The Caves of Périgord: A Novel

superficial researches of the previous evening. But there was no reference that she had found to any damage to the caves at Lascaux, no gaps in the drawings where the Manners rock might have been wrenched free.
    She sat back, trying to assess whether she responded to the bull as a magnificent but crude drawing, or whether she simply felt awe at something so old, when the phone rang, and she recognized Horst’s voice. He was speaking an English as precise and fluent as her own, with barely a trace of German accent, asking her warmly how she was and sounding much more friendly than one evening of pleasant chatter at a reception would explain. It was soon clear that he was excited by the photographs.
    Yes, she still had the rock in her possession, she told him. It was on her desk. No, she had not yet heard from the museum at Les Eyzies, but she felt it possible that it was from Lascaux, even though it was so small. No, her auction house did not intend to put the piece on public sale, but simply to establish whether it was real and where it might have come from.
    “I know where it’s from,” said Horst. “It is from Lascaux, the style and detail are unmistakable. But this is different. It is a miniature, by far the smallest of any bull that I have seen and it is not from any cave I know of. This could mean that somebody has found a new cave, with Lascaux-style art. But why would they be so foolish as to approach an auction house if they want to make some money from this? They must have known you wouldn’t put it on open sale. Who is this person who brought it to you, do you know anything about him?”
    She described Manners, told Horst of his father and the inheritance, and the possible connection to the Périgord region in 1944, and added, “I don’t think he knows the first thing about cave paintings. He was happy enough to leave the piece in my care, and for me to make inquiries to trace it. He seemed genuine and rather innocent. I don’t think he’s the type to trade in looted goods. And if he were, he would hardly have come to us. But I can quiz him some more when I see him—he’s coming in again on Friday to see what I have found out.”
    “If I came over, would you introduce him to me?” Horst asked. There was a sound of rustling down the phone as he leafed through a calendar. “I can change a lecture, put off a student or two, and fly over on Thursday in time to take you to dinner. By then, we should have confirmation from les Eyzies that this comes from an unknown cave.”
    “I haven’t got my diary to hand—I’m not sure I’m free on Thursday,” she said quickly. “Perhaps we’d better wait until we do hear from les Eyzies.”
    “I’m not giving up the opportunity to see this piece, and Friday morning may be my last chance, if your mystery man decides to take it away with him again. I’ll call you again after I hear from Clothilde at les Eyzies.”
    Within the hour, the Frenchwoman was on the line, more formal and much more cautious than Horst. No, she could not be sure from the photographs she had seen that this was Lascaux work, but it certainly looked interesting. And no, it did not come from any known site. A lot of caves were damaged in places, or eroded, but she knew of no rock scar from which Lydia’s exhibit might come. Then she wanted to know if Lydia or her company had informed anyone else.
    “Only Horst Vogelstern, in Cologne, and Professor Willoughby at Oxford,” said Lydia. “Horst phoned me this morning to suggest that it might come from a new cave, not yet discovered or known about. He seems very excited. He wants to come and see the rock, before the owner comes back on Friday.”
    “Horst and his theories,” sniffed Clothilde. “He is so ambitious to make a big coup and become famous. You know he is trying to persuade people to finance a TV series on prehistoric art. Some theory about an undiscovered cave is the kind of thing he could put into the newspapers and magazines, and then he could make his TV show and write a best-seller and get rich. Horst was a very good researcher, but he gets carried away by his dreams.”
    “It sounds as though you know him well,” Lydia ventured, intrigued by these personal dynamics between scholars.
    “Too well,” snapped Clothilde, and then went on, almost apologetically, as if Lydia were owed some explanation. “He worked with me here at les Eyzies for two years, and we were very good friends. We were very happy. Then it