by Jean Stubbs
Lintott clicked his tongue at this loss and took out his notebook and pencil.
‘Fire away, sir. Every word, if you please. I’ll do the sifting later.’
On the last day of May 1882, a dawn express bound for the Swiss border was already fifteen minutes behind its schedule. The driver, a reliable and punctual man, decided to make up lost time in the long run between stations. Visibility was deceptive in the morning mist, but both driver and fireman knew the line so well that they swore they could ride it blindfold. Perhaps familiarity coupled to professional pride confused them, or perhaps it was the haze, but they misread the distant signal as clear, and sped on. Ahead of them were two goods trains: one at a standstill on the line, the other being shunted in a leisurely fashion into the sidings. The wooden carriages, lit by gas, jammed together on impact, reared up, heeled over. The ruptured gas pipes spouted into flame. Under the bridge, in a welter of steam, the shunting train and the express locked in terrible embrace.
That, at least, was the story assembled by witnesses and reasonable conclusions. The train had been crowded, so the injured were many. But the list of the dead was surprisingly short. Driver, fireman, and the seven passengers in the first coach — which had been gutted. These were all identified by friends or relatives. Among them was the name of Odette Carradine, aged six years, resident in London, England.
‘The train crammed from end to side,’ Lintott mused. ‘Seven passengers and eight seats. So the nurse escaped, probably badly burned, as I said. Still, give me the names and particulars of those that passed on, sir. Then newspaper reports next. All the information we can get on the accident and inquest.’
‘And every word to be translated and written down? Very well, Inspector.’
‘I did say as police work was tedious, sir,’ said Lintott, with a twinkle of apology. He watched a number of notes change hands, and added drily as they left, ‘You pay for the privilege here, sir, I take it?’
‘A contribution to one of their charities, Inspector.’
‘Hmm. Charity begins at home, I reckon! I dare say they think so, too!’
‘We shall make a good Frenchman of you, yet.’
Lintott’s snort of disgust was distinctly audible.
All afternoon Carradine tracked down and translated old news. All afternoon Lintott wrote, and licked the point of his pencil, and wrote again. Once or twice he raised his eyebrows, but made no comment until they had ransacked the past and sought out a steamy café. Then he said, ‘The nurse was never in the carriage, sir, after all.’
Gabrielle Carradine had made news by her absence at the inquest, which was attended by her husband and Berthe Lecoq. It was explained, and sympathetically accepted, that the bereaved mother could make no further emotional effort. Berthe testified on her behalf that the child had been travelling, care of the guard, to friends who would meet her in Switzerland.
The body was so badly burned that Odette was identified by means of a gold bracelet on her right wrist.
‘Hadn’t you better have a drop of something strong with that?’ Lintott asked, indicating Carradine’s untouched cup of coffee.
Carradine shook his head. He was punishing himself for something in which he had taken no part.
‘Mind you,’ Lintott continued, carefully treading, ‘it ain’t unknown to send a child care of the guard. Label pinned to her coat. Kind folk in the carriage as’d keep an eye on her, and entertain her and themselves. Delivered safe and sound at the other end. Friends waiting on the platform. My elder son lives in Brighton and he’s sent a little ’un that way. Not so young certainly, and not so far. But then, maybe customs are different over here.’
The explanation appeared to be unsatisfactory and they finished their coffee in silence.
‘If you have no objection,’ said Carradine, swathing himself in his cloak once more, ‘I should like to make one last visit, a purely sentimental gesture. I suppose you could call it a fact. My father, Gabrielle and Odette lie buried in a fashionable cemetery not far from here.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ Lintott replied as heartily as he could and added something about paying last respects.
Abruptly, Carradine rose and paid the bill. He was subdued now. He sat in the cab, chin sunk into his cape collar, hands thrust in pockets, brooding.
Lintott, used to marble angels, effusive verses, dearly beloveds, and fresh flowers every Sunday, now stood among the wealthy dead. This forest of miniature temples proved too much for him. Bowler hat held reverently to his chest, he followed Carradine’s swinging cape. Down narrow avenues, past gleaming black slabs engraved in letters of gold, past open marble books and framed portraits, mourning statues, plaques and busts, china urns filled with china flowers. All the paraphernalia bestowed by the living upon those who had no further use for it.
A small chapel stood higher than the rest, in the middle of the cemetery, surmounted by an ornate cross. Above the wrought-iron gates glittered the name Famille Lasserre.
‘My stepmother’s family,’ said Carradine and inserted a key in the padlock.
Lintott had feared the sweet stink of corruption, but only stale air oppressed him. The chapel was the size of his Richmond parlour, gloomily lit by four stained-glass windows which depicted four saints. At the far end a marble slab acted as altar, bearing an urnful of faded artificial flowers, two bronze candlesticks turning green, and a plaster Madonna holding her Child. From the domed ceiling hung a heavy bronze candelabra, also green. Round the walls pedestals were placed a few feet apart, each holding a Lasserre bust. A tableful of framed photographs displayed lesser members of the family. Before the altar, two mildewed velvet prayer-chairs knelt in vain.
Lintott thought of the country churchyard where he and Bessie would lie at last, and thanked God for it.
‘Obscene, don’t you think?’ Carradine remarked dispassionately.
‘That’s coming it a bit strong, sir, but it ain’t particularly uplifting, and that’s a fact! Are your stepmother and sister among this marble lot, or on the table?’
Carradine dusted two photographs carefully with his handkerchief and handed them to Lintott — who received them with equal care, sensing they were precious.
Gabrielle Carradine was portrayed in a ball gown of gleaming satin, complete with long gloves and jewels. But the exquisite formality of her toilette could not subdue the wilful vitality of face and body. Like many Frenchwomen she was light-boned and well-fleshed. So the delicate features and small hands and feet contrasted with a superbly swelling bosom and rounded arms.
‘She never needed a hairdresser, except on special occasions,’ said Carradine quietly. ‘Berthe used to dress it. Her hair was naturally curly and reached below her waist.’
Nose, mouth and eyes were narrow, clean-cut. The chin pointed, ears neat and close. A cat’s closed face, self-aware.
‘Mind of her own?’ Lintott suggested, sensing a consciousness of purely feminine power.
‘She was a queen,’ said Carradine. ‘My father would have laid down his life for her. He loved my mother, of course, who was his first wife, but that was a marriage of mutual affection and esteem. This was something much headier.’
‘I’d put my money on the affection and esteem, myself,’ said Lintott gravely. ‘A man can lose his head over a woman, and where does that get him in twenty years?’
‘To Paradise, perhaps?’
You were in love with her, too, Lintott thought. All that about little boys feeling passions and being told to go back to their marbles!
‘How old were you when your father married Miss Lasserre, sir?’
‘Almost five, Inspector. She was the answer to our loneliness.’
Lintott laid the photograph gently down and studied Odette. ‘Her mamma’s daughter, eh? They must have been a fetching pair together. French through and through. Do you take after your father at all, sir?’
‘Yes, strangely enough. I say strangely not in any derogatory sense, but it is a fact that blood is thicker
than water. In appearance we are — or were — totally unlike. His physique matched his temperament. He was tall, as I am, but broadly built, comfortably built. He was a generous man, simple, trusting, utterly reliable.’
‘And you don’t think you are, eh?’
‘I know myself to be generous of pocket but not of heart, not of a faithful heart such as his was. My temperament is a vacillating one. I am neither simple nor trusting, nor, I regret, particularly reliable.’ He traced the dust on the floor with his stick and drew a clown.
‘So where does the resemblance come in?’ asked Lintott, head on one side, viewing the spare cleverness of the lines.
‘There is a better man in here, somewhere,’ said Carradine, laying a hand lightly on his breast. ‘If there were a woman to bestow him on. I could be all those things, given the right woman.’
‘Ah! You think so, do you? It don’t perhaps occur to you that, if the man was there in the first place, the lady would follow?’
Carradine stared at him and then at the drawing. ‘It had not occurred to me, Inspector. You may well be right.’ Slowly he ran the point of his cane over and over the clown, until he was obliterated. ‘Have you found a case, yet, Inspector?’
‘A lead or two,’ said Lintott.
The day’s search and emotional toll had exhausted Carradine, now he saw that Lintott also was weary. ‘Come,’ he said courteously. ‘Let’s talk over a cognac.’
They did not speak again until their second brandy was warming the raw day from their bones. Lintott relaxed in his bamboo chair and soaked up the atmosphere with interest. Noise and smoke, fierce arguments over the Paris-Soir, waxed moustaches, energetic gestures.
‘Fascinating, aren’t they, Inspector?’ said Carradine, observing him. ‘I find them so, and particularly the women. They are so feminine. There is no woman on earth, in my opinion, to equal a Frenchwoman. They seem born knowing how best to please a man.’
‘That’s as may be, sir. But pleasure is as pleasure does.’
‘You sound like my good housekeeper, Inspector. Thoroughly disapproving.’
‘Oh, I enjoy the sight of a pretty woman as well as the next man does,’ said Lintott frankly. ‘But if I’m reckoning in the long term I like character. Durability. Prettiness don’t last. Prettiness is a night out — and you don’t care for the look of the next morning.’
‘The words of a philosopher!’ Said the more lightly to cover the emptiness within him.
‘I wouldn’t know about that, sir. But I’ve seen too much to be taken in by appearances. Now, sir, to business.’
‘To business,’ Carradine echoed dutifully.
‘The little girl was travelling alone to see friends in Switzerland. I’ve put forward a reasonable explanation for that. What do you think?’
‘Impossible!’ Carradine cried. ‘I don’t care what explanation Berthe gave. I utterly and completely reject the idea. Odette was rarely apart from either Gabrielle or her nurse, and never from both. Even had they entertained the notion my father would have opposed it absolutely.’
‘Very well, sir. Since we have to start from somewhere we’ll start from there. Secondly, the child could only be identified by her gold bracelet. Would your father have kept that, do you think? They’d have been given her effects — that is, the bracelet.’ Delicately.
‘He might have done. My solicitor put all his papers in order after his death. I’ve never had reason to look into them.’ Carradine was puzzled. ‘How would the bracelet help, Inspector?’
‘It might not,’ said Lintott, ‘but I like to see everything, in case it comes in handy. Now, taking your supposition that they wouldn’t have let the child travel alone, we have two lines of thought to follow. One being that she was never on the train at all, and they identified somebody else. I’ll take a knock at that, for a start. They knew Miss Odette was on the train, so had reason to look for her. Secondly, if she hadn’t been she would have turned up somewhere else. Right?’
‘Correct,’ Carradine agreed.
‘So she must have been with somebody. Do you recognise any of the names on this here list we copied, sir?’
‘None, I’m afraid.’
‘We’re leaving a loophole here,’ said Lintott, enjoying tripping himself up, confident he could scramble back on his feet in any event. ‘We’re assuming that a lad of thirteen knew every single person his stepmother knew. So it could have been someone on this list. But we can’t follow up because they’re dead. Unless,’ pointing a finger, ‘anyone connected with the late Mrs Carradine is still alive. Brothers, sisters, relatives of any description, old friends?’
‘Gabrielle was an only child. Her parents are dead. We dropped every connection with the family and their circle afterwards — and that’s another curious thing...’
‘Never mind that for now!’ Lintott counselled. ‘We’ve got enough curious things to keep us quiet for a bit! The train was crowded from end to end, according to the newspaper report — they said it could have been a regular holocaust. So we’ll assume that every seat was filled. There were only seven passengers in that front coach, and eight seats. The person who was with your sister might have been that eighth passenger, and somehow got away. Now don’t get wound up, sir! It’s if, if, if, all the way — and one if gone wrong can upset all the others. Pure speculation and not a single hard fact, so far. But my nose don’t half twitch!’
They sat together, an ill-assorted couple with only an adventure in common. Carradine, in his wide-brimmed hat, admired the twilight through half-closed eyes; Lintott, stout and plain and grey, sought out ways and means by contemplation of the checked tablecloth.
‘The nurse,’ Lintott murmured to himself. ‘Bertha Lecock. If she’s still alive. If I can find her. She’s the key — if there’s a lock to open! If! There’s a heap of ifs!’
‘Only Whistler could capture this evening light,’ Carradine mused. He recollected his position as host. ‘You must be hungry, Inspector?’
Lintott would have given much for three cups of strong tea and a plate of hot buttered muffins, but these did not seem to be forthcoming. He nodded.
‘Then let us pay tribute to the perishable and inimitable art of French cuisine. In short, dinner.’
Lintott looked hunted.
‘Soup? A good steak and vegetables? An iced pudding? Cheese? Something of that sort, Inspector?’
‘Ah!’ said Lintott, whose mind had been conjuring up frogs’ legs by the bushel. ‘That’d be capital, sir.’
Carradine smiled, comprehending. Lintott reached for his bowler hat. ‘If agreeable to you, sir,’ he said slowly, ‘I’d like to go back. I want to sift through every blessed paper your father or stepmother ever kept. Bills, receipts, letters, diaries, account books — you’d be surprised what you can find out about a household through an account book, sir! The lot.’
‘Then we’ll go. As soon as you please. Tomorrow, if you wish.’
Lintott measured him and found him coming nicely up to standard. ‘I shan’t need you on this stretch, sir, if you want to stay behind. Just put me on a train, with instructions as these folk can follow, I’ll make my own way back.’
‘Allow me to see you on to the boat, at least,’ Carradine said, surprised. ‘I can hardly leave you to ramble the Continent alone.’
‘Well, I would be obliged, sir. And could you write me a letter of introduction to your lady-housekeeper, and another to your business manager, explaining?’
‘Why to him — you are most welcome, of course, Inspector — but why to him?’
‘I want to check the list of your father’s customers. It might come in useful, you never know.’
Carradine shrugged and laughed. ‘You’re a regular British bulldog, Inspector. Set your teeth into a morsel and you never let go. You shall have the letters, with pleasure, naturally. You will be free to search the mice in the attics and the cobwebs in the cellars and every cask of wine we possess, if you so desire, Inspector. Does that suit you?’
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br /> Lintott replied, grinning. ‘It’ll do for a start, sir!’
They strode along in high good humour.
‘Tell me, Inspector, how do you find Paris? I should like to know.’
Drawing on his woollen gloves, Lintott answered directly, ‘Like royalty, sir. I’m glad to know it’s there, and to watch it go by, and I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. But it’s not my world, sir, and never will be!’
Disappointed, Carradine frowned, and then smiled. ‘It’s one of mine, Inspector. And since you have slighted the lady I must cherish her twice as much, to make up for your coldness!’
‘Oh, Paris is a lady, is she?’ said Lintott drily. He had caught sight of a pretty painted face, whose lips were beginning to pout an advance, and stared it down dreadfully. The girl shrugged, pulled her crimson feather boa seductively up to her chin, and sauntered past.
‘Well, a woman, anyway,’ Carradine replied, noting the exchange with amusement. ‘They have a saying, Paris est une femme, et une femme nue. Paris is a woman, and a naked woman. What do you think of that, Inspector?’
Lintott said, ‘Precious little!’
CHAPTER THREE
Walter Carradine had been the son his father wanted: obedient, industrious, devoted to the family business. He began as his father’s assistant, became his partner, and married according to his wishes. Emily Burgess, a few years older than himself, had money of her own. This was invested in Carradine’s Superior Wines when she became Walter’s wife. Bred to willing submission, Emily moved into her father-in-law’s house and proved to be an excellent if uninspiring wife, her only deficiency being in the region of the nursery. For ten years they remained childless, and when at length she dragged Nicholas into the world the effort dragged her out of it. Old Carradine died shortly afterwards and Walter was left with a baby son, the business and the home he had never deserted.
He was not an introspective man, so set down his dissatisfaction as grief or liver trouble. But beneath the layers of conformity beat a romantic heart. He had travelled to France for his father many times in the noose of work. Now he travelled and looked about him as well. In the course of the next few years he met Gerard Lasserre, whose tastes and connections exceeded his capacity for money-making. Walter summed him up at once as a dilettante and drove a hard bargain over the contents of a small but promising vineyard. But Lasserre, divining the Englishman’s simplicity, made a bargain on his own account: his eighteen-year-old daughter Gabrielle whose only dowry was her beauty.
