Tears had gathered in the man’s eyes and threatened to overflow.
James’s mind raced. Could he imagine the man lifting a violent hand to Olympe, physically menacing her perhaps while under the sway of alcohol, and somehow forcing her to her death. He wasn’t sure. He could certainly imagine him applying pressure which threatened violence. He could imagine blackmail. He could also at last imagine Olympe flinging herself into the river’s swirling waters. Better that than life with this anguished madman who seemed to love and loathe her in equal measure. Durand would have to be involved, after all, whatever Arnhem’s imprecations. There was no way round it. If only to exonerate Raf from any collusion in blackmail.
The Olympe his mind had created would have been too ashamed to ask Raf for money he would probably readily have given. So under Bernfeld’s pressure and instruction, she might have considered blackmailing someone else.
‘If you’re innocent of murder and of blackmail, Bernfeld, as you insist, I recommend we go to the police right now and you make your statement. Otherwise things will go badly for you.’
The man shuddered. ‘If I go to the police, things will go badly in any case. They’ll lock me up and throw away the key. Isn’t that what they do with my kind.’
‘Chief Inspector Durand will only want the truth,’ James asserted a little uneasily.
An idea came to him. ‘Tell you what, Bernfeld. Write down your address for me – and maybe just a sentence saying you had no part in the murder of Olympe Fabre. I’ll take it to the Inspector, and instead of bringing you in, we’ll both come and interview you. And don’t give me the wrong address or suddenly disappear, because that will only provide proof, as you know.’
Congratulating himself on his cleverness in extracting a sample of writing he could now bring to the Inspector for comparison with the blackmailing letter, James presented his notebook and pencil to Bernfeld. The man gazed at it. Then with a shrug of pronounced hopelessness, he began to write. James saw incomprehensible characters appearing on the page. ‘In French, Bernfeld. Write in French, damn you.’
‘But Monsieur … this is the only writing I know.’
SEVENTEEN
James walked slowly back towards the Grand Hotel. He was tired. Very tired. Like some light skiff tossed by waves, his mind swirled and swayed in a stormy sea of impressions. There had been too many in the last days. But it was the relentless attempt to introduce order which caused the exhaustion, he suspected. The sheer effort of the will it required.
He gave it up for the moment and allowed the associations to play havoc with him.
The back streets here were quiet, not like the hubbub of the river front where he had talked to the young woman, her babe cradled in her arms. Olympe had been with child, too, and it had perhaps precipitated her end. Like Maisie. The much-wanted child had brought death in its wake. Madame de Landois had no children. Neither did he. Nor Ellie, nor Raf, now. Would his mother, who presumably would appreciate some grandchildren, have commanded him to Paris had she known that Olympe was with child? Yes, and probably with even greater haste. Some children were better than others. Some were no good at all. Bad blood. No. It made no sense. Bernfeld, like James’s own mother, would have been enraged at the thought of Olympe with child for the same and opposite reasons – a child conceived with someone outside the clan.
Money or marriage, Bernfeld had threatened her with. He could imagine the poor girl wondering whether Raf would have her against his mother’s will and with a threatening Bernfeld to boot. Here were motives for suicide far more urgent than any hypnotic pass.
Something knocked at the corner of his mind. Something the woman on the boat had said.
But he was already at the hotel and a large, distinctly American contingent clustered round the reception counter demanded his attention. Three boys of varying sizes shuffled their feet and teased a small tearful girl who fled from the group into the capacious skirts of a black-clad dowager guarding a cabin trunk.
The sternly dramatic, angular features of this raven-like figure thrust James into confusion. How could his mother so suddenly appear in Paris? He stopped in his tracks and took a long, ragged breath, armouring himself with explanations. Then, slowly, he forced himself forward.
Proximity dispelled the illusion. The woman was not his mother, though the resemblance was marked. His heart still beating too quickly, he stared at his momentary mis-incarnation. She was indubitably a sign. A sign of his guilt. His last missive home had been all lying solace and procrastination, the lies bolder as his own awareness of the tangles Raf and Ellie were trapped in grew clearer. His mother had undoubtedly read the reality between the lines and if she wasn’t actually here in person, there was probably a telegram awaiting him at the desk, one which might indeed announce her imminent presence.
He turned and moved grimly towards the counter. A vociferous argument between a red-faced man and the hotel manager was in full progress. A long ungainly queue for keys and mail had formed. With a shrug James changed course and made for the bar.
‘Mr Norton!’
James turned to see a parasol wielded with vigour in his direction from amidst a row of palm fronds.
‘There you are, at last, Mr Norton. Join us please.’ Mrs Elliott sat back into her chair and pointed to a place on the sofa beside Charlotte, who smiled at him brightly displaying a row of strong teeth.
Unable to think of an excuse, James sat. It served him right, he thought, for having used Mrs Elliott’s name earlier in making his escape from the Chief Inspector.
‘Charlotte and I hoped you wouldn’t tarry too long. We’re having tea, but you might like something stronger.’ Mrs Elliott waved at a garςon and barely waited for James to place his order before announcing, ‘We’ve been to see your sister again, Mr Norton, and we wanted to have a word about her.’ Her face held a sombre warning.
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes. She’s emphatically unwell.’
‘Mother’s right, Mr Norton.’ Charlotte’s eyes were wide and James read something like fear in them. ‘She … she couldn’t concentrate. She hardly seemed to recognise us. And she was very angry at your brother. Very. We couldn’t quite understand why. She just … well, it felt like delirium.’
‘I told her maid to call the doctor instantly. Harriet wasn’t there, you see.’ Mrs Elliott shook her head in dismal disapproval. ‘I hope they haven’t quarrelled.’
‘No, Mother. Harriet never quarrels. She was probably off with one of her other charges.’
‘In any case, I think the girl understood me, because soon a man arrived. The trouble was he didn’t speak English and he seemed to be asking us to leave. It was only as we got into the carriage, that I realised he didn’t have a bag with him, so he might not have been the doctor after all.’
She gave James a querulous look as if everything were his fault. ‘We think you should go to her, Mr Norton. She shouldn’t be alone. She should be with her family.’
‘Of course. I’ll go straight over.’ James downed the Scotch that had just been placed in front of him. ‘Thank you for letting me know.’
Mrs Elliott put a staying hand on his arm. ‘If you want my advice, Mr Norton, you will get your sister home on the first possible sailing. I suspect the doctors here are all quacks. And she needs her mother.’ She shot a glance at Harriet. ‘This is no place for young women on their own. You understand me, Mr Norton.’
‘I do, I do. You’re quite right. Excuse me now, I must be off.’
‘You’ll let us know how Elinor is, won’t you,’ Charlotte said while he hastily signed his name to the bill.
‘Of course.’
He had only taken a few steps, when Mrs Elliott called him back. ‘That’s him, Mr Norton. The doctor, if he is a doctor. Perhaps he’s come to find you.’
James followed the line of her finger and saw Chief Inspector Durand making his way through the lobby. His heart sank.
‘Yes, yes,’ he mumbled and hurriedly extricated hims
elf, afraid that Mrs Elliott might insist on an introduction. He had no choice now, but to make straight for the Chief Inspector.
‘Just the person I was looking for,’ Durand greeted him with a show of pleasure. ‘I imagine your companions have already told you that I paid a little visit to your sister.’ Durand missed nothing. He bowed ostentatiously in the direction of the ladies.
‘Let’s go somewhere quiet, Chief Inspector. But first I must make a telephone call. Tell me, did a doctor turn up while you were with Ellie … with my sister?’
‘No, we were quite undisturbed, Monsieur Norton. A charming woman, your sister.’ He smiled a satisfied little secret smile, which spoke loudly of information he wasn’t prepared to reveal. ‘Though, yes, I agree. She didn’t seem altogether well. A doctor might be of assistance. Something to calm her.’
James had a bounding desire to wipe the smile off the Inspector’s face. What could Ellie have told Durand to make him so happy? He thought it over while he put a call through to Dr Ponsard. It would undoubtedly be something to do with Raf.
‘It seems your sister knew Olympe Fabre very well.’ Durand spoke as soon as James emerged from the cabinet. ‘She didn’t approve of her.’
‘Really? She told me they were great friends. Look, Chief Inspector, unless there’s anything precise that you need to ask me, I really must hurry. My friends tell me Ellie is delirious.’
‘Delirious. No, no. They exaggerate. Voluble, certainly. Perhaps even a little confused.’ He peered up at James and openly scrutinised his face. ‘You seem to be the only member of your family who doesn’t suffer from an excess of nerves, Monsieur Norton.’
‘What did she tell you?’
‘She told me at great length about an expedition she and Olympe Fabre had made to the Louvre.’
James had a sudden memory of Ellie telling Dr Ponsard about the flashing pains in her legs. They had begun at the Louvre. Was Olympe the friend she had mentioned? The one who had helped her, Ellie had said.
‘And does this explain anything at all about Olympe’s subsequent death, Chief Inspector?’
‘No, not really. But I was interested.’
They had reached the concierge’s counter and James now stopped to check for post. There were three letters.
‘I trust there will be a message from your brother, Monsieur Norton. It is really him I have come in search of.’
‘Have your men lost his trail?’ James asked innocently.
‘Have you, Monsieur Norton?’ The Chief Inspector retorted with a touch of menace while blatantly examining the envelopes as James glanced at them. ‘Is there anything here from your brother?’
‘No,’ James said truthfully and tucked the letters into his jacket pocket. ‘And I don’t know where he is.’
‘Neither did your sister. It struck me that she was quite inconsolably disappointed in him.’
‘Ellie has always been a perfectionist, Chief Inspector.’
‘And so remains unmarried.’ Durand chuckled.
‘I must go to her, Chief Inspector. There is something I need to tell you about, but there isn’t time enough now.’
‘If it’s important, I can accompany you part of the way.’
‘It’s important.’
Durand followed him into the carriage the doorman had hailed.
‘Before I tell you, Inspector, I want to remind you of the fact that several times now you’ve insisted to me that you’re a Republican. I take it that you also mean by it that you have no grave prejudices against our poor Olympe’s people?’
Durand stared at him cannily. ‘What have you found, Monsieur Norton?’
‘Can you reassure me?’
The Inspector nodded once, abruptly.
‘I’m not sure exactly what I’ve found. I’ve traced an old suitor of Olympe Fabre’s. But I wouldn’t want you to stir up a hornet’s nest by locking him up either prematurely or wrongly, just so as to fall in with police prejudices. You follow my meaning?’
Durand’s face expressed uneasiness. ‘I follow your meaning, Monsieur. But if the man is guilty …’
‘There is as yet no substantial evidence. I will tell you everything, but only on condition that you promise to interview him first on his own ground.’
‘You mean without Maître Chardon?’ Durand grinned.
‘Yes, your examining magistrate feels just a little blinkered to me, if you’ll pardon my saying so.’
‘All right, Monsieur Norton, I give you my word as a fellow Republican, that I shall do my best to be blind to this man’s origins.’
James took his notebook out of his pocket, gave the Inspector Bernfeld’s name and address and explained. ‘Bernfeld was putting undue pressure on Mlle Fabre over a debt her father had incurred at the time when the man was courting her – in full expectation that they would marry. This menacing pressure, I believe, may well have been what led Olympe to try her hand at a little gentle blackmail. Once you’ve talked to Bernfeld, you, too, will see that my brother can have had nothing at all to do with that messy business.’
‘So that’s it, is it? Fighting your brother’s corner again. Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Tell me, Monsieur Norton. How did you come upon this Bernfeld?’
James almost said ‘through a letter’, then bit his lip. ‘Through an old friend of Olympe’s. A childhood friend.’
‘Indeed.’ The Inspector tipped his hat. ‘You have been busy. And is your own view that this Bernfeld is implicated in Olympe’s death?’
James swallowed. ‘Perhaps indirectly.’
‘Indirectly. I think I see. I shall leave you now, Monsieur. Convey my respects to your sister. And do try to calm her a little.’
He paused to wink at James as he stepped from the carriage. ‘You know, I have a feeling she may enjoy her hours in front of the jury.’
*
Harriet opened the apartment door to him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her features swollen. She had evidently been crying.
‘She’s not well, James. I just got here half an hour ago. I’ve been trying to round up a doctor.’
‘It’s all right, Harriet. Dr Ponsard will be over as soon as he can.’
She gave him a grateful look. ‘Ellie’s just closed her eyes. Maybe she’ll sleep now. We should leave her to do so until the doctor comes.’
‘Tell me what’s happened.’
Harriet sat down a little unwillingly. Her fingers picked at the top buttons of her blouse, as if the collar constrained her and trapped her breath. He had never seen her so perturbed. He found himself reaching down to pat her shoulder in reassurance. It was oddly yielding.
He waited until she had regained a little of her composure. ‘Only if you can, Harriet. The Elliott’s alerted me that she’d taken a turn.’
‘It’s just … I don’t know …’ She looked round, as if afraid that Ellie might overhear. ‘When I got here, she started to rail at me. Told me it was all my fault.’
‘What was all your fault?’ James asked gently.
‘Well, that’s just it. I couldn’t make it out at first. Then I realised it couldn’t be me that she was addressing. She thought I was someone else. Or maybe she didn’t see me at all.’ Tears flooded her eyes. She wiped them away with a crumpled handkerchief.
After a moment, she astonished him by asking, ‘Why did Elinor never marry, James?’
‘I … I don’t rightly know.’ He sat down opposite her. ‘Did she say anything about it?’
Harriet shrugged. ‘Not directly. She was … well, I didn’t understand what she was saying exactly. There were obscenities. So much hatred. Such resentment.’ Her voice quivered. ‘I thought maybe if I knew more about that side of her life, about why she hadn’t married, it might clarify things.’
James thought back over the years. The question of Elinor’s marriage or lack of it wasn’t one he had ever put to himself directly. And it was so long since he had been privy to his sister’s daily life.
‘There was someone, a suitor,
David Soames, if I remember correctly. It was when Father was still alive. She refused him.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged.
‘Maybe he didn’t match up to you and your brother’s perfection.’ There was a touch of acid in her voice.
James stared at her, grappling with some elusive meaning. ‘No, no,’ he stammered. ‘I think Father didn’t consider him altogether suitable. Or maybe it was Ellie herself. He wasn’t, as I remember it, quite up to her wit. And in the event, nothing came of it. I think he went back to California. No, no. Wait a minute … That came later. After Father had his first attack.’
‘His first attack?’
‘Yes. Ellie was wonderful. She nursed him. Nursed him through it. Had a cot moved into his room. Mother doesn’t like people being sick.’ Only as James said it did he realise the truth of it. It struck him as a treacherous thought. He gave Harriet a shamefaced glance. But the woman was off on her own tack, talking almost as if to herself.
‘So to Elinor it could seem that your father was at fault. Was the stumbling block on her path to marriage.’ She flushed as she said it. ‘I’m sorry this is unpardonably rude of me. I shouldn’t be interfering. It’s just … it’s just that I’m trying to make sense of what Elinor was saying.’
‘What was she saying?’
‘That. Blaming a man. Your father, I think.’ She waved her hand, wouldn’t meet his eyes.
He had a sudden vision of the histrionic blaze that would attend any such accusation of Ellie’s, like an actress playing out her hour of tragedy in a litany of fierce adjectives. His father’s dying, demanding body.
‘Yet she adored him, you know,’ James said softly. ‘His little girl. His favourite.’
‘Perhaps the two aren’t mutually exclusive.’
He met her clear, intelligent gaze. ‘No, perhaps not,’ he paused. ‘And in her delirium, she took you for him.’
Harriet was silent.
‘What else did she say?’
Harriet shivered ‘She talked about your brother. I think it was about your brother. It was all mixed up.’
Paris Requiem Page 28
