‘What?’
‘Oh, James. You know what I mean. Mixed metaphors aside, I’m worried that if you rush into something with her… well, she might just be seeing you as some sort of golden-egg lay—’
James was following Fen through to the studio when she stopped suddenly. He almost toppled over her and grasped her shoulders to steady himself. Fen didn’t move though. She just stood there, her hand now clasped to her mouth as she took in the scene in front of her. One of the easels was on the floor, its canvas lying awkwardly on top of it. And next to it, with a paintbrush jabbed fully into her neck, piercing her throat, was the lifeless body of Rose Coillard.
Twenty
Blood pooled around the body, spreading over the dust sheets and mingling with the oil paint on the canvas and palette, which must have been in Rose’s hand when the killer struck.
‘Dear God!’ Fen looked on in shock and reached out for James to hold onto.
‘Oh Fen,’ he was there, his arm immediately around her shoulder, their ever-so recent argument all but forgotten.
‘She’s dead.’ Fen could barely believe it. This vibrant woman who had only a few hours ago been talking of cocktails… here she was now, her long beaded necklace draping limply over her velvet dress, her eyes glassily staring up at the crystal chandelier.
‘Here, boy.’ James let go of Fen’s arm and looked over to where her little dog was quivering behind the saggy armchair.
‘Oh Tipper,’ Fen knelt down and beckoned him over, but James beat her to it and walked over to the small dog and scooped him up. ‘The poor thing, he must have seen it all happen.’
‘If only you could talk, huh, pup?’ James rubbed his head between his ears and held him tightly.
‘I suppose we should call the police.’ Fen was still kneeling by Rose’s body. ‘I’m so sorry, Rose,’ she said to the recumbent figure and carefully closed her eyelids.
‘I’ll do it.’ James carried Tipper with him as he walked into the hallway, where Rose had a telephone. ‘Come on, Fen, you need a cup of tea and a shot of something stronger.’
A few hours later and the apartment was quiet. Deathly quiet, Fen thought to herself and shivered. She had decided to stay on once the police had taken the body away and sent in a cleaner, having photographed the scene, and she and James had given their statements to the businesslike inspector.
A preliminary inspection by the police surgeon suggested Rose was killed earlier that afternoon, although Fen was given a sharp look by the police inspector when he caught her earwigging on their conversation.
During this time, Simone had come home and, upon seeing the bloody mess and sheet-covered body, had fallen into a faint, rather conveniently close to James’s open arms. She was now asleep, the police surgeon having had a handy dose of sedatives in his medicine bag. James had offered to stay with Fen, but she’d sent him back to his hotel, not because she didn’t want the company, but because she thought he might need an hour or two to himself. He’d promised to return with a bite of supper for them all later.
She got up from the old armchair and moved towards the windows. The sun had disappeared over the rooftops and it was long past the time when Paris’s famous street lamps were lit. It was a relief in a way to see a city ablaze with light again, after the blackouts of the Blitz, but tonight Fen didn’t want to relish in the life beyond the windows. She pulled the heavy red curtains to, switched on the side lamps and turned to face the scene of the crime again.
‘I will find out who did this to you, Rose,’ Fen swore, addressing the place on the floor where her friend had fallen. ‘And if Arthur were here, he’d help me work it out. What would he say? “If you can’t solve your seven across, check your two down” or some such thing. So, what do I need to solve? Who murdered you. Well, I have no idea. So what’s my two down that might help me…?’ Fen pondered the question as there was a knock at the door and Tipper started yapping from the hallway. ‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’
Fen followed the little dog to the front door and opened it cautiously, grateful to find it was only James with a baguette and a bag of groceries.
‘How are you holding up?’ he asked.
Fen shrugged and led him through the hallway into the galley kitchen. ‘I just can’t stop thinking about poor Rose and looking at the… well, the spot where we found her.’
‘Are you sure you two should be here tonight?’
‘Simone’s out like a light and I don’t think I could leave her to wake up alone. Plus I’m not sure a hotel would take me and Tipper at this late hour. No. I’ll be fine. Thanks for the tucker.’
‘My pleasure. I would offer to look after Simone for you, but…’ James paused, obviously expecting some sort of reprimand. ‘Are you all right, Fen? I thought that might get me a telling off. You didn’t even tell me I was rude earlier either, I was waiting for that one.’
Fen tried a weak smile, but it didn’t really come out as much more than a thin grimace. ‘Sorry, James, I know you’re just trying to cheer me up.’
James looked at her and she could see the sincerity in his eyes. ‘What would help? Really?’
‘Finding out who killed dear Rose.’
James put the groceries down on the side. ‘Well, that’s going to be a little harder than just telling you a few jokes, but let’s see what we can do.’
‘You’ll help me?’ Fen felt a wave of relief come over her.
‘Of course. But where do we start? I know you, what’s your five down then?’
Fen smiled. ‘Tried that. Didn’t get very far, I’m afraid. From what they told us earlier, the police seem to think it could just be a burglary gone awry – some of her paintings are gone, including the little Impressionist one, and although I don’t know how much jewellery Rose had, there is none left now at all in her room.’
‘Shame they didn’t steal Tipper.’
‘James… now, that is rude.’ Fen gave him a look and he smiled back at her. ‘But I don’t know, I just don’t buy it. Yes, things were stolen, but why Rose? Why this apartment? When there are art galleries and shops on the street just below us, full of artworks of equal, or probably far greater, value to Rose’s collection. Those buildings could so easily be broken into and the art taken without having to risk coming across someone. And there are plenty of other well-to-do apartments twixt here and there, too. Rose told me the other night that the lady downstairs is a Russian countess, for heaven’s sake! So, no, I don’t think it was a burglary.’ She paused. ‘So I suppose to work on my two down or whatever, we have to start talking to those who knew Rose the best.’
‘Well, Sleeping Beauty is dead to the world.’
Fen frowned at his choice of words and shook her head.
‘Sorry.’ James dug his hand into the shopping bag and pulled out a tin of coarse pâté, then started riffling through the drawers, trying to find a tin opener.
‘Asleep or not, Simone has only lodged here for a matter of weeks, so I’m not sure she would have much more to share on Rose than I know already.’ Fen furrowed her brow in thought. ‘There’s Henri Renaud…’
‘And?’ James pulled the cork on a bottle of vin de table.
‘She brushed it off, but I saw her arguing with her rather dubious art dealer, Michel Lazard. That was only yesterday. What if he—’
‘Killed her?’ James posed the question they were both thinking. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘I think he’d been miss-selling her paintings and getting her into the soup with some customers.’
‘Miss-selling how?’
‘Let’s just say there’s a fine line between homages and forgeries.’
‘Blimey,’ James pondered. ‘Is there a way of tracking him down?’
‘There might be…’ Fen smeared some pâté on a chunk of bread. ‘I’m sure I’ll find some sort of reference to him in her papers.’
‘The police didn’t take any of them?’
‘Not a sausage. They’re so sure it’s just a burgla
ry, they didn’t even go through her bag or desk or anything.’
‘And what about the Bernheims?’
‘Magda and Joseph?’ Fen looked affronted. ‘No, gosh no. Absolutely not. They loved Rose. And more than anyone else in the whole of Paris, they have absolutely no motive. She even told me that she’d found one of their paintings. They’d never get it back if they killed her now. Plus, if it had been one or both of them, then I think the paperwork would have been the first thing they’d take, not leave it to the gendarmes to, well, to ignore.’
‘I see. We better speak to them all the same, to let them know at least. And Fen?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m sorry about earlier. About arguing and about Rose and… well, Arthur would be really proud of you right now. I’m really proud of you.’
At that, he carried his own plate of bread and pâté and his glass of wine out of the kitchen and into the studio, while Fen wiped a tear away with the sleeve of her cardigan.
Twenty-One
The next day brought it with it more rain and squally winds and Fen wondered if her old trench coat would suffice for the early-morning walk across the Pont des Arts to the offices of the Louvre. She and James had talked last night before he headed back to his hotel, and they had realised that Henri Renaud might not even know that Rose had been killed. Plus, due to their clandestine war work, he more than anyone would know who might want her dead.
Although the police had done a fair sweep of the apartment for clues, their insistence that it must ‘just be a burglary gone wrong’ had meant they hadn’t taken away personal items such as Rose’s carpetbag full of papers or her diary. Fen had found it open on the coffee table, untouched by the uninterested gendarmes, and had seen she was due to visit Henri today at the Louvre – or at least that’s what she thought the big red HENRI encircled several times on today’s page meant. She had been looking at it when a knock at the door, followed by Tipper’s usual tirade, had startled her. That it was only James was a relief, and Fen let him in, while scooping up the squirming little dog before he tripped either of them up.
‘How are you this morning?’ James asked.
Fen sucked in her breath and exhaled, staring at the ceiling, trying to find the right words to describe her grief. How could she burden James, who she really didn’t know terribly well, with her feelings of loss? First Arthur and now Rose, not to mention all the acquaintances and friends she and her fellow land girls had lost over the last few years. She rested her face against Tipper’s neck before putting the dog down.
‘Fine,’ she said and smiled at James, who just nodded.
The knocking and Tipper’s barking was enough to rouse Simone, who groggily opened her bedroom door. James had the decency to avert his eyes from her state of undress, and Simone closed it again, emerging a few moments later in a floor-length silk dressing gown. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and asked for some coffee, before dissolving into tears at the sight of the broken easel and stained floor.
‘Come now, Simone.’ Fen let her sob on her shoulder for a bit, while James fiddled around in the kitchen, finding the coffee pot and heating the water.
Fen always felt terribly awkward comforting people, especially such overtly emotional ones. Now was not the time for weeping and she said as much, in a gentler way, to Simone and settled her down on the chaise longue. It didn’t help that Tipper kept jumping off her every time Fen tried to leave the small dog on Simone’s lap, a warm little pup to snuggle would have been just the ticket. Still, once she was quite sure that Simone’s sobs had eased, she tracked down James in the kitchen as he was filling up the coffee pot.
‘She’s a bit calmer now,’ Fen said, finding three cups in the cupboard.
‘It’s been a shock for her.’
And me, Fen thought to herself, but just nodded. ‘I’ll go and see Henri this morning, as discussed, and let him know. Would you be able to keep an eye on Simone and possibly go door-to-door around the other apartments in case anyone saw or heard anything suspicious? I know the gendarmes did a quick whip around the building, but I still can’t believe this was just a burglary. Maybe you could ask more, I don’t know, illuminating questions rather than just the old “did you get burgled last night, too?”.’
‘Absolutely,’ James agreed and Fen felt happier leaving the weepy Simone with him in charge.
After a quick slug of coffee, she collected up her coat and bag and headed out.
Fen was bracing herself to break the news to Henri that the woman he worked so closely with during the war was dead. By the time she arrived at the side door of the mighty Louvre, she was wet through and shivering. It’s as if the weather knows… she thought to herself.
As Rose had done just a few days ago, Fen let herself in, wondering at the ease of it. So much for saving the works from the Nazis, when anyone could just waltz in and steal them now… With that in mind, she carefully closed the door behind her and retraced the steps she had taken to Henri Renaud’s office.
‘Come in!’
‘Bonjour Monsieur Renaud,’ Fen felt it necessary to be reasonably formal, given the circumstances.
‘Ah, Miss Churche, hello.’
‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, it’s just I—’
‘Madame Coillard sent you on a mission, eh? Too immersed in her paintbrushes to come herself? Or rather you than her in this rain, eh?’
He seemed so jovial and oblivious as he joked about Rose, it almost broke Fen’s heart all over again to tell him of her terrible news. She sat herself down in one of the gold-edged fancy chairs the other side of his vast desk and recounted the recent, awful, events.
‘Oh dear, oh dear indeed. Oh dear, dear, dear.’ Henri was visibly moved and distracted himself by taking his glasses off and giving them a long and thoughtful polish as he muttered ‘Oh dear’ over and over again.
‘I’m so sorry, Monsieur Renaud, I know you two were close.’
‘We did some excellent work together.’ He replaced his glasses onto his nose.
‘The police think it was a burglary gone wrong, but I’m not so—’
‘Oh yes, yes. Possibly possibly. She gave out that key of hers to every former pupil, lodger and art enthusiast.’ As Henri spoke, Fen felt her own key to Rose’s apartment in her pocket and had to admit that it had been given freely. But they were old friends…
‘I don’t know…’
‘And I think I can count on one hand the times it’s even been locked,’ he continued, then he paused to think. ‘I’ll tell you who the police should be interviewing. That set of useless men who hang around in the bar at the end of the road!’ Henri looked rather triumphant with his suggestion.
‘Who do you mean?’
‘Oh, I don’t know their names… let me think… Louis something and Jacques…’ he scratched his forehead as he tried to remember. ‘The Arnault brothers, they’d be a good bet, too.’
‘Gervais and Antoine?’ Fen thought of James and Simone’s slightly buffoonish friends. Then she remembered Gervais’s boasting from a couple of evenings ago. Of course Henri knew him.
‘Yes, yes. Fat little Gervais with his gap teeth and constant cheroot. He drove lorries for us in the war. Gervais “The Wrench” we called him. Antoine looks after my warehouse in St Denis, and I know he worries about his brother.’
‘Gervais mentioned he drove lorries for you the other night…’
‘Did he now? So much for confidentiality. But I suppose none of us has secrets any more. What’s the point?’
‘So what was he actually doing?’
‘This place,’ he waved his hand in the air, ‘we knew it would be a target for the Nazi trophy hunters. Yes, they were interested in the “legitimate”, or so they called it, stealing from the Jews, but they wanted the real masterpieces. The Venus de Milo, the Mona Lisa. We had to remove as much art as possible before the occupation. Countless masterpieces driven to châteaux around the country. The Mona Lisa was moved several times in an attempt t
o hide her from Herr Hitler.’
Fen sat back and took it all in. ‘Rose said as much, but I didn’t realise that the greatest treasures of the art world were left in the slightly grubby hands of a lorry driver like Gervais.’
‘Indeed. All hands on deck at the time.’
Even though Fen hadn’t exactly warmed to Gervais, something nagged at her. ‘If he was deemed responsible enough only, what, a year or so ago—’
‘Six years now. September 1939 we moved the Mona Lisa.’
‘And he worked for you after that too?’ Fen remembered now that Gervais had spoken about working for the Germans emptying Jewish apartments.
‘Yes, he did. I needed someone I could trust to work with me and Rose on the moving of the artwork. You see,’ he sat forward and addressed her more seriously, ‘the way it worked was that Gervais would take the contents of the apartments to the warehouse where his brother worked.’
‘You said it was your warehouse, yes?’
‘I lease it, yes, for my own collection that won’t fit into my gallery in the Palais du Jardins.’ He sat back again. ‘In any case, we needed a team we could trust. They would deliver the crates of artwork to the warehouse and unpack them. Then, using Rose’s list and her encoded names, they would carefully mark up the paintings in some way – chalk on the back of the frames or a pencil on the back of the canvas – and then repack the paintings ready for delivery to the auctioneers or the Jeu de Paumes gallery.’
‘I recognise that name.’ Fen thought back to her life in Paris in the 1930s.
‘As a good friend of Rose, so you should. She exhibited there alongside Matisse and Picasso, though perhaps that was after you left Paris? In any case, the ERR, the official looting squad of the Nazis, requisitioned it as the holding post for their plunder. Göring himself visited it, ooof, twenty times at least, to cherry-pick his favourite pieces for his and Hitler’s collections, and of course those for the German nation.’
[Fen Churche 02] - Night Train to Paris Page 11