught his eye – several pieces of battered furniture were stacked around it, and an old and very dirty man was seated there mending a chair.

The chairback consisted of twelve narrow spindles, and he was fitting them into the holes in the top-rail.

James watched for a while and then, driven by the desire for human contact, said, ‘My dad was in the same trade as you. Making chairs. He was a wood turner.’

The man glanced up indifferently. ‘ Comment? ’ he said.

‘Mostly made legs,’ James said. ‘You know – legs.’ He lifted his own and slapped the thigh.

The man shrugged, and went on with his work.

A woman who had been standing a pace or two off came close and said, ‘You do not speak French?’

‘No,’ said James. ‘You speak English?’

‘Yes, I speak English good. My father, he does not.’ She gestured to the chair mender.

James was eager for a chat. ‘I was just saying, my dad was in the same business. Back in England.’

‘You make chairs?’

‘No, I never fancied it. I’m valet to an important English lord. He’s here on his honeymoon.’

She looked puzzled for a moment, then said, ‘Ah, voyage de noces . You are valet, hein ? Important job. Valet make very good money, I think.’

He swelled a little. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Plenty of perks, if you know what you’re doing.’

The old man looked at her and reeled off a rapid sentence, and she replied in like vein, except that her voice was sharp and hectoring. He made a sound of disgust, and spat expertly onto the ground two inches from James’s shoe.

The woman smiled at James. ‘My father is not good temper since he be blind in one eye. He say we disturb him.’ She stepped closer, fluttering her eyelashes. ‘Would you like to buy me a glass of wine? Then we can talk.’

‘Where?’ James said, a little suspicious, but interested. She wasn’t in the first flush of youth, but not bad-looking, and with a nice, generous figure – the way he liked them. And he hadn’t had so much as a feel since they left England.

She pointed towards the water. ‘There is a place over there. Not far. I would like to hear about you. Your histoire .’

‘All right.’

‘My name is Irène,’ she said.

‘James.’

‘Shems. Oh, I like this name. Come, Shems, come, just over here.’

The place was small, dark and grimy, empty but for two men in working overalls and caps sitting up at the bar, and a few crude tables and chairs.

She took him to a table by the open door, went to the bar, and came back with two glasses of wine.

She sat down opposite him and lifted the glass. ‘ à votre santé .’

He repeated the toast as best he could and she laughed and said, ‘Oh, but that is ver’ good. You will soon speak French à merveille .’

‘Not me,’ he said. Under her expert questioning, he told her about himself, and under the influence of three glasses of wine, he grew expansive.

She leaned further forward, giving him a better look down her front, gazed at him in fascination, toying with a curl of her hair.

The Old Adam stirred. All right , he thought.

If it’s offered on a plate, I’m not going to say no.

A man came in, came up behind her and addressed her rapidly in French, in a rough and guttural voice.

She replied in the same sharp, rebuking tone she had used on the old man.

He went out, and she said, ‘A friend of my father. He says I must go back and work.’ She sighed.

‘I must go soon. But not yet. Would you like to come out the back with me? You are so ’andsome man. I never had an English man before.’

There was a side alley. He looked round carefully, but no-one else was in sight.

She stood with her back to the wall and drew him towards her.

Then, with an enticing smile, she took both his hands and put them on her breasts, and slid hers around his waist, pulling him to her.

He was enjoying himself, both hands and lips fully engaged, when he felt more hands – extra hands – coming from behind him, going into his pockets.

He jerked in shock, then struggled furiously to release himself from her – she was holding his head now, kissing him smotheringly so he couldn’t yell.

Striking her hands away at last, he swung round, to meet a hard fist coming the other way.

The expert blow to the point of his chin tipped him over backwards.

The woman had jumped aside, and his head hit the wall.

He slithered to the ground to the sound of running footsteps.

By the time he got to his feet, they were gone.

He staggered out of the alley, angry, feeling a fool, and also obscurely hurt to have been taken advantage of.

Fortunately, there had not been a great deal in his pocket-book, but to lose it in such a stupid way hurt his pride.

Knowing it was useless, he made his way back to the chair mender’s stall.

‘Your daughter just robbed me!’ he shouted at him.

‘Her and her friend! I bet you knew all about it, didn’t you?

I should have the law on you, you stupid old fool!

Nice way to treat visitors, I don’t think! ’

The old man looked up and said something in French, then went back to his work.

The back was all in one piece now and he was fitting the bottom of the spindles into the holes in the seat, completely absorbed in the task.

James raised his fist threateningly – and suddenly there were a lot of other people around him.

He began shouting. ‘His daughter robbed me! Took me in a bar and robbed me! I bet she does it all the time! He knows – ask him!’

Everyone was talking now, jabbering at him in French, gesticulating.

Some started arguing with each other. Others, he noticed unhappily, were grinning derisively at him.

At the back of the group were several heavily built swarthy types, who looked as though they could do with some alleviation of boredom.

It was time, he realised, to beat a retreat.

He backed up, still expostulating, and turned and walked away, resisting the urge to run.

God damn it! So this was Paris. Huh! You could keep it! You could keep all of Abroad, for his money!