The English Girl: A Novel

to the room that was supposed to be his studio. But the next morning, after she left for work at the museum, he promptly moved his things back to the sitting room. For three days he stood before the canvas almost without a break, from dawn each morning until late afternoon, when Chiara returned home. He tried to keep the memories of the nightmare in France at bay, but the subject matter of the painting, a beautiful young woman bathing in her garden, would not allow it. Madeline was in his thoughts constantly, especially on the fourth day, when he began work on the extensive losses to the hands of Susanna. Here he saw much evidence of Bassano’s luminous brushwork. Gabriel imitated it so immaculately it was nearly impossible to discern the original from the retouching. Indeed, in Gabriel’s humble opinion, he managed to outdo the master in places. He wished he could take credit for the high quality of his work, but he could not. It was Madeline who inspired him.
    He forced himself to take a break for lunch early each afternoon, but inevitably he ate at the computer, where he scoured the Internet for news about the French investigation into Madeline’s death. He knew the stories were far from complete, but it appeared the police were unaware of his involvement in the case. Nor could he find any evidence in the British press to suggest that Jonathan Lancaster might have been linked in any way to Madeline’s disappearance and death. It seemed that Lancaster and Jeremy Fallon had pulled off the impossible—and now, according to the polls, they were headed toward a landslide victory. Needless to say, neither man tried to contact Gabriel. Even Graham Seymour waited three long weeks before calling. From the background noise, Gabriel guessed he was using a public phone in Paddington Station.
    “Our mutual friend sends his regards,” Seymour said carefully. “He was wondering whether there’s anything you need.”
    “A new leather jacket,” said Gabriel with more good humor than he was feeling.
    “What size?”
    “Medium,” replied Gabriel, “with a hidden compartment for false passports and a weapon.”
    “Are you ever going to tell me how you managed to get away without being arrested?”
    “Someday, Graham.”
    Seymour fell silent as the station announcer called a train for Oxford. “He’s grateful,” he said finally, speaking of Lancaster again. “He knows you did everything you could.”
    “It just wasn’t enough to save her.”
    “Have you considered the possibility that they never intended to let her go?”
    “I have,” said Gabriel. “But for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.”
    “Is there anything else you want me to tell him?”
    “You might want to remind him that the kidnappers still have a copy of her video confession of the affair.”
    “No girl, no story.”
    If it had been Seymour’s intention to lift Gabriel’s spirits with the phone call, he failed miserably. In fact, in the days after, Gabriel’s mood grew darker still. Dreams disturbed his sleep. Dreams of running toward a car that receded farther into the distance with each stride. Dreams of fire and blood. In his subconscious, Madeline and Leah became indistinguishable, two women, one whom he had loved, another whom he had sworn to protect, both consumed by fire. He was despondent with grief. More than anything, though, he was gripped by an overwhelming sense of failure. He had given Madeline his word he would get her out alive. Instead, she had died a nightmarish death, bound and gagged in a coffin of fire. He only hoped she had been sedated at the time, that she had been oblivious to the pain and terror.
    But why had they killed her? Had Gabriel made a mistake during the drop that cost Madeline her life? Or had it always been their intention to kill her in front of Gabriel, so that he had no choice but to watch her burn? It was a question that Chiara posed one evening while they were walking along Ben Yehuda Street. Gabriel answered by telling her about the signadora ’s vision, that she had seen an old enemy when peering into her magic potion of olive oil and water. Not an old enemy of Keller’s, but of Gabriel’s.
    “I never knew you had any enemies inside the criminal underworld of Marseilles.”
    “I don’t,” replied Gabriel. “At least, none that I know about. But maybe they were acting at the behest of someone else when they kidnapped Madeline.”
    “Like who?”
    “Someone who wanted to punish