[Fen Churche 02] - Night Train to Paris

by Fliss Chester

  The Louvre, it turned out, was the most perfect place for a party. ‘I suppose it was a royal palace,’ Fen had mused to herself as she’d accepted a glass of something that she thought might have been champagne, although she wasn’t sure.

  She had decided to wait for Henri just inside the main entrance, and as she stood with her back to a large marble pillar, she could not only take in the marvellous architecture around her, but also watch the other guests as they spilled into the gallery from the chill night outside. Fen could quite imagine herself at a ball at the court of Louis XIV, except that, like her, the ball dresses of the women around her had that air of ‘make do and mend’ and the white tie and tails of the gentlemen had the whiff of mothballs and cedar wood.

  But there were smiles on people’s faces and they embraced and air-kissed each other. She caught snippets of conversation – mentions of names such as Elsie de Wolfe and various countesses and how this felt like the pre-war parties. Fen sipped her champagne and watched as the crowds mingled and moved, couples introducing singles, men and women flirting and laughing, jewellery that might not have been aired for five years or more glittering under the electric chandeliers that illuminated the gallery.

  ‘Fenella!’ Henri’s voice cut through the crowd and Fen looked around to see him moving towards her.

  ‘Good evening, Henri.’ Fen air-kissed him on both cheeks, as it seemed the correct thing to do in this company.

  ‘Glad to see you enjoying the fizz,’ he nodded at the glass. ‘We had it safely stored at a château in the Loire, much like our precious artwork! Ah,’ he gripped Fen’s hand and held her at arm’s length, giving her an appraising look, ‘you remind me of Rose in so many ways. How did you find such a unique dress?’

  Fen cocked her head on one side and smiled at Henri. ‘I’m not entirely sure if you’re teasing me or not… you know this is one of Rose’s turbans?’ She pointed to her chest and shook her head. ‘With a lot of help from Simone and her needles!’

  ‘She is a woman of many skills indeed.’ Henri nodded in admiration as Fen gave him a little twirl. Henri clapped his hands together once in appreciation. ‘Magnifique! Now, I want to introduce you to some folk and I caught sight of them lounging on the grand staircase. Come, let’s go and find them.’

  With that, he led her through the other guests to where a set of glamorous partygoers were looking rather louche, draping themselves against the stone balustrades of the staircase.

  ‘Fenella, can I introduce Christian and Catherine Dior, brother and sister, and the equally talented Pierre Balmain.’

  ‘We’ve already met,’ Christian held out his hand to Fen, who shook it enthusiastically, while Pierre nodded and smiled, just as he had done from his drawing board when Fen had met them at Atelier Lelong. ‘But I don’t think Catherine was there that day, was she?’

  ‘No.’ Fen stretched out her hand to the rather stern-looking woman. ‘Lovely to meet you, Catherine. I’m friends with Simone Mercier, in fact we’re lodging together since… well, since recently.’

  Catherine smiled, and in so doing her whole aspect changed and she went from looking terribly serious to really quite playful. She shook Fen’s outstretched hand and Fen remembered what Simone had said about how badly Catherine had been treated by the Gestapo for her work with the Resistance. It was a relief for Fen to meet her and see that, although still gauntly thin, she looked dazzling tonight, dressed in a full black silk skirt and cream silk blouse with a starched, upright collar. Her hair was styled in a neat chignon, but loose flyaway strands created a halo around her head.

  ‘Come and join us, mademoiselle,’ she made room for Fen on the step next to her. ‘We are discussing hemlines and haute couture and other such things of earth-shattering importance.’

  Christian laughed at his sister and Fen sat down, entranced by the company of such glamorous people. If only Kitty were here… she thought as Henri suggested a round of drinks and went off in search of the wine waiter.

  ‘It’s good to meet you. Simone has told us all about you.’ Catherine said.

  ‘Nothing too terrible, I hope.’

  ‘Oh no, she is rather enamoured, though perhaps more so with your handsome friend? She is always popping out from the atelier to see him. Are they not here tonight?’

  ‘I’m afraid Henri only invited me. I must admit, until now, I didn’t realise that Henri knew Simone all that well. Anyway, I don’t suppose Simone will mind too much; she and James found some gramophone records to play and are no doubt enjoying each other’s company.’

  ‘Ooh la la, yes. Lady Simone…’ Catherine lit a cigarette and laughed as she exhaled the first plume of smoke.

  ‘She told you then?’

  ‘Told us? Does she ever stop!’

  They all laughed, though it did make Fen wonder again if Simone liked James for the right reasons. Lady Simone… Fen couldn’t shake the feeling that there was some ulterior motive to her marrying her way into the aristocracy. Or James’s branch of it at least. She shook the thought from her mind, tonight was not the night to dwell on such things.

  ‘Speaking of gramophones,’ Christian stood up and brushed down his tuxedo, ‘anyone fancy a dance? Pierre, you can see what the well-to-do of Paris are wearing and get inspiration for that new collection of yours.’ He winked at his friend while holding his hand out to Fen, who gratefully took it to help her off the step with some semblance of elegance.

  Pierre laughed and then jokingly held his forefinger to his lips, shushing his friend.

  Christian had that same playful look about him as his sister had done just moments before and whispered to Fen as he led her to where guests were dancing to the music of a swing band, ‘He’s leaving Lelong, you see, starting his own atelier.’

  ‘Gosh, good for him.’ Fen glanced behind her and saw that Pierre was leading Catherine Dior to the dance floor just behind them. Then, before she could think of anything more clever to say, Christian’s hand was lightly placed on the small of her back and she was swept onto the dance floor, the music of the band and the swishing of silk skirts taking her mind off all her recent sadness and reminding her that there was life to be lived still, now the war was over.

  By the time the band stopped, Fen’s cheeks were flushed and almost ached from laughing. Christian had been giving her a running commentary on all the other ladies’ outfits as they’d twirled and swayed, from admiring the cut of a gown to accusing one doughty older lady of not being in possession of all of her own hair.

  ‘It’s so obviously a hairpiece,’ he’d whispered, and Fen had craned her neck to see whom he was talking about.

  ‘Oh I don’t know,’ Fen had cheekily replied, ‘it’s hard to tell under that tiara…’

  ‘Monsieur Renaud will have that off her and into his fundraising pot before you can say “Mona Lisa”, if she’s not careful.’

  Fen laughed. ‘I didn’t realise you all know Henri Renaud so well?’

  ‘He’s is one of our patrons.’ Christian wiped his brow with a silk handkerchief, which Fen noticed was in the same pretty pattern as the scarves Simone had given her and Magda just days ago.

  ‘Patrons?’ His sister Catherine appeared next to them, on the arm of Pierre Balmain, and raised an eyebrow at her brother. ‘Let’s say we all knew each other well during the war.’

  ‘I see.’ Fen nodded. ‘Did you help with the…’ Fen waved one arm in the air, cautious not to rip a seam, ‘… evacuation of the Louvre then?’

  ‘No, but we helped with the evacuation of some of our friends. Tailors, seamstresses, fabric merchants… so many Jewish families are involved with the fashion trade. We had to do what we could.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Henri was a good source of information, what with his dealings,’ Catherine emphasised the last word, ‘with the German “art historians”.’ They all laughed at her reference to the Nazi officers. Philistines, Rose had called them. ‘He knew when raids were due to happen as he was needed at t
hose apartments or galleries to value their art. Your friend Rose, too. I’m sorry… what happened to her has us all shocked.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Fen all but whispered, brushing her hands over the corset Simone had stitched out of one of Rose’s flamboyant turbans.

  ‘Anyway,’ Christian slapped his hands on his thighs, lightening the mood, ‘Henri did us a favour at the end of the war too and sent Simone to the atelier as an apprentice. And she’s got a good eye, I’ll tell you that.’

  ‘And the perfect model, too,’ Pierre chipped in, finally joining the conversation.

  Fen let them all chat together, nodding and smiling at their anecdotes and gossip. Her mind wandered away from their conversation for a moment or two when a familiar fox fur caught her eye on the other side of the dance floor.

  Adrienne Tambour! She of the forged Dutch still life. Fen kept an eye on her, although it was hard with other guests, flushed from dancing and wine, getting in the way. She didn’t particularly want a confrontation with someone who so recently had had cause to quarrel with Rose… but the thought did cross her mind that that might be exactly why she should see if Madame Tambour could be persuaded to talk and let slip if she had an alibi… or not.

  Thirty-One

  Just as Fen was plucking up the courage to cross the room and speak to Adrienne Tambour, Henri came back, leading a simpering wine waiter behind him.

  ‘Ah, here you all are. Enjoying the music, I see, wonderful.’ They all refreshed their glasses and Henri courteously pulled Fen away from the chic fashionistas. ‘I must introduce you to the director of the board. He’s a fine fellow and, dare I say, another of us grieving for our lost friend.’

  Fen could just imagine Rose here, holding court with the Diors or nattering with the aged countesses. ‘She must have touched a lot of hearts round here.’

  ‘And quite a few canvases,’ Henri said wryly, as he steered Fen through the groups of guests enjoying themselves.

  She tried to keep an eye on where Madame Tambour was, and saw her talking to the bewigged older lady with the tiara. With thoughts of alibis in her mind, Fen pulled at Henri’s sleeve to slow him down so she could ask him something.

  ‘When I left you earlier, was it Michel Lazard I saw entering your gallery?’

  Henri frowned. ‘Yes. A coincidence indeed. He had the cheek to ask me if I wanted to buy some art of very dubious provenance. He should know better. I sent him away with a flea in his ear. Now, please, no mention of that charlatan as I introduce you to Claude and Berenice.’

  Henri ushered Fen in front of him and she was soon shaking hands with an older crowd.

  ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle,’ the man named Claude kissed her hand instead of shaking it and then caught Fen unawares as he spun her around on the spot. Fen silently thanked Christian for the spin round the dance floor a little while ago; aside from being jolly good fun, it had prepared her for this sort of thing. ‘I see you have brought me another dancer, eh, Renaud?’ Claude laughed and turned back to his previous conversation.

  ‘Ignore him, chérie,’ Henri squeezed Fen’s shoulder and then turned himself to engage in conversation with a very aristocratic-looking lady who was dripping in diamonds. Fen was just wondering how many carats there must be on her fingers alone when another hand was stuck in front of her to shake.

  ‘Good evening, mademoiselle.’ The man was tall but portly, a chin or two’s extra weight filling out his pale face. His blond hair was swept over to one side and his eyebrows, being blond too, didn’t do much to break up the monotony of his vast forehead. He wasn’t a good-looking man, but he had a certain presence and his voice, even in those few words of introduction, held Fen’s attention.

  ‘Good evening,’ she replied and let him kiss her hand. ‘My name’s Fenella Churche, Fen.’

  ‘Fen Churche… like the station in London?’ The man laughed and Fen nodded, trying not to let the old joke get to her. The man carried on with his own introduction. ‘Don’t worry, I have a humorous name also. Valentine Valreas, at your service. Val Val!’ He laughed and Fen smiled too, genuinely amused.

  ‘Monsieur Valreas…’ Fen let the name register. ‘I recognise your name, where might I have heard it?’

  ‘Perhaps you are a local of a small town in Provence?’ He raised an eyebrow and Fen shook her head. ‘Or a lover of fine art who comes to my auction house – both of which are called Valreas!’ He laughed again and then accepted another couple of glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. He passed one to Fen.

  ‘Thank you.’ Fen took a sip. ‘And yes, that’s it, Monsieur Valreas, I’ve heard of you in connection to selling art.’

  ‘Please, call me Valentine. And tell me, how do you come to be at this fine institution tonight? Are you a collector, as I have my card here somewhere…’

  ‘I’m a guest, a very lucky one,’ Fen raised her glass to Valentine, who had started to look through his evening jacket pockets for a business card. ‘Monsieur Renaud invited me tonight. I fear he has taken pity on me as our mutual, and very dear, friend Rose Coillard was… well, she died very recently.’ Fen saw as she spoke the countenance of the man’s face change. He stopped looking through his pockets and went from being exceptionally jovial to having the proverbial face like thunder just as she had mentioned Rose’s name. ‘Monsieur?’

  ‘Ah, Rose Coillard.’ He spat her name out as if she were a dirty word. ‘You know that woman had the gall to come and see me, just the other day? Oh, some excuse or other, but I sent her packing. “Do not darken my door again with your fakes and forgeries, Madame!” I said to her.’

  Fen was gobsmacked by Valentine’s words. ‘Surely… I mean, Rose never meant to sell her paintings as—’

  ‘Didn’t she?’ Valentine downed his champagne in one swig and smacked his lips. Luckily, this calmed him somewhat. ‘I’m sorry, of course, for her death. She was murdered, they say?’

  ‘Yes, most violently.’

  ‘Well, I am sorry that you have lost your friend. But Paris will not mourn the passing of Le Faussaire, I tell you that.’

  ‘Was she…’ Fen still couldn’t believe that Rose had been the infamous forger, but she decided that Valentine wasn’t the man to have this reasoned debate with at this moment. After a brief hesitation, Fen carried on, ‘… so very awful?’ She could feel herself on the brink of tears. Here she was in these sublime surroundings, drinking champagne with Paris’s high society, a society Rose was very much part of, and yet in this gilded room were two upstanding people, Valentine Valreas and Adrienne Tambour, who were adamant that Rose was nothing more than a tuppenny forger. Perhaps Rose Coillard wasn’t the person Fen had thought she was after all?

  Luckily Valentine pressed a hand to Fen’s arm, and although his fingers felt like warm sausages, she was pleased of the comfort. Perhaps he was going to tell her that he had made a mistake.

  His voice softened. ‘No. She was not awful, as you say. But her paintings have caused quite the ruckus. There is not a dealer now between here and Marseille who is not cursing her name in case one of their precious, and valuable, pieces is a fake.’

  At that, Valentine Valreas nodded a goodbye to Fen and left her as he merged back into the group of patrons and philanthropists, gallery owners and Louvre staff, who were all orbiting around Henri and his friends.

  Valentine’s words, and sentiments, had knocked the wind out of Fen’s sails and her heart was no longer in the party. Noticing that the Dior siblings and Pierre Balmain had already gone, on to another more fashionable party perhaps, she decided to slip out, too. She whispered her goodbyes and thanks to Henri and crept out of the back of the room and into the vast atrium of the grandest art gallery in Europe.

  There was no queue for the cloakroom and moments later she was back out into the chill of the autumnal night. An owl hooted from somewhere in the Tuileries and Fen sought out a bench on which to sit so that she could loosen the buckles on the velvet T-bar shoes she’d found in Rose’s closet. They’d matched per
fectly with the cobbled-together outfit, but only now as she sat down did she realise quite how much they’d been pinching all evening. The relief was exquisite and she let her back rest against the bench as she massaged her blistered feet.

  While I’m here… she thought to herself, allowing herself a few minutes’ more rest, and before I forget…

  Fen reached into the small evening bag she had brought with her and pulled out the table napkin from the café on which she’d started to create a crossword-like grid. She found a pencil from an old dance card at the bottom of the bag and quickly jotted down a few more words as she thought of them. Why these words in particular struck her she didn’t know, but she kept writing until the grid looked like this:

  Fen carefully folded the now quite tatty napkin, popped it back into her bag and put her shoes back on.

  ‘You’re meant to be able to solve your own puzzles,’ she grumbled to herself as she limped out of the Louvre’s main courtyard, and only made it twenty yards or so before she slipped the shoes off again, deciding that barefoot through the chilly streets of Paris was preferable to the pain. ‘No shoes and no clues,’ she sighed as she made her way back, the words of the grid tumbling like a waterfall through her mind. Somewhere in that grid was the answer, she was sure of it.

  Fen made it home without stepping on anything too painful or foul, and appreciated Simone’s help in carefully unstitching her from the bodice she had created earlier that evening. Tipper was less than helpful, trying everything he could to get Fen’s attention until she picked him up and held him. She was rewarded by quite a few licks to the face while Simone worked around them both.

  ‘He’s still missing Rose, I think.’ Simone said, trying to pat the dog, who burrowed his way further into the nook of Fen’s elbow. ‘Tch, silly pooch. Oh, James says he’ll meet you in the Café Chat Noir tomorrow morning at nine,’ Simone told her as she unravelled the orange silk of the former turban.