18
Louvre, 4 December 1870
Iris left early to go to the museum in spite of a dull ache at the base of her skull and feeling like she’d drunk too much wine the night before. Which she hadn’t, but she recognized she stretched her talents to their limits. If the Louvre was as deserted as it had been on Saturday, it should be truly empty on Sunday, and hopefully she would be able to concentrate enough to finish sorting the potsherds. When she arrived at the Classics storage gallery, she found Firmin waiting for her, and he wasn’t alone.
“I believe you remember Inspector Davidson,” he said. “He was here last summer after Anctil—”
“Mademoiselle.” The inspector tipped his hat with one hand. He held a briefcase in the other.
Firmin cleared his throat and glanced sideways at the inspector. “Ha
