Classical Murder

by Joan Carter

  “When are we going?”

  “That’s what I’m wondering. It may just be possible for me to persuade Sebastian to pay for me to go down and review some of the music. I might also be able to interview Sabine. It could work really well.”

  “Why did I choose medicine?”

  “You could come and do some operations.”

  “Very funny.”

  *****

  “I can tell that you’re not going to let me have any peace until I say yes – so yes, Cinderella can go to the ball.”

  “Oh, Sebastian, that’s fantastic.” Imogen would have kissed him, but she knew he’d be embarrassed.

  “Although I don’t remember such opportunities when I was your age. I had to use my holidays and pay for myself if I wanted to go to the festivals.”

  “Don’t grumble, Sebastian, it doesn’t suit you.”

  “Actually, it could work very well. We could do a section in time for next year on how to get to the festivals, how to book, all that sort of thing. A music/travel article. We could publish it after Christmas when there’s a bit of a lull. That’s when people start to think about their holidays.”

  “It will be fabulous, I promise you. There are so many events and they get some very big names.” Imogen couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice.

  “I can’t help thinking that this sudden interest in France has something to do with your pal, Junot. You will tread carefully, won’t you, darling? I mean, he has been involved in a murder.”

  “That’s what Ned says. But it’s hardly his fault.”

  “Even so, darling.”

  “I know. I promise to be careful, but he won’t be there anyway. He’s not singing in Orange this summer. Just as well, I suppose, given all that’s happened.”

  “You’re making me wonder whether I shouldn’t go myself. I haven’t been for years.”

  “No, really. Just think how you dislike hot weather.”

  “And fine wine. Good food.”

  “Sebastian, it was my idea. You couldn’t be so cruel.”

  “Be nice to me, darling. Be very, very nice to me.”

  *****

  “So , how do I approach Sabine?” Imogen asked Ned that evening, when they were back at her flat. “My French isn’t good enough for me to phone her, even if I could get hold of her number. The website just gives an email link to a publisher.”

  “I’m not sure. Don’t overdo those aubergines, by the way. It spoils the sauce if they’re overdone.”

  “You can cook it yourself, you know. I don’t usually bother with dishes like Aubergine Parmigiana on a weekday.”

  “I just fancied them. I really am in Italian mode at the moment.”

  “Well, switch into French and work out what I can say to Sabine.”

  “Email the publisher and get Sabine’s address. Then write to her – care of the publisher, if they’re stuffy about releasing her home address. Read some of the reviews so you can pretend you’ve read some of her books, and send a letter to say that you’re writing a book on Provençal writers, so would it be possible to interview her. I’ll translate the letter into French for you – and mention that, if possible, you’d like the interview to be conducted in English.”

  “If it’s not in English, then there won’t be an interview.”

  “I could prepare some questions and you could practise them.”

  “That’s very kind of you. There is, however, the small snag that I won’t be able to understand any of the answers. I need to interview her in English.”

  “ True. We need to find out whether she’s involved in the musical world at all, particularly opera. Does she know Junot or Dufrais? Why did she make reference to Mariette and the Atlas in the first place? I can see it would be impossible to try to elicit all these facts as subtly as possible if you’re interviewing her in French. Basically, we need to know if she’s linked in any way to Dufrais’ murder.”

  “Oh, come on, you must admit it’s unlikely. If it weren’t for the fact that I think I’ll get a good article out of it, I’d feel really guilty about Sebastian giving me the time to go down there. I mean, how likely is it that some novelist holed up in the south of France is putting secret messages in a French newspaper about the murder of an opera singer in a London hotel? We must be mad!”

  “But think how exciting it will be if she does turn out to be a dangerous murderess. Oh, if only I could go. I would love to try to trick her into showing her hand – especially when I think of all the food and wine that would be waiting for me when I got there.”

  *****

  In the office a few days later, Imogen had almost forgotten her email to Devergne’s publisher. She and Sebastian had been flat-out with a never-ending run of summer festivals, and Ned had been working round the clock as several of his colleagues had flu.

  “Darling, I have a call for you. Sounds like a foreigner,” said Sebastian.

  “Shh,” said Imogen, as she hurried towards her desk, thinking that Sebastian would never get any prizes for tact.

  “Hello, Imogen Charles speaking.”

  “Good afternoon. This is Sabine Devergne.” Imogen’s fingers tightened around the phone. “I received your letter. I am calling to say that I would be delighted to meet with you.”

  “Oh, excellent. Thank you so much.”

  “Do you have a date in mind? In your letter, you just mention during the festivals.”

  Imogen did some quick thinking. She knew Carmen was going to be staged on 30th July. “What about 25th or 26th July? Would either of those dates suit you?”

  “Yes. I will be here. Let us say on 26th July, at around 4pm. I like to work in the mornings and then, of course, after lunch I have some rest. There is no problem, by the way, in having the interview in English. I can speak it well enough for that, I think.”

  Imogen was not surprised to hear it. Sabine’s voice sounded cultured, only slightly accented, and gave the impression of someone who took life very seriously.

  “You sound very fluent,” said Imogen. “Much better than my French.”

  “You are very kind. I think I had better send you directions to my house. Have you been to St. Rémy before?”

  “Yes, although not for quite some time. I’m sure I can find my way around, though.”

  “Et bien. I will make sure that my agent sends you my address. I will see you on 26th July.”

  “Thank you so much for calling. I look forward to meeting you.”

  Imogen replaced the receiver and looked over towards Sebastian.

  “Who was that?” he said. “Another foreign suspect in your little murder plot?”

  “Maybe,” said Imogen.

  CHAPTER 5

  “What you need to do is to turn the conversation to her interests and hobbies,” said Ned, when he and Imogen met for a drink after work the following day. “There’s nothing in her books, as far as I can tell, that indicates any interest in, or knowledge of, music. They’re about life, meaningful relationships – that sort of thing.”

  “I must say I’m losing my nerve over this. We’re behaving like a couple of amateur detectives. I wonder why we’re bothering. On the other hand, it’s so important to Frédéric. It would be wonderful to help him find out who killed his partner. Strange that I haven’t heard from him since he gave me the letters.”

  “He probably knows he’s got you all wound up and thinks he’ll let you stew for a while. I even wonder if I shouldn’t be a little jealous of him.” He glanced sideways at Imogen. Embarrassed, she didn’t answer. “I haven’t much time for spoilt opera singers,” he continued. “You’ll be fine if you portray your research as more of a general survey of writers, or even artists, living in Provence. That’s it. That way you can get her on to music. Find out whether she has any intere
st in opera. Any dark dealings in the back of the pit. She could be a hired assassin for Junot and your mission is to flush her out.”

  “Aren’t you getting a little carried away?”

  “Don’t worry about the interview. When I’ve outlined some questions we’ll do a bit of role play. Then, when she tries to hide something, you’ll be quick to spot the truth.”

  “I can’t imagine what made you take up medicine. You’re obviously cut out to be a sleuth.”

  “Sometimes I wish I’d opened a wine bar. Then, we wouldn’t have to wait so long for the wine waiter. I really need a refill.”

  *****

  “Now, Imogen,” said Sebastian. “Let’s have a look. You’re away for two weeks from 23rd July, back in the office on Monday 8th August. Avignon first, then Orange and the Chorégies, with the possibility of some Wagner in Aix.”

  “I don’t want to cram too much in. I also hope to have a few days to relax – although I’ll pay for those myself.”

  “Very sensible. Of course, we must keep an eye on costs.” Sebastian tried to sound very stern. “I’m pleased to see you’re stopping off in St. Rémy.”

  “Why?”

  “Gounod, my dear. That’s where he wrote Mireille. It was first performed in Paris in 1864. If you look on the net, there’s a wonderful description of the time Gounod spent in St. Rémy while he was writing it. He based it on a poem by Mistral, who lived nearby in Maillane. Gounod went to visit Mistral and wrote most of the poem on location, as it were. You really should check it out.”

  “I will.”

  “There’s a lot of musical history down there. We’ll hopefully be able to feed it into your articles for some time to come.”

  “Well, actually, I’m thinking of expanding my work to include artists and authors living in the area. There are so many. I hadn’t thought of having a historical perspective. Maybe another time. The main question in my mind at the moment is whether to go on to Nîmes, where they have some modern rock type stuff. Then, of course, there’s always dance in Vaison-la-Romaine.”

  “Imogen, it’s always best to stick to what one knows. People who buy Opera London don’t want to know about pop groups – or, at least, I don’t. Looks as though you’ll be back in time for me to get over to Italy. Thought I might take in some music in Cortona or Verona. I don’t see why you should be the only one to gad about.”

  “Sebastian, I do believe you’re jealous.”

  *****

  Imogen had decided to stay in Avignon, rather than St. Rémy. Somehow, it seemed better to put a little distance between herself and Sabine. Getting to St. Rémy was an easy bus ride from the bus station at Avignon. She really enjoyed the trip. The bus left the outskirts of Avignon, with its warehouses and high-rise blocks of apartments, and soon moved into open country. All the windows of the bus were open and Imogen could feel the warm air streaming in, often carrying the perfume of lavender, which is widely grown in Provence. Fields of sunflowers lined the roads and, when Imogen caught her first glimpse of the Alpilles, the chain of ‘small Alps’ that ran along a ridge to the south of St. Rémy, she truly felt that she was in Heaven.

  Imogen reached St. Rémy about thirty minutes before her interview with Sabine was due to take place. She alighted from the bus by the main square. She had no problem recognising it, even though it was some years since she had last been there. Huge plane trees gave dappled shade onto the square, which was surrounded on three sides by cafés/restaurants – all with tables and chairs on the pavement. As usual in the mid-afternoon, they were full of people finishing their coffee after a long lunch, as well as those who had just come to sit and watch the world go by. At the back of the square was a site for boules, where Imogen remembered locals gathering in the evening – as much to watch as to play. Behind that was a small children’s playground, which always seemed to be occupied, except during the searing heat after lunch. Imogen loved this pretty French town, where tourists mingled with locals. It was especially exciting on Corrida nights, when residents of the Camargue brought their bulls to race around the streets. As a child, she had found it both thrilling and terrifying as there was always the fear that the barriers would fail, leaving the bulls to charge into the spectators.

  She was pretty sure that she knew the route to Sabine’s house, but nevertheless she pulled out the rough directions that had been sent to her. Facing the children’s playground stood a former hotel, a château built of grey stone, now privately owned and apparently unoccupied. A high stone wall surrounded the parc and it was the road alongside this that Imogen now followed. She could feel the heat rising off the tarmac as she walked. This road led to the south of St. Rémy, with the Alpilles forming a border on the horizon. She made slow progress in the heat, but didn’t mind, as she took in the pretty provençal cottages with their well-tended front gardens, from which the scent of bougainvillea frequently wafted towards her. She crossed the canal that flowed through the back of the town, pausing to look for dragonflies skimming over the water – a favourite occupation of her and her siblings when they were younger.

  At the end of the road, it was fairly undeveloped. Parts of the road weren’t even finished. There was an assortment of houses and bungalows. It was a quiet area where high walls and ‘Beware of the Dog’ signs indicated that people were very concerned with security and privacy. Imogen continued down it and, after five minutes, noticed a postbox attached to one of the gates with a sign that read ‘Devergne’.

  Imogen rang the bell. She heard a ringing inside the house and then some frenzied yapping, followed by “Chut, Max. Chut.” A small terrier came flying around the side of the house and threw itself at the gate. It was followed by a woman carrying a set of keys.

  “Chut Max,” she repeated to the excited animal, then smiled at Imogen. “He is only brave because he knows there is a gate between him and you. Otherwise, he would have stayed in the house, I can assure you.”

  *****

  Everything about Sabine Devergne screamed ‘French’. In her late thirties, she was of medium height and trim figure, with dark brown hair that was cut into a sleek bob at just below chin length. Her lightly tanned skin was set off by a white crepe dress, which fell to mid-calf, and she wore high-heeled sandals with a diamante trim, which matched small diamond earrings and a pendant. Although her only make-up was a touch of lip gloss, the effect was one of total elegance. Imogen was glad she had elected to wear her linen wrap dress in pale green with matching sandals. She no longer had any diamonds since she had recently thrown an engagement ring at the man who had given it to her, so instead opted for a single strand gold chain and matching bracelet. Her hair was loose, behind a band.

  Sabine extended her hand. “You must be Madame Charles?”

  “Yes. I’m so pleased to meet you. Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

  “The pleasure is mine.” Sabine’s English was perfect. Her voice was very cultured and attractively low. “We authors are very flattered when someone takes an interest in us. Do sit down and enjoy the garden while I get us some refreshment.”

  *****

  At the back of the house was a patio sheltered by a mature vine, which trailed over a trellis. Imogen sat at a small table that benefited from the shade and also gave her a view of the garden. Beyond the terrace was a lawn of sorts – more like scrub. Presumably, there was no point in trying to water the grass in this heat, thought Imogen. What took her breath away most of all was the view beyond garden, straight to the Alpilles and close enough to see the light playing over them.

  “You have such a lovely spot here,” she said, when Sabine reappeared carrying a tray of juice and some amuse-bouches. It is so pretty and very peaceful.”

  “Yes. I love it. It is a very good place for a writer, because it is secluded and tranquil. At the same time, though, it is close to town if I think I am going crazy and need a little company!
You know what I mean, as you are a writer yourself, non?”

  “Of a different kind. Mainly, I am a journalist. I work for a magazine that specialises in opera.”

  “ I was surprised that you would want to interview me as my work has nothing to do with opera.”

  Imogen bit her lip. “Well, I am hoping to branch out a little,” she said. “I spent some time in this area when I was younger. It gave me an awareness of how many creative people there are here. I’m hoping to write a book about authors and artists living and working in Provence. Obviously, you fall within that category.”

  “What an interesting idea. Who else are you including?”

  “It is in the very early stages, so I haven’t contacted anyone else yet. I am thinking of asking Paul Dubac, the artist.” Aware that this sounded a bit thin, she added, “I admire your work so I thought I’d test my strategy on you.” She smiled.

  “Well, I am very flattered to be your first victim.” Sabine didn’t seem to be surprised that Imogen had only one person lined up to interview for her proposed work, having come all the way from London. “Let me fill your glass and then you can ask me what you like. I promise to answer as faithfully as possible.”

  *****

  “So, did she do it?” Ned wasted no time in coming to the point when he answered her call.

  “I’d be amazed if she did. In fact, I’d go so far as to say no way. She is so intellectual. I can’t believe she went all the way to London to murder Elodie Dufrais. She is far too busy reflecting on the meaning of life. Also, she is far too groomed to want to mess up her hair in a fight.”

  “You managed to bluff your way through?”

  “It was a bit of a struggle. I don’t know what I would have done without your notes.”

  “Did you get on to music? Does she know about the opera? La Bohème, in particular? What about drowning on the Atlas?”

  “Somehow I just couldn’t bring it all up. It seemed so obvious. I’m sure she’d have been suspicious. I’ll tell you one thing, though.”