by Joan Carter
“Definitely. I noticed that, too, although she’s obviously much younger than the generation who interest us.”
“How would you approach her?”
“Oh, that would be easy. I’ll just ring up her agent and say that I heard her sing at St. John’s, that I was impressed and would like to include her in a series we’re doing on rising stars. They always love that. Anyway, Sebastian probably knows someone who knows someone, who knows her.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
*****
“Now we’re back at the flat,” said Ned, “I’ve remembered that I left a notebook in your car before you went away. I think I’ll get it now.”
“It can’t have been very important if you haven’t needed it in all that time.”
“It isn’t, but it’s got some notes that could be useful in Manchester.”
“I’ll put the kettle on. We can have hot chocolate.”
“I’ve got a better idea.”
“Which is a nightcap of a different kind.”
“Exactly.”
Ned looked pretty cross when he came back into the flat, almost slamming the door behind him. “Couldn’t find it,” he said.
“But it’s on the back seat. I checked the car this morning before I went to work. I wanted to make sure it was okay after not having used it for so long. I saw the notebook. It was definitely on the back seat.”
“Well, you can go and double-check if you like.” Ned’s tone was furious.
“How odd.”
“The car wasn’t locked. Perhaps someone passing by noticed and took it. What else was in there?”
“Hardly anything – because I’ve been away. Hang on. It was locked. I remember making sure when I checked it this morning,” said Imogen.
“I saw a guy near the car when we came back just now. Shortish, quite stocky. I’d say around late thirties. It must have been him,” said Ned.
“Yes, I vaguely noticed him. He made off pretty quickly after he saw us.”
“He must be a pro. He got the car open without setting off the alarm. You’re really sure it was locked?”
“100 per cent.”
“Look. It’s possibly a coincidence that this happened just after you got the letter, but you know I don’t believe in coincidences. This means you’re really going to have to take care while I’m away.”
“I promise,” said Imogen.
“I want to find you safe and sound when I get back.”
*****
“Sebastian, can I bounce a name off you?”
“I’m all yours, darling.”
“Eve Williams.”
“Independent manager of singers. Got some quite good names.”
“Are they mostly English?”
“Mostly French, as it happens. She’s French, which is where the Eve comes from, and married to an Englishman, hence the Williams. Bit younger than me, but then most people are these days.”
“Never.”
“Can I ask what your interest is?”
“I heard one of her artists, Juliette Pascal, at St. John’s the other evening. She impressed me and, well, you remember we did a series once about up-and-coming singers? I think we called it ‘New Talent’.”
“An excellent idea. New Year. New Talent. Make sure that this girl is new talent, however. Sometimes singers can be well-known outside Britain, although we’ve not heard of them. Think of Perry Floys, who went to the States very young and never came back.”
“That’s a very good point, but she really did look young. I shouldn’t think she’s had much time to develop a career anywhere else.”
“There you are, then. Perhaps Tarquin could get to work looking up some other young bloods and set up some interviews. Research is one of his strengths.”
“Right. Yes, I’m sure that would be great.”
“Yes, it was an excellent idea of mine to get him on board. I made a very good decision.”
“I applaud you, Sebastian.”
“Thank you.”
*****
“Is that Eve Williams?”
“Speaking.” The voice was deep and heavily accented.
“Good morning. I am Imogen Charles of Opera London magazine. I am contacting you in connection with one of your singers, Juliette Pascal.”
“Yes, I manage Juliette.”
“I heard her recital the other evening at St. John’s. I was very impressed.”
“We have high hopes for her.”
“We are planning to run a series on new talent and I wondered if you’d be interested in her taking part.”
“Quite possibly.”
“It would just entail an interview and some photos.”
“I can supply photos.”
“We prefer to do our own, if that’s okay by you. By the way, how is her English?”
“Like that of so many French, it is impeccable.”
The implication being, thought Imogen, that the English can’t speak French.
*****
“I suspect you won’t get much information from this,” said Ned, who was back from his trip to Manchester. “It’s really just in case she can give you some background info on colleges or the music scene in Nice – or Paris, come to that.”
“I know. It will just be good to speak to someone who is familiar with the place. Any good nuggets of info will be a bonus. Tarquin is preparing some background, both on the music scene and colleges in Nice, and on Juliette. I doubt whether we can get into any of the territory about La Bohème and the detail in the letters. That’s really for us to sort out ourselves.”
“I agree. Come and talk to me while I embark on sorting out some food. Guess what?”
“I can’t.”
“I’ve gone to town. Steak au Poivre in honour of your French interview.”
“Any excuse.”
“You said it, but wait until you taste the wine!”
CHAPTER 18
Juliette Pascal was stunning. This was Imogen’s first impression and she found it rather disconcerting to meet yet another attractive, young, French girl. Juliette was petite and fine-boned, with piercing blue eyes and black, shoulder-length hair. Feline was the word that sprang into Imogen’s mind. However, she seemed friendly, and had given a broad smile and extended a well-manicured hand when they had first met. Imogen noticed she had gone for the simple, French, cosmopolitan look, with slim-fitting black trousers, black pumps, a floral shirt and a grey cotton jacket. Imogen was glad she’d worn a very fashionable suit she’d bought in Paris, which consisted of a navy pencil skirt and a loose, square-cut navy jacket. She had teamed it with black, calf-length boots and a striped, navy and white silk scarf.
Tarquin, who’d been very eager to accompany her, hadn’t gone for any look at all. Although it was a professional appointment, he’d stuck to jeans, a T-shirt and a leather jacket that had definitely seen better days. Still, Imogen reflected, he was the photographer – perhaps the rumpled look was permissible in such circumstances.
The interview was taking place in a studio that Opera London sometimes rented for such events. It was just off the Kings Road in Chelsea and was therefore close to the hotel in which Juliette was staying.
“So, what do you need to know?” asked Juliette, once they had settled themselves into comfy sofas. “I am quite scared as I haven’t given many interviews.”
“I don’t think you need to be scared,” said Imogen, laughing. “We already have a lot of your details, either supplied by Eve or researched by Tarquin. What we’d like to get from you is some feel for how your career began and why you chose opera in the first place.”
“I come from a musical family. We were originally from Italy. There is music in our blood. We were travelling entertainers. My grandparents
came to France to look for a better life and my mother married a Frenchman—”
“Hence the French surname,” interjected Imogen.
“Exactly. I was born and, when young, took some music lessons. I then managed to win a music scholarship to a music college in Nice.”
“So you followed the classical route, rather than the popular route taken by your family.”
“It wasn’t the route taken by all my family. My aunt was Elodie Dufrais, who, I am sure you know, was recently murdered. She encouraged me a lot and, actually, my voice is very like hers.”
Of course, thought Imogen, feeling excited. From the moment the interview had begun, she had discerned something familiar about Juliette, but hadn’t been able to pin it down. I can see it now, though. The likeness is there; something about the shape of the face and her eyes. Managing to regain her composure, Imogen said, “I’m so very sorry about what happened to your aunt.”
“Thank you.” Juliette was obviously struggling to hold back the tears.
“Now you have mentioned the family connection, I can discern it quite easily. I do know about Mme Dufrais’ murder,” she said. “In fact, I am acquainted with her partner. I interviewed him shortly before the murder took place.”
“Oh, him. He is not liked by my family.”
“Can I ask why?” Imogen hesitated. Surely this was very private.
“He was not kind to Elodie.”
“But I thought that he adored her.”
“Maybe, but there were always other women. Everybody knew it.”
“I didn’t know it and I work in the business,” said Imogen.
“He was clever. What I mean is that all our family knew.”
“Why did Elodie put up with it?”
“We couldn’t understand it,” said Juliette. “We were always urging her to leave him, but it seemed to be an infatuation. She wouldn’t go.”
“But he was devastated when she died.” Imogen didn’t dare mention the help she was giving Frédéric. She shivered. The thought that she might have misjudged him was so awful.
“Oh, make no mistake. He is a very good actor. I mean, he does it on stage all the time. Although…”
“Yes?”
“It’s odd, but it was almost as if he, too, couldn’t be without her. Oh, of course, there was much passion at first. There always is. But after a while, when he began to stray, he still wanted to hold on to my aunt. I could never understand why.”
“Perhaps he loved her, despite everything,” said Imogen.
“He only loved himself.”
“Did you meet him?”
“Oh, yes. Sometimes when Elodie was very upset, she would come down to the south to stay with the family. He would always turn up to take her back. Sometimes, also, I saw her in Paris and he might be there, but we were both so busy that it was difficult to find time to be together. Now, of course, Frédéric is trying to take all her money.”
“What do you mean?”
“She had a lot of money, especially from some of her recordings. Also, Frédéric put pressure on her to do some advertising with him. She didn’t want to do it, as she thought it was demeaning, but he forced her. He made her sign some documents – I’m sure she didn’t know what was in them – and now he is claiming all her estate, although it includes a house she bought for her parents and an apartment she gave to her brothers. She would be devastated, I’m sure.”
“I can’t believe this,” said Imogen. “He seems so gentle and caring. He speaks of her with great love.”
“Great love of her money, you mean.”
“Well, that’s enough of Frédéric,” said Imogen, struggling to control her myriad thoughts. “We are, after all, here to talk about you!” She smiled, trying to lighten the tone of the interview. “How do you see your career developing from here? Or, at least, what is the trajectory you hope it will follow?”
*****
“Alright, you can say ‘I told you so’, if you must,” said Imogen, as she and Ned strolled across the heath towards Hampstead that evening.
“I always behave graciously when I am the victor,” said Ned.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m very glad to hear it.”
“Although, I must say, it’s very gratifying to know that I was right all along,” said Ned.
“Here we go.”
“Well, he never looked like the sort you could trust. Bit too full of himself for my liking. Too good-looking, and he knew it.”
“But he’s always seemed so charming – rather fun. At least before Elodie was murdered,” said Imogen.
“Well, that’s just it. That’s exactly how lotharios behave.”
“It doesn’t mean that he killed Elodie, though.”
“No, but now we know that he’s taken great care to benefit financially from her death – which, I admit, does surprise me,” said Ned.
“Why?”
“Well, he must be pretty well off in his own right. He’s been a star longer than her and he, too, has made plenty of recordings.”
“I suppose so.”
“Think about it,” said Ned. “Most of these opera stars are wealthy, owning houses around the world. And don’t forget that they have the prospect of income from their recordings and videos long after they retire.”
“That does make his behaviour seem very odd.”
“Well, it’s just something to mull over. I’m determined to get to the bottom of all this. It intrigues me. It’s gone way beyond Elodie’s death and the letters, although I’m still obviously dying to sort that out.”
“Don’t get too worked up about it,” said Imogen. “It’s not really anything to do with us.”
“I know, but I don’t like seeing that little devil get off the hook.”
“Well, put it on the back burner for now. Here we are, at the pub. And guess who’s buying?” said Imogen.
“Could it be me?” said Ned.
“Right first time. I’ll wait out here and enjoy watching the world go by. The evenings are drawing in and soon it will be dark very early,” said Imogen.
“Excuse me, aren’t you Imogen Charles?” The voice came from behind Imogen. Caution prevented her from replying. She turned to face an older man whom she couldn’t immediately place, although his face was familiar.
“Philip Benton,” he said, extending his hand. “You came to visit Frédéric Junot at my house.”
“Oh, excuse me,” said Imogen. “I didn’t recognise you, although I should have, because, of course, you live just down the road.”
“Yes, this is very much my local. Do you live nearby?” he asked.
“Just on the other side of the heath. We love to walk across it while the evenings are still light – although that’s only just the case at this time of year. Let me introduce you,” she said, as Ned appeared, carrying drinks.
“This is Ned. Ned, this is Philip. Philip Benton, a very well-known pianist.”
“I hope so,” said Philip.
“Well, I certainly know your work,” said Ned. “Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thank you. I’m actually on my way home, but I recognised Imogen from when she came to visit Frédéric at my house.”
“Of course,” said Ned. “Imogen told me that you gave sanctuary to Frédéric after Elodie Dufrais’ murder.”
“I like to think that I was a friend in need.”
“Well, you obviously were. Do you see much of him these days?” asked Ned. “I suppose he’s still in a state of shock. And pretty depressed, too, I would think.”
Don’t push it, thought Imogen.
“He’s doing quite well, actually,” said Philip. “Of course, we’re all pleased that he seems to have found some
one to help him through his sorrow.”
“Oh, really?” said Ned. “We didn’t know that, did we, Imogen? How nice that he should find succour so quickly.”
“Well,” said Philip. “It’s not that soon. I often think that these things happen when they’re going to. You can’t really plan them.”
“What he means,” said Imogen, “is that Frédéric seemed so distraught that we thought it would be a very long time before he could start another relationship.”
“Some people are less able to cope alone. They need to have a companion. I find that men, especially, need to have someone to help them with grief when they experience a loss,” said Philip.
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Imogen. “We’re very pleased for him, aren’t we, Ned?”
“I’ve never been more pleased in my life,” said Ned, engendering a stern look from Imogen. “Are we likely to know his new partner?”
“I doubt it,” said Philip. “She is very young. An artist living in Paris. I did actually meet her as I have recently been over for a concert. I gather that they met at a friend’s house a month or so ago and just clicked.”
Imogen had to ask. “Do you remember her name, by any chance?” She knew the answer already.
“Yes. It is Sophie. I don’t know her surname.”
CHAPTER 19
“So that’s it,” said Ned, as soon as Philip had gone. “Absolutely amazing. Fred and Sophie were in on this all along. They plotted to get rid of Elodie, making sure first they got all her money, then bumped off Marie when she started asking questions. I bet Frédéric even sent the letters to himself just to divert attention elsewhere.”
“Aren’t you rather jumping to conclusions? We don’t even know it’s the same Sophie.” Imogen didn’t sound very convinced.
“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me there’s another young artist called Sophie, who lives in Paris and moves in their circle.”
“There could be. It’s quite a common name, and even if it is her they could easily have met recently. As you say, they move in the same circles. Remember how she had those very good seats at the Salle Pleyel? And she knows the crowd who were in Nice and are now in Provence.”