Poppy, who was now back in her sombre travelling clothes, took a large handkerchief from her pocket and tied it over her hair in imitation of the headscarves worn by the women heading towards the church. Although she received a few glances, no one questioned her when she entered the building and followed the lead of other worshippers, dabbing her finger into a water font and anointing her forehead. Poppy, like most non-conformist Christians she knew, had never been into a Roman Catholic church. And yet something was drawing her there.
She took a seat at the back and looked around at the white marble and gold gilt splendour, so different from the plain wooden Methodist chapel in Morpeth. And yet the expressions on the faces of the congregants were the same, ranging from piety to expectancy, boredom to indifference. Each person who knelt to pray had the same hopes, dreams and disappointments as the people she knew at home. How close each of them was to God, only they knew; it was as if each life was a stained-glass window with its own story to tell. Poppy looked up at the windows lining the chancel and she tried to identify the stories depicted. There were roses and lambs and crosses and men in robes. Angels or real people, Poppy had no idea. The iconography was lost on her, but the beauty of the images and colours was not. Did Catholics really pray to saints, as she had been taught? She had no idea.
Something was happening at the front of the church, in front of the richly embroidered altar: a procession of priests in vibrantly coloured robes carrying an assortment of brass and gold ornaments. One of them was swinging some kind of lantern on a long chain. With each swing a whiff of something sweet and pungent wafted her way. Was it incense?
Then one of the priests – the one in the most ornate robe – lit a large candle and muttered an incantation; or perhaps it was a prayer. It was then that Poppy noticed one corner of the church was filled with candles – some lit, some petered out – blending together in a sea of melted wax. Poppy had heard that Catholics lit candles to symbolize prayers of intercession for themselves or someone else, dead or alive. Each of the tiny flickering lights represented the desperate prayers of someone who had reached the end of their own ability to bring about change. A child they could not heal, a marriage they could not fix, a job that they could not secure, money that would not stretch to buy food to the end of the week, a husband, father, son or brother fighting in a foreign land… How many candles had been lit during the war, Poppy wondered? And if she were to light one, what would be her prayer?
And then the chanting began. In Latin or French Poppy could not tell, but each utterance was punctuated by a reply from the congregation. Poppy closed her eyes and imagined her father mounting the steps of the pulpit, offset from the central wooden cross, bare of the bloodied body of the Christ. And as the people around her began to chant their liturgy, she whispered to herself the only liturgy she knew: “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses. Forgive us our trespasses. Forgive –”
Poppy caught her breath and opened her eyes. The service was continuing around her. She looked at the faces of the congregants, wondering if they too were at the point of confessing their sins. Would they be honest? Or would they just do it because it was what they had been taught to do? Would she? What were her sins? The lies? The deception? But weren’t they for a good cause, the pursuit of ultimate truth and justice? Did God see it that way? Or was she mired with sin that needed to be confessed? She didn’t know.
“What do you want from me?” she whispered, not expecting a reply. But then, as the priest intoned something at the front, she heard some words forming in her mind: “My peace I give to you, my peace I leave with you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your heart be troubled and do not be afraid.”
Do not be afraid. That was what she needed to confess: her fears, her anxieties, her frustrations and her pain. So she did, whispering name after name after name: Christopher, Mam, Dad, Aunt Dot, Grace, Delilah, Gloria, Elizabeth, Bert, Rollo, Lionel… Daniel. She opened her eyes at Daniel’s name and looked at the men in the congregation. Were any of them adulterers? And at the women. Were any of them contemplating having an affair? She asked God for the grace to forgive.
“Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation… but deliver us from evil… deliver me from evil…” The faces of Alfie and Melvyn Dorchester flashed before her. And something else: a shadow whose face she could not see.
Poppy emerged from the church before the service was ended – as the Catholics were lining up to receive Holy Communion. She could not bring herself to go that far. It was a gloriously sunny day outside and the handiwork of the God she had just been talking to sparkled all around her. She continued her walk to the Seine, accompanied by choirs of birds and the incense of flowers in full summer bloom.
Finally, the cobbled street she was on led to a riverside pathway. So this was the Seine. As Bradshaw’s had said, a mere canal compared to the Thames. It was similar in breadth to the River Wansbeck that ran through Morpeth. Along both sides of the river, wide grassy banks provided picnicking spots for the Parisians who were not bothered about going to church or had already been. Ladies held parasols to keep the sun off their faces, gentlemen wore boater hats and striped jackets; children took off their stockings and paddled ankle deep in the river or played with hoops, ropes and balls while their parents chatted or snoozed. Rowing boats glided past and peals of laughter rose and fell with the oars. It reminded Poppy of a painting she had seen in one of Dot and Grace’s books on art. Renoir? Seurat? She couldn’t remember.
She wondered if people could see any difference in her since she had just unburdened herself of her sins. She wondered if she could see any in herself. A family walked towards her: a father, a mother and two children, with a small white dog on a lead. The children were eating ice cream and the dog cocked its head expectantly, waiting for any drips that might fall its way. The parents talked quietly to themselves and, although not touching, shared an intimacy that Poppy could only dream of. She wondered what Daniel and his wife were doing that very moment. Or were Mrs Rokeby and the children at church while Daniel read the paper at home? “Forgive us our trespasses.” A surge of bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it and forced herself to look away.
CHAPTER 22
The Radium Institute in Paris, built in 1914 by the University of Paris to house the groundbreaking work of Marie Curie into radioactive materials, now housed a team of two dozen scientists working under the direction of the Nobel laureate. Curie herself divided her time between supervising the research at the Institute and raising funds to keep it open. Radium was in short supply and exorbitantly expensive, but without it, and the funds to buy it, the lifesaving research of the Institute could not continue. This was as much as Poppy had found out about the Institute and its connection to Dorchester. The bottom line was: Curie needed money; Dorchester had it. The question was, how far was she prepared to go to get it?
However, Poppy and Rollo had both decided that that was not the purpose of today’s visit. Today Poppy was not to interview Madame Curie – who would no doubt have turned down the interview request anyway – but to talk to Sophie Blackburn about the events surrounding the Chelsea Six in 1913. They had also agreed not to telephone or telegraph ahead so that Sophie would not have a chance to fly the coop. If Sophie wasn’t at work that day, Poppy had been instructed to stay in Paris until she could speak to her, if necessary finding out where she lived and visiting her there. But Rollo and Poppy both agreed that it would be best to speak to her at work: if Sophie was the shadowy killer Elizabeth had witnessed, if indeed there had been a killer in the first place, it would be safer to have their first meeting in public.
Poppy entered the foyer of the Institute and approached the reception desk. A mutton-chopped gentleman in his fifties greeted her. In slow, broken French, she enquired as to whether Mademoi
selle Sophie Blackburn was in. The man said she was and enquired who it was that wanted to see Mademoiselle Blackburn.
Poppy gave her proper name and then wondered whether or not she should have lied. Would the name Poppy Denby mean anything to Sophie? Would she connect it with Dot? And if so, would that cause her to be intrigued or apprehensive?
However, the receptionist said something that took her completely by surprise and she wondered if something had been lost in translation.
“Ah yes, Mademoiselle Denby. Mademoiselle Blackburn is expecting you.”
“No, no, I don’t think she’s expecting me. I –”
“Come this way please.” He rose and indicated a door on the right. But as he did, Poppy heard a familiar voice from the other side of the foyer. She looked up to see Alfie Dorchester coming down the stairs with a middle-aged woman whom Poppy recognized from press photographs: Marie Curie. Poppy froze. Alfie had got there before her. Alfie had warned them she was coming. Alfie, on the other hand, appeared engrossed in his conversation with Curie and had not yet noticed her.
Poppy murmured an apology and turned to leave while she still had a chance.
The receptionist grabbed her arm, forcefully, and pulled her towards the door, which he pushed open with his foot, dragged her through and then shut behind them.
“I must protest, sir!” Poppy said in English.
“I am sorry, mademoiselle, but I have my instructions,” he replied in French.
“You no detain me!” Poppy tried again in French.
“I can and I must. Please, don’t make this any more difficult than it already is. Take a seat.” He gestured to a chair in front of a desk with neat piles of papers. The receptionist leaned against the door with his arms folded, blocking Poppy’s only means of escape.
“What you want from me?” Poppy asked.
“That is not for me to say.”
Poppy sighed and sank into the chair. “Can you tell –”
The receptionist raised his hand and said in broken English, “If you please, no questions. I know no answers.”
From behind the door Poppy could hear a loud guffaw from Alfie. She looked fearfully at the receptionist. Neither his expression nor his position changed. Poppy could feel the armpits of her blue suit jacket dampen with sweat. She ran a tongue along her dry lips and flashed a quick look at the window. It was blocked by a bank of filing cabinets.
Alfie guffawed again.
“Please, monsieur!” Poppy pleaded.
“Shhhh!” He held his finger to his lips as he cocked his head, listening. Then, finally satisfied, he straightened up, opened the door a crack and said something rapidly in French to whoever was on the other side. It was too quick for Poppy to decipher, but she was sure she heard her name.
There was an incoherent reply in what appeared to be a female voice. The receptionist grunted a response. He shut the door and turned back to Poppy. In his hand he held a key.
“You must wait here. I will lock the door.”
“But monsieur –”
He held up his hand again to silence her. Then he quickly let himself out and shut the door. Poppy’s heart clenched in time with the key turning in the lock.
Poppy had given up trying to jimmy open the window, and, because it opened into an enclosed courtyard with no visible exit, she had decided against smashing it to make her escape. The noise would alert her captors and she doubted she would have long before they caught up with her. What was the worst that could happen to her? This was the Radium Institute, run by one of the world’s most respected scientists. Surely the most she would get would be a good telling off.
But what if Madame Curie didn’t know she was there? What if Sophie Blackburn and the receptionist were in cahoots with Alfie Dorchester? Surely not. Hadn’t Sophie been the one to alert Bert Isaacs that something was amiss? On the other hand, she wouldn’t want what had happened in 1913 to be brought to light… Poppy drummed her fingers against the desk, pondering her options and weighing up the potential reasons for the locked door.
And then it opened. The receptionist looked at her without emotion and stepped aside to make way for a woman in a white laboratory coat. She was in her mid-thirties with brown hair, worn unfashionably long, and pulled back into a tight bun. Poppy recognized her freckled face from the 1909 photograph in Aunt Dot’s parlour. Sophie spoke to the receptionist in rapid French, too fast for Poppy to understand. The receptionist nodded and withdrew. He did not lock the door behind him.
Sophie, hands on hips, contemplated Poppy. “Well, Miss Denby, you’ve got us in a real fix. You really have.”
“Why was Alfie Dorchester here?”
Sophie raised an eyebrow and gave Poppy a half-smile. “He had an appointment with Madame Curie. Which is more than you have.”
“I am not here to see Madame Curie.”
“So I hear. He warned her that you might come. He wasn’t sure if you would try to see her, me or both of us.”
“Oh?” Poppy swallowed to give herself time to think. This was not going how she had expected. She’d hoped to introduce herself pleasantly to Sophie as Dot Denby’s niece who was just visiting Paris and decided to drop in to pass on her aunt’s regards. She’d hoped to keep it casual and when she’d established a good rapport, then produce the letter to Bert. But there was no chance of a good rapport now.
“What else did Alfie say?”
“Just that we were to expect a visit from a yellow journalist hoping to dig up some dirt on Madame Curie and Lord Dorchester, and that you were the niece of my old friend Dot Denby. He warned us that you might try to use that personal connection to sweeten us up. So far, you haven’t done a very good job.”
Well, apart from the “yellow” bit, that was all true. Poppy needed to change tack. “Did he tell you he used his motorcar to run me down outside his sister’s asylum?”
This was clearly news to Sophie. Her eyebrows crunched together and she sat down, leaning towards Poppy. “No, he did not. What were you doing outside Elizabeth’s asylum? Did you see her? How is she?”
“I did. She’s not well.”
“Oh dear. Still? After all these years?”
“No, not like that. She’s perfectly sane. Whatever condition she was in seven years ago, she’s better now. And she should be released. But they won’t let her out.”
“They?”
“Her father and brother.”
Sophie’s lips set in a tight line. “What are you doing here, Miss Denby?”
Poppy drummed her fingers on the desk again, contemplating her options. A compromise was called for.
“I tell you what, Miss Blackburn, I will tell you why I am here – why I’m really here, not what Alfie thinks I’m doing here – if you tell me why you have had me forcibly detained. There’s a law against that in England, and I’m sure there’s one here too.”
Sophie appeared to find this amusing. “My, you’re a chip off the old block, aren’t you? How is your aunt, by the way? We’ve lost touch.”
“And why’s that?”
Sophie shrugged. “I’ve never had a problem with Dot. But Grace is the jealous type. It’s hard to keep up a correspondence with her in the way. Then of course there was the war, and…” Sophie spread her hands as if the rest was obvious.
“Speaking of correspondence…”
Sophie’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What?”
Poppy held up her hand. “First you need to keep your side of the bargain. Why have you detained me and when are you going to let me go?”
Sophie leaned back in her chair and gestured towards the door. “You are free to go any time, Miss Denby. The door isn’t locked.”
“But it was.”
“That was for your own protection.”
Poppy gave a hollow laugh. “Oh really?”
“Yes. We didn’t want Alfie Dorchester to see you. I told Marie I’d had some contact with the English press and we assumed you were here because of that. Is that why you are here
, Miss Denby?”
Poppy shrugged. “All in good time, Miss Blackburn. I want to hear the end of your explanation about my detention.”
Sophie appraised the younger woman, then nodded. “Fair enough. As soon as Alfie told Marie you might be coming to see us, she sent word to me. I was to arrange for you to be escorted out of sight if, by ill fortune, you decided to turn up while he was still here. And just like your aunt – whom I never much rated as an actress – your timing was atrocious.” She spread out her hands again. “So here we are. Now, your turn. Why are you really here?”
There was a knock on the door. “Entrez!”
The receptionist came in carrying a tray of coffee.
“Merci, Henri.”
He put it down and left.
“Coffee?” Sophie asked.
Poppy didn’t answer.
“Oh, come now, enough of this cloak and dagger melodrama; it’s not poisoned – although we could have slipped a lethal dose of radium into it.” She laughed, then poured two cups without waiting for permission and pushed one across the table to Poppy. Poppy ignored it. Sophie shrugged and sipped hers thoughtfully.
“So, you work for The Globe. You must know Bert Isaacs then.”
“I only met him briefly, unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately?”
It suddenly dawned on Poppy that news of Bert’s death must not yet have reached Sophie. And why would it? He had no family. No one to spread the news. And unless she subscribed to The Globe, which was doubtful, there was no way Sophie could have found out about his death. Unless Alfie had told her…
Poppy took a deep breath and said quickly, “I’m sorry, Miss Blackburn, but Bert is dead.”
Sophie went pale, bringing her freckles into stark relief. She put down her coffee cup with shaking hands. “When?” It was barely a whisper.
The Jazz Files Page 17