‘When did you last see Rose?’
‘Before she went to the party. She had been lent out by Mother. It gave Rose a bit of extra money, you see, and that was good for our … ’ She stopped.
‘For your what?’ Mary spoke softly.
Muriel was silent.
‘Miss Muriel, did she tell you where she was going?’ There was a silence. Guy did not dare to turn around.
Mary tried again. ‘Rose has been missing for a long time now, and nobody has heard from her. We’re worried, as you can imagine. But that doesn’t mean we don’t think we can find her and help her, if she needs it. Is there anything at all she said to you that might have indicated where she was going?’
Muriel spoke in a small voice. ‘She was going to catch the train to Dover.’
‘Dover. That’s where the ferries go to France. Was she planning on a trip to France?’
‘I don’t know why she didn’t take me with her,’ Muriel burst out. ‘We were going to set up our own dance show together, in Paris. Rose and Lily Leaf, we were going to be called. We’d been practising our steps for ages. But then she left me behind. And now I’m here. On my own.’
Mary comforted Muriel. Guy was impressed. She’d been right, he couldn’t have interviewed the child in the same way. ‘Was there any particular reason for going to Paris?’ she asked. ‘Do you know if Rose was going to meet anybody there? A boyfriend perhaps?’
There was a loud sniff. ‘No, it was just going to be us. My aunt married a dressmaker over there, he’s got a shop. I thought we could go and see her. I knew we could count on her to keep our secret. She’s an adventuress, you see.’ Guy could hear a hint of pride in the girl’s voice.
‘Can you remember his name, Muriel?’
Her big eyes blinked. ‘No, I can’t. It was something beginning with M, I think. Rose wrote it down.’ She looked as if she might burst into sobs.
‘That’s very helpful, thank you,’ said Mary, quick to reassure her.
‘I was teaching Rose how to read and write, as well as a bit of French,’ volunteered the girl. ‘She didn’t get much schooling when she was growing up, she said. She mostly had to help out on the farm.’
‘Ah, I see. I can tell you’re a very clever girl, Muriel.’ Guy didn’t look but he knew the girl would be basking in Mary’s praise. Muriel didn’t have the air of a child who was told very often how clever she was.
‘There’s something I want to ask you and I would like you to think very carefully for me, because I think this could help us to understand better what has happened. Do you know of any reason why Rose would leave without telling anyone where she was going, or letting her family know that she was safe?’
Muriel said nothing.
Mary’s voice got a little lower, a little warmer. ‘I think the two of you were great friends. And I promise she won’t be cross with you for telling us anything that was said secretly between you before, because we need to be sure she’s absolutely well and safe, you see.’
Muriel shook her head. ‘No, there was a man used to come here that she said she didn’t like … But I don’t understand why she didn’t come back here to see me, before she left. She never said goodbye. She went to work at the other place and that was the last time I saw her.’ Tears came down her cheeks and she wiped them away furiously with the flat of her hand.
‘Thank you, Muriel, you’ve been invaluable. When we find Rose, I know she’s going to be very grateful to you.’
‘Do you think she’ll come back to me?’ The loneliness caught in the girl’s throat as she spoke.
‘I’m sure that she will if she can,’ said Mary encouragingly. ‘We’ll certainly let her know that you would like to see her. She’s probably been worried that you might be cross with her, for leaving you behind.’
‘If you see her, tell her I’m not cross. Tell her I want her to come back,’ said Muriel.
Guy turned around then and walked back. ‘We’ll be off now,’ he said and shook hands solemnly with the young girl again. ‘Thank you, miss. Most sincerely.’
After the girl had left the room, Lucy had been brought in but even with Mary’s gentle questioning she had had nothing further to add, other than to confirm that Rose had been apparently learning French, and that her sudden departure had been surprising. Now they knew this tallied with Muriel’s account of her plan with the maid, it seemed that Paris was the place to go if Rose was to be found.
Guy remembered the piece of paper in his pocket with the scribbled address of where Louisa was staying in Paris. Was that what his mother would call ‘a sign’? He wondered if he would – or should – try to look her up when he was there. The thought of Sinéad caused a thickness in his throat. But deeper inside him he could feel the pull on his heart from a thread that only Louisa held.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Louisa, Luke and Diana returned to the Guinness apartment in an atmosphere that was hard to pin down. Louisa felt as if she had drunk a bottle of champagne then witnessed a car crash. There was a sharpness, a sense of danger in the air, and yet it was blurred by the strangeness of Paris and of the bar they had been in, both having so quickly followed the beauty of the paintings at the Louvre. She felt very far from home.
Luke was quieter than before but he kept giggling. Nerves, probably. Diana hadn’t made it clear yet exactly what she thought of what she had seen but as they approached the front door, she said, without looking at either of them: ‘I don’t think we’ll speak of this to Bryan.’
‘It can be our secret,’ said Luke, and Diana shot a look at him then of intense loathing.
‘Don’t ask me to keep secrets from my husband,’ she said, sounding very much like her mother. ‘It will come to no good. But I see no reason to make him dislike you so I suggest we do not talk about it again.’
Luke had flushed at this and said no more, not even to excuse himself as he might have done. Diana then turned to Louisa: ‘I think you had better go in by the servants’ entrance, don’t you?’
Louisa’s breath was stopped at this. ‘Yes, of course,’ she managed to say. She had known she wouldn’t go through the front door with the two of them, she just hadn’t expected to be so forcefully reminded. She left them without saying goodbye and walked fast around the corner to the back entrance, where three quick knocks were responded to by a surly maid who let her in without so much as a ‘bonjour’. It was the final straw: Louisa ran upstairs to her room and lay on her bed, not crying but feeling an ache behind her eyes that was almost as exhausting.
Louisa didn’t lie there for long. After only twenty minutes, the maid who had let her in was knocking on the bedroom door, telling her that ‘Madame Guinness rings ’er bell’ and Louisa had to go and see what her mistress wanted. The events of the afternoon seemed to be long ago already, though the after-effects of the fishpaste sandwiches were disturbingly present. Louisa made her way through the back stairs and up to Diana’s bedroom, a haven of cool colours and a four-poster bed. Diana was sitting at her dressing table, applying face powder.
‘I need to change for the evening,’ she said, as if nothing had happened between them. Perhaps she didn’t think it had. ‘I was thinking perhaps the Boulanger. I know I’ve worn it twice already but we have the Mulloneys joining us this evening, and they haven’t seen it yet. Might you be able to do my hair differently? That will change the effect for Bryan at least.’
Louisa tried to speak but the words stuck in her throat, so she nodded and went to fetch the white dress. Fortunately, Diana had worn it indoors only, so the long bow that fell to the ground was still clean. She selected a white fur stole for Diana to wear with it if they left the house, and a silver clutch bag. In silence, Diana undressed and handed her the clothes she had worn that day, then stepped into her gown and stood still, waiting for Louisa to fasten the hooks-and-eyes at the back. Then Diana resumed her seat at the dressing table and handed Louisa two hair clips studded with diamanté, which Louisa slid into the spun-gold hair. They had sharp pins and
she pricked her finger without realizing. There was no pain, and it was so swift that it was only as she put her finger to her mouth that Louisa realized she had spilled a drop of blood on her mistress’s head. She decided not to mention it. The flashes she had seen of Diana’s temper did not tempt her.
When Diana had applied her lipstick, she put it into the bag and then turned around to face Louisa. She started to say something and then stopped, as if changing her mind. Had she been about to apologize? It looked like it. But it wasn’t what she said.
‘We’re only going to dine out tonight, there’s no show. I don’t think we’ll be back too late. Wait up for me.’
‘Of course, ma’am,’ said Louisa.
After Diana had gone downstairs to the drawing room, Louisa made her way to the kitchen. Supper for the servants would only be served once Mr and Mrs Guinness and their guests had left for the evening but her stomach would not be stilled and she was hoping to find some bread and butter she could snatch from under the watchful eye of the chef. He wasn’t too keen on anything other than the strictly allocated foods making their way into the servants’ stomachs – unless it was his own, judging by the large protuberance that drooped over his tied apron string. But when Louisa came in, the chef was happily busy fussing over dough that was presumably meant for the breakfast next morning. With his back to the rest of the kitchen, she could steal into the pantry for the bread. Only she was caught off-guard when she saw that Luke was in the kitchen, too.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, before she could stop herself.
‘I was hoping to find you.’
She felt flattered for a moment but quashed the feeling. ‘Why?’
‘I felt bad about earlier. I shouldn’t have taken you both there. I just thought it would be funny. Something different.’
‘She’s younger than you think,’ said Louisa, keeping her voice low in case any of the other servants were listening in. ‘Not as worldly as she seems.’
‘I know, I know.’ Luke ran his fingers through his hair, which had grown longer; thick chestnut curls were beginning to form. ‘My aunt would be furious.’
‘Does she need to find out?’
Luke laughed at this. ‘No, you’re quite right. You’re not the sort who minds keeping a secret then?’
She wondered what he was really asking here but the tightness in her chest had begun to unfurl. ‘No, I’m very good at secrets.’
‘That sounds promising. In that case, meet me here later? I’ll tell you all about the evening.’
‘I have to wait up for Diana as it happens. I’ll come down here afterwards.’
‘I knew it. No servant can resist gossip from upstairs.’
‘Careful, Mr Meyer.’ Louisa gave him a stern look she didn’t really mean, but he took her hand and kissed it, then ran out through the green baize door and upstairs, where she could not follow him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Guy disembarked from the train at the Gare du Nord feeling slightly dazed. It was not the sights and smells of Paris that made him feel at odds with himself – although that was a part of it – it was the result of twenty-four hours in close proximity with his good friends Harry and Mary Conlon. When Mary had found out about Guy’s plan to go to Paris, she press-ganged him into taking them along with him. ‘Harry needs to meet the bands that are over there, to get more work as most of them come over to London. And you could do with my help on this case, go on, do admit.’
Guy knew he was powerless.
‘What’s more, I know you’re not allowed to look for this girl officially over there, you’ve got no international warrant.’ This was true, Guy had to allow. The permissions required would take too long to obtain and the longer Rose was missing, the harder it would be to find her.
Mary pressed on. ‘If you’ve got me and Harry with you, it’ll look like a holiday.’
‘All right!’ Guy was laughing now. ‘Stop! You’re preaching to the converted. You can come, too. You’ll have pay your own way, mind.’
‘I know, that’s fine. I’ve got some cash saved. Oh, I could kiss you. Harry will be so pleased.’
In truth, Guy was more than happy to have them with him. The thought of going to Paris by himself was a little desolate. Sinéad would never come with him – an unmarried couple in a hotel being another thing nobody would do in Killarney – and he was also a trifle nervous. He couldn’t speak the language and it was a huge city: was he up to the task of finding Rose? There wasn’t much to indicate that she would be in Paris after all this time – beyond the fact that she’d been learning French and that the girl, Muriel, had said they had talked about her aunt, married to a dressmaker with a shop in Paris. That might have been a starting point but they had no name, only the initial ‘M’, and if Rose had become a dancer, she could be in any number of clubs. Who was he kidding? It was like looking for a four-leaf clover in an acre of grass.
Guy and Harry had been friends since they had both been rejected for conscription in the war – thanks to Guy’s shortsightedness and Harry’s asthma – and had both gone on to work for the railway police, in a bid to do something courageous for their country. Guy had remained in the police service but Harry had left and become quite a successful jazz musician. Diminutive in height, comedic alongside Guy’s tall frame, he was good-looking enough to be mistaken for a Hollywood actor in shadowy clubs. An asset he had happily traded on until he met Guy’s colleague Mary Moon; their romance had flared quickly and the flame still burned bright, two years since their wedding.
Dropping down on to the platform behind him, Mr and Mrs Conlon looked irritatingly free of any sign of their raucous behaviour, having started their holiday early with a late night on the train. Harry was as neatly dressed as always, like a brand-new pocketbook, and Mary wore a new cloche hat and a beaver-trimmed coat wrapped tightly around her waist. They each carried brown leather cases, containing just enough for two nights. No hotel had been booked but Harry had been told by his fellow band members that they should head to the Montmartre district, where the best jazz clubs were, as well as plenty of rooms cheaply available for the many out-of-town musicians, singers and dancers that flocked there. It might also be the sort of place that Rose Morgan had ended up if she, too, was trying to live off only a few francs.
‘Shall we get the Metro to Montmartre?’ asked Mary.
‘Get the what to the what?’ Guy was flummoxed.
‘I’ve been reading up on what to do. The Metro is their underground train system. Montmartre’s where we’re headed, remember?’
Guy pushed his glasses back up his nose. ‘Fine, I’ll follow you.’
Harry gave a wry smile. ‘A wise decision where my wife is concerned, I’ve learned.’
Emerging on to the pavement in Montmartre, Guy was assaulted anew by the sounds and smells of Paris. This was, it was clear, the seedier part of the city. There were more cafés and bars than shops, and signs advertising ‘les girls’ and ‘cabaret’. Harry took them down a side street and knocked on the door of the first they saw that advertised ‘chambres simples et doubles’, and within ten minutes of arriving they had booked two rooms, dumped their cases and headed back out to look for a bar.
‘What’s a windmill doing in the street?’ said Guy, squinting at the peculiar building, apparently sitting on a flat roof. There was no doubting it: a squat wooden structure with four enormous windmills turning.
‘That’s the Moulin Rouge,’ smirked Harry. ‘Paris’s best cabaret show. Famous place. Old King Edward VII had a jolly old time there, I’ve heard.’
‘We won’t be going there,’ said Mary primly but she winked at her husband as she said it and the two of them tittered. Marriage suited her, thought Guy, she was more at ease with herself somehow, quicker to find things funny. He hoped it would have the same effect on Sinéad.
‘No,’ said Harry. ‘First off I’d like us to go to Le Cirque.’ He took a piece of folded paper out of his jacket pocket and opened it. ‘It’s
close to the Moulin, I’ve got the directions here. After that, we’ll try Chez Moutarde.’
‘It’s pronounced “shay” not “shezz”,’ said Mary.
‘As long as they can pronounce “gin”,’ said Harry, ‘the Frenchies can say “shay” to their heart’s content.’
Six bars later, the stars had come out in the black sky and the neon lights of Montmartre were flashing their flamboyant colours. Harry was walking rather slowly, concentrating hard on trying to keep to a straight line, while Mary nudged him in the right direction with her arm hooked through his. Guy had stopped ordering anything other than water after the third bar, so was clear-headed, if tired. He had shown the photograph of Rose Morgan at each place to the staff who worked there but nobody had recognized her.
‘She probably doesn’t even look like that any more,’ said Mary. ‘She’ll have dyed her hair if she’s got any sense. Oof, Harry, do try to stay on the pavement.’ She pulled on her husband with an impatient sigh.
‘Whaddya mean?’ said Harry. ‘I’m as straight as a lie. I mean a die. Do I? That rhymes! A die, do I … ’ He trailed off, singing nonsense.
‘I’d better take him home,’ said Mary with a shrug. She didn’t look cross.
‘I’m going to try one more place,’ said Guy. ‘We’ll meet at breakfast?’
‘I will. I expect Harry will be in bed nursing a headache.’
They parted and Guy dived into a bar that was practically opposite the Moulin Rouge, crammed with men and women and with a saxophone playing loudly enough to blot out any thought in his head and yet not quite loud enough to obliterate the buzz of chatter. As with the other bars, a heavy pall of cigarette smoke hung above their heads and there was a strong smell of wine and pastis, the strong aniseed alcohol that Guy suspected had led to Harry’s sharp demise in sobriety. As usual, Guy’s glasses had steamed up almost as soon as he had walked in so he took them off and polished them with his tie for the nth time of the evening. With them back on he took a closer look at his surroundings. It was another small room with posters stuck haphazardly on the painted red walls, advertising various Paris shows. At the back there was an archway that seemed to lead through to a bigger space, equally crowded. Guy pushed through and saw there was a stage at the back here, where a man was singing, a six-piece band behind him. On the front of a large drum was painted ‘Lee Palmers and the Dixie Players’. The singer, he guessed, was Lee Palmers, presumably American. He was black, as were several of the customers at the bar. In fact, this had been the case at every bar – Paris was different to London on that front, thought Guy. In Soho, in the clubs where Harry played, there had been several black singers but he had hardly ever seen a black person enjoying the show as a member of the audience.
[Mitford Murders 03] - The Mitford Scandal Page 7