Chapter 20

Blood pooled around the body, spreading over the dust sheets and mingling with the oil paint on the canvas and palette, which must have been in Rose’s hand when the killer struck.

‘Dear God!’ Fen looked on in shock and reached out for James to hold onto.

‘Oh Fen,’ he was there, his arm immediately around her shoulder, their ever-so recent argument all but forgotten.

‘She’s dead.’ Fen could barely believe it. This vibrant woman who had only a few hours ago been talking of cocktails…here she was now, her long beaded necklace draping limply over her velvet dress, her eyes glassily staring up at the crystal chandelier.

‘Here, boy.’ James let go of Fen’s arm and looked over to where her little dog was quivering behind the saggy armchair.

‘Oh Tipper,’ Fen knelt down and beckoned him over, but James beat her to it and walked over to the small dog and scooped him up. ‘The poor thing, he must have seen it all happen.’

‘If only you could talk, huh, pup?’ James rubbed his head between his ears and held him tightly.

‘I suppose we should call the police.’ Fen was still kneeling by Rose’s body. ‘I’m so sorry, Rose,’ she said to the recumbent figure and carefully closed her eyelids.

‘I’ll do it.’ James carried Tipper with him as he walked into the hallway, where Rose had a telephone. ‘Come on, Fen, you need a cup of tea and a shot of something stronger.’

A few hours later and the apartment was quiet. Deathly quiet, Fen thought to herself and shivered. She had decided to stay on once the police had taken the body away and sent in a cleaner, having photographed the scene, and she and James had given their statements to the businesslike inspector.

A preliminary inspection by the police surgeon suggested Rose was killed earlier that afternoon, although Fen was given a sharp look by the police inspector when he caught her earwigging on their conversation.

During this time, Simone had come home and, upon seeing the bloody mess and sheet-covered body, had fallen into a faint, rather conveniently close to James’s open arms. She was now asleep, the police surgeon having had a handy dose of sedatives in his medicine bag. James had offered to stay with Fen, but she’d sent him back to his hotel, not because she didn’t want the company, but because she thought he might need an hour or two to himself. He’d promised to return with a bite of supper for them all later.

She got up from the old armchair and moved towards the windows. The sun had disappeared over the rooftops and it was long past the time when Paris’s famous street lamps were lit. It was a relief in a way to see a city ablaze with light again, after the blackouts of the Blitz, but tonight Fen didn’t want to relish in the life beyond the windows. She pulled the heavy red curtains to, switched on the side lamps and turned to face the scene of the crime again.

‘I will find out who did this to you, Rose,’ Fen swore, addressing the place on the floor where her friend had fallen. ‘And if Arthur were here, he’d help me work it out. What would he say? “If you can’t solve your seven across, check your two down” or some such thing. So, what do I need to solve? Who murdered you. Well, I have no idea. So what’s my two down that might help me…?’ Fen pondered the question as there was a knock at the door and Tipper started yapping from the hallway. ‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’

Fen followed the little dog to the front door and opened it cautiously, grateful to find it was only James with a baguette and a bag of groceries.

‘How are you holding up?’ he asked.

Fen shrugged and led him through the hallway into the galley kitchen. ‘I just can’t stop thinking about poor Rose and looking at the…well, the spot where we found her.’

‘Are you sure you two should be here tonight?’

‘Simone’s out like a light and I don’t think I could leave her to wake up alone. Plus I’m not sure a hotel would take me and Tipper at this late hour. No. I’ll be fine. Thanks for the tucker.’

‘My pleasure. I would offer to look after Simone for you, but…’ James paused, obviously expecting some sort of reprimand. ‘Are you all right, Fen? I thought that might get me a telling off. You didn’t even tell me I was rude earlier either, I was waiting for that one.’

Fen tried a weak smile, but it didn’t really come out as much more than a thin grimace. ‘Sorry, James, I know you’re just trying to cheer me up.’

James looked at her and she could see the sincerity in his eyes. ‘What would help? Really?’

‘Finding out who killed dear Rose.’

James put the groceries down on the side. ‘Well, that’s going to be a little harder than just telling you a few jokes, but let’s see what we can do.’

‘You’ll help me?’ Fen felt a wave of relief come over her.

‘Of course. But where do we start? I know you, what’s your five down then?’

Fen smiled. ‘Tried that. Didn’t get very far, I’m afraid. From what they told us earlier, the police seem to think it could just be a burglary gone awry – some of her paintings are gone, including the little Impressionist one, and although I don’t know how much jewellery Rose had, there is none left now at all in her room.’

‘Shame they didn’t steal Tipper.’

‘James…now, that is rude.’ Fen gave him a look and he smiled back at her. ‘But I don’t know, I just don’t buy it. Yes, things were stolen, but why Rose? Why this apartment? When there are art galleries and shops on the street just below us, full of artworks of equal, or probably far greater, value to Rose’s collection. Those buildings could so easily be broken into and the art taken without having to risk coming across someone. And there are plenty of other well-to-do apartments twixt here and there, too. Rose told me the other night that the lady downstairs is a Russian countess, for heaven’s sake! So, no, I don’t think it was a burglary.’ She paused. ‘So I suppose to work on my two down or whatever, we have to start talking to those who knew Rose the best.’

‘Well, Sleeping Beauty is dead to the world.’

Fen frowned at his choice of words and shook her head.

‘Sorry.’ James dug his hand into the shopping bag and pulled out a tin of coarse paté, then started riffling through the drawers, trying to find a tin opener.

‘Asleep or not, Simone has only lodged here for a matter of weeks, so I’m not sure she would have much more to share on Rose than I know already.’ Fen furrowed her brow in thought. ‘There’s Henri Renaud…’

‘And?’ James pulled the cork on a bottle of vin de table.

‘She brushed it off, but I saw her arguing with her rather dubious art dealer, Michel Lazard. That was only yesterday. What if he—’

‘Killed her?’ James posed the question they were both thinking. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘I think he’d been miss-selling her paintings and getting her into the soup with some customers.’

‘Miss-selling how?’

‘Let’s just say there’s a fine line between homages and forgeries.’

‘Blimey,’ James pondered. ‘Is there a way of tracking him down?’

‘There might be…’ Fen smeared some paté on a chunk of bread. ‘I’m sure I’ll find some sort of reference to him in her papers.’

‘The police didn’t take any of them?’

‘Not a sausage. They’re so sure it’s just a burglary, they didn’t even go through her bag or desk or anything.’

‘And what about the Bernheims?’

‘Magda and Joseph?’ Fen looked affronted. ‘No, gosh no. Absolutely not. They loved Rose. And more than anyone else in the whole of Paris, they have absolutely no motive. She even told me that she’d found one of their paintings. They’d never get it back if they killed her now. Plus, if it had been one or both of them, then I think the paperwork would have been the first thing they’d take, not leave it to the gendarmes to, well, to ignore.’

‘I see. We better speak to them all the same, to let them know at least. And Fen?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m sorry about earlier. About arguing and about Rose and…well, Arthur would be really proud of you right now. I’m really proud of you.’

At that, he carried his own plate of bread and paté and his glass of wine out of the kitchen and into the studio, while Fen wiped a tear away with the sleeve of her cardigan.