Classical Murder

by Joan Carter

  “It was excellent, as always,” said Imogen, as she and Frédéric exchanged some very continental kisses.

  “And your – what should I say? – friend,” he said, turning to Ned. “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Let me introduce you,” said Imogen. “This is Ned – yes, a very good friend. He is a great admirer of yours.”

  “Can I get you a drink?” asked Ned, keen not to discuss the extent of his admiration for Frédéric.

  “I think I have one coming,” said Frédéric, as a man came towards them, bearing two glasses of red wine.

  “Thank you, Robert,” said Junot. “Imogen, Ned, this is my publicist, Robert Poitiers.”

  “I think we have already met,” said Imogen. “At the Opera House.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember,” said Poitiers.

  “It was just before you sang in La Bohème,” said Imogen, instantly regretting that she had raised the subject.

  “I remember,” said Frédéric. “Those were the happy times before the dark days descended. I hope now, though, that I am moving into the light. Not that I will ever stop thinking about Elodie.”

  “Is that the reason for the performance tonight?” asked Ned. “We got the impression that the concert was arranged at very short notice.”

  “Exactly,” said Frédéric. “We wanted to remind people that I am here and that I can be approached. Soon, I will undertake some of the engagements that were arranged before the tragedy of Elodie’s death.”

  “Yes, I am on very good terms with the management of the Wigmore,” said Poitiers. “We had been talking for a while about having Frédéric perform here. When we suggested that we would like to bring the date forward, they were very helpful. I have always found them to be very amenable when I have dealt with them for some of my other clients.”

  He turned towards Frédéric. “I am sure you would love to spend the rest of the evening with Miss Charles, but I am afraid that we have to mix, as they say, with some of the other people who are here.”

  “I will be in London for a few more days,” said Frédéric to Imogen. “I am having some talks with the Opera House. Perhaps we could meet.”

  Despite everything Imogen had heard about Frédéric, she still found him to be charming. “I’d love to,” she said, without overdoing her enthusiasm in Ned’s presence.

  “Tuesday, I am going to the Alber Hotel for a CD launch. Perhaps you could come along? Robert will contact you with the details.”

  “Thank you. That would be marvellous.”

  “By the way,” said Ned, as Frédéric and Poitiers started to move away, “who was the pianist this evening? There was no mention of his name that I could find.”

  “Jérôme Selon,” said Poitiers. “A rising concert pianist. We managed to employ him at very short notice.”

  *****

  “My heart bleeds,” said Ned, as he and Imogen walked along Wigmore Street to catch the bus back to Parliament Hill. “Coming out of the dark, into the light. Oh, my! He should have been a poet. Or one of those deeply philosophical authors like Sabine Devergne. I am coming into zee light because I ave zee new lover and she is wonderful, so I must let everybodee know that I am no longer suffering.”

  “I’m warning you, I’ll catch the bus on my own,” said Imogen.

  “I won’t say another word.”

  “That will be a first. Anyway, he has suffered.”

  “Not as much as Elodie or Marie,” said Ned.

  “That’s in very poor taste.”

  “Sorry, but when you defend him, you should remember that.”

  “I thought it was supposed to be that you’re innocent until proven guilty.”

  “Yes, but one can still be a suspect. Imagine if the police weren’t allowed to discuss any suspects.”

  “Oh, so you’re a policeman, now, are you?”

  “As it happens, I’ve always fancied myself as a…”

  “You can leave it at that, that you’ve always fancied yourself. Quick, let’s run, there’s the bus.”

  *****

  Imogen always rather enjoyed press conferences and CD launches, because they usually took place in rather swish hotels, and tended to involve champagne and delicious canapés. She had done her best to rise to the occasion, wearing a dark rose silk shift dress with a grey silk jacket. She’d played for safety with her hair piled up, and simple pearl earrings and a necklace, but wore some rather daring leopard print stilettos that Ned had classed as flashy the moment he saw them. Imogen liked to think of them as killer heels – although, as Ned pointed out, they were only trying to convict Frédéric, not kill him.

  Arriving at The Alber, Imogen’s name was taken by a glamorous young French girl and she was given a name tag. She made her way to the champagne.

  “Imogen, how are you?” It was Crispin Tyler. “This is rather fun, isn’t it? First one of these I’ve been to in the new season. I’m surprised Sebastian let you come. He’s up for the champagne, usually.”

  “Oh, he is coming, too, you don’t need to worry. As you say, there’s little chance of him missing out on a bit of a beano, as he calls them. He was invited automatically; I bumped into Frédéric and his publicist at the Wigmore Hall, and they invited me. In fact, Sebastian called them and even managed to wangle an extra invite for Tarquin, our junior assistant, to give him a bit of experience. He should be here somewhere.”

  “You’re obviously a very important outfit.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Tell me.” Crispin bent towards Imogen, looking super conspiratorial. “I hear he has a new young lover. Is it true? Seems a bit quick.”

  “I haven’t heard much more than that myself,” said Imogen, feeling that she was just about telling the truth. “It wouldn’t surprise me. He’s very dishy.”

  “What did you think of the Wigmore recital?”

  “I enjoyed it. I thought he was in superb voice.”

  “Imogen, Crispin, thank you so much for coming.” It was Frédéric. “And who is this?” he added, as Tarquin joined them.

  “Frédéric, Crispin, let me introduce you. This is Tarquin. He’s our assistant, one hoping to make his career in opera,” said Imogen.

  “Singing? Are you going to be my rival?” asked Frédéric.

  “No. A music journalist, I hope.”

  “Well, you must come to see me. I will give you an interview and Imogen will publish it.”

  “That would be fantastic! I haven’t done an interview on my own.”

  Imogen had never heard Tarquin so enthusiastic.

  “Well, I will be your first customer,” said Frédéric, laughing. “Phone Poitiers and tell him that I want to see you.”

  “I will. Thank you so much.”

  “Now, I must go to talk to some of our other guests.” Turning his back on Crispin and Tarquin, he spoke in a quieter voice to Imogen. “Imogen, as I said the other evening, I would like to talk to you some time.”

  An urgency in Frédéric’s tone made Imogen suddenly reluctant to be à deux with him. “Well, I’m sure I’ll accompany Tarquin to his interview with you,” she said.

  “No, I mean just the two of us. We have much to discuss. Can you ring me tonight? I leave in a couple of days.” He looked very meaningfully at her, then moved away towards the other guests.

  *****

  “Well,” said Imogen, as she and Tarquin left. “You must be feeling pretty pleased. You’ve got your first big interview. Wait until Sebastian hears. In fact, where is Sebastian? He was supposed to be here.”

  “He was going to a launch first at the Farringdon Club.”

  “Oh, well, that explains everything. No doubt the launch turned into lunch. I can just hear him, ‘You know how it is, darling… ’”

  “… one thing just led t
o another,” finished Tarquin and they both laughed.

  “Shall we take a cab back to the office?” asked Imogen.

  “No, let’s walk,” said Tarquin. “It’s not that far and I like strolling through Mayfair – it’s really good for spotting celebrities.”

  “Well, there’s one for you,” said Imogen, pointing to Frédéric, who was just getting into a cab. “He’s such a snappy dresser. I love his scarf.”

  “It’s Sophie’s.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The scarf. She had a sort of arty hat stand with things draped over it in her flat. That scarf was one of them.”

  “What an observant little fellow you are.”

  Tarquin gave a very wide grin.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Bravo, Tarquin, that’s all I can say,” said Ned, later. “Now we know that he and Sophie are pretty well-entrenched as a couple.”

  “Well, not really. She could have given it to him just recently. Don’t forget, it’s only a short time since Tarquin and I were in her flat.”

  “What I mean is, it’s unlikely that you’d give someone your scarf if you’d just met them. It’s not a very romantic thing to do, is it?”

  “It’s only a scarf,” said Imogen. “He could have left it in her flat by accident.”

  “Plus,” Ned continued, ignoring Imogen’s comments, “she had the glove, which was most probably the one lost by Elodie. That couldn’t have been quite so recent. Oh, yes, where young Junot’s concerned, there’s a lot more going on than appears on the surface.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Talking of surfaces, shouldn’t we be in the kitchen? It’s nearly dinnertime and we haven’t prepared a thing.”

  *****

  “By the way—” said Imogen, as she helped Ned to skin some red peppers, before putting them into a gratin with some mushrooms and aubergines.

  “I hate this job,” said Ned.

  “I said ‘By the way’.”

  “So you did. By which way? Mmm, just look at those grilled aubergines. I can’t wait.”

  “By the way, I’m a little uncertain about meeting up with Frédéric anymore.” Imogen’s tone was hesitant. “I mean, I know I promised to get to the bottom of what was going on with the letters, but so much has happened since then. I would feel better staying away from him.”

  Ned paused and looked up at Imogen. “I thought you were on his side,” he said, his voice much quieter than usual.

  “I know, but that was at the beginning of all this. Marie has died; Frédéric is going out with Sophie – even wearing her scarf. I thought she was a friend. Now, I wonder whether she was spying on me all the time. It’s all very unpleasant.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  Imogen felt a surge of warmth towards Ned for his concern and sympathy. “I’m tempted to arrange a meeting with Frédéric, as he asked. I’ll give him back the photocopies of the letters and just say that we haven’t got anywhere.”

  “But we have unearthed a lot of clues or, as you prefer to call them, coincidences. I’m convinced that one day they will all slot into place.”

  “Yes, I know, but that’s what I mean. It’s all so undercover and creepy – very unpleasant. It makes me afraid. What about the man breaking into the car? And the letters to me? I know none of that has reoccurred, but someone must be directing all this. I’m worried that it’s not our business. I’d rather just leave it to the police.”

  “Has finding out that Frédéric and Sophie are having an affair led to all this?” asked Ned, quietly.

  Imogen didn’t reply immediately, then, “I don’t know,” she almost whispered, her voice sounding very tearful.

  “I think it has.”

  “I felt so sorry for him. He seemed to be completely bereft. I loved the way he had been so passionately in love with Elodie.”

  “And?”

  “And five minutes later he’s going out with Sophie. I even suspect she’s been in the picture the whole time. Where does she get the money for that flat in the Marais, for example? Frédéric’s rolling in it. It could easily be him.”

  “It could, but maybe she has family money,” said Ned. “And she was with Paul all summer.”

  “That’s true. Oh, I just hate it all. I never want to have anything more to do with it.” Imogen buried her head in her hands.

  “I’ll tell you what we’ll do.”

  “Yes?”

  “You arrange, as requested, to meet Frédéric. He won’t know it, but it will be for the last time. Be very pleasant. Give him the copies of the letters. Say that we haven’t made any progress and, as far as you can see, they’re meaningless. Just the work of a crank. It’s coming up to Christmas at work and you’re so busy, but you wish him well and he can rest assured that whenever he’s performing in London, you’ll always attend. Be sweet and lovely, which you always are, and make it seem not like a farewell – which, in fact, it is – but an au revoir. Then we’ll forget the whole thing. I’ve made some extra copies, but I’ll destroy them.”

  “You seem to have enjoyed it all, though. I thought you’d want to carry on.”

  “It has been fun, but it may be that it’s gone a bit too far. Life’s for living, after all.”

  Imogen threw her arms around Ned. “Sometimes you’re just wonderful,” she said.

  “Mind the aubergines!” said Ned. “And why don’t we just leave out the sometimes?”

  *****

  It reminded Imogen of the first time she met Frédéric. She was even more nervous, however, and had taken even more care over her appearance. She had bought a new suit from Nicole Farhi. It was made of soft, camel-coloured wool, and she had dark brown leather slingbacks with a matching bag. She had even had her hair blow-dried into a smooth bob, and, with simple gold jewellery, she knew she looked good.

  She had arranged to meet Frédéric at a bistro that was tucked in a corner off Floral Street – just a hop from the Opera House. Frédéric was already seated and he rose as she was shown to her seat. He looked wonderfully smart in a lightweight dark grey suit, with a maroon silk tie and white shirt. He was quite the city gent. Perhaps he was also feeling uneasy?

  “Imogen, how are you?” He took her hand across the table and kissed it.

  Ever the charmer, thought Imogen, as she smiled, albeit uncomfortably.

  “You are looking marvellous,” said Frédéric.

  Imogen worried that he could sense she was feeling uneasy and tried to relax. “Thank you,” she said. “How are you?”

  “I am feeling better than I have for some time. Although, of course, I will never be the same.”

  “Probably these things just take time.”

  “What about a little apéritif before we choose our food?” said Frédéric. “It will help us to relax.”

  Frédéric smiled so sweetly that Imogen could almost feel herself falling for his charm all over again. She refused the offer of a drink. That certainly wouldn’t help her to maintain her defences against his smooth manner.

  “I think I’d better just stick to water,” she said. “I have quite a busy afternoon ahead of me.” This was true, although she knew it wouldn’t normally put her off having a drink, and certainly wouldn’t put Sebastian off. In fact, having a drink was a prerequisite to any sustained effort for him.

  “Oh dear,” said Frédéric. “Perhaps it would be best if I just order a small carafe of wine and maybe you can taste a little.”

  “Perfect,” said Imogen.

  “Now, let’s look at the menu,” said Frédéric.

  *****

  “You seem a little preoccupied,” said Frédéric, after they had placed their orders. “Are you well?”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Imogen. “I’ve just got rather a lot on at
the moment and I suppose I’m a little tired.”

  “I hope I didn’t bully you to meet me, but I wanted to see you alone. It is some time since we had the chance to talk and I am very interested to hear if you’ve managed to find out any information about the letters.”

  “Well,” said Imogen, taking a deep breath, amazed that Frédéric had raised the topic so early in their meeting. “I’m so terribly sorry, but I really can’t say that I’ve made much progress. I have tried checking them against, for example, Murger’s book, but I’ve drawn a blank. Now, I find that I’m very busy in the run-up to Christmas. It’s not that I have forgotten about them, it’s just harder than I thought to find the time, and what I have discovered so far tempts me to think that there’s no great motive behind them. They’re probably just the work of a crank.” I’m going to treat Ned to a very nice dinner, she told herself.

  “That’s fine, said Frédéric. “Absolutely fine.” Imogen could sense him relaxing. “I have been thinking of how unfair of me it was to ask you. At the time, I was very distressed. I couldn’t cope with researching them myself, but I felt under pressure to act. Do you have the copies of the letters with you, by any chance?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Imogen. She took the copies from her bag, pleased, as she did so, that she had had her nails manicured while having her hair done.

  “Here you are,” she said, handing them across the table to Frédéric.

  Frédéric quickly checked the letters, then smiled. “Yes, they’re all here,” he said, seeming suddenly very relaxed. “Why don’t we just forget about them? I suspect that both you and the police are correct. They are just the work of an idiot. I will throw them away and that will be it. You haven’t kept any copies, have you?”

  “No,” said Imogen, conscious that Ned had said he would destroy them.

  “That’s marvellous. Now, let’s get on with the very important business of lunch,” he said, laughing.

  “By the way,” asked Imogen, “have you received any more?”

  “More letters?”

  “Yes. Since you gave me those. It was just after Mme Dufrais died, of course.”