[Fen Churche 02] - Night Train to Paris

by Fliss Chester

  ‘I’m afraid I have my suspicions.’ He paused. ‘As I said last time we spoke, Rose had had dealings with the Arnault brothers. The oily, grubby marks on the envelope confirms it in my mind. Are these not the greasy fingerprints of a mechanic? I would wager my life that the author of these letters is Gervais “The Wrench” Arnault.’

  Fen frowned in thought. She had so wanted the blackmailer to be The Chameleon, even if that hadn’t really made a lot of sense. But there was no doubting Henri’s logic and deduction – the letter he had shown her, and the one she had back in the apartment, bore signs of grease and oil. And she really didn’t think Gervais ‘The Wrench’ Arnault was also the master of disguise and double agenting that The Chameleon purported to be.

  ‘Thank you, Henri, and again for letting Simone and me stay on. I’ll let her know the news.’ Fen got up to leave.

  ‘Farewell and take care, dear girl. Perhaps as a thank you to me you can both start to clear away Rose’s belongings? Send them to the Red Cross or whatever, I don’t think I’ll find a use for her dresses and beads. Or indeed that damned list any more.’

  ‘The list? You really want us to just throw it away?’ Fen asked, her obvious confusion showing.

  ‘My dear, what use is it now? I don’t have the cipher for Rose’s code. Without it, the list is useless. Our Jewish friends might be able to spot their paintings from the descriptions, but without the cipher there is no proof. Antoine and Gervais, under Rose’s instruction, labelled each painting with that code of hers. What is the point of the list if we can’t decode it?’

  ‘So you’re just going to give up? After all you risked?’

  ‘I don’t see what else I can do?’

  Fen thought for a moment. ‘Do you know how I can contact Michel Lazard?’

  ‘Rose’s art dealer? Yes, why?’

  ‘I just think that he’s a missing cog in the wheel. Someone I’d like to speak to, see if he knew if Rose had any enemies.’ Or if he was one of them… Fen thought to herself.

  ‘I’m not sure what use Lazard would be to you, to be honest, Fenella. He is good for two things in this world, and two things only. One is selling almost any picture you give him, and the second is that he will try to charm the stockings off almost every woman he encounters, with varied results.’

  ‘I thought you barely knew him?’

  ‘I really don’t. But the man has a certain reputation… Look, why don’t you join me at a drinks reception tonight, at the Louvre. It’s a sort of benefit for the wealthy patrons to see that the art they fundraise for so generously has been restored to the museum. You won’t look out of place in one of Rose’s fabulous outfits. Do come, it will be something to cheer you up.’

  ‘If by fabulous you mean outrageous,’ Fen bit her lower lip. Rose had been such a massive personality she’d been able to pull off velvet turbans and floor-length patchwork coats with aplomb. Fen wasn’t sure if there would really be anything appropriate for her to wear and she wasn’t even sure if she was in the mood for a grand gala. Henri could obviously read these thoughts as they played across her face.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find something as chic as you, my dear,’ he said, and then added, ‘and it really would be such a shame for you to miss tonight. Rose was invited, you know, and I think if she could look down on us now and perhaps flick some ash from her cigarette at us…’ he paused, gauging Fen’s smile perhaps. ‘Well, I think she would tell you to come.’

  Fen looked up at the ceiling and considered the idea. The thought of a party was indeed rather exciting and if nothing else it would give her another chance to double-check with Henri that he really did intend for her and Simone to destroy the list Rose had made. She sighed and then smiled at Henri.

  ‘Until tonight then.’

  ‘Wonderful, wonderful,’ Henri clapped her on the back as Fen took her leave and left the gallery. She decided that it would do her pocketbook no good at all to linger in the arcade, plus she was in no mood now for shopping, real or of the window variety. Instead she was still running the question of Henri and the list over and over in her mind. Was he really going to give up so easily on his and Rose’s mission? If the cipher is so important, she thought, I really must try to find it.

  Fen was just leaving the colonnade when a flash of colour caught her eye on the other side of the courtyard. She paused and looked, waiting for the chance to see it again. It might have been the speed at which the person was moving, or perhaps Fen was just on edge after the events of the last few days, but something told her to wait and see what it was that had captured her attention.

  She moved slowly along the colonnade until she was hidden behind one of the columns, and was almost instantly rewarded by seeing the colourful fabric again. This time she could make out what it was: a boating blazer. Paired with summery cream slacks, as if the wearer was dressed for a regatta on a riviera rather than an autumnal day in the city. Fen had seen that jacket before, its old-school stripes giving the game away immediately. This man, darting between the columns the other side of the courtyard was the same man she’d seen Rose arguing with just before she was killed.

  ‘Lazard…’ Fen whispered to herself, holding onto the rough stone of the column, letting its width conceal her in case he turned around. Watching from her spot, she tracked him as he half ran, half walked along the street until he slipped inside one of the galleries and out of sight.

  Fen emerged from behind her hiding place and nodded a confirmation to herself. The gallery she had just seen him enter was none other than Galerie Renaud.

  Twenty-Nine

  ‘Well, that is as it should be,’ Simone replied to Fen as she helped herself to a glass of wine from a bottle in the kitchen. She had just come in from the atelier and Fen had told her about Henri Renaud’s kind offer to let her stay on. ‘Henri Renaud doesn’t need this apartment anyway.’

  ‘Well, no, I don’t suppose he does, not straight away at any rate, but it’s very generous of him. We could have been out on the street tomorrow if he wanted.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think it would ever have come to that.’

  Well no, not with your eye on James’s two houses, Fen thought, then chastised herself for thinking so cruelly about Simone’s intentions.

  ‘And I am really quite at home here,’ Simone leaned against the kitchen countertop. ‘Despite the horrors of what happened, of course,’ she added, although it sounded rather like an afterthought.

  Fen just nodded and took a glass of wine into the studio. She had an hour or two to spare before she needed to be back at the Louvre. She’d laid out three potential outfits that she’d found in Rose’s wardrobe, her own being completely deficient in anything fancy enough. Fen had felt terrible going through Rose’s clothes, but Henri had given her permission to, nay, even asked if she could start clearing out the clothing, and she thought Rose would have given her blessing, too. Now she just hoped that Simone wouldn’t be too preoccupied getting her own outfit perfected for her evening in with James and would be able to help her decide what to wear and add a few stitches here and there if need be.

  ‘I just love this silk,’ Simone exclaimed as she unwound one of the orange silk turbans. ‘I’m sure with a stitch here and there we can turn this into a super off-the-shoulder top to go with one of those flouncy skirts.’

  ‘You might have to sew me into it,’ Fen glanced down at her watch, ‘I’m not sure we have time to do a proper fitting.’

  ‘Don’t you worry! I have more skill than you’d think at working up a costume like this. Let’s just say I made a lot of my own clothes during the war out of a lot less than this, and each one the perfect disguise!’

  ‘Disguise?’

  Simone laughed. ‘Disguise, costume, uniform… whatever the Resistance needed from me, I could make for them and you know how I feel about fashion? It just changes you from one person into quite the other,’ she clicked her fingers. ‘See, turn around… Ooh la la, you are now a patroness of the arts in your silk bl
ouse and chinoiserie skirt. Bellissimo!’

  Fen had to laugh too, Simone’s own joy at her work was so infectious.

  ‘Can I see in a mirror? Do you have one in your room?’ Fen made towards Simone’s bedroom door when the younger woman clasped her arm.

  ‘I think Rose has the best long glass. Let’s go to her room.’

  Fen followed her in and stood in front of the mirror. She barely recognised herself. Without her land girl overalls or sensible woollen skirts and blouses, she was, as Simone said, quite a different person. Simone had taken in one of Rose’s skirts, this one in a pattern that resembled the wallpapers of smart country houses decorated in the chinoiserie style. A burnt orange colour in the skirt was picked up by the silk of the top that Simone had styled by wrapping the turban fabric around Fen’s waist and layering it up until it criss-crossed over her chest and then wrapped around the very top of her arms to form a piece that was perfect for an evening reception.

  ‘I love it! Thank you, Simone.’

  ‘My pleasure. Now you have to be careful not to unravel until you get home.’ Simone laughed again and left Fen staring at herself in the mirror.

  Unravelling before she left the apartment might be the first challenge, but still, the overall effect of the outfit was fabulous, just as Henri had suggested, and she felt, for first time in ages, like the belle of the ball.

  Belle she might be, but she still had half an hour to spare before she had to leave. Fen knew James would be over soon to spend some quiet time with Simone, and she would have to update him on what Henri had said, and more importantly about whom she had seen going into his gallery. But there were some other people she wanted to update too, and Fen sat herself down, carefully in order not to break a stitch, in one of the armchairs, to write a letter to Mrs B, Dilys and her dear friend Kitty.

  Rue des Beaux-Arts, Paris

  October 1945

  Dear Mrs B, Kitty and Dilys,

  It’s hard to put pen to paper when the news you have to share is rather sad, and not only that but utterly horrifying. Since I last wrote, events have taken a terrible turn and my dear friend Rose has been murdered. James and I found her body here in this apartment, and although the police are ruling it as a bungled robbery (as some jewellery and artwork have gone missing), I fear there might be a more sinister force at work.

  She was killed with one of her own paintbrushes, dastardly though that thought is, but it strikes me that it was a violent and desperate act, and there would have been many other ways for a mere burglar to have incapacitated her if they so wished. Also, this apartment is on the fifth floor and although Rose was living comfortably, there are many more wealthy people in the building (including a Russian countess dripping in diamonds apparently!).

  And, the piece of evidence that really makes me think this isn’t a burglary gone awry is that I have recently discovered that Rose was being blackmailed, I think misguidedly, as thankfully her good friend, and heir, Henri agrees she was an absolute angel. So, me being me, I’ve decided that I’ll have to work out who did it!

  Sorry for my rambling, and Kitty, I would love to send you another clue to work on – did you get the last one? I was watching paint dry – but I don’t think I’m in the right frame of mind to think one up now. I will approach this mystery like a crossword instead… and in order to find out who killed Rose (let’s call her my one across), I’ll have to find the answer to my three down… simply put, who blackmailed her!

  Very best, etc., etc.,

  Fen xx

  Fen put the pen down and rested her eyes for a bit. Whether it was the effect of a little too much wine or whether she was just exhausted from the last few days’ goings-on, she felt like she could hit the hay and sleep for a week, rather than go out and have to be polite and the veritable life and soul.

  She looked over to where Tipper was curled up on the chaise longue. ‘You’ve got the right idea, lad,’ she said quietly, not wanting to wake him up.

  She carefully slid the large tome of Art History that she’d been using as a ‘desk’ down the side of the armchair and flicked the letter onto the coffee table so the ink wouldn’t run. As she pushed herself up from the armchair, her hand came in to contact with something that had slipped down between the cushions. She fished around and caught it, and pulled it up from where it had been hiding.

  ‘Oh, Rose…’ Her voice, or maybe the sound of his mistress’s name, woke Tipper up and he looked alertly at the long pearl necklace that Fen had pulled out. ‘What is this doing here?’ She held the string of pearls up and dangled them, letting them catch the warm, golden light of the electric light bulbs. ‘She must have lost them,’ Fen told Tipper, who was now more interested in chewing his own tail. She felt tears approaching at the sight of this familiar piece of Rose. ‘I wonder if…’ she said briskly, trying to pull herself together.

  She brought the necklace up to her mouth and rubbed one or two of the beads against her teeth. Their grainy texture told her all she needed to know, but when she let them spool into her hand and clasped it shut over the pearls, they warmed to her touch almost instantly – she was sure then, they were real pearls all right. Poor Rose, Fen would have loved to have surprised her with this treasure, but now there was no one to return them to.

  ‘They say you’re never cold with a pearl necklace on,’ Simone said as she walked into the room. ‘Where did you find them?’

  ‘Just here,’ Fen pointed to the chair, ‘I suppose Rose must have lost them, else the thief would have taken them from her jewellery box.’

  ‘What a thing to miss…’ Simone stared at them. ‘You should put them on, they’d set off that outfit beautifully.’

  ‘Oh no, I mustn’t. I mean, they belong to Henri now.’

  ‘Well, you can ask his permission when you see him later.’ Simone shrugged and then responded to the buzz of the doorbell, leaving Fen to save the silk of her skirt from an overenthusiastic Tipper, who was running round in circles by her feet before dashing off to greet James too.

  ‘You look smashing Fen,’ James stood back and admired his friend as he came into the studio. ‘Arthur would—’ he stopped when Fen held up her hand.

  ‘Not tonight, James, I’m just about holding it together, stitch by stitch almost literally. I don’t think I can cope with thinking about… well, anyway, thank you,’ she said, remembering her manners. She took a deep breath. ‘Tonight should be interesting. I’ll try to get some more information out of Henri at the very least.’

  ‘More information?’ James moved over to where Rose had always kept brandy in some decanters and poured himself a glass. ‘What’s happening tonight then?’

  ‘Henri has invited me to a reception at the Louvre. A fundraising do to lure in some more wealthy patrons, or thank them for their donations or some such. The thing is, I had a rather interesting chat with him earlier, followed by an even more interesting stroke of luck.’

  James put down the decanter and empty glass. ‘Right, well you can tell me all about it on the way to the Louvre.’

  ‘But you’re meant to be having dinner here with Simone?’

  ‘And let you walk all by yourself to the museum? Simone can keep the kippers warm,’ he winked at her and picked up his coat. He helped Fen into one of Rose’s less voluminous velvet housecoats and then called out to Simone, who had the grace to only look a little peeved. She air-kissed them both goodbye and moments later Fen and James were walking side by side down the Rue de Seine to the Louvre.

  ‘So, you see, Henri had received a blackmail letter, too,’ Fen said, as they walked between the pools of light cast by the street lamps, the ground glistening after a brief rain shower that afternoon.

  ‘Crikey. Same wording.’

  ‘He didn’t show me, but it sounded like it. He said they’d both received one last week and Rose had come to him with hers, all in a pother about it. He’d reassured her that it must just be some charlatan trying his luck, but he had his suspicions.’

&nbs
p; ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Gervais “The Wrench” Arnault.’

  James was quiet for a moment, then said, ‘Henri certainly has it in for the Arnault brothers. First he sends us off to talk to Antoine and now Gervais is heading for the noose.’

  ‘Perhaps for good reason,’ Fen said thoughtfully. ‘Both the letter we found and the one Henri received were covered in grease and oil. Straight from a mechanic’s garage perhaps?’

  James stayed pensively quiet and they walked, both lost in their own thoughts for a few moments longer. As they crossed the Pont des Arts, James reminded Fen that she had said that she’d seen something else of interest.

  ‘Oh yes, so when I was leaving Henri’s gallery, something caught my eye, well, someone to be more accurate.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lazard, complete with Saint Tropez-style striped blazer and slacks on. And it’s odd—’

  ‘Because that sounds more like something you’d see at Henley Regatta rather than Paris in the autumn?’ James interrupted her.

  ‘Well yes, that… and that Henri had just been telling me that he really only knew Lazard by reputation, not personally very well at all.’

  James huffed out a laugh. ‘Well, be careful in there tonight. I’m sure Henri is more than open to helping you find Rose’s killer, but don’t forget, there is still a murderer on the loose.’

  ‘I know.’ Fen looked at James and then over to where she could see a red carpet, lit each side by large candle flares, that led into the main entrance of the gallery. ‘Though I think I should be more worried about this outfit staying stitched together than getting myself into trouble. Wish me luck!’

  ‘Good luck, Fen.’ With that, James leaned down and kissed her on the forehead and then was gone, leaving Fen to walk the red carpet into the Louvre museum on her own.

  Thirty