by Rhys Bowen
“He sometimes slept…” she paused, then glared at me. “What is it that you suggest? Absolutely no, madame. Monsieur Walcott might have sometimes stayed in the guest bedroom, but then Monsieur Bryce was hospitable. He had guests to visit frequently.” I thought privately that she would not have known if someone had tiptoed down that hallway at night.
“But Monsieur Walcott hadn’t been a guest here for a while?”
“Not for a month or more.”
“So you hadn’t seen him for a month?”
“Except for the brief visit last week.”
“Last week? You mean right before Mr. Bryce died?”
She nodded. “I believe it was the day before Monsieur Bryce was killed. It’s all rather a blur to me now, madame. The shock, you know.”
“Of course, it was a tremendous shock to you. But can you remember anything about the visit of Monsieur Walcott? Was it just a pleasant social call? Do you know why he had come?”
“He was upset, madame, I can tell you that much. He stormed in, waving something at the master.”
“Something?”
“A piece of paper, madame. Maybe a letter?” She frowned, trying to remember. “And Monsieur Bryce told me to get on with my work. I asked if Monsieur Walcott would be staying for lunch and Monsieur Bryce said a firm ‘No.’ So I went but I overheard the young man saying ‘You’ve let me down. You’re a liar.’” She looked up at me now.
“Did he say why?”
“They spoke English, madame. After eighteen years of the master shouting at me in his native tongue I can understand a lot, but not when American people speak quickly together. Anyway shortly afterward the young man went.”
“And did not return again? You never saw him after that moment?”
“I did not. But I told you, after that is all a blur. One horrible nightmare. I can’t bear to think about it. Seeing my poor master there, and that fiend standing over him. I might have been killed too if I hadn’t run out, screaming for help.”
“Did you describe the man you saw standing over him to the police?”
“That’s just the problem. All I saw was the knife in Mr. Bryce’s chest and all that blood and his poor face, his eyes imploring for help. A slim young man, rather dandified. That’s all I could say.”
She looked around the room. “I should be getting on with my work.”
“I’ll help you,” I said. I opened the wardrobe and began to hand her down his jackets and suits. “Do you want them with tissue paper between them?”
She hesitated, not wanting me to get involved but glad to have someone helping her. “Yes, that would be a good idea.”
“So to return to that terrible day, madame,” I said, looking up as I lay a black smoking jacket into the trunk. “Was this model Shosette not there when he was killed? Wasn’t he working on the painting of her at that very moment?”
“She had walked out that morning,” the housekeeper replied. “They had some kind of altercation. I heard raised voices. I heard the front door slam. When I came to the studio to see what was wrong Monsieur Bryce was standing there alone at his easel. He said to me, ‘Silly girl. She’ll be back if she knows what’s good for her.’”
“And did she come back?”
“Not as far as I know. He ate lunch alone and then I had to go to the market to get the meat for his dinner. He was alone when I left him. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Presumably the police have questioned this girl?”
“They tell me nothing, madame. All I know is she was not the one who plunged the knife into him. That’s all that matters.”
“So she was definitely not in the apartment when he was killed?”
She looked around. “I cannot say ‘definitely.’ She could have hidden but I do not see how she could have slipped out past us. I was at the front steps, you understand.”
“There is a way out through the basement, is there not?”
“Yes, but usually it is kept locked and not easy to find for those who do not know the building well.”
I found it, I thought. Others could too.
“And anyway,” she said, looking up as she placed a pile of white shirts into the trunk. “Why would she want to kill Monsieur Bryce? He was giving her employment.”
“You said yourself they had an argument that morning and she went out and slammed the door.”
“Monsieur was a temperamental man. He often fought with people. Perhaps she was temperamental too. That sort often are. But what cause would she have to kill him?”
“That is the main question, isn’t it,” I said. “What cause would anyone have to kill him?”
“I can’t answer that. Perhaps the answer lies across the ocean. One thing I ask myself is why all these people suddenly arrive on my doorstep from America—after all these years?”
I was suddenly alert. “All which people?”
“You, for one,” she said, pointing an accusatory finger in my direction. “You arrive, saying you bring a message from his family. That is what the other young woman said too.”
“Which other?”
“The one who resembles the painting in the foyer, with the blonde hair.”
“Ah,” I nodded. “I know the person of whom you speak. She came to visit him the day before he died, no?”
“She did, madame. But he was occupied and told her to go away. He was annoyed that she was here. He said to me, ‘It’s never over, is it, Claudette? Now it starts again. It’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life.’ I asked him, ‘What is, monsieur?’ And he said, ‘That specter.’”
“‘Specter’? He meant the young blonde girl?”
“He said no more. But she returned the next day.”
“The day he was killed?” I could hear my voice, shrill and louder than I intended. I hoped it had not carried to the policeman outside.
“That very day, madame. She arrived when he had just finished his lunch and gone back to his studio. She looked very … flustered. Her cheeks pink. She said she had to see him. It was important. So I took her through to him. He said, ‘Leave us, Claudette.’ And I did. I went through to clean up the dining table—”
“But did you get a chance to hear what was said?”
“Madame, I am not the sort who listens at keyholes,” she said defensively. “But I did overhear the young lady say, ‘I don’t want your money. I don’t need your money.’”
“That’s interesting,” I said. “And what happened after that?”
“I do not know. When I came back to the studio to tell him I was about to go out and was there anything special he wanted she had gone. I tried to ask him about her but he shouted at me. He said, ‘Isn’t it time you went to the market? Do you think I want the leftover meat that has been visited by flies?’ So I went. And when I returned with the shopping he was sitting there, dying.”
She looked up at me with hopelessness in her eyes. “If only I had stayed, he might still be alive.”
“You might also be dead, Claudette,” I said. “Someone came, intent on committing murder.”
“You may be right. At night I lie there, asking myself over and over what I could have done to prevent this.”
“You were fond of him.”
She nodded and wiped away a tear. “He was my life, madame. For eighteen years he was my life. Now I have nothing. Nowhere to go. All alone.”
“I’m very sorry,” I said. “I should go and let you get on with your work.”
She looked up at me. “You will tell his relatives at home that I did my best. And if they inherit his fortune and care to send a small gift to me…”
“I’ll tell them,” I said, feeling awful that as far as I knew there was no relative at home. I resolved to speak to the inspector and Reynold Bryce’s lawyer to see if some provision could be made for Claudette.
Thirty-two
I left by way of the front door. The policeman had no way of knowing I was not a resident of one of the other flats, I reasoned. I nodde
d as I passed him and said, “Bonjour” in a sprightly manner. He didn’t attempt to stop me. I heard a distant clock chiming eleven as I hurried along the Rue François Premier. I was in two minds of what to do next. I would have to be back at Mary Cassatt’s house to nurse Liam at lunchtime, but should I go to seek out Willie Walcott or Ellie before I went in search of Shosette Petit? Which one of them was more important? All three had been upset with Reynold Bryce, all three had had words with him. But Willie had apparently seen him the day before he died and there was no reason to believe he had returned. Shosette and Ellie had definitely been with him on the day he died. I couldn’t think what either of them might have to do with his death, but I was particularly concerned about Miss Ellie. There were enough discrepancies between the truth and what Ellie had told me to raise some red flags.
For example she had told me she had visited him the day before he died but he hadn’t had time to see her. That much was true. What she hadn’t said was that she had returned the next day—shortly before he was killed. Why had she kept quiet about that? And then I remembered one more thing—she had asked me to lie and say that we had been together all the time she had been in Paris. At the time I had thought that was in case her fiancé worried she had gone around unchaperoned. Now it seemed she might have wanted me as her alibi.
I decided I had to see her right away. Liam would be well-fed by Celeste and his aunts if I didn’t return on time. So I set off to cross the river to the Left Bank and the Hôtel d’Alsace. I hoped she was still staying there and hadn’t moved to the more elevated world of the Ritz. I had no wish to seek her out there, with her most proper fiancé and his family. It would be rather awkward to have to question her about a possible involvement in a murder.
I crossed the Seine at the Pont des Invalides, then followed the quay until I came to the Boulevard Saint Germain. The fine day that had seemed so perfect this morning was now a little too warm for comfort and I could feel the fabric of my dress sticking to my back. One of the disadvantages of acquiring clothes from a rich acquaintance was that they weren’t as comfortable as the muslins and shirtwaists I was used to wearing before my marriage. At this moment I’d have given anything for a white cotton shirtwaist. And a pair of comfortable shoes. The road stretched on and on. I watched fishermen along the river, a tug pulling a string of barges. It all looked very cool and inviting. I tried to concentrate on the task at hand. Ellie had chosen to lie to me. She told me only about her meeting with Reynold Bryce the day before he died. Why was that? And why had she wanted me to be her alibi?
It didn’t make sense. He was a friend of her family. He had once painted her aunt, long before she was born. She had never met him. I had assumed the visit had been a courtesy call. So why had she returned on the day he died, and why, in heaven’s name, had the housekeeper heard her say, “I don’t want your money.” It sounded almost like a threat or a case of blackmail. I had come to suspect that Ellie was not the angelic being she appeared. She had shown herself to be a devious little miss. She had misled both her family and her fiancé about her journey to Paris. Was it possible she had uncovered some kind of scandal about Reynold Bryce and had confronted him with it? And he was trying to pay her off? So why then didn’t she want his money?
I stopped to watch some children playing by the river. They were dancing around barefoot, in ragged clothing, squealing in delight as a bigger boy tried to splash them. And slowly an idea took shape in my head. Why had Reynold Bryce suddenly forsaken a country where he enjoyed considerable success and fled to Paris and never once returned home? Why had his wife not come with him? “Eighteen years” ago, the housekeeper had said. Eighteen years. And what had one of the men at the Steins’ party said about Reynold Bryce? He had thrown Pauline over because she was too old. And hadn’t one of the men at the Nouvelle Athènes said, “lock up your daughters”?
Reynold Bryce liked to have the young and the beautiful around him. The housekeeper had acknowledged that. But what if it went further? I stopped, frowning into the distance at the sturdy buildings on the Île de la Cité, because I hardly dared to form the thought, let alone say it out loud. What if the Angela in the paintings wasn’t Ellie’s aunt at all?
I turned away from the river at the impressive Orsay train station and found the hotel on the Boulevard Saint-Germain nearby. It seemed to be a pleasant and not too pretentious hotel, one that I would have enjoyed staying in myself. I realized as I approached the front desk that I still did not know Ellie’s last name.
“You have a young lady from America staying here,” I began slowly. “Her first name is Ellie and she has beautiful blonde hair, but I’m afraid she never told me her last name.”
The clerk had obviously been impressed by Ellie and her hair. His face lit up. “You mean Mademoiselle Hatcher. Eleanor Hatcher.”
“That’s right. Is she available at the moment?”
The face clouded again. “Oh, no, madame. She has left us, only this morning. She is to join her family members at the Ritz.”
“I see,” I sighed. “Thank you.”
I was now hot, tired, and frustrated and the last place I wanted to go was the Ritz. I was sorely tempted to go back to Miss Cassatt’s and then go to see Inspector Henri at the Sûreté and tell him what I knew about Ellie and what I suspected. But I couldn’t do it. In spite of the way she had tried to use me I was still rather fond of her, and I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. I suspected she’d lie to me again but I had become quite good at recognizing a lie. If she didn’t want to tell me the truth, I’d have to go to the police. I’d tell her that too.
Wearily I trudged back across the Seine at the Pont de la Corcorde and then along the Rue de Rivoli, grateful for the colonnade and its deep shade, until I stood eventually in the Place Vendôme, admiring the column and the graceful sweep of buildings beyond it. I took several deep breaths before I dared to enter the Ritz. I was conscious that I now looked sweaty and red-faced and my hat was probably askew. Indeed the doorman, not the same one as on the occasion of my last visit, did eye me with suspicion and ask, “May I assist you, mademoiselle?”
I told him curtly that it was “madame” and I had come to visit my friend Miss Hatcher who was currently a guest. He gave a perfunctory nod and admitted me. I looked around carefully before I entered the lobby. The last thing I wanted at the moment was to bump into Justin Hartley. But the lobby was deserted apart from an elderly couple who were studying a map at one of the glass-topped tables and a fashionably dressed woman who was standing at the front counter. “But I don’t see how you have the nerve to charge me for that!” Her voice carried across the hotel lobby.
I went up to the front desk and asked for Miss Hatcher.
“I will call her room, madame,” he said. “Whom shall I say wishes to see her?”
“Mrs. Sullivan from New York. It’s a matter of great urgency.”
He tried an internal telephone then shook his head. “She does not appear to be in her room, madame.”
“Is she perhaps in the suite of the family with whom she is staying?”
“The Sloane family, no? I will try for you.” He did, then shook his head once more. “Maybe they are in the restaurant. It is almost time for luncheon and Americans like to eat very early.”
He indicated the direction of the restaurant. I made my way through to it with some trepidation, pausing to straighten my hat and blot my face when I came to a gilt-framed mirror in the corridor. The restaurant was breathtakingly opulent, with light pouring in from high windows, reflecting from mirrors and sparkling from chandeliers. The white-clothed tables had upholstered curved seats around them and were separated by tall potted palms. At this hour most of the booths were empty with a low buzz of conversation coming from a few tables. The maître d’ pounced on me before I had a chance to look around.
“You require a table, madame?”
“I’m looking for friends. Monsieur and Madame Sloane and their party?”
“This wa
y, madame. Will you be joining them?”
Oh, Lord. I hadn’t wanted a formal presentation. “I can find them myself. No problem,” I said.
“It is no trouble, madame.” He strode out ahead of me to a table in the far corner. Seated at it were a large florid man, his bad-tempered looking wife, a pink and chubby younger man, a similarly chubby young woman, and amid them, like the peacock in the henhouse, was Ellie. She was smiling shyly at something they had said to her.
They looked up as we approached. “A visitor for you, monsieur,” the maître d’ said.
They stared up at me, except for Ellie who was blushing bright pink.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr. Sloane,” I said. “But I am a friend of Miss Ellie’s and I wonder if you could spare her for a moment.”
“We’re just about to eat, young lady,” he said. “If you’re a friend of my son’s fiancée you’re welcome to join us.” He turned to look at Ellie.
“Not really a friend,” Ellie said, waving a hand dismissively. “Just an acquaintance, and I’m sure I wouldn’t want to spoil my first meal in Paris with my new family for a spot of female chitchat.”
“It’s really rather important,” I said. “I was just speaking with the housekeeper, Claudette, and it seems that you forgot certain items…” I gave her what I hoped was a meaningful stare.
Ellie’s face was now bright red. She licked her lips nervously. “Perhaps I’d better…” she began. “If you could possibly excuse me for a moment.”
“Really, Ellie, I don’t see what can be so dashed important that you have to interrupt a pleasant meal,” Peter said. “Especially for a near stranger.”
“I wouldn’t dream of interrupting a family reunion but this matter can’t wait,” I said. “If I can just have Ellie to myself for a few minutes, I’ll be gone. I have friends waiting for me elsewhere.”
Peter stood, ungraciously, allowing Ellie to slide out of her place. I let her go ahead of me out of the restaurant. The moment we were out of earshot she turned on me. “What do you think you’re doing, embarrassing me in front of my in-laws? I felt like a complete fool. I don’t know what on earth you want with me. We only shared a couple of casual conversations in our whole life.”
