The Caves of Périgord: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

and possibly your European experts too.”
    She rang down for a janitor to take the rock to the strong room, filled in the deposit slip, and where it asked for an estimated value, she boldly scrawled “ten thousand pounds.” She saw it removed and signed for, and then feeling far more confident than she had for some weeks, walked into Justin’s office without knocking to inform him that she might just have the publicity coup he had been looking for. Finally, after a busy half hour with Justin, a lawyer, the publicity manager, and two interested directors, she left them telling the janitor that they wanted the rock brought back up so they could all look at it, while Lydia went off to ring the Arts correspondent of The Times .

    Clothilde Daunier stood five feet tall, with an extra three inches for a splendid skein of auburn hair piled atop her head so carelessly that the cut must have been expensive, and she was dressed to match. She had a bustling manner, a wide grin, and despite some envy at her clothes, Lydia liked her at once.
    “I expected you to bring the French ambassador, the Foreign Legion, and half the lawyers in Paris,” she began, pouring coffee. Lydia’s tone was friendly and confident after the compliments she had heard from her colleagues that morning. One of the directors had come up to Lydia’s attic to congratulate her on the excellent publicity, so she was feeling highly confident about her job.
    “I am sure they will come if required,” laughed Clothilde, and rummaged into a deep Hermès bag to bring out a bottle and a small glass jar, sealed with rubber. “For you, some foie gras from Périgord, and a bottle of Monbazillac to drink with it. Forget your English rules about leaving sweet wines till the end of your meal and drink it slightly chilled with the foie gras.”
    She sat down, brought a thin file of photos and photocopies from the bag, lit a Marlboro before Lydia could explain about the No Smoking rule, and said, “You know I worked with Monique Peytral, the artist who reconstructed all the paintings at Lascaux?” Lydia shook her head. She knew the precise and life-size copy of the original cave, built to protect the original from the damaging microbes and carbon dioxide brought in and breathed out by an endless trail of visitors.
    “I was the technical adviser on the project, re-creating the Hall of the Bulls and the Axial Gallery. We did a good job, and half the tourists who come have no idea that they are seeing a very clever copy. But what this really means is that everything at Lascaux is engraved onto my brain. I know it very well, and your bull is a Lascaux bull. Your row of dots are Lascaux dots, from a common Lascaux design. This rock is probably from Lascaux artists. I would almost swear to it—except that the bull is so small. I have no idea where it is from. We surveyed that cave fully. There are no unexplored parts to it, and I know your rock does not come from the Lascaux cave. So it may be a copy, just like the ones Monique made, or Horst may be right and it comes from a cave we do not know about. That would be revolutionary. Or it comes from one of several caves nearby, which would be very interesting to a few scholars, but a lot less dramatic. Unless, of course, your rock was surrounded by similar paintings and we have a whole new cave gallery we never knew about. All these things are possible, but first I must see it.”
    Lydia rang down to the janitors’ department, asked for the painting to be brought up, and in the meantime handed to Clothilde a copy of that day’s Times . There was a small paragraph on the front page, and then a much larger story on page 3, alongside one of Lydia’s photographs of the bull, and a headline that read MYSTERY OF FRENCH CAVE MASTERPIECE IN BRITAIN . Tucked into the middle of the story was an extremely flattering photo of Lydia, taken by the publicity department. Clothilde looked at the story, at the photographs, looked back more