“Because,” Bonnefoy said scornfully, “when it arrived you were busy blaming me for the lack of train tickets for an earlier train.” His upper lip curled in a half-sneer that usually made Arthur knee him in the groin. “I figured I would look into it first.”
Arthur rolled his eyes and made a grab for the folder, but Bonnefoy swiftly held it out of arm’s reach. He raised his eyebrows pointedly, when Arthur growled at him.
“Oh, god, fine,” Arthur groaned finally, after a one-minute staring match, and threw himself down on the banquette again. After a minute’s reflection, he added, “You’re an arse. What’s it say?”
Bonnefoy settled back down as well, looking way too cheerful for comfort. “Eh bien… it seems that most of our usual suspects were in Paris during both thefts. Louis and Line Bernard were residing at Montmartre, and Louis Bernard visited the Louvre only two days before the painting was discovered to be missing. Louise d’Ancors was attending an auction at the Drouot sales, but there is no sign of her having gone to the museum in the week before the theft. Lucien de la Battue and Philip Amperdale were both staying at de la Battue’s studio (no doubt engaged in the process of dark, sinful actions)—“ he waggled his eyebrows in the most ridiculous manner, “—but they did not, under their names, anyway, go to the museum any time around the theft either.”
He turned a leaf, glancing up at a frowning Arthur. “Hunderton was also in Paris, and he did visit the Louvre only the week before the theft. Interestingly, both Brenda Rilke and le club des vieilles femmes folles de peinture came to see the newest collections the very day of the theft—it was the opening day, actually, which might explain it… in fact, only Lord Wimsey was not in France then. He was, to everyone’s knowledge, residing in his property in England with his family at the time.” He shut the folder with a smart snap. “As for Carra, of course, nobody knows, since he disappeared from his Parisian lodgings two days before. If he did come into the museum that day, it was under an assumed identity.”
“Which whatever organisation he might be working for would doubtlessly furnish him with,” Arthur murmured. “Well, I’d like to say that that clinches it, but I’m officially confused right now.” He gave Bonnefoy a pointed look. “Any breakthroughs you’d like to tell me about, before you accidentally forget?”
“Unfortunately not,” Bonnefoy murmured. He considered the folder in his hands thoughtfully for a few minutes, and then handed it to Arthur, earning himself a raised eyebrow in response. He shrugged. “You might as well rifle through it, I suppose.”
Arthur did, for the next hour, and found absolutely nothing worthwhile in it. He put it down to the mere incapacity of France’s police services, and, as he moved to cast the folder aside, looked up to find a fairly peculiar expression on Bonnefoy’s face. “What?” he snapped, nervousness catching the word and turning it into a very British Wot before he could stop it.
Bonnefoy blinked, and seemed to shake himself out of it; his usual smooth, slightly disturbing expression smoothed down over the previous one as his lips rose sharply in a smirk. “Why, chéri, I was simply admiring the interesting curve of your eyebrows—“
“Belt up,” Arthur cut in, not very keen on engaging in their usual banter. He looked out the window, at the darkening evening outside, and the black silhouettes of passing trees across the clear-cut sky. “God, this trip is taking forever. That’s what you get for travelling in French trains, I reckon—“
Bonnefoy shrugged and smiled, the curve of his mouth rapidly changing into a leer. “Tu sais, mon amour, there are many activities one can engage in in the relative comfort of a train compartment—“
[FrUK] Entente [4d/?]
Arthur rolled his eyes and made a grab for the folder, but Bonnefoy swiftly held it out of arm’s reach. He raised his eyebrows pointedly, when Arthur growled at him.
“Oh, god, fine,” Arthur groaned finally, after a one-minute staring match, and threw himself down on the banquette again. After a minute’s reflection, he added, “You’re an arse. What’s it say?”
Bonnefoy settled back down as well, looking way too cheerful for comfort. “Eh bien… it seems that most of our usual suspects were in Paris during both thefts. Louis and Line Bernard were residing at Montmartre, and Louis Bernard visited the Louvre only two days before the painting was discovered to be missing. Louise d’Ancors was attending an auction at the Drouot sales, but there is no sign of her having gone to the museum in the week before the theft. Lucien de la Battue and Philip Amperdale were both staying at de la Battue’s studio (no doubt engaged in the process of dark, sinful actions)—“ he waggled his eyebrows in the most ridiculous manner, “—but they did not, under their names, anyway, go to the museum any time around the theft either.”
He turned a leaf, glancing up at a frowning Arthur. “Hunderton was also in Paris, and he did visit the Louvre only the week before the theft. Interestingly, both Brenda Rilke and le club des vieilles femmes folles de peinture came to see the newest collections the very day of the theft—it was the opening day, actually, which might explain it… in fact, only Lord Wimsey was not in France then. He was, to everyone’s knowledge, residing in his property in England with his family at the time.” He shut the folder with a smart snap. “As for Carra, of course, nobody knows, since he disappeared from his Parisian lodgings two days before. If he did come into the museum that day, it was under an assumed identity.”
“Which whatever organisation he might be working for would doubtlessly furnish him with,” Arthur murmured. “Well, I’d like to say that that clinches it, but I’m officially confused right now.” He gave Bonnefoy a pointed look. “Any breakthroughs you’d like to tell me about, before you accidentally forget?”
“Unfortunately not,” Bonnefoy murmured. He considered the folder in his hands thoughtfully for a few minutes, and then handed it to Arthur, earning himself a raised eyebrow in response. He shrugged. “You might as well rifle through it, I suppose.”
Arthur did, for the next hour, and found absolutely nothing worthwhile in it. He put it down to the mere incapacity of France’s police services, and, as he moved to cast the folder aside, looked up to find a fairly peculiar expression on Bonnefoy’s face. “What?” he snapped, nervousness catching the word and turning it into a very British Wot before he could stop it.
Bonnefoy blinked, and seemed to shake himself out of it; his usual smooth, slightly disturbing expression smoothed down over the previous one as his lips rose sharply in a smirk. “Why, chéri, I was simply admiring the interesting curve of your eyebrows—“
“Belt up,” Arthur cut in, not very keen on engaging in their usual banter. He looked out the window, at the darkening evening outside, and the black silhouettes of passing trees across the clear-cut sky. “God, this trip is taking forever. That’s what you get for travelling in French trains, I reckon—“
Bonnefoy shrugged and smiled, the curve of his mouth rapidly changing into a leer. “Tu sais, mon amour, there are many activities one can engage in in the relative comfort of a train compartment—“
Arthur kicked him in the face.