‘And you think Anne Marie wasn’t there for Tom when he needed her?’
He sighed. ‘I don’t know. I suppose she did what she could … Truth is Tom was out of control. I know that now. It would have taken the patience of a saint to get him back on the straight and narrow. If anything it was my fault. I should have got him out of that school the second I suspected there was something wrong. But I dismissed it. Thought whatever it was would blow over … Didn’t you and your friends get up to bad stuff when you were at school? Try some contraband? At least get hammered at a party, sleep with some random girl, throw up and fall over?’
‘Er, no, I didn’t.’
Malone’s eyes narrowed. ‘Lonely kid were you? Only child? Self-reliant, fell back on your own powers?’
Charlie hesitated. What was he getting at? What had he guessed?
‘Tom was an only child,’ Malone said. ‘Not that uncommon though, is it? Doesn’t automatically mean your life will turn to shit.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘I thought it would make him tough. Able to fend for himself.’
‘Like his father,’ said Charlie.
‘Absolutely. Take no prisoners. That’s me. Hard as flint. Have to be to dish it out, don’t I?’ Then he laughed. ‘In my game.’
This was safer, firmer ground. ‘Do you enjoy the power you have? The ability to make or break a production?’
‘Enjoy it? In extreme cases, I suppose we might have some influence. But audiences make up their own minds. And sometimes we do get it wrong … Ah, you see, I do have a little humility, despite what you may have heard.’
‘I might as well tell you,’ said Charlie, ‘I’ve met Anne Marie in person.’
Angus Malone peered across the choppy water of the river, squinting slightly in the direction of St Paul’s Cathedral. ‘I knew you had. That’s really why you’re here.’
‘No, no,’ he said, ‘I am writing a book …’
‘On Minnie Devine?’
‘Her, and others. Plenty of others.’
‘I suppose it might make a good film, if trashy, romantic slushfest is your thing. One of those A Star is Born stories: one trajectory up, the other, down.’
‘Minnie?’
‘Farrar Fay, her partner. Early fame, latter despair. Broken down, tragic figure by the end. You spend all your time playing larger than life, reality gets a bit mundane. Which is exactly when it catches you out and gives you a great big bite on the arse. You know Minnie pitched up in Paris?’
‘Yes.’
‘I suppose that’s what gave Anne Marie the idea to move to France. Nice that she could afford to. Made some money from some dreadful Hollywood action adventure film, in which she made a right hash of the American accent, as I recall, and then bought up an old farm. I’ve never been to that part of France, but it sounds deathly dull to me …’ Malone was joking. ‘You felt sorry for her did you, when you met her?’
Charlie re-focused. ‘I feel sorry that she’s not on stage, where she belongs. I’m sad that her career is in the doldrums.’
‘Oh, she’s on her way back. Haven’t you heard? They all come back when the part’s right, when the money’s right. And I’ll be here. Waiting, with my pencil and my claws sharpened.’
‘Can you ever forgive her?’ Charlie asked.
‘Why should I? She doesn’t want forgiveness anyway, she’s never asked for it. She’s never expressed any remorse to me. She doesn’t give a shit what I think.’
‘Oh but she does feel remorse. Very much so. It eats away at her. It’s ruining all her relationships—’
Angus was staring at him. ‘And that’s my fault, is it? For giving her a hard time, for calling her to account, for expecting a little bit of compassion and humility?’
‘No, that’s not—’
‘She’s a big girl, she can fend for herself. She can make her career work if she wants. It’s got nothing to do with my personal feelings. I can slag her off till kingdom come it won’t make any difference to her “fans”, her followers.’
‘I think you’re wrong,’ said Charlie. ‘I think you have more of an influence on her future than you care to admit. She might have a fragile ego, but you needn’t smash it to bits.’
‘And what,’ said Malone, ‘is the point of a critic if not to point out flaws, mistakes, errors of judgment? Fat lot of good we’d be if we just trotted out a piece of banal arse-licking flattery every time we were called on to comment on a play or a performance. What would be the point, if all we did was fawn? Her stage fright,’ he added, ‘had nothing whatsoever to do with me. And if anyone tells you otherwise, they’re talking out their arse.’
He’d become rather animated. A woman at the next table wondered if assistance might be required.
A few drops of rain spat on Charlie’s notebook. Malone glanced skywards. ‘Well, Mr Gilchrist, I’ve really enjoyed our chat, but I’m afraid we’ll have to call it a day. I’m expected somewhere else shortly. But if you need anything else for your book, feel free to email or phone.’
‘Thank you,’ said Charlie, ‘you’ve been very helpful.’
‘Give my regards to Anne Marie when you next see her, won’t you?’And so saying he threw his sagging bag over his shoulder and ambled off in the direction of Waterloo Station.
Charlie’s mind was motoring. Why did Anne Marie move to France? Had she gone there on a whim or had her great grandmother exerted more influence on her decision than they realised? Perhaps Minnie had assumed her art could successfully flourish amidst Parisian theatres, cabaret, and cafe concerts rather than back home in London? He’d dithered around long enough. There was only one way to find out what Minnie Devine got up to in Paris, and that was to go there and see for himself.
Chapter Seventeen
Montmartre. The 19th century hang-out of poets, artists, absinthe drinkers, prostitutes and performers. Emerging from his hotel, only a few streets away from the Moulin Rouge and its red windmill, Charlie’s route took him through small squares and cobbled streets, past the Butte vineyard and the Lapin Agile, down the Rue de Clichy, past the opera house and along the Rue de la Paix en route to the Tuileries.
He could have taken the Métro, or hailed a taxi, but under his own steam he could absorb the colours, noises and smells, and plug straight in. In the Place Vendôme, alongside Napoleon’s green-hued statue, he sized up his quarry: the Hôtel Ritz. As cars drew up outside the elegant building he pondered his next move.
Perhaps he should have booked in for a night; got Anne Marie to pay for it, claimed it as an expense. But in any case what was to stop him from entering the lobby and having a quick scout around? The front desk was busy and taking a chance he slipped past, knowing that an individual from off the street hovering undecidedly would arouse more suspicion than if he simply pretended he was a guest. And if anyone challenged him he would simply make out he was a tourist, having a nosy at the elegant interior.
Tucked into a corner near the stairs he pretended he was taking a phone call, and there he lingered, hoping to pick something up, listening out for something to suggest itself. He removed the dragonfly brooch from his pocket and unwrapped it from the tissue paper, caressing the delicate thin edge and the point of the wings. And yes, there was something. He could feel it …
In fact, isn’t that the sound of Minnie approaching, rustling down the stairs?
Minnie is wearing a silk gown with the dragonfly jewel pinned to her breast. The light catches on the curved aquamarine surface. She is dressed for an evening out, wearing long gloves and carrying a fur wrap. A night at the opera, a dinner date, or some kind of party perhaps? The kind of event where she will shine. Her escort is standing with his back to the door; arms outstretched to greet her. When he turns again to guide her towards the exit, his pale, youthful features are rather smug. This woman is his superior, she knows it, he knows it, and yet he is thrilled to have her on his arm.
‘You look wonderful,’ he says.
‘Thank
you Robert, so do you. Although, I’m not sure I approve of those cufflinks.’
‘Minnie?’
‘Too small,’ she says, ‘can hardly see them. Why don’t I find you a pair more suitable? A man as dashing as you deserves trinkets to match.’
‘You tease me,’ he says.
‘But think how it reflects on me, if my escort appears less than dazzling.’
‘You are the only one who needs to dazzle; I merely flicker alongside you.’
‘Oh, Robert,’ she trills. ‘Where did you pick up that awful line? One of Geoffrey’s?’
‘All my own, Minnie, I promise.’
The young man sweeps his blond fringe out of his eyes and …
‘Monsieur?’
Charlie was thrust violently back into the present. A man from the front desk was blocking his path. ‘Do you have a room here? Are you a guest of this hotel?’
Charlie made no attempt to answer in French, instead adopting the role of ignorant English tourist. ‘I’m meeting someone,’ he dissembled. ‘She’ll be here in a minute.’
‘Then I propose you wait in the reception area. If you tell me her room number I will call and tell her you are waiting.’
‘Actually,’ he said. ‘I can’t remember it.’
‘In that case …’ The man ushered him gently but firmly towards the revolving door.
‘Princess Diana?’ he said in desperation. ‘I only wanted to see where she stayed!’ Seconds later he was stumbling out onto the pavement.
The brief sighting was better than nothing he supposed. Now what? If Minnie was in Paris, with a lover, where would she go? The Tuileries? The Louvre? Ignoring the tourists and the coach parties, Charlie found a vacant bench near the museum and sat down to wait. His instincts were correct. The early morning sun cast a pink orange glow along the Seine as the dislocation began to take place …
Minnie is there, waiting. The young man comes striding across the Tuileries, his hat flying off his head. He scoops her into his arms, lifting her off her feet. She laughs and struggles, batting at his arm with ineffectual swipes of her embroidered bag. He puts her down, grasps her hand, pulls her away from the crowds.
‘Shall we walk?’ he says. ‘Up to the Place de la Concorde?’
‘If you like.’
He holds out the crook of his arm, she slips her hand through. She kicks up a little eddy of dust from the soles of her boots as they turn west. He pushes his hat slightly further back on his head, revealing a blond dishevelled fringe. He moves closer to kiss her cheek and raises a hand to steady his hat. She smiles and deliberately avoids the contact, nevertheless her arm stays pressed to his side.
They promenade through the gardens, now and again looking across the Quai des Tuileries towards the river. Passers-by give them a half-glance, a slight turn of the head. Is she famous? Have I seen her somewhere before?
The woman smiles serenely in polite acknowledgement and walks on.
They stand together at the Luxor obelisk and gaze at their surroundings, marvelling at the fountains and the mansions opposite. They steal a kiss.
‘Here stood the guillotine,’ the young man murmurs. ‘Difficult to comprehend now, isn’t it? All that bloodshed?’
‘Ghastly,’ Minnie shudders. ‘So many deaths. And the Queen herself?’
‘Right here. On this spot. And the King. And Robespierre. And Danton. All of them—’ He makes a throat slashing gesture, contorts his face, tongue lolling out of his mouth.
‘That’s disgusting, Robert. Stop it …’
The vision faded, swamped by the noise of traffic. A tourist wanted to take a photo of the obelisk; he’d been waiting patiently to get a shot and Charlie was in his way. Charlie apologised and moved to the side. He was a long way from his hotel, but he mustn’t give up now.
The views were fragmentary; nevertheless he was slowly building up a picture of Minnie’s Paris itinerary. She and her young companion were in the midst of a love affair. But he needed more to go on. He moved to a quieter spot – difficult in the middle of the tourist district – and patiently waited …
Yes, here they are again. Next to the obelisk the lovers embrace. But there is now someone else in the frame. A man carrying a newspaper is lurking at the edge of the park, watching. They are unaware of his presence. Or are they? Minnie turns her neck slightly as though she has seen him. The happy couple walk arm in arm, ambling, but not meandering. The man follows at a distance, slows down, pretending to glance at his pocket watch. Minnie picks up the pace, her lover trots alongside, placing a kiss on her hand, another on her cheek. The man in pursuit sneers; the public demonstration nauseates him. He continues to follow, lurking out of their eye line.
Or does he? Minnie peeks, just for a second, over the shoulder of her lover. The man raises his hand as if to tip his brim, thinks better of it, pretends he does not recognise her. Her smile freezes. He is trailing her, she knows it and she wants him to stop. He smiles to himself. There is nothing she can do; he has as much right to visit the sights of Paris as the next man. There is nothing to stop him from hanging around the Place de la Concorde at the exact same time as Minnie Etherege Devine.
The lovers head away towards the Champs-Élysées, searching for a restaurant to have lunch. He follows them again. He sees them duck under the awning of a fashionable eaterie, but he does not enter it himself. Instead he sits on the pavement at the café next door. He orders food and drink and eats with gusto, unconcerned with external goings on, a man with plenty of patience, a man with nowhere special to be, a man with all the time in the world …
An elbow in his back, a shove from behind. Charlie lurched forwards. An impatient pedestrian, that was all, hustling to get past on the busy pavement. Hardly surprising, when he was standing motionless on the busiest thoroughfare in the city. He was lucky he hadn’t blundered into the traffic.
The facia and signage had been updated, but the café in front was the same one the man had been sitting at. Charlie ordered a coffee and sat down to ponder over what he’d seen.
He was almost certain the man was Baxter. He was trailing the lovers, but it was an altogether odd pursuit: one of them oblivious to his presence; one of them all too aware. Why hadn’t Minnie confronted him? Because she needed to keep his presence a secret from Robert Perry? And why would she want to do that? Obsessive love was one thing, but this came across as vaguely sinister: a jealous man stalking a former lover; a low-level harassment, although he hadn’t threatened her, abused her, or caused a public disturbance. Maybe that was all to come. And anyway, Minnie was apparently complicit. Unless it was a case of keeping her friends close, her enemies closer? She’d ended her relationship with William Farrar Fay and was now hooked up with Perry, but Baxter had followed her with the express intention of keeping tabs on her – why? In order to confront her, surprise her, scandalise the French?
Jealousy dripped from the pages of Baxter’s journal. And with an actress of Minnie’s flighty tastes, who could blame him? Lovers here, there and everywhere: the co-star, the playwright, the critic. Like a child’s cardboard fishing game, she hooked them one by one with the ease of a magnet on the end of a rod and string. Couldn’t be simpler. Catch the little fish, rack up the points. Chuck em back in the box when you’ve finished …
Using his walking stick to thump out a pattern of discontent on the ground, Baxter rages and seethes. He is working himself into a frenzy. He has had enough!
Baxter leaves the café and hurries back the way he came. His route takes him along the Quai Voltaire, and maintaining a fast pace, he crosses the Seine on the Pont Royal, and strides on, all the way along the river until he is back in the Tuileries.
Breathing with difficulty, mastering his dignity, Baxter straightens his shoulders, heads towards the Rue de Rivoli. Beneath the awnings of the shops, he melts into the crowd, a lone figure. Finally he enters the doorway of a modest but well-appointed hotel. He is about to speak to the receptionist and ask for his key when he hears a rustl
e behind him and Minnie approaches. ‘At last!’ she says. ‘I have been sitting on that hard sofa for an hour, with only weak tea and a stale croissant to subsist on.’
He is pleased to see her, but works hard to conceal it. A grave reply is all she deserves. ‘And you’ve run out of money for anything fancier? Spent it all on our young friend Robert, is that it?’
She tuts. ‘Forgive me; I am a little obtuse today. You are telling me you are jealous of my relationship with Robert, when he and I are both free to see whomever we like. And you are also telling me, I believe, what I can and can’t spend my money on.’
‘If the grandeur of the Ritz is the only way to impress him then by all means go ahead. But you see, my love,’ he answers smoothly, ‘I know you are scrabbling for coppers. However, there is a very simple way to supplement your meagre income and fortify your bank account.’
She gives a brisk shake of the head. ‘I will not act in another play of yours. I care not for your aggressive style, and I will not be the guinea pig on stage, waiting to be torn to shreds by all of London’s critics. Look what happened the last time. Poacher turned gamekeeper no longer appeals to me. Besides, I have other means of making money.’
Baxter raises an eyebrow. ‘Indeed. Hence your need for a bed?’
She narrows her eyes. ‘I have been offered five thousand pounds for the sale of our letters.’
Taken aback, he steps away from her. ‘Five thousand?’
‘Mm, a tidy sum, wouldn’t you say?’
He recovers himself. ‘Enough to keep you and Robert in dinners, I expect, for a good few months. Until you tire of him.’
‘Indeed. Who would have thought our correspondence could be so financially rewarding?’
‘Ah,’ he says, a note of warning creeping into his voice. ‘But that is where our minds differ. For you are assuming that publication is a foregone conclusion.’
Her coquetry fades. ‘I beg your pardon?’
He smiles. ‘No publication can take place if I refuse permission.’
The Dragonfly Brooch Page 13