[Fen Churche 02] - Night Train to Paris

by Fliss Chester

  And poor Joseph, finding Rose just as she’d been killed and feeling like he couldn’t trust a soul, save his own wife, with the discovery. At least it narrowed down the time of the murder and married up with what James had found out from the countess about Tipper’s barking.

  Fen fished around in her pocket and pulled out the tatty napkin on which she’d written out her grid. She pulled a pen out of her pocket, too, and instead of writing any more words onto the grid, she circled the word TIPPER.

  As if he knew he was being thought about, the little dog pulled at his lead and Fen called him back. ‘Tipper, I wish you could talk,’ she said as she slipped the napkin back in her pocket. ‘But I suppose I’ll have to crack this on my own. Come on then, the cathedral bell says it’s almost lunchtime. Since I didn’t spend all my money on going to The Ritz last night, how about I treat us both to some steak?’

  The occupation had damaged much of Paris’s ways of life, but Fen was relieved to see that the kiosks selling street art and rather dubious ‘antiques’ were still very much in action along the riverbank. They sold everything from second-hand books and sheet music to bric-a-brac and portraits. Fen had always loved browsing them as a girl and had more often than not found something to spend a few bob on. She walked along now, keeping Tipper to heel as much as possible and idly looked at the wares on sale as she decided on where might be decent for lunch.

  One stall along the quayside was selling paintings in various styles. She wasn’t quite in the market for the less salubrious etchings of Salome, taken it seemed from a book or portfolio, or the ultra-modern abstract pieces, but then something caught her eye. It was a small painting in oils, beautiful in its pastel colours and Impressionist in style. It depicted a pink blossom tree, its swirling branches created by just a few dashes of powder-pink paint. Fen looked away, then turned back to look at it again. That was it… she was sure of it. It was the painting by Delance that, until a few days ago, had hung in Rose’s studio. How did it get here?

  ‘Excuse me, monsieur,’ Fen called the kiosk owner over to her, slightly shaking with indignation and not entirely sure how to broach the subject of the painting’s provenance.

  The salesman stepped forward and eyed up Fen, and she realised that for once, with her hair tied back in a designer scarf and what looked like her very à la mode dog at her side, she might have been mistaken for one of Paris’s more wealthy citizens.

  ‘Oui, mademoiselle?’

  Fen took a deep breath. ‘Can you tell me a bit about this painting?’

  ‘It’s pretty enough, isn’t it? Very nice work for a lady like yourself. Tell you what, I’ll give you a good price for it.’

  Fen shrugged in the most Gallic way she could muster. ‘Could you tell me who it’s by?’

  ‘Ooof, now you’re asking.’ The salesman unhooked the painting from the back of his kiosk and held it up to the daylight. ‘Not much of a signature there, it might be hidden behind this backing paper, shame to unseal it to look. Anyway, it’s about how it makes you feel, isn’t it. Can’t get het up about names and such. It’s yours for two thousand francs.’

  ‘I don’t have that sort of money, and anyway—’

  ‘Eighteen hundred then?’ he cajoled.

  ‘Is it by Delance? It looks very similar to another of his works, you see.’

  ‘Like I said, what’s in a name, eh? Fifteen hundred? Best and final.’ He stuck his hand out to shake on it.

  ‘I’m sorry, no.’ Fen backed off away from the hard sell she was receiving but couldn’t help but overhear the slightly offensive muttering coming from the vendor as she walked away. ‘How rude,’ she said to Tipper, who growled a little in reply. When she was quite out of earshot of the kiosk, she spoke to the dog again. ‘And how despicable! Rose’s painting turning up at a street kiosk like that… Ooh, if I get my hands on whoever sold it…’

  Without much to say in return, Tipper just wagged his tail and carried on sniffing everyone and everything he came across, while Fen pondered the consequences of her find. She had to bottle up her instinct to walk right back up to that cretinous man and reclaim the painting on behalf of Rose’s estate, stolen as it was; but with no proof on her, she’d just as easily be accused of theft herself. Plus, she didn’t want to admit it, but the police might have been right after all… Fencing a painting to a street dealer was much more like something a burglar would do, and not exactly the modus operandi of a murderer.

  Thirty-Nine

  Walking all the way to the Marais district and back had been a long enough jaunt for Fen, but it had been positively exhausting for little Tipper, who now insisted on being carried. Fen picked him up and shifted her handbag along her arm so that he could sit comfortably for the last few hundred yards or so. She herself was glad of the exercise, having treated herself to a steak in one of the quayside cafés after her encounter with the kiosk vendor.

  Fen opened the large door to the apartment building and fished around in her bag for the spare key Blanquer had given her for the mailbox. She let Tipper slip down and he sniffed around by her feet. The key opened the mailbox up again easily and Fen was almost surprised to see a few more letters addressed to Rose in there. News obviously wasn’t travelling that quickly.

  She picked them out and gave them a cursory glance. More bills it seemed. Then her heart leapt – a letter addressed to her from England! She pocketed them all and scooped up Tipper before climbing the staircase up to the fifth floor, a new lightness to her step.

  Once settled with a hot tea infusion beside her, Fen opened up the letter from home.

  Mrs B’s kitchen table, Midhurst,

  Boring old West Sussex,

  October 1945

  Dearest Fen,

  We got your last letter and all feel terribly sad for you. Poor Rose! With a paintbrush, you say? And blackmail… and a countess dripping in diamonds… lumme, you have had a time of it. No wonder you didn’t feel like setting us any more clues. Dilly and I agree with you though, it all definitely sounds suspicious.

  Speaking of Dil, she’s been and found out some bits and bobs from the library about Arthur’s pal James Lancaster. He’s proper posh, I mean I hope you’ve been doffing your cap at his nibs! Larks aside, though, I can see why Arthur wanted you to look out for him. The library in Midhurst had the papers and Dil saw an obituary for not only his father (a Lord Lancaster!) and mother, but an older brother as well and, gosh, this is the saddest, James’s fiancée too. He was due to marry the Right Hon Lady Arabella St John. She died in the Blitz with his parents, and his brother, Oliver, was taken in Dunkirk. Sounds like he might need a shoulder to cry on, Fen.

  Must dash, Mrs B is still cracking the whip at us. Winter beet is ready to harvest and grumpy old Mr Travers’ calves are being weaned, so we’ve offered (kicked in the seat of our pants more like!) to help.

  Cheerio, dear friend, and please come back soon.

  Much love from us all,

  Kitty xxx

  Kitty’s letter was a breath of wonderful fresh air – Fen could just imagine her chatty young friend scribbling it among the scones and jam of the farmhouse kitchen table – but it also caused her a pang of sadness too. Poor James. Not only had he lost his family, but, like her, his fiancée, too. Why hadn’t he said?

  Fen folded the letter up, not knowing quite what to do with all the information within it. She was just pondering how best to offer some sort of support to James when Tipper started barking at the door.

  ‘What is it, kiddo?’ Fen asked as she pushed herself up and headed towards the hallway. ‘Honestly, shush would you? It’s not like you haven’t had the most outrageous lunch for a little dog. What more can I do for you?’

  Fen opened the door, still talking to Tipper, and James answered for him.

  ‘You could stop following him everywhere and spying on him for a start,’ he said, but as Fen looked up, she could see a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Oh James, come on in. Yes, I have
some explaining to do…’

  ‘It’s not that I mind you popping up so unexpectedly when I’m in, let’s say, a private moment.’

  ‘Oh, don’t remind me!’ Fen briefly covered her eyes with her hands and hoped she wasn’t blushing too much.

  ‘But if you could do it next time looking less like something dragged from the bottom of the English Channel.’

  ‘How rude!’ Fen sat herself down on one of the armchairs and gestured towards the saggier one for James.

  He laughed at her. He was in such a good mood she didn’t feel it was right just now to bring up the terrible loss of his family. Maybe he had got over Lady Arabella and had some exciting news of his own regarding Simone?

  ‘Tell me, though, what were you doing in my hotel reception last night? Looking like the Kraken?’ His eyes twinkled.

  ‘Honestly, James, I wasn’t that bad! And anyway, why weren’t you at The Ritz like you said you would be?’

  ‘Maître-d’ lost our booking. Simone was terribly disappointed, but I’ve got us a table there next week.’

  ‘Ironed out your worries about her then? Decided not to be a… a “spoon”, was it?’ Fen wondered if the thought of Lady Arabella had been behind James’s reticence with his new girlfriend the other night, and not so much Simone’s pushy behaviour.

  ‘Still lion-taming, but she says someone like her would be good for me. Anyway, stop trying to change the subject, Fen,’ he cocked his head on one side, and Fen was pleased to see him back to a more playful version of himself.

  ‘I know, I do owe you an explanation. And I’m sorry I interrupted your little tête-à-tête. But, you see, the thing is, I was there because I was following Henri Renaud.’

  ‘I see,’ James sat forward, his elbows on his knees and his fingers making a steeple in front of him. ‘But what were you doing following Monsieur Renaud in the first place.’

  ‘It was terribly badly behaved of me, and I had to grovel to poor Magda this morning, but you see I caught sight of him on my way over to visit her last night, and I saw he was carrying a package that looked very much like a painting wrapped up in brown paper and tied with string.’

  ‘Hmm, highly suspicious for an art dealer.’

  ‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, James.’ Fen tutted and sat back in the chair. ‘It was long after gallery opening hours. Perhaps that’s why I thought it so odd.’

  ‘And did Magda forgive you?’ James asked, more seriously now.

  ‘Yes, the darling, she did. And she told me something very interesting. Joseph was here, in this apartment, just after Rose had died. He found her body before we did.’

  ‘What?’ James looked startled and shifted in his chair.

  ‘He let himself in, he was due an appointment anyway and you know she never locked the door. He said Tipper barked like billy-o, but he couldn’t bring himself to call the police.’

  ‘Why on earth not? If he had, it would have spared you the—’

  Fen raised a hand to shush him. ‘Don’t worry about me. And you have to understand, the authorities haven’t exactly been just and fair to Joseph and his family these last few years. And before you start pondering, no, he wouldn’t have killed her. He had no motive and was rather shaken up, by all accounts.’

  ‘Agreed,’ James rubbed his chin. ‘And it explains Tsarina, and the countess, hearing Tipper bark.’

  ‘Yes, but it doesn’t explain why Tipper didn’t bark.’

  ‘I thought we just agreed that he did?’

  ‘At Joseph, yes…’ They both looked at the little dog who was curled up in a ball, snoring gently on the chaise longue. Fen thought for a moment and then shook her head, ‘… But not at the murderer.’

  Forty

  Fen and James sat in silence for a few more moments, both watching Tipper’s chest rise and fall, dreaming small doggy dreams.

  ‘She couldn’t have killed herself, could she?’ James volunteered, acting out stabbing himself in the neck.

  ‘I don’t think so. She had so much to live for – a mission. And anyway, she couldn’t have then stolen her own jewels and paintings? Oh, speaking of which, James, you’ll never guess what I saw on the way back from Magda’s!’

  James raised his eyebrows and Fen carried on.

  ‘In one of those shabby street kiosks…’ she pointed to the empty patch of the wall where the Delance had once hung. ‘Rose’s favourite painting.’

  ‘Really?’ James sat forward, interested.

  ‘Really. And the dealer wanted fifteen hundred francs for it! I was spitting feathers.’

  ‘Did you ask him where he got it from?’

  James’s question embarrassed Fen and she blushed. ‘No, I mean, I asked if it was by Delance and he gave me some spiel about not caring about names, but then I, no… well, I was just a bit too angry to really think straight.’

  ‘Fen, don’t worry. We can go back and ask him. No one’s expecting you to be a super sleuth. But still, it’s another three down for you perhaps?’

  Just as James had leaned over and briefly touched Fen’s knee to reassure her, the peace in the apartment was shattered by a clattering sound at the front door. Moments later, Simone appeared in the studio in complete disarray, her beautiful silk skirt torn and ripped, her hands scratched and bloodied as she clasped her blouse to her, as there were no buttons in place any more to wear it properly.

  James drew his hand back from Fen and pushed himself up from the old saggy armchair. He was by Simone’s side in an instant and helped her back to the chaise longue. Fen too had jumped out of her seat and moved out of the way for the pair of them to get through. Tipper, who hadn’t been fazed when Simone had first appeared, was now yapping in excitement, picking up on the atmosphere in the room.

  ‘Dear God,’ James released his arm from Simone as she sat down on the chaise. ‘Are you all right? What happened to you?’

  ‘I was attacked… I was mobbed… by—’

  ‘By who? Who did this?’

  James’s interruption didn’t stop Simone from repeating over and over, ‘I was attacked…’

  Fen found a shawl on the back of the armchair and handed it to the girl. ‘Here, Simone, take this.’ The younger woman was still in a trance-like state of shock. ‘James, here, you put it around her so the poor thing can let go of her blouse. And I’ll go and make tea.’

  ‘Lots of sugar,’ James added.

  ‘Yes, of course. And a shot of brandy, I think.’

  By the time the kettle started to whistle, Fen noticed that Simone had progressed from shocked mumblings to full-on tears. She couldn’t begrudge her the waterworks, it sounded and looked like she’d had a rough old afternoon.

  She filled the silver teapot, using whatever tea she could find in one of the caddies in the kitchen. Lapsang souchong, perhaps… The smokiness of the brew brought back memories suddenly of being in this apartment before… Before Rose was murdered, before she was embroiled once again in finding out what happened to someone she cared about. Not to mention poor Gervais too.

  ‘Here you are,’ she brought the tea and three cups into the studio room.

  Simone was now huddled up in James’s arms, a pose Fen was becoming more and more familiar with.

  Fen let the tea brew for a few moments longer before saying sotto voce to James, ‘Anything?’

  James shook his head, and then carefully pushed Simone away from him slightly so that she could accept Fen’s proffered cup of tea.

  ‘Simone, dear, can you bring yourself to tell us yet?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ She pursed her lips and blew across the teacup to cool it slightly. ‘It’s not too sweet, is it? I mustn’t have too much sugar,’ she said.

  ‘It’s quite sweet, dear, but you need it right now.’ Fen urged her to drink while thinking, Now is not the time to worry about your waistline. ‘So, can you tell us what happened to you? I know it’s hard, but you’re safe now.’

  ‘Oh it was horrible, horrible. Today was meant to be
so fun, you know? A fashion shoot on the Right Bank of the river, just me and Carmella from accounts, who is very beautiful – not versatile like me, you know, but very thin and her bone structure is… Anyway…’ She cautiously sipped the hot tea and then carried on, ‘We were posing for the photographer, you know how the light is so good in the afternoon and the autumn leaves are so, how would you say, romantique.’ She playfully twiddled a hand in the air to mimic the falling leaves, before becoming serious again. ‘Then the shouts started, then there were catcalls and shrieks and then there was a mob of them…’

  ‘Bloody ruffians, how dare they attack two women just doing their job. I mean, talk about lowest of the low. If I find those men—’

  ‘They weren’t men…’ As Simone said those words, it was Fen and James’s turn to fall into a shocked silence. ‘It was women. All women.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ James was flabbergasted.

  ‘I think she means that it wasn’t an attack like we might think, but more of a… protest?’ Fen eked out the last word, testing the water.

  ‘A protest against what?’ James asked.

  ‘Against the clothes.’ Fen turned to Simone. ‘Isn’t that right? You mentioned something like this happening to you before. Up near Montmartre?’

  Simone just nodded and raised a handkerchief to her eye. ‘It’s just jealousy, they’re just jealous.’

  ‘Sadly,’ Fen sat back in her chair, relieved to have cracked one small puzzle at least, ‘I don’t think it’s just jealousy. I’m sorry, Simone, and please don’t take this the wrong way, or think that I agree with them, but it’s rather pushing their buttons, isn’t it?’

  ‘Whose buttons? What have buttons got to do with it?’ James was still confused. He just couldn’t get his head around the fact that women could be so violent.

  ‘You know, psychological buttons. These women, these Parisiennes, have been through so much during the occupation. Rationing, shortages of food, clothes, life’s essentials. There’s a feeling that too much of a good thing is just too much, full stop.’