Classical Murder

by Joan Carter

  They left the station and went outside, where they found a café and sat at a table on the pavement. It wasn’t a great area. Stations always seem to be downtown, reflected Imogen. There was a lot of traffic, mainly people coming and going from the station, and there were plenty of cafés. They took a table outside one of them and ordered coffees.

  “Have you been to Paris before?” asked Imogen, as they waited.

  “Oh, yes,” said Tarquin. “My parents have brought me a few times. We did all the usual things, like going up the Eiffel Tower. I can’t say I know my way around, though, which is why my mum got a bit fussy about me wanting to come to the jazz concert. It’s ridiculous, really.” He shrugged his shoulders.

  Imogen laughed, pleased that Tarquin seemed to be in a communicative rather than churlish mode. “Sebastian tells me that you’re a great fan of Christophe Subot. I’m surprised, because he’s a jazz saxophonist. I thought you were a dyed-in-the-wool opera fan.”

  “Yeah, I know, but you can like both.” He gave a disarming smile.

  “And you’ve come over to meet a friend?”

  “Friends, actually. Doing a course as part of their gap year. Art and language. They have some lectures today, so I have arranged to meet them in time for the performance. I’m free until then.”

  Ouch, thought Imogen. “Well, you’re lucky,” she said. “We’ve been invited to lunch. Are you okay with your bag or shall we drop it at my hotel room for the day?”

  “I’m fine. I wouldn’t have brought anything, but my mum, of course, had other ideas.”

  *****

  Tarquin’s bag was, in fact, just a rucksack, so they made their way to Sophie’s. They started walking and arrived in the Marais around midday.

  “It’s really lovely, isn’t it?” said Imogen, as she and Tarquin surveyed the elegant Place des Vosges, with its beautiful lawns surrounded by pleached plane trees, their leaves just beginning to turn gold. “It says here,” she said, looking at her guidebook, “that it was built in the 17th century and that Victor Hugo lived here. Apparently, many consider it to be the most beautiful square in Paris. Wouldn’t you just love to live in one of those classy buildings surrounding it? Look at those smart cafés along the edges of the square, under the arches.”

  “It does look good – or, at least, very Parisian,” said Tarquin, laughing.

  “It makes me wonder how Sophie can afford to live in this area,” said Imogen. “As far as I know, she’s the quintessential struggling young artist, who does some teaching and waitressing to make ends meet.”

  “Perhaps she has a rich old beau, like Violetta in La Traviata,” said Tarquin.

  “That’s just what I was thinking,” replied Imogen, laughing. She stood for a moment, wrestling with her phone. “Are you any good at map reading?” she asked Tarquin. “I can’t work out how to get to Sophie’s flat from here. She said to go to Place des Vosges as it’s very close by, but I can’t work out which way up the map goes.”

  “Give it to me,” said Tarquin, sounding like an old man. “Look, this is what we need to do.” He marched off across the square and exited into a network of narrow streets lined with houses – many dating from the 17th century. Imogen followed him as he wove through the streets for five minutes or so. She was enthralled by the architecture, and paid no attention at all to the direction in which Tarquin was taking her.

  “Here we are,” he announced, as he stopped in front of one of the narrow stone houses. He scrutinised the list of names. “What did you say her name is?” he asked.

  “Sophie, that’s all I know.”

  “Must be Sophie Lemet, then,” said Tarquin and he pressed the bell.

  They heard footsteps quickly descending the stairs, then the sound of keys undoing various locks. Sophie opened the door and embraced Imogen.

  “How wonderful,” said Sophie. “I can’t believe you are in Paris.”

  “I know,” said Imogen, taking in Sophie’s Boho look – a short, plain jersey dress in black with multiple bracelets and necklaces, and a silk scarf tied in a band around her hair. Once again, Imogen was struck by Sophie’s beauty.

  Imogen turned towards Tarquin. “Let me introduce you to Tarquin,” she said. “He’s doing some work in my office and has come over to hear Christophe Subot playing at the Salle Pleyel.”

  “How interesting,” said Sophie. “Well, it’s good to meet you, Tarquin. I think you will have a super time at the Salle Pleyel. I love it there. Let’s go upstairs and we can have some lunch. I have prepared some food. It’s very simple, as I don’t have much time, but I think that we will eat well.”

  Sophie led them up several narrow flights of stairs. The hallways were not very inviting – dark and narrow with faded cream paint and no carpet. There was a faint smell of food cooking and they could hear music being played behind one or two of the doors. Sophie stopped in front of a plain wooden door, which had been left slightly open. The door led into a huge studio that seemed to have been converted from the attic of the house.

  “Welcome to my atelier,” said Sophie.

  “Wow,” said Tarquin.

  Sophie’s studio was everything that an artist’s studio should be. It was a huge room that was full of light from skylights, as well as from huge windows along one wall. Canvasses were stacked alongside the walls and there was an easel in the middle of the room. In one corner, there was a divan – or daybed – while in another there was a small table with chairs.

  “I mostly live here as a sort of bedsit room,” said Sophie, “but I have a small kitchen and bathroom just off the last flight of stairs we came up.”

  “It’s perfect,” said Imogen. “What a wonderful place to live.”

  “Yes,” said Sophie, “but it is quite small, even for one person – if you think that I have to sleep, eat and work just in this one room.”

  “I love the view,” said Tarquin. He had walked over to the windows, which included two doors. Imogen joined him, stepping out onto the balcony, which Sophie had filled with pots of cascading geraniums.

  “The rooftops of Paris,” said Imogen. “It really is quite a view.” She again wondered how Sophie could possibly afford to live in such a chic venue. This must be one of the most expensive areas of Paris, she thought. It’s a far cry from the attic in La Bohème.

  Sophie showed them her work – mainly very abstract paintings – then invited them to eat. She had prepared a very simple meal: some crudités or raw vegetables with a mayonnaise dip, fresh vegetable soup with olive bread, and yogurt with fresh fruit.

  All very healthy, thought Imogen, slightly worried that Tarquin seemed to have consumed several plates of bread. It wasn’t really a growing boy’s meal.

  “I eat simply. It’s good for me,” explained Sophie. “I also try to get some exercise.”

  “Where do you exercise?” asked Tarquin. “You’re right in the middle of Paris.”

  “I walk. Anywhere around the streets. I just love to walk and observe. It feeds my soul, and I can think about my work and puzzle over any problems I’m having. Sometimes, I go to the Champs Elysées and walk the whole length of it. I could join a gym, but I like the open air. It lets me think about my work.”

  “Sounds amazing,” said Tarquin.

  *****

  “I can’t believe how the time has gone,” said Imogen, when they had finished lunch. “We must leave you to your work.”

  “I have loved seeing you,” said Sophie. She turned towards Tarquin. “And meeting you, of course.” She smiled at him. “You must let me know how you get on at the concert tonight. Imogen can give you my number.”

  She’s such a man-chaser, thought Imogen. She’s even chatting up an eighteen-year-old. Imogen’s mobile buzzed and she checked it.

  “A friend?” said Sophie. “Ned, I suppose?”

  “
I doubt it… I mean, he’s out with a friend,” said Imogen, reddening. Of course it was Ned, but there was no way she wanted to let Sophie know they were going on to meet him.

  “Thank you so much,” said Tarquin. He was polite, but not enthusiastic, Imogen noticed. Good for him. “I’ve really enjoyed hearing about your work and lunch was excellent. I’ll just use your bathroom, if I may.”

  Sophie showed Tarquin to the bathroom. Imogen waited by the windows, looking over the rooftops. As she turned back into the room, a small table by one of the easels caught her eye. An involuntary gasp escaped as she noticed a glove lying on it. It was identical to the one in Frédéric’s flat. At that moment, Sophie entered.

  “Is anything wrong?” she asked. “I thought I heard a noise.” Following Imogen’s glance, she saw the glove, but said nothing.

  “Oh, no,” said Imogen, “I was just worried that a wasp was going to fly in.” She didn’t sound very convincing and she didn’t, for a moment, think that Sophie believed her.

  *****

  “Why were you so interested in Sophie’s keep-fit regime?” Imogen asked Tarquin as they strolled away from Sophie’s flat.

  Tarquin laughed. “I hope it wasn’t that obvious. There were two reasons, but really I’ve been a bit nosy. You see, I noticed that although she’s rather slim, being French and chic and all that – Ouch, thought Imogen – she’s also quite muscular. It seems to me that she must do some sort of workout, even though she wouldn’t admit it.”

  “Perhaps it’s not the done thing if you’re a mademoiselle,” said Imogen.

  “Also, I noticed that her paintings were very heavy. Yet when she was showing them to us, she moved them without a struggle. I wonder whether she’s some kind of martial arts enthusiast. That’s why I made the excuse of looking in her bathroom, not that I saw anything much. You just get the feeling that she’s not what she seems.”

  “And you’re obviously more observant than you let on,” said Imogen, laughing. “Come on, why don’t we walk through to Notre-Dame? We’ve got time.”

  *****

  “I’m very suspicious of Sophie,” said Imogen to Ned that night, as they dined in a little restaurant tucked away in a corner of the Marais. Tarquin’s concert had been sold out, so having delivered him to his friends outside the Salle Pleyel, Imogen had persuaded Ned to walk to the Marais and have dinner there. She had been so enamoured of the area that she wanted Ned to see it.

  “What’s brought this on, apart from a little friendly female rivalry?” asked Ned.

  “There’s more to her than meets the eye. She’s young, an artist and a teacher, so on paper she shouldn’t have much money, but look where she lives.”

  “Didn’t you say it’s an attic?”

  “Yes, but a really stylish one. And it’s in the Marais. So, so fashionable. I can’t believe she’s relying on family money, because – apart from her apartment – she doesn’t strike me as being wealthy,” said Imogen.

  “Perhaps she has a lover.”

  “She’s supposed to be Paul’s lover. I can’t imagine he’d finance such a lifestyle.”

  “Ah, but he doesn’t know what goes on in Paris, does he? She could have someone in Paris and keep him down in Provence.”

  “There are other things. I think she knows Frédéric,” said Imogen.

  “What? Although I suppose she is linked to the crowd who know his brother, and Elodie.”

  “Exactly. She projects herself as a serious painter, but I think she’s hiding something.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly argued your case very strongly,” said Ned, laughing. “All I can advise is that you keep a close eye on her. It’s worth keeping in touch.”

  “You don’t seem very impressed by my detective work.”

  “It’s this Blanquette. It’s so good I’m finding it hard to concentrate.”

  “There’s going to be another murder soon and this one’s going to be right here in Paris. In fact, it’s going to be at this table.”

  “Sorry. Sorry. What did you say the plans are for tomorrow morning, by the way?” asked Ned.

  “Well, I promised to see Tarquin safely back onto the Eurostar early tomorrow morning, so I’m meeting him at the flat where he’s staying overnight. Now, listen to this. Guess who I had a text from?”

  “President Hollande.”

  “It’s actually hugely important. I had a text from Frédéric to say that he had heard I was in Paris and wondered whether we could meet. What do you make of that?”

  “Not a lot,” said Ned, suddenly seeming less amused. “Why didn’t you say?”

  “Well, I waited until you’d settled down, but you seemed to be absorbed in your food.”

  “Of course I was. I always am, but very occasionally, there’s something more important. Only very occasionally, mind you. Now, tell me slowly, while I sip my wine, exactly what Frédéric said and exactly what you think he’s up to. Although, I think I already know that.”

  “Just that he heard I was in Paris and that he would love to meet up. It’s so odd, because I can’t fathom how he knew. Who could have told him?”

  “Could he have asked Sebastian?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m not sure that Sebastian would give such information out, even if Frédéric managed to get hold of him. And Tarquin is here. People in Provence knew I was leaving, but I don’t think anyone knew exactly when.”

  “Hmm. Sophie knew,” said Ned.

  “You were suspicious that she knew Frédéric.”

  “Exactly.”

  “When did you get the text?” said Ned.

  “This evening, just before we dropped Tarquin off. That’s why I couldn’t say anything.”

  “Have you replied?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s probably best if you go to see him. It will have to be tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s my thinking. It did occur to me that you could come. I could explain that we are in Paris together. I’d be interested to hear what you think of him.”

  “Let me work on that one,” said Ned. “I must say that between Tarquin and now Frédéric, my vision of a weekend à deux are in tatters.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Imogen could hear the doorbell ringing at the flat where Tarquin was staying, but had to wait a few minutes before there was any reply. Tarquin finally opened the door and fell out, rucksack in one hand and a very pretty girl in the other. One look at him informed Imogen that he’d had rather a good time. He probably thinks the same about me, she thought. She wasn’t feeling great after some serious wine tasting with Ned last night and had resorted to wearing a pair of very dramatic dark glasses.

  “Morning,” she said. “Well done for getting up.”

  “Hi,” said Tarquin, in a slightly thick voice. He turned towards the girl. “This is Genevieve.”

  “Hello,” said Imogen, hoping for a bit more explanation.

  “She’s a friend of a friend. I’ve invited her to stay with me for a bit as she really likes London.”

  “Great idea,” said Imogen, thinking the opposite and not daring to speculate as to what they’d been up to. “What about getting a ticket for Genevieve for the Eurostar?”

  “Oh, we booked online last night,” said Tarquin.

  “Let’s go,” said Imogen, impressed by Tarquin’s casual attitude to the set-up.

  They reached the Gare du Nord with time to spare and, after gathering coffee and croissants, Imogen made to take her leave.

  “Thanks,” said Tarquin. “Great concert, by the way. Funny, though, because Sophie was there. You know? Who we had lunch with yesterday. I was surprised because she didn’t say she was going.”

  “No, she didn’t,” said Imogen, hiding her surprise. “Did she say hello?”

  “
No, she was sitting well away from us, and there was quite a crush at the end so I didn’t see her as we were leaving.”

  “Oh, well,” said Imogen, not wanting to make an issue of it. “Perhaps she booked late.”

  “I doubt it,” said Tarquin, “ because a friend of mine tried to get a late ticket and there were no seats left. Also, she was with a pretty large group, so they couldn’t have booked late. Not unless they had amazing contacts, anyway.”

  “Perhaps she does,” said Imogen. “In fact, I’m sure she does.”

  *****

  “Imogen how wonderful.” Frédéric opened the door and embraced her. “It’s so good to see you. I am so delighted that we are in Paris at the same time.”

  “Yes, it is fortunate,” said Imogen.

  “Come through and sit down,” said Frédéric, “and I will get us something to drink.”

  Imogen noticed that Frédéric looked much better than the last time she had seen him. He had more colour and the shadows around his eyes had faded. He was smartly dressed, in black wool trousers and a camel sweater that looked to be cashmere. Imogen, of course, had put in a lot of effort, as she always did when meeting Frédéric. She noticed him take in her slim-fitting black skirt and grey roll-neck sweater. She had bought them in Paris to wear when she returned to work in London, but decided that meeting Frédéric was a sufficiently important occasion to give them their first outing.

  Frédéric’s apartment was in the ultra-smart area of Paris known as the huitième arrondissement. Imogen was sure one needed pretty serious money to live there. She was also sure that Frédéric had it. It was a very classy place; a spacious mansion flat with expensive furnishings and some beautiful paintings. She was definitely impressed.

  “So, tell me how you’ve been getting on,” said Frédéric. “Did you have a good time in Provence?”

  “Oh, yes. It went very well, thank you. I interviewed the people I wanted to and have lots of notes. Now, I need to plough through them. This is when the hard work starts.” She laughed.