Forget to Remember

her, ostentatiously dropped a pound coin in her hat, and asked the mime whether she knew Andrew Martin, a juggler. Thankfully, the woman could actually talk. She replied in the affirmative, and in answer to Carol’s question about where to find him, she whipped out a cell phone and made a call.
    “He’ll be performing here at fifteen thirty.”
    Three thirty. Carol thanked her and watched other shows while waiting for Andrew to appear. The performers were very good, and they appeared to collect quite a bit of money. Of course, when the weather turned bad things would be different.
    She recognized Andrew partly because of what he brought with him—a unicycle and various balls and pins like bowling pins to be used for juggling. He was fairly short, with unkempt hair, an old jacket, and pants that reached to just below his knees.
    However, in spite of his appearance, he put on a good show. He even juggled a live chainsaw in his act. Carol counted his fingers and toes; he performed his act barefoot. Miraculously, they were all there. He obviously enjoyed what he did, and she could almost understand why he preferred this life to that of having a steady job. He received a boisterous round of applause, and people gave him money. Carol trailed behind them with her pound coin, dropping it into his hat and asking for a minute of his time.
    While he was packing up, she briefly told him who she was looking for and mentioned the name Aiko.
    He stopped and looked at her. “Aiko. Japanese, isn’t it? Yes, it rings Big Ben. She must be the bird who did some modeling for Jacques. I never met her, but the name is unusual enough that it stuck.”
    “Do you know what happened to her after Jacques was killed?”
    “All the information I have is thirdhand. As I recall, she really liked Jacques and was heartbroken when he was killed. I think I was told she went walkabout.”
    “Walkabout?”
    “Pardon. I’m from Australia. I think she walked the End-to-end, from John O’Groats to Land’s End.”
    Carol had heard of the End-to-end, which went from Northeastern Scotland to Southwestern England. “That must be close to nine hundred miles.”
    “If you take the short route.”
    “Who did she go with?”
    “Now you’re really testing the grey matter.” Andrew paused, thinking. “Someone from one of those quaint villages the English are so proud of. It has a really old church. That’s no help, is it? They all have really old churches. Polstead? No, I think it was Rotherfield.”
    “Do you remember a name?”
    “Sorry. You’ve stretched my poor brain to the limit, and now it’s about to explode.”
    “Where’s Rotherfield?”
    “South of here. Small place, but it dates back over a thousand years. As I said, it has this old church—”
    “Do you have any other information about Aiko or the person she went with that might help me?”
    “The person she did the End-to-End with—for some reason, I think she might be a school teacher.”

    CHAPTER 28
    Out of the corner of her eye, Carol saw Sean stand back from his easel and take a wide-angle look at the painting and at her. He had done this plenty of times before, but this time he spent longer than usual in contemplation. Finally he said, “That’s a wrap.”
    “Is it finished?”
    “A painting is never finished. At some point you just give up. Picasso said that, and he was right.”
    Carol put on her robe. “May I see it?”
    Sean waved his arm toward the easel in invitation. She had been anticipating this moment for six days. It was Sunday morning. They had worked every morning since Tuesday with no day off. She was glad the painting was finished. She was tired of posing. Any feeling of excitement or trepidation she had at the beginning had degenerated into boredom and pain as she tried to hold her pose, hour after hour.
    Melanie dropped in, unexpectedly, often enough so Sean hadn’t hit on her. She had grown to like him enough that she wouldn’t have been put off if he had. She chose to think he feigned indifference because of Melanie.
    Now she found she was afraid to look at the painting. Not because Sean might not have done a good job. She had seen enough of his work to know he was an excellent artist. No, her fear was that she just wouldn’t translate well to canvas. She approached the easel gingerly and peeked around it.
    Was that her? “You made me look better than I am.”
    “Don’t be so modest. I just painted what I saw. Lord B will love