‘That I can’t say,’ said Janet firmly. ‘I don’t know, and I should tell you that the same goes for Mr Flemyng. Mr Craven arranged the visit with discretion. However, I have brought with me the telephone number of the house in Scotland. That is where we shall find him.’
Bridger asked Wemyss to find a bottle of sherry, and thanked Janet for her help. ‘We may need you during the evening. Are you able to be with us?’
‘Of course.’
‘Very well,’ Bridger said, ‘I shall tell you what has happened. It is distressing, and a little mysterious, but there we are.’
Wemyss poured three glasses before making the call. Aware that the direct dialling to London which they had enjoyed for a year or so was not available to Scotland, he went to his own room to speak to the international operator, and asked for Lochgarry 220.
‘Let me tell you quickly where we find ourselves,’ Bridger said. ‘There is a suspicious death, here in Paris.’
Janet showed no surprise or embarrassment.
‘Rather senior police officers are at the scene because of the circumstances and, unfortunately and surprisingly to us, they wish to talk to Flemyng and Craven as a consequence. I know not why. But nonetheless we must be in touch. I should say, incidentally, that there is no indication that these policemen are yet aware of the positions Craven and Flemyng occupy here. That at least is a relief. I can talk to Freddy, and perhaps he will want to speak to Flemyng later tonight, assuming that he returns to his apartment from wherever he might be.’
‘Would you like me to speak to Mr Craven first?’ Janet asked.
‘I think it’s one for me, thank you. But I may need you here. We are most grateful, Janet. It is typical, if I may say so.’
Wemyss was back in the room.
‘The call should come through to your desk in a minute or two, sir.’
They sat in silence. No one spoke until the phone rang.
‘Bridger. Thank you, operator.’
Then, after a pause. ‘Mr Flemyng. How very nice to hear your voice once again. This is Pierce Bridger at the embassy in Paris. You may remember that we met many years ago when Will and I spent a weekend in Perthshire. We were doing strange things in Fife at the time. Young blades and so forth. Do you recall?’
It was clear that Mungo was alarmed, because Bridger had to leap in quickly.
‘He is fine and dandy, and there is no need for you to be concerned. This is not an emergency. The reason for the call is simple. It is our Mr Craven to whom I must speak. Mungo, if I may, I’m sorry to trouble you, but the embassy here is aware that he intended to visit you and I wondered if indeed he had succeeded in making his trek to the hills.’
He listened, staring at Wemyss.
‘May I speak to him? I am most grateful.’
He smiled at Janet, and signalled to Wemyss to replenish her glass.
‘Freddy? Pierce here. Thank God I’ve found you.’ He listened. ‘Never mind that. There is a teeny-weeny flap here and I need your help.’
He explained that Flemyng couldn’t be found, that Bolder had taken himself off and, excusing himself for saying more on an open line that would usually be wise, he said that he wanted to outline the story. Watching him, Wemyss and Janet could see from his reaction that Craven was taking command from the other end.
‘I agree, Freddy. I would be very happy for you to be the one to tell Flemyng. I shall keep Wemyss with me here.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We would expect him at his apartment in perhaps an hour and a bit, don’t you think. And then here at the embassy.’
Agreed.
And Bridger, quickly and concisely, told Craven what he needed to know.
‘We have a death here in this city. Violent, the perpetrator unknown, and the deceased a person of some significance. The police have made a connection, of what kind I do not know, with Flemyng and with you. Others, too, I’m told. Without knowing the nature of their interest, I am aware that this is likely to come as a shock to you both.’
Craven said something at the other end.
And Bridger replied, ‘Grace Quincy.’
SIXTEEN
Maria watched for Flemyng from a café across the street, with a view of his apartment door. Darkness had come. One person had already rung his bell, the concierge having disappeared for the night, and was driven away when he got no reply. The embassy, Maria assumed. She waited.
At about half past ten she saw him appear at the corner and turn into the street, approaching his door with a brisk step, but by the time he stopped to find his key she was coming up behind him. He was startled, then smiled as he turned round. ‘What brings you to my door?’
Maria’s dark expression was enough. He reached out a hand towards her and stopped when she spoke. ‘I have to come in, please. I’ll explain everything. It’s bad, Will.’
Unbuttoning his coat, he took off his hat and they climbed the stairs without a word.
Sitting on two sofas on either side of a low table piled with books and topped with newspapers, they faced each other and Flemyng made no move to get a drink or make coffee. His black eyes were bright and fixed on Maria, whose face was marble-white. Her words were stark.
‘Grace is dead. She’s on a slab at the hospital. The world’s going mad.’
Even in her grief, Maria was watching for any sign that Flemyng knew what was coming. There was none. The shock passed across his face as if he’d taken a punch from nowhere. His jaw sagged and his eyes narrowed. Putting a hand to his head he ruffled his hair violently as she’d often seen him do before, a gesture that made it seem as if he was waking from a dream.
‘God Almighty, where? How?’ His eyes were bright.
‘It’s a bad story, though I know little enough about it. I had a call at the office from the police because they found my name and number in a notebook where she kept her Paris contacts. Friends, people she might call. It was always in her bag. I’ve talked to them, and they may have gone to the embassy, too, because there’s something with your name on it. Get us a drink and I’ll tell you what I know.’
He went to the sideboard, and, pouring two glasses from a bottle of red wine without asking Maria what she wanted, he told her that he was only getting to know Quincy. He turned, and made his first admission. ‘We had lunch – only yesterday, for God’s sake – and we were going to see each other tomorrow. Maria, I had hopes. This is beyond me.’ When he sat down he put a hand over his eyes.
As Maria took the drink, she said, ‘I know how you feel. She was warm, and a woman who was… magnificent in a way. I’ve been weeping for her.’
Together, they concentrated.
Flemyng said, ‘Everything you know.’
Maria’s story was concise and organized. She might have been dictating to her editors, placing events in order of importance and leaving nothing out that might reveal the reasons for what had happened, or help draw back the veil that had been drawn down on a life which had touched both of them quickly and left its mark.
‘She was found in the cemetery – Père Lachaise, where they’re all buried – laid out on a gravestone, as dead as dead can be. A keeper came across her after the gates were shut for the day. He knew instantly she had gone, but there was no sign of violence. No blood, in other words. She was fully dressed. Looked normal, except – and this is hard, Will – her face was awfully contorted. The keeper was terrified. He’s surrounded by death every day, but none of it unexpected. He rang the alarm bells and the police were on the scene pretty fast. They found her rucksack with all her things – passport, reporter’s card, everything.
‘I got all this from the inspector who rang me, then came round to my office. Told him I’d have to write the story, which I’ve done. You can imagine the mayhem in New York. I learned a good deal from this cop. He asked me not to write this, but they believe that she was poisoned in some way. It would explain her face. They’re convinced that it’s not a heart attack, which was their first thought, but apparently the police doctor who ex
amined her in the place where she lay, said no. It was something else. Will, I can’t bear to think of it.
‘She’s at the big hospital, and he told me they would do toxicology tests. Our embassy is with her – I’ve spoken to a friend of mine there, Butterfield he’s called – and they’re in a panic. First of all, she’s famous and, second of all, what the hell was she doing in a cemetery, getting knocked off in a way that has assassination written all over it? She’s been targeted. The cops know it isn’t a street murder, nor an accident, and they’re trying to find something in her notebook or her papers that would give them somewhere to start.
‘My name was there, and they found a letter you had written her suggesting lunch, with your phone number on it. They asked me who you were. I told them where you worked – there wasn’t any point in pretending – and I guess your people have been trying to get you. A lot of folks will be having visits tonight. She knew everybody, and she’s been in and out of this city for months.’
Flemyng’s hands were behind his head and he was leaning back on the sofa, his eyes focused on something above him. He’d said nothing during Maria’s account, and when she finished he let out a deep sigh as if he had been holding his breath. Standing up, he sipped his drink and brought the bottle across. ‘Let’s at least drink to her before we get carried away in everything that’s going to come our way.
‘Quincy.’
Maria began to tell some stories that had followed Quincy round the world – how tough she was, the way she always seemed to get to places before the trouble started, her style, the fear that she put into the men that were on the road with her. Her natural body armour. Flemyng smiled.
The phone rang. His eye was fixed on Maria as he picked up the receiver.
‘Freddy. My old friend.’
Then, ‘You’re where? But why?’
His face was as mournful as it had been when Maria first gave him her news, and one hand was clenched in anxiety. She had never seen him so possessed.
‘Before you go any further, I know about this. I’ve just been told by a friend. It’s dreadful, Freddy, and I really don’t know where to start.’
He listened for a short time.
‘I’ll go there now. Mind you, American journalists, celebrated or otherwise, aren’t our responsibility, and this is France. But I can imagine Bridger’s panic if the police have found my name. And yours? What’s going on here?’ He frowned in Maria’s direction. ‘I’ll go now. And I’ll try to ring you later. Stay up, and tell Mungo, as best you can, not to worry.’
His mood had changed. Instead of the dark silence that had come over him when Maria arrived, he’d found a vigour that quickened his movements but gave his face a serious set, the lines on each cheek standing out. He was on the move.
‘I’m going to the embassy, and I’ve got a suggestion. Please stay here – all night if you want. I’d like it. The spare room is always ready. Use the phone, and have something to eat. There’s cheese. I’ll be late. But I don’t want you to be alone, and I want to talk when I get back.’
‘Me, too,’ said Maria. ‘Thank you.’
Without looking for his bag, throwing Maria a set of apartment keys, he was gone. She walked to the window and pulled back a curtain, looking down to the street. He was walking fast to the corner where he could pick up a taxi in a minute or two, and she saw him button up his jacket against the chill of the night. There was no one else in the street, and he passed through pools of darkness as he crossed to the other side, his own shadow stretching out behind him and then disappearing as he reached a lamp post with a bright light from above him. He stopped for a moment, as if to catch breath, and marched into the blackness at the corner where he was lost to her.
Letting the curtain fall, she took her drink and lay on the sofa, thinking of Quincy and the graveyard where murder had been done.
*
Flemyng saw the twinkling green light of a taxi soon after he turned the corner and ten minutes later he was at the embassy gate. George saw him in, and looking up from the courtyard he could see the only lights in the building coming from Bridger’s office. A profile that might be Wemyss’s was on the blind at the window, and he imagined him getting his orders. As he stood quietly, preparing his thoughts before he went upstairs, a side door opened and a figure emerged.
He spoke softly – ‘Janet, it’s Will’ – and came out of the corner where he had been standing.
‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘I am so sorry. This was obviously someone you knew. How terrible. Did Mr Craven get through to you?’ Outside the office it was always ‘Mr Craven’, even with one of her own.
‘We’ve spoken, yes. I assumed you were on board. Well done.’
‘It hasn’t been much, but I know that this is not over. Quite awful, and no doubt quite complicated, too. Mr Bridger has kindly released me for the night. I shall see you in the morning. Mr Bolder is still in London, so you’ll be in command. Good night. Please ring if I’m required.’
And in a moment she had stepped into the street.
Flemyng took the stairs quickly, and Wemyss opened the door for him, gesturing towards Bridger behind his desk.
‘Will, thank goodness. The station has been rather under-represented this evening.’
Suppressing a spout of rage, Flemyng apologized for having been out of contact. ‘What more do you know, Pierce?’
‘That they have no idea what happened to her, but it is certainly a suspicious death. The Americans are having fits, of course. She was so well known that it’s an embarrassing story all round. Every American journalist in Europe will be heading our way, damn them. They’re her friends. From our point of view, it is simply a matter of working out why two rather important figures in this embassy are caught up in it, and how we get you out of it. Then we can let those whose responsibility it is get on with the investigation, and turn to our own business. That’s what we hope.’ It was obvious that he didn’t believe himself.
He went on, ‘I should say that I have been trying to maintain an even temper this evening. It hasn’t been easy.’
Ignoring the invitation to apologize, Flemyng shook his head. ‘It won’t be so simple. Let’s take it step by step.’
He was struggling with himself. ‘I may be able to help a little, although I didn’t know her at all well. We met at a party last Saturday, and I should tell you that I had lunch with her yesterday.’
‘Lunch!’ Bridger said, as if Flemyng had confessed to adultery. ‘Dear God. Why?’
‘Because she wanted to,’ Flemyng said.
Bridger was in a more formal pose at his desk, the conversation having taken a turn that he hadn’t expected. ‘Let’s be quite frank here. Did she know of your role in this embassy?’
Flemyng was quick, looking straight at Bridger. ‘Not from anything I said.’
‘I ask this’ Bridger said, ‘because I have had a call from the Americans. One of my opposite numbers. It’s the reason for my sadness that Freddy Craven isn’t with us, because he might have been able to help. Will, there is talk of a security problem here.’ He took a long breath as if he were preparing to sing. ‘I was given no more detail, but my impression is that you and your people may be required to co-operate with our friends. Rigorously.’
‘We always do, as you know,’ Flemyng said.
‘Quite,’ Bridger said, ‘but it’s important that with Craven away – I know where he is, by the way, and I’d be grateful for your explanation – and Sandy Bolder prancing round London for reasons that are beyond me, that you are aware that the burden will fall on you in the first instance. Speaking on the ambassador’s behalf – we have talked frequently this evening, as you can imagine – we require maximum co-operation. Files and so forth.’
He added, ‘Up to a point.’
Flemyng, who was anxious to leave, said that he could rest easy. Requests would be satisfied. ‘I shall be here early and, Bolder or no Bolder, I’ll do what is necessary.’
Bridger stood up, a
nd got a bottle and glass to pour him a drink. ‘I am sorry that you have lost a friend, however brief your acquaintance. My condolences. But you can understand my feelings about this embassy. Tell me, Will, since this is alarming the Americans so much – do you have any idea why it happened?’
‘None at all,’ said Flemyng. After a quick glass, he excused himself. ‘I shall see you at morning prayers.’ He nodded to Wemyss, who held the door open and walked silently behind him as far as the courtyard, where they said goodnight. In a gesture of sympathy, Wemyss shook his hand firmly.
Flemyng walked home. It took him about twenty minutes. From Concorde he walked east along the railings at the Tuileries Gardens and crossed the Pont Royal. On the Left Bank, with the noise of the riverside traffic subsiding behind him, he slid into the narrow streets around the university, passing close to the Brasserie Balzar where he’d spent the evening with two students from Sciences Po, and where he had learned how convinced they were that these streets would come alive the following week, with the arrival of May. He had people to talk to, but first there was the death of Quincy. Through the sense of shock that clung to him through his walk and made him cold, he thought of Bolder playing his games in London, and Freddy marooned in Perthshire, perhaps having a last pipe with Mungo in the drawing room at Altnabuie. It was his story to unravel.
Recollecting his excitement the day before when he set out for his lunch with Quincy, he felt a surprising clarity of mind in recalling an encounter that had moved him with unexpected force and had become, because of her last words to him, a challenge fired with uncertainty and promise.
What had she known that caused her to die?
He turned into rue de l’Université and, realizing that he was almost home, Maria came to his mind. They would talk, probably long into the night.
He climbed the curved stair to the first floor, and pushed the switch to extinguish the last light in the lobby. As he felt for the lock he heard voices, and stopped.
The door opened, and Maria smiled at him, kissed him on the cheek.
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