Chapter 23

The two women sat opposite each other on the armchairs in the studio room, which now reeked of bleach. Fen had helped Simone rinse off as much of the caustic solution as possible from the varnished wood, saving it from being permanently damaged. The dust sheets were bundled up and taken out to the rubbish bins at the back of the building and Fen had spent a quiet, contemplative hour packing away Rose’s oil paints and cleaning her paintbrushes. She and Simone had made conversation throughout the rest of the morning rather sporadically, but now they were nibbling on some toast and butter that Fen had scratched together for a bit of lunch and talking more seriously about what they should do.

‘It’s not that I’m altogether happy here…’ Simone cast her eyes over to where the body had lain. ‘But it’s like I said earlier, I just don’t have anywhere else to go.’

‘I understand. I suppose we need to speak to Rose’s solicitor, but for now I can’t see there being a problem with the both of us staying on while things are sorted out.’ And while I get to the bottom of all of this, Fen thought to herself. ‘Plus, someone needs to look after Tipper. The poor little chap will be grieving in his own way and I don’t think we can just biff him off to the dogs’ home just yet.’

‘Ooh la la, no! I will have him. Little dogs like him are all the rage and I think Christian could make a wonderful little coat for him.’

Simone’s flippancy made Fen smile. It was light relief to be talking fashion again.

‘Of course,’ Simone carried on, ‘perhaps I will return to England with you and James?’

‘Oh really? Have you both, well, discussed that? I’m not sure he wants to go back to London just yet.’ Or at least he hasn’t mentioned it to me, Fen thought. ‘Has he said otherwise?’

‘Not in so many words, but what is there in Paris for us both?’ She shrugged. ‘And I think James has a house or two in England. It could be very comfortable.’

‘House or two?’ Fen hadn’t really thought what being filthy rich might actually mean.

Simone looked at Fen, examining her. Then she laughed. ‘You mean you don’t know?’

‘I hadn’t really thought about it. What don’t I know exactly?’ Fen was genuinely puzzled.

‘James. Viscount Lancaster…His London house was bombed, I think, which is a shame, but the land itself – Knightsbridge perhaps, or Kensington – you must know these areas better than I do, well, it must still have value, you know? And the country house in Sussex is apparently vast.’

‘How do you know all of this?’ Fen was aware she didn’t know much about James – finding out about his aristocratic connections had been a surprise enough the other night – but she did know he was a taciturn sort of chap and not one to spill the family secrets, or jewels, in idle conversation. Or was he seriously thinking Simone was the future Mrs Lancaster, or Lady Simone even, and he needed to show off to her?

At that moment, there was a loud rapping on the door of the apartment. The two women looked at each other and frowned.

‘Who could that be?’ Simone whispered, pulling her cardigan closer around her. ‘You don’t think it’s the murderer, do you?’

Any chance the women had of pretending not to be there until the visitor went away was ruined by Tipper barking like crazy and scampering towards the door.

‘I’m coming,’ Fen called into the air, hoping the person in the vestibule could hear her. ‘Who is it?’ she called out when she was closer to the door.

‘It’s Joseph Bernheim,’ the voice called back from the other side of the door.

Simone, who had followed Fen into the hallway made some excuse about being too unsightly to be seen and disappeared back into the studio and from there into her room, leaving Fen to unlock the door.

‘Oh, Joseph, come in, come in.’ She was pleased he was here, although she wasn’t sure if she was looking forward to breaking the bad news about Rose’s death to another of her friends on the same day.

As he entered the small hallway, Joseph took off his hat but hadn’t got much further before Fen continued.

‘It is lovely to see you, but I’m afraid I have something terrible to tell you.’

‘I’m so used to the door being unlocked.’ The frazzled man sat on the edge of the chaise longue, running his Homburg hat through his hands. ‘Even after she…I mean, before the war when I would meet Magda here, we would just walk in.’

‘I just thought for security…’ Fen murmured as she poured him a cup of tea, the pot now refreshed several times and the loose leaves of the tea running slightly out of oomph.

‘Of course, of course,’ he nodded, ‘and this happened…yesterday?’

‘Yes. I remember Rose saying you were due to come and see her. What time was that?’

‘Just after lunch, about two o’clock,’ he paused and threaded his hat brim through his fingers again. ‘But I was held up and never made it.’

‘You may have stumbled on her killer if you had.’ Fen then explained to Joseph, ‘I overheard the police saying she had been killed in the early afternoon.’

Joseph sighed. ‘I don’t suppose you know what she had found out, do you? About our paintings, I mean.’ Joseph looked keenly at Fen, who could only shake her head.

‘I’m afraid not. Just that she thought she had tracked down one of them—’

‘Ah, such bad luck!’ Joseph tossed his hat across the chaise longue and hung his head down, with his hands hanging between his knees. ‘So close yet so far.’

Fen held her tongue from saying something about Rose not meaning to get herself killed, but it was as if Joseph was reading her mind.

‘Look at me, thinking only of myself and my paintings when our dear friend has died.’ Joseph accepted the cup of weak tea from Fen and carried on. ‘It’s appalling of me. But it’s Magda I feel so sorry for now. She was so looking forward to spending more time with wonderful Rose.’

Fen nodded and then turned to him again. ‘Joseph, I wonder if I might be able to help?’

‘Well, Magda will love to spend time with you, too.’

‘Oh, well, yes, of course, me too. But I meant about your paintings.’

‘Really?’ Joseph looked at her keenly.

‘I think her solicitor should possibly go through Rose’s things first, but after that, well, we can have a jolly good go at trying to find the cipher and start decoding the list ourselves. Think about it, it was only Henri and Rose who knew about the list and her code. Rose was keen for them to be kept separate…and we know Henri had the list, so that suggests to me that the cipher is in this apartment somewhere.’

‘You might be on to something there.’ Joseph sucked his teeth, but looked brighter and reached across the chaise for his hat. ‘Thank you, Fenella.’

‘Don’t thank me too soon, I have no idea who her solicitor is yet, but don’t worry, I’ll do whatever I can to help.’

Fen saw Joseph out and walked back into the studio, letting Tipper down as she entered the room.

Simone had reappeared and was painting her nails a wonderfully vibrant shade of red. She held the freshly glossy tips of her fingers up to Fen. ‘Urgh, Tipper, non… non!’ She tried to bat the frenetic little dog away with her elbow and Fen ended up picking him up and taking him back into the hallway.

‘Slave to fashion, huh, Tipper? We better find those solicitor’s details by ourselves,’ Fen whispered into his ear as she carefully opened the door off the hallway that led into the box room. Squirmy as he was, holding the warm little body of the dog close to her was a lovely reassurance for Fen as she stood on the threshold of her murdered friend’s bedroom. It was untouched since the police had been in to take fingerprints, and of course she’d had a look around too in the commotion to try to see if anything had been taken by the supposed thief.

The room was smaller than either hers or Simone’s, but it was lit by another of the vast floor-to-ceiling windows that looked over the street at the front of the building. The light was marvellous, with a clarity to it that so often comes when rain has passed and the sun is gently suffused by scudding clouds. Rose would have loved this light, Fen thought. No wonder she chose this smaller room over the other spare one.

She caught sight of the upturned jewellery box on the small dressing table and a pang of grief stopped her in her tracks. Long strings of beads bled out over the side, while brooches littered the floor around the dressing table. Fen instinctively raised her hand to touch her own brooch, which had been stolen – but thankfully returned – in Burgundy. Having one’s belongings turned over like this was such a violation…

Not as violating as death, she thought, shaking her head and dispelling the maudlin thoughts. ‘We’re more sensible than this, aren’t we, Tipper,’ Fen told the small dog as she wiped a tear away from her eye.

Tipper didn’t answer but did poke his nose under the bed, nudging the floor-skimming quilt as he did so, and Fen followed his lead and started to look under there for anything that might point her in the direction of her friend’s solicitor.

‘Perhaps there was no will?’ Simone’s voice gave Fen a start and she looked up from rummaging under the bed to see the younger woman, resting her hip against the door jamb, her hands still splayed out in front of her as her nails dried.

‘Perhaps.’ Fen pushed a box of dried oil paint tubes back under the bed and sat back on her heels. ‘But she was a woman who made lists, we know that much for sure, and it makes me suspect that, far from being the scatty artist, she was in fact a meticulous record keeper.’

‘If you say so. Oh, one moment…’ Simone flapped her hands to help dry the polish and disappeared out of view.

Fen had just sat herself down on the bed and spread out a box of paperwork on the counterpane when Simone reappeared holding a thin piece of paper carefully between her thumb and forefinger.

‘It wasn’t like we had a formal agreement or anything, but when I moved in, madame did want a reference from me sent to a Monsieur Blanquer…’ She held out the piece of paper to Fen, who reached out and took it from her.

‘Well, would you look at that! Thank you, Simone. Monsieur Blanquer, notary etcetera, etcetera. Paris 8659. Perfect.’

Simone smiled and left Fen to telephone and make the appointment with the solicitor.