Classical Murder

by Joan Carter

  “Something to do in the winter months, maybe.” He flashed her a smile.

  He really is so charming, thought Imogen, as he handed her a coffee and offered her some very dainty biscuits. She studied the cup, rather than continue eye contact. His look was a little too friendly. “I suppose so,” she finally replied, laughing. “I stayed in Eygalières, by the way, and was interested to meet your brother. I didn’t realise that you had a musical brother.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Did he colour a bit? Imogen couldn’t be sure.

  “So, he is in Provence, you say?” Frédéric asked, after a pause.

  “Yes. You didn’t know?”

  “No, I haven’t heard from him for some time. Except, of course, that he offered me condolences when I lost Elodie. He telephoned me. He could have been ringing from anywhere in the world.”

  “I thought it must have been he who told you that I was in Paris.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” He smiled. “I really can’t remember how I heard.” He turned away and picked up some music, which was lying on the coffee table. “Let me show you some of the things I’ve been working on. Maybe I can sing a little for you.” He moved over to the piano.

  *****

  “Oh, very slick,” said Ned, as he and Imogen made their way along the platform towards the Eurostar train. “I don’t want to tell you how I heard you were in Paris, so I’ll sing you an aria. Remind me to try that one next time I’m trying to hide something from you.”

  “I think I’d rather you just hid it. I’m not sure I could take such torture.”

  “How rude. Still, you’re actually right. Hurry,” said Ned, “it’s only a few minutes before the train leaves.”

  Once they were seated and on their way to London, Ned said, “Now, let’s recap. He didn’t want to discuss his brother and barely mentioned the letters. Why do you think he wanted to meet? Or am I being hopelessly naive in suggesting there was any motive other than the most obvious one?”

  Imogen could feel herself colouring, as she had questioned Frédéric’s motives herself. “I find it very difficult,” she said. “It was simply very social. I did enjoy it and I loved seeing his flat – oh, so expensive – but for the very first time I felt that he wasn’t being straight with me. I felt that he had another agenda that I don’t know about.”

  “Do you know what I think?”

  “No, but I’m sure I soon will.”

  “I think he wanted to find out how much you’ve unearthed. He probably didn’t realise, when he gave you the letters, that you would end up going to Provence and get involved with people who knew him and Elodie. I think he was rather taken with you and used the letters to get to know you better. He didn’t realise you would dig so deep. I suspect a meeting in Paris was supposed to be the big seduction scene.”

  “Then how come he didn’t try to seduce me?”

  “Probably just forgot.”

  “Oh, that’s really great. I’m obviously very desirable. I’m lured to the scene of a seduction, only for the seducer to forget why he invited me!”

  “Err, sorry. Perhaps it’s a bit of all these things. I think we need to go back to the letters and put some more work into them, in case we’re missing something. They’ve rather got left behind, we’ve been so busy.”

  *****

  “It feels so strange being home,” said Imogen, once she and Ned were back in her flat. “I know I’ll miss Provence.”

  “I can understand that. Seeing the work Tom is doing in Paris made me feel I wouldn’t mind taking some time out to do the same.”

  “Is that a possibility?”

  “At some stage, maybe, but I wouldn’t want to leave now that I’ve just got you back. It’s rather lonely without you.”

  “You mean you haven’t got a string of reserves?” asked Imogen, suddenly very busy sifting through a large pile of mail.

  “You know I haven’t,” said Ned.

  “Now, what’s this?” asked Imogen, keen to move the conversation on.

  “What’s what?”

  “A letter. It’s from France.”

  “Probably one of your interviewees with some follow-up info.”

  “But I didn’t give anyone my address. I’m always very careful not to do that.”

  Ned took the cases through to the bedroom as Imogen studied the envelope. She almost didn’t want to open it.

  “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” he said, on returning.

  “I feel as though I have,” said Imogen.

  Ned took the envelope from Imogen. The style was French, referring to her as ‘Madame’ and using the terms ‘Londres’, and ‘Angleterre’.

  “There’s no postmark,” said Ned. “I don’t think that this had been sent from France. I think that it has been delivered by hand, even though there’s a French stamp on it. Let’s see.” He started to open the letter.

  “Should you touch it?” asked Imogen. “What about fingerprints?”

  “I doubt it’s something the police are going to be interested in. Anyway, it’s been all over the place. You’ve handled it, I have and your cleaner has.”

  “I get the message. Just open it.”

  “Oh, no,” said Imogen, as she recognised the disjointed text from the letters that had been sent to Elodie.

  “I’m afraid so,” said Ned.

  “Can you decipher any of it?” asked Imogen.

  “Not really. I can see a reference to Tosca.”

  “Who commits suicide. How awful.”

  Ned let out a low whistle.

  “Come on. Tell me,” said Imogen.

  “It’s a bit upsetting.”

  “I’m a big girl.”

  Okay. It seems to say, and don’t forget I’m reading between the lines in a disjointed foreign language, ‘Just leave it. Remember Gilda’.”

  “Rigoletto,” said Imogen. “Gilda was his daughter. She was stabbed.”

  “I know.”

  “So it’s a threat.”

  “No doubt. I’d like to find whoever sent it.”

  Imogen could hear the anger in Ned’s voice. “Let me have a look,” said Imogen. Ned passed her the letter. “It’s not using the same font as the others,” she said.

  “I noticed that,” said Ned.

  “But it’s the same sort of jumble. It’s so awful. To think someone is watching me. Following my movements.”

  “Not necessarily. You’ve been away some time. The letter could have been delivered a few weeks ago, which would mean that it was known you had Frédéric’s letters, but not necessarily that someone is watching you.”

  “That makes me feel better,” said Imogen. “But only a little. What do we do next? Contact the police, I suppose.”

  “I need to have a think about that.”

  “Surely we have to. Although, according to Frédéric, they weren’t particularly interested in the other letters.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. On the other hand…”

  “On the other hand, Elodie is dead and so is Marie. So are Mimi, Tosca and Gilda, if it comes to it.”

  “Yes, but this letter isn’t the same. I don’t think it came from the same source.”

  I know, but it can’t be coincidence. Surely it’s a death threat. The police must look into that?”

  “On the face of it, it’s just a letter from a crank. Check the rest of the mail to see if there’s anything similar.”

  “Not as far as I can see. It’s all just the usual. Yes. I can identify everything.”

  “Good. Look, it’s so annoying, but I have to go. I’m on duty in a couple of hours and I have to unpack my gear.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “Let’s give some thought to this be
fore we take any action.”

  “Yes, I agree with that. Whatever we decide, I don’t much feel like going down to Kentish Town Police Station now. We may be starting something we regret.”

  “Now, don’t go out. It’s getting dark. And certainly don’t open the door to anyone.”

  “You’re frightening me.”

  “Well, it pays to be careful. A lot has happened and mostly it’s happened at night.”

  “I can’t really believe anyone’s interested in me.”

  “I can.”

  Imogen didn’t respond. It was said very pointedly. Romance was the last thing she wanted now, though, when she was so upset. Instead, she turned and picked up Ned’s briefcase.

  “Don’t forget this,” she said. “You may need it.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Imogen slept well as she was tired after travelling back from France, but the arrival of the anonymous letter had left her feeling tense. She still felt anxious as she entered the office the following morning.

  “Imogen,” said Sebastian, “wonderful to have you back. Although you are a little pale. Have you been working too hard?”

  “It’s probably just the travelling.”

  “We’ve really missed you. Haven’t we, Tarquin?”

  Tarquin managed a smile, although Imogen knew he probably wasn’t all that pleased to have her back in charge.

  “Well, I’ve missed you, too,” said Imogen, “but I loved my time in France. My French has improved, too.”

  “And how’s the book going?” asked Sebastian.

  “I have a lot of editing to do. In fact,” she turned to Tarquin, “I might need someone who can do some editing for me.”

  “I’d love to help,” said Tarquin. “It’s pretty interesting, from what I’ve seen. I’ll even do it free of charge.”

  “Well, I expect we could come to some sort of arrangement,” said Imogen. “Perhaps in the form of some free lunches.”

  “It’s a deal,” said Tarquin.

  “Yes,” said Sebastian, butting in. “We’ve been delighted with the information you’ve sent back so far, haven’t we, Tarquin? We’ve got some pretty good articles from it, although it’s mostly been Tarquin who has knocked them into shape because I’ve been so busy. I’ve been under quite a lot of pressure, haven’t I, Tarquin?”

  “Loads,” said Tarquin, as he and Imogen exchanged glances.

  “Now, we’ll need to update you on what we’re planning for the New Year issue,” continued Sebastian. “We’ve more or less put the Christmas one to bed, of course. For the New Year, we’ve got some nice bits of gossip about some infighting regarding an upcoming production of the Ring Cycle and a wonderful interview with the soprano Maria Supors, who’s going to be starring in Madam Butterfly in Leeds. Get yourself a coffee and settle down with Tarquin. He can take you through all the plans and update you. That way, you’ll know exactly what’s going on. I would do it myself, but I’m scheduled for a meeting with some of the PR people from a new opera company that’s being set up in East Anglia. So important to keep up to date.”

  “Someone’s got to do it,” said Tarquin.

  “Exactly,” said Sebastian, missing the irony.

  Stifling a giggle, Imogen moved to get a coffee.

  “Your phone’s flashing,” said Tarquin.

  She took the call. It was Ned.

  “Guess what?” he said. “I’ve been given two tickets for a recital at St. John’s Smith Square tonight. You are free, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Great. I feel like an outing. Last night’s events have left me feeling very tense.”

  “Should be good. Two young singers – one a soprano, the other a tenor. They’ve had some good write-ups. It’s a recital. Mostly quite well-known arias and duets, as well as a bit of stuff that’s not quite so well-known. It shouldn’t be too long and we can have dinner in the restaurant. Good thing about St. John’s, so I hear, is that one can eat pretty well there. The food isn’t expensive, either.”

  “So important for a musical venue.”

  “You’re dead right, as usual. I take it everything’s okay? No more weird goings-on?”

  “Nope. Everything’s fine. I can’t stop now. I’ll see you there around, what, 6.30?”

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  *****

  St. John’s was situated in an imposing part of Westminster, close to the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey. Even at 6.30pm, the streets were packed with tourists – a huge percentage of whom were taking photos of each other with the backdrop of one of the historic buildings. Big Ben began to strike the half hour as Imogen walked down to meet Ned. It was still light, but scattered leaves on the pavement and a cool feel to the air left no doubt that summer had ended. The concert venue itself was in Smith Square, tucked behind Westminster Abbey among mainly residential streets, many of which were named after late Deans of Westminster.

  “What a fabulous building,” was Ned’s greeting, as he met Imogen on the steps of the church.

  “I know. It’s baroque – people seem to love it or hate it. It makes an excellent musical venue, though”

  “Let’s not forget the food,” said Ned, as he led the way down to the basement where the restaurant was situated.

  “As if we could,” said Imogen.

  *****

  “So, how was the first day back?” asked Ned as he and Imogen took their seats in the restaurant at St. John’s and unloaded the food from their trays.

  “Fine. Busy. Just starting to catch up on all that’s been going on while I’ve been away.”

  “And no more threatening letters.”

  “Not so far. It’s been very disappointing. I haven’t even had anyone following me.” She attempted a smile, but it wasn’t very convincing.

  “You’re looking tired. I hope it’s not worrying you too much.”

  “I don’t think so, but I must admit it’s been at the back of my mind all day.”

  “One thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “I have actually been looking through the Murger book.”

  “Oh, really? That’s good. Did you find anything of interest?”

  “Yes, although it’s a bit muddled.”

  “Okay. Let’s hear it.”

  “The first point is that, as we thought, the names used in the letters – Mariette, Musette, Rodolphe, Marcel – are French. The equivalent ones used in the opera are Italian – as in, Musetta, Rodolfo and Marcello.”

  “What about Mariette?”

  “I was coming to that. She was a real person. Musette in the book was largely based on her. She was given the name Musette because of her singing. Musette in French means bagpipes and she apparently had a very shrill voice. Not very complimentary! ”

  “Quite,” said Imogen. “It’s all so difficult to take in.”

  “I know. There are lots of links with the opera, as one would expect. Mimi in the opera is a mixture of characters from the book, who, in turn, were taken from people Murger knew. It’s interesting that the letter sent to you seems to have more in common with the opera, while those sent to Frédéric quote the book. I’m going to look at the exact wording again, but it seems to me that your letter was composed by a different person from the one who composed the first letters.”

  “What about places or dates, or anything factual?”

  “I haven’t identified anything so far, but, and this is about as hugely crucial as it could be…”

  “Come on!”

  “It said that in real life, Mariette, the person upon whom Musette and Musetta were largely based, died on a boat called The Atlas. She drowned. If that’s true, it obviously has huge implications for what’s happened.”

  “Amazing,” said Imogen.

 
“Yes,” said Ned, looking very pleased with himself. “How’s that for detective work?”

  “So we must assume that the reference to Mariette’s death was what frightened Elodie and also lay behind her withdrawal from La Bohème.”

  “Right in one. Although she was singing Mimi, not Musetta.”

  “Surely there must be some back story for her to react like that?”

  “Possibly. I just need to do some more work on it all.”

  “You’ve been brilliant.”

  “Nothing unusual there.”

  “I saw that coming.”

  “There’s something else I must mention, before the concert begins.” Ned’s tone was suddenly more serious.

  “Oh, yes?”

  “I’m rather worried as I have to go away this weekend.”

  “Really? Where?’”

  “Up to Manchester. Some of the specialists in my field are running a two-day conference. The powers that be thought I should go.”

  “Sounds very interesting.”

  “Well, I agreed to it before this business about the letter came up. I’m worried now. I don’t like leaving you.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll lock myself in and work on my book. I’ll even get lots of rations in so that I don’t need to go out, if it will make you feel better.”

  “Why don’t you come with me?”

  No, I don’t think so. I’ve only just got back to London and I have a lot to do.”

  Ned looked away momentarily and Imogen sensed he was disappointed.

  “Okay, then,” he said. “Let’s go hear this music.”

  *****

  “I loved it. I can’t believe I’ve never been to St. John’s before,” said Ned, as he and Imogen walked towards her flat after the recital.

  “I’ve been before, but mainly because of my work. It’s not as high profile as other venues, but the standard of performance is excellent.”

  “I noticed that one of the performers spent some time in Nice. She also sung at the Chorégies, albeit in a minor role. It might be worth having a word.”