Classical Murder

by Joan Carter

  “How lovely to see you,” said Imogen. “Let me introduce you. Juliette, this is Ned. Ned, this is Juliette and—”

  “I am Jérôme,” said the young man. “Thank you so much for inviting me. I am delighted to be here.”

  “Oh, good, you speak English,” said Imogen, laughing.

  “I do,” said Jérôme. “I have spent quite a lot of time in England, as it happens.”

  “Oh, really?” said Imogen. “Do sit down. When Ned serves the drinks, we can get to know each other a little better, I hope.”

  *****

  “I’m sure we’ve met before,” said Ned, as he handed a glass of wine to Jérôme. “Where could that have been, I wonder?”

  “I am a pianist,” said Jérôme. “Perhaps you have been to one of my concerts?”

  “I know,” said Ned. “You played at the recital given by Frédéric Junot at the Wigmore Hall.”

  “That is right,” said Jérôme.

  “We were there,” explained Imogen. “Juliette may have told you that I work as a music journalist in the world of opera.”

  “Yes, she did. Well, I aspire to be a concert pianist, but to help to pay the bills, I also work as an accompanist or, more frequently, as a répétiteur.”

  “Jérôme is trying to establish himself as a solo artist,” said Juliette, “but it would be impossible to live on the money one gets from that – at least until he’s a star! Still, you enjoy your other work, don’t you?”

  “I do,” he said, “particularly as a répétiteur. I get to meet a lot of interesting people.”

  “By répétiteur, you mean someone who accompanies singers at a rehearsal? Is that right?” asked Ned.

  “Ned is a doctor,” said Imogen. “He isn’t always too hot on the technicalities of the music world.”

  “Yes, I don’t come across répétiteurs in my trade,” said Ned. “Unless they’ve had an accident, that is.” He laughed.

  “Accompanying singers at rehearsals is the main thing that I do,” said Jérôme. “Occasionally, as with the Junot concert, I get asked to accompany a singer in a performance. That is rare, however.”

  “We got the impression that the Junot concert was rather hastily arranged,” said Ned.

  “You can say that again,” said Juliette. “Jérôme only got the call the night before, didn’t you?” She turned to Imogen. “That is why I didn’t know that he would be playing when I saw you.”

  “I did wonder,” said Imogen.

  “Yes,” said Jérôme, “everything had been done very quickly and the pianist whom they hired wasn’t actually in London, but in Paris. He then realised he wouldn’t be able to make it in time, so I got the job as I was over here visiting Juliette.”

  “You could say he got lucky,” said Juliette.

  “Wasn’t it rather difficult to get it all together at such short notice?” asked Ned.

  “No, not really,” said Jérôme. “It was pretty well-known repertoire, as you probably realised. Puccini, Verdi, a bit of Bizet. We just had a run-through earlier in the day and it all seemed fine, so we went ahead. Had he wanted something more obscure, there might have been a problem, but don’t forget that I am used to working with singers. I assume that that is why I got the job.”

  “You weren’t at the concert, were you, Juliette?” asked Imogen. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “No, thank you,” said Juliette. “I can’t abide the man.” She shuddered.

  “Yet she was kind enough to let me put my career first and play, despite her feelings,” said Jérôme.

  “He can’t afford to be choosy at this stage in his career,” said Juliette. “Once you are famous, you can tell Frédéric to get lost.”

  “Let’s sit at the table,” said Imogen. “I think our food is ready.”

  “This looks wonderful,” said Juliette, as Ned served a potage of autumn vegetables with homemade olive bread.

  “Don’t look at me,” said Imogen. “I’m glad to say that Ned is the chef.”

  “Yes. I like standards to remain high, so I do most of the cooking myself,” said Ned.

  *****

  “Tell me,” said Ned to Jérôme, as he collected the plates after the soup. “What did you think of Frédéric? Did you know him before you played for him at the Wigmore Hall?”

  “Not at all. I know him only by his reputation.”

  “He always seems so very charming,” said Imogen.

  “Yes and no,” said Jérôme. “He was mostly just professional with me. Polite, but there were no friendly overtures. Usually a singer will invite you to join him for a coffee or perhaps lunch. He didn’t.”

  “On the other hand, you were very pressed for time,” said Imogen.

  “True. Even so, I have been in that situation before and all those working together gelled. Not this time. As I have said, it wasn’t a very demanding repertoire.”

  “Does he know that you are Juliette’s partner?” asked Ned.

  “I’m not sure,” said Jérôme, “but it did occur to me that that could be why he was rather distant.”

  “Such is the gossip in the music world, it is very likely, I think,” said Juliette, “that he knew about us. He couldn’t, however, be rude to you in front of everyone else. Anyway, he needed you.”

  “I think you’re right,” said Jérôme. “Yet sometimes he was quite complimentary about my playing, which pleased me. He did often behave in a very odd manner, however.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Imogen.

  “He seemed very nervous. Always looking around. Not relaxing.”

  “I’m amazed that you say that,” said Imogen. “Whenever I’ve met him, apart from in the immediate aftermath of Elodie Dufrais’ death, he always seemed so relaxed. Positively oozing charm and confidence.”

  “Oh, pouf!” said Juliette. “He knows how to put on an act when he wants to. He probably has a lot on his conscience.”

  “Exactly,” said Jérôme. “I wondered whether it is hanging over him. One of the technicians commented that Frédéric preferred not to sing particular pieces of music because they reminded him of Elodie.”

  “Here we are,” said Ned. “Round two. Coq au vin with haricots verts and pommes de terre. All very French. I hope that suits.”

  “It sounds wonderful,” said Juliette.

  *****

  “I can see why you like Juliette,” said Ned, pouring two glasses of red wine as a nightcap after Jérôme and Juliette had left.

  “Yes, she’s great fun, isn’t she?” said Imogen.

  “Yes, though she also has that rather intense, serious French manner sometimes,” said Ned. “I rather like that.”

  “You were obviously smitten,” said Juliette.

  “Impressed, not smitten,” said Ned.

  “Jérôme is a delight, too,” said Imogen.

  “I really liked him,” said Ned. “I hope he makes it as a pianist. It’s such a competitive business.”

  “It is. And it doesn’t always help to work as a sort of jobbing pianist, as he’s doing. One can lose one’s mystique, as it were.”

  “Yes, but bills have to be paid.”

  “Well, also, it’s probably more fun to get out and be involved in a performance, or in the rehearsal rooms at the Opera House, for example.”

  “I’m sure it is. Better than staying at home, practising endless scales on one’s own,” said Ned, laughing. “I find it fascinating, by the way, that our good friend Frédéric is a bit haunted. So he should be.”

  “Why? Because he’s going out with Sophie?”

  “Not just that. It’s because it makes me think he’s got a guilty conscience. Everything we’ve heard recently points to that.”

  “Specifically?”

  “Oh, w
anting the letters back, not wanting to sing certain pieces of music. Even this business of suddenly promoting himself seems odd.”

  “I agree. He can’t be doing it all for financial reasons.”

  “Not if he’s pinching all of Elodie’s money as well.”

  “Exactly. Well, for a topic we’re supposed to have left behind, we seem to bring it up rather often.”

  “Yup, you’re right. Let’s close the debate.”

  “Agreed. Let me toast the chef,” said Imogen, raising her glass to Ned.

  “And let me congratulate the hostess on her excellent choice of guests.”

  “Who’s going to clear up?”

  “Let’s have a collaboration.”

  “Perfect. We always make a very good team.”

  “I’ve thought that for some time,” said Ned, quietly.

  Imogen didn’t respond.

  *****

  “Ned. It’s Imogen.”

  “Hi.”

  “I take it you got to work okay?”

  “Yep,” said Ned. “No signs of a hangover, either. I’m definitely someone who can handle their drink.”

  “They do say that practice makes perfect.”

  “I’ll ignore that comment. To what do I owe the honour of this call?”

  “I’m probably being paranoid,” said Imogen, “but did you leave a brochure in the hall last night?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. What sort of brochure?”

  “It’s rather poorly printed and is advertising a performance of Bohème, with Frédéric as Rodolfo, but no one as Mimi. It’s supposed to be at the Opera House in one month’s time, but I’ve checked and there’s no such performance. Anyway, it wouldn’t be for just one night.”

  “It does sound a bit odd. It must have been dropped by Juliette or Jérôme. It could be a rough draft for a flyer or something like that.”

  “It’s so odd. Of all the operas and all the stars, it’s Bohème and Frédéric again.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Ned. “I’ll have a look at it later. I’m finishing at lunchtime. I have a long haul tomorrow.”

  “Ok. I have a lunch date, so let’s talk tonight. I won’t be late.”

  “Fine.”

  *****

  “Love the coat,” said Ned, as he and Imogen met up outside Hampstead tube station that evening. He cast an appraising eye over the knee-length overcoat, which Imogen had treated herself to in Joseph at lunchtime. “It looks very classy.”

  “Well,” said Imogen, “the nights are closing in. And I do have to look good when I’m meeting clients.”

  “Of course,” said Ned. “I understand and, anyway, I don’t detect the slightest sign of a guilty conscience. You look like a real thoroughbred.” Imogen could feel herself blushing.

  “Thank you.”

  “Where are we going to eat?” asked Ned.

  “I really don’t mind. You choose.”

  “How about the burger place on Heath Street? I feel in need of some red meat.”

  “Okay, but I think I’ll stick to a salad.”

  *****

  “Did you pick the leaflet up from my flat?” asked Imogen, once they were seated in the restaurant.

  “Yes, I have it here,” said Ned, pulling the leaflet out of his pocket.

  “What do you make of it?”

  “It’s hard to say, but my bet would be in line with my first suggestion – that it’s some kind of early spoof for an advertising flyer and nothing to do with you.”

  “I know but—”

  “Look,” said Ned, “you’re going to drive yourself mad with all of this. What I suggest is that you mention it to Juliette next time you see her. If you make the decision to do that, then put it out of your mind for now and that’s that.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Imogen, sensing that Ned, unusually, was losing patience.

  “By the way,” said Ned, as they waited for the food to arrive. “I have one more piece of news.”

  “Which is?”

  “Look at this.” He pulled a piece of newspaper from his pocket. “I had a coffee in Maison Blanc while I was waiting for you and guess what I found in Le Figaro?”

  “How can I possibly guess?”

  “Well, think back to the last information I found in there.”

  “Sabine?”

  “Got it in one.”

  “And?”

  “She’s doing a reading in Paris. One of the big hotels. This Saturday evening.”

  “Wow. That sounds good.”

  “And…”

  “Well?” asked Imogen.

  “Well, I’ve had a look and we can get seats on the Eurostar. I’ve also spoken to a medical friend, James, who can put us up, which will keep costs down – so we can go.”

  “But we’ve said a million times that we are going to forget all about Frédéric and co.”

  “But this will be Paris. And it’s literary. And it’s fun.”

  “Let’s do it,” said Imogen.

  “Phew,” said Ned.

  “Why phew?”

  “Well, you see, I’ve already booked it. You are free, aren’t you?”

  CHAPTER 24

  “A stroll by the Seine in the late afternoon autumn sunlight,” said Ned. “What could be more romantic?”

  “I can’t imagine,” said Imogen. “I must admit, it’s rather wonderful. Partly, I think, because it’s so unexpected. One minute I’m fussing over work and leaflets dropped in my hall, the next I’m here, strolling by the Seine in Paris. Fantastic.”

  “I thought we could drop into the Picasso Museum,” said Ned. “It’s pretty close by. The only slight hitch in our plans is that it’s going to be rather difficult timing our food. The reading starts at 7.30pm and we don’t know when it will finish, which makes it difficult to reserve a restaurant table.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Imogen. “We are in Paris. We’re bound to find a table somewhere.”

  “I know, but it’s so important. It’s not every day that we’re in Paris.”

  “It’s becoming more frequent.”

  “Good thing, too. Right,” Ned consulted his map, “let’s head down here. The Marais starts just over there and the Picasso Museum is in the middle of it.”

  “I will have time to change before I go to the reading, won’t I?” said Imogen. “I can’t go in these trousers and top. I look like a gap year student and it’s bound to be a very chic occasion.”

  “You look great. I love it when you’re in hippy mode. But yes, you will have time to change. So will I, although I don’t think it’s really necessary.”

  “It won’t hurt,” said Imogen, taking in Ned’s battered cords and anorak. “You’re okay for the North York Moors, but I’m not so sure about Literary Paris.”

  “Point taken. Here we are. Musée Picasso. Bravo! Entrons!”

  *****

  “I loved it,” said Ned, as he and Imogen left the museum a while later. “What a beautifully organised museum. Very understated, but so… oh, I don’t know what.”

  “Well put,” said Imogen, laughing. “It was great. I didn’t realise that he painted in Paris around the time that La Bohème and Tosca had their first performances.”

  “We’re like a couple of overenthusiastic schoolchildren,” said Ned.

  “I know, but it is such fun to have got away and to be in Paris.”

  *****

  “Imogen. Ned!” They heard a voice calling them and turned around.

  “Sophie,” said Imogen, spotting the person who was hailing them from the other side of the road.

  “Well, hello. I thought I recognised you,” said Sophie. “What a surprise.”

  “
Yes, I’m sure it is,” said Imogen, trying to keep her disappointment at bumping into Sophie out of her voice. “We’ve just come over for the weekend. We decided on the spur of the moment.”

  “How lovely.”

  “We’re going to a book reading,” said Ned.

  Imogen’s kick hit his shin just too late.

  “How interesting,” said Sophie. Imogen could see Sophie’s eyes narrow as she tried to work out where they were going.

  “Yes,” said Imogen. “It’s one of the authors I interviewed for my book. We saw that she was giving a reading of some of her work and thought it would be a good excuse for spending some time in Paris.”

  “Then it must be Sabine,” said Sophie. “I know she is giving a reading this evening.”

  “That’s right,” said Imogen, desperately unhappy to have been found out. “Are you going?”

  “No, I don’t think she would be very pleased to see me,” said Sophie.

  “Oh, really?” said Imogen, not in the least surprised by this information.

  “No. I would like to go from an intellectual point of view, but socially I think it would be better to stay away. I’m sure you can see why.” Imogen said nothing and nor, she was delighted to note, did Ned. He obviously didn’t want to be kicked in the shins again.

  “I must go,” said Sophie. “I have a very busy evening, but I would love to see you tomorrow, if you have time?”

  “I’m not sure that we will,” said Imogen. “We are staying with a friend of Ned’s and I think we will be spending time with him.”

  “Well, you have my number,” said Sophie. “Otherwise, I hope to be in London before long. Maybe I could contact you then.”

  “Of course,” said Imogen.

  “I am going to have a small, private showing of my work,” said Sophie. “I will invite you both to the opening night.” She turned to Ned and smiled.