The Sorbonne Affair Read online

  ALSO BY MARK PRYOR

  The Bookseller

  The Crypt Thief

  The Blood Promise

  The Button Man

  The Reluctant Matador

  The Paris Librarian

  Hollow Man

  Published 2017 by Seventh Street Books®, an imprint of Prometheus Books

  The Sorbonne Affair. Copyright © 2017 by Mark Pryor. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Cover image © Shutterstock

  Cover design by Nicole Sommer-Lecht

  Cover design © Prometheus Books

  Inquiries should be addressed to

  Seventh Street Books

  59 John Glenn Drive

  Amherst, New York 14228

  VOICE: 716–691–0133

  FAX: 716–691–0137

  WWW.SEVENTHSTREETBOOKS.COM

  21 20 19 18 17 5 4 3 2 1

  Names: Pryor, Mark, 1967- author.

  Title: The Sorbonne affair : a Hugo Marston novel / by Mark Pryor.

  Description: Amherst, NY : Seventh Street Books, an imprint of Prometheus Books, 2017. | Series: Hugo Marston ; book seven

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017012785 (print) | LCCN 2017018405 (ebook) | ISBN 9781633882621 (ebook) | ISBN 9781633882614 (paperback)

  Subjects: LCSH: Americans—France—Paris—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Suspense fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3616.R976 (ebook) | LCC PS3616.R976 S67 2017 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017012785

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Ann Collette, with my eternal gratitude for your guidance,

  immense appreciation for your belief in me,

  and deep admiration for your enthusiasm and honesty.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  The funeral was held in a small sixteenth-century church, ninety minutes east of Paris. The chapel sat on a hill between two villages, Saint-Jean-de-Vieux and Etange, giving its few regular congregants a beautiful view of the surrounding vineyards. Its small cemetery bristled with headstones, some new but most tilted with age, a hundred years old or more, and while the lush, one-acre space was fuller than the priest and the grave-digger would have liked, both found it hard to say no to grieving families.

  This had been Isabelle Severin’s church in her final years, and in his mind Father Henri Izner had on several occasions compared the lady with the church. Both were old and beautiful, small but robust, and both instilled in him a sense of awe and tranquility that were hard to explain. His Sunday talks with the aging movie star, sitting in the pews or slowly wandering the graveyard, were the highlight of his week.

  The actress, a legend in America but a recluse in her later years, had met with Henri and his cousin, Marcella Harshbarger, the woman who ran the pricey but protective retirement home where Severin had lived out her life. In that meeting, Severin had been adamant that no fuss be made at her death. No media, no celebrities, no grand funeral. Her few friends at the home, Henri and Marcella, of course, and that was it.

  Her remains were to be buried in Henri’s churchyard, an event that both Henri Izner and Madame Severin considered an honor. They’d smiled at that delightful congruence just two weeks ago before she’d really started to go downhill. Smiled and held hands for a moment.

  “I used to enjoy the attention,” she’d told him, in her perfect, proper French. “Now, I like to be left alone.”

  “I understand,” Henri told her. “You have my utmost discretion.”

  “Good, because if not,” her eyes twinkled as she smiled, “I shall come back and haunt you.”

  Unfortunately for Henri, and through no fault of his own, word of Madame Severin’s death escaped a day or so before the funeral, and the little church had been packed for the service, the heavy wooden doors staying open so the forty or so people who couldn’t find a seat could nevertheless feel as if they were a part of the ceremony.

  Thank the Good Lord this news didn’t get out any earlier, he’d thought to himself numerous times that day. His phone just about rang itself off the hook all last night and all morning, but he’d had a good reason to ignore it: this was probably the most important funeral he would ever conduct.

  He recognized maybe fifteen of the eighty or so people who’d shown up, and, now that the service and burial were over, most of the strangers avoided eye contact with him, as if he would chastise them for paying their respects to the lovely old woman. If, in fact, that was what they were doing; he’d seen more cell phones recording the event than he had tears.

  A breeze picked up and rustled the branches of the young oak he stood beneath, a dozen yards from Severin’s grave. He watched as the gravedigger, Alexandre Dupuis, gently shoveled wet earth onto the coffin, the heavy thumps quieting as Alexandre slowly covered the old lady’s final resting place in a thickening blanket of soil.

  Henri turned as a woman placed her hand on his arm. She was blond and in her early fifties, he guessed, slight and once pretty but now overly made-up.

  “Bonjour,” she said, in an accent that was clearly American and made him wish he spoke better English.

  “Bonjour, madame,” Henri said.

  “Vous avez faîtes très bien avec le service de funéraille,” she said, and Henri guessed she was thanking him for the funeral service. Guessed, too, that she’d had a liquid something or other to fortify her for the event.

  “Merci, mon plaîsir,” he said.

  “Je cherche quelqu’un.” She leaned in as if looking for someone was a secret, and his suspicion about her drinking was confirmed by the sweetness of her breath. “Il s’appelle Hugo Marston.”

  Henri furrowed his brow. The name meant something, rang a bell. One of the few phone calls he’d answered last night, maybe? Or one of the forty or so people he’d met briefly earlier in the day? An American name . . . Ah yes!

  Henri looked over the woman’s sho
ulder at the tall, handsome man who stood talking to an attractive woman, maybe his wife. Definitely close friends. Henri liked to do that, read people’s body language; it was a way to understand them. In his line of work, understanding humanity was a mission, but priests were like lawyers—people told them what they thought they needed to know, sometimes the truth but not necessarily the whole truth.

  “Il est là,” Henri said. He’s right there.

  “Merci,” the woman said, turning on one high heel and making remarkably steady progress through the heavy grass toward the man who’d introduced himself to Henri before the funeral. He’d not seemed like the others, there for the occasion, to gawp and take pictures. His handshake had been firm and his condolences genuine. His French was good, too, which made for a nice change.

  But none of that had stopped Monsignor Henri Izner from wondering why the head of security at the American Embassy was at Isabelle Severin’s funeral.

  Hugo and Claudia had left Paris early, ducking into the car as the June rainstorm clattered against the hood and windshield. Hugo gripped the wheel against the wind that rocked the black SUV as they sped northeast along E50, toward the little Catholic church where Isabelle Severin was to be buried.

  The storm blew itself out less than an hour after they’d left Paris, the sky clearing in a matter of minutes as a weak sun gathered its strength and dried the road ahead. The wind died, too, and for the last half hour Hugo turned off the motorway and they drove with the windows down, winding along the smaller roads, enjoying the breeze and the smell of fresh, wet earth and grass all around them.

  Hugo had researched the name of the priest at the little church, not for any reason but because it was a habit, to know whom he was meeting beforehand. He didn’t find much about Monsignor Henri Izner, wasn’t looking to, but the couple of photos online showed a young but kind face. There was a small article in a local newspaper about Isabelle Severin converting to Catholicism in her last year, and attending the church. Izner’s photograph appeared in the article, and he was glad to read that the young man and the old woman had become friends. The countryside of eastern France was a far cry from the glamor of Hollywood in the 1950s, he’d thought, but she was in the Champagne region, so maybe not so far after all.

  He was talking to Claudia after the service as the other funeral attendees wandered away to their cars, when a blond woman in her fifties approached. She looked familiar to him, but Hugo couldn’t quite place her.

  “Hugo Marston?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Hugo nodded.

  “I’m Helen Hancock, the author.”

  Like there’s only one author in the world, Hugo thought, but didn’t say. “Nice to meet you,” he said, extending a hand.

  “We met before, about a year ago. Some event at the embassy, don’t you remember?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. A vague memory of her laughing with his boss, Ambassador J. Bradford Taylor, floated through his mind. “Sorry, it took me a second, I meet a lot of people in my job.”

  “I’m sure. Head of security, right?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “Did you know Madame Severin?”

  “Just by reputation, which of course was stellar. In every sense of the word. Did you?”

  “A little,” Hugo said. “Our paths crossed not long ago, only briefly, but she was a remarkable woman.” He turned to Claudia. “Please, forgive my manners. This is Claudia Roux, normally a journalist but here today as a friend of mine.”

  “My pleasure,” Claudia said warmly. “I’ve read several of your books; count me as a fan.”

  Hancock’s face brightened immediately. “Oh really? How wonderful to hear. Do you have a favorite?”

  Hugo glanced at Claudia, having assumed she was just being kind when she said she’d read Hancock’s books. Apparently not.

  “I know you’ve written many and I’ve just read a handful,” Claudia said. “But I truly enjoyed Under the Loving Tree. I think it was the first time you moved toward suspense, maybe that’s why, but I devoured that book in one weekend.”

  Hancock smiled broadly, and her pink lipstick glistened in the sun. “Well, aren’t you an angel. Thank you so much.”

  “You’re very welcome. Do you have a new book coming out soon?”

  “Actually, yes. In about two months. It’s called The Palomino Painting. Romance, of course, but with some more of that suspense thrown in—I hope you’ll like it.”

  “I’m sure I will,” Claudia said. “I may even get this guy to read it.”

  Hancock turned her gaze back to Hugo. “Not a romance reader? I don’t know why men are so scared of showing their softer side.”

  Hugo smiled. “I’m more one for the classics, with maybe a few spy thrillers thrown into the mix.”

  “Typical man,” Hancock said, rolling her eyes.

  “Maybe I’ll branch out,” Hugo said. “Your new one will be published here in France?”

  Hancock’s smile faded. “Well, I sure hope so. The others have been, but my French publisher is being a little sticky with this one.”

  “Sticky?” Hugo asked.

  “It’s complicated, to do with the contract terms. They like to stay with what we had in the past, but in every other market a successful author is able to negotiate better terms.” Hancock grimaced. “My publisher isn’t quite so accommodating.”

  “Ah, well,” Hugo said, sensing some discomfort in their conversation, “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

  “Yes.” Hancock’s voice tailed off, and then she looked up at Hugo. “Can I talk to you for a moment? In private.”

  Hugo glanced at Claudia, who smiled and said, “I’ll wait by the car. Maybe find us a place to eat, so take your time.”

  Helen Hancock watched her leave, then she turned back to Hugo. “I think someone’s . . . stalking me.”

  “Stalking? What makes you say that?”

  “I’m in France to teach a class and do some research for my next book; part of it is set in Paris. And ever since I got here, I feel like someone’s been watching me.”

  “Someone in particular?”

  “No, not really.” She spoke slowly as if trying to picture someone. “It probably sounds silly, but it’s more of a feeling.”

  “I’m a big believer in trusting your senses,” Hugo said. “So don’t feel bad about that, at all. Are you traveling alone?”

  “Yes, staying at the Sorbonne Hotel on Rue des Écoles. Do you know it?”

  Hugo did. It was one of those large and expensive hotels that pretended it wasn’t part of a chain, along the lines of the Ritz or the Four Seasons, and pretended quite convincingly. “I’ve never stayed there, but I do know it. A great reputation.”

  “I stay there every time I come; they know me now so it’s very welcoming. Almost a coming home.”

  “Any problems there?”

  Her eyes slid away, as if she was thinking about lying. “That’s why I’ve hesitated to say anything to anyone. They’ve always been so good to me. I don’t want to complain or get anyone in trouble, especially when I can’t really say that anything’s happened.”

  “Fair enough,” Hugo said.

  She sighed. “I feel kind of stupid telling you. But I also feel better, getting it off my chest.”

  “Good. And if anything specific happens, be sure to tell the police. At the very least, the hotel manager if it happens there.” He dug into his coat pocket and handed her a business card. “And since you’re an American citizen, I get to keep an eye on you, too.”

  Her eyes widened, then she smiled and her voice was flirtatious. “Well, now, don’t say it like that or I’ll start to hope something does happen.”

  She held up the card and tucked it into her blouse pocket, then took his hand for a little longer than was necessary before thanking him and turning toward the path leading out of the churchyard. Hugo watched her go, unsure if the wiggle in her hips was for him, or a result of those high heels and the whisky on her br
eath.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Hugo and Claudia found a small roadside restaurant just outside Meaux, fifty kilometers east of Paris. They took the minor roads, in no hurry to return to the hustle and bustle of the city, enjoying the wide, open skies and the clean, fresh air.

  The restaurant itself was almost empty; they were the last ones to arrive for lunch, and they sat at a sturdy wooden table, seated by a rosy-cheeked hostess who also turned out to be their waitress and sommelier.

  “Just a half bottle of the Bordeaux,” Claudia said in French.

  “Oui, madame. Et pour monsieur?”

  Hugo and Claudia laughed. “Non,” she said, “we’ll share the half bottle, we’re driving.”

  Their hostess tutted as if they’d actually ordered two bottles each before driving, and barreled off toward the kitchen.

  The dining area was small, it might once have been someone’s living room, Hugo thought. The low ceiling was crisscrossed by thick beams, and the furniture was old and solid, but comfortable too, and the food turned out to be what Claudia called, “good, country cooking.” His stew was a little heavy for a warm June day, and she could have eaten her French onion soup with a fork, but garlic and butter made everything delicious, and they lingered.

  “So can you tell me what Madame Hancock wanted?” Claudia asked.

  “Have you really read her books?”

  “Of course. Ten years ago, she was huge over here. Bigger here than in America, I’d say.”

  “Bestselling author, eh?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “Romance?”

  “You have something against a good romance novel?”

  Hugo shrugged. “I’ve never read a good one.”

  “I’d guess you’ve never read one at all.”

  “Does Romeo and Juliet count?”

  “These days they all have happy endings,” Claudia said. “So no.”

  “That right? I’ll pick one of them up.”

  “Nice deflection, by the way. You going to tell me what she wanted?”

  “She thought someone might be . . .” What? She’d said “stalking,” but . . . “Watching her.”

  “How?”

  “She wasn’t sure. It was more of a feeling than anything she could really explain.”