Chapter 34

‘I can’t help but think that finding mention of all those paintings in those manifests in Gervais’s garage means the murders are linked, don’t you?’ Fen said between mouthfuls. The pair of them had decamped to the café at the end of the road and a strong drink had turned into lunch. Fen had been untowardly delighted when she’d seen that coq au vin was on the menu and ordered it. James had followed suit, and asked for a portion of potato tartiflette too, which had arrived, hot and steaming, in a heavy black cast-iron dish.

‘They were so different though. In their modus operandi,’ James argued. ‘One a paintbrush to the neck and the other an execution-style gunshot to the head. And you couldn’t get more different people than Madame Coillard with her eccentricities, and salt-of-the-earth, lorry-driving Gervais.’

‘Yes…true…but those itineraries and manifests – all to do with art. I mean, that has to be a connection. Plus, we know they knew each other and the murders happened so soon after one another.’ Fen spoke, but she also watched as her hand still trembled as she reached for the carafe of wine. James must have noticed it too and got to the wine first, taking the carafe and pouring some into her glass. ‘Thanks, James.’ Fen sipped it and thought again about what they’d just discovered. She cleared the final few pieces of chicken from her plate, still grateful to be eating such succulent meat after the austerity of the war, and sat back.

‘I agree, there’s a connection all right,’ James said, sitting back too and then reaching forward for his own glass of wine. He cradled it in his hand and swirled the red liquid around. ‘So Gervais was blackmailing Rose, and Henri.’

‘I think I’m thinking what you’re thinking.’ Fen looked at James. ‘If Gervais was the blackmailer, was he Rose’s murderer too?’

‘Not quite,’ James corrected her. ‘Gervais may have been the blackmailer, and he may even have murdered Rose, though I doubt it. No, the pressing question now is…who killed Gervais?’

Fen took a sip of her wine and then looked James in the eye. ‘And is Henri next?’

After the lunch had been chased down by a brandy, on James’s part at least, the pair of them set off in the direction of Rose’s apartment.

‘It’ll always feel like Rose’s apartment,’ Fen mused as they walked along. ‘I can’t think of it yet as Henri’s.’

‘While her belongings are there, I suppose it must feel like she’s still very present,’ James agreed.

‘That reminds me, Henri asked me if I could start clearing out her clothes. I don’t suppose you have anything better to do this afternoon, do you? I can’t see Henri wanting to inherit a section of colourful turbans and housecoats along with his property.’

‘As long as I don’t have to rifle through any knicker drawers, then yes. Though I feel as if I should try and find some of Gervais’s friends in the bars and tell them about his, well…his murder.’

‘Yes of course. Some of them might know something about who could have done it. See if they know of anyone who wasn’t in the bar at ten o’clock last night.’

‘I wouldn’t hold out any hope. Snitches aren’t looked upon fondly these days.’

They walked on in silence until they arrived at the large double doors of Rose’s apartment building. Fen turned to James. ‘Good luck. It never gets any easier, does it. Giving bad news, I mean.’

‘Especially not to family. I don’t suppose anyone has told Antoine yet.’

Unless he did it…?The thought flashed through Fen’s mind, as suddenly as those gunshots had rung out in the warehouse the day before, but she kept quiet. There was no reason for Antoine to murder his brother, and he had an alibi for Rose’s death, too. Fen waved goodbye to James and headed up the cantilevered staircase to the apartment.

A few hours later and Fen and Simone were hard at it, clearing out Rose’s bedroom. Simone had greeted Fen’s idea of going through Rose’s belongings with a squeal of excitement.

‘I don’t think there’ll be much of any value there, the thief saw to that,’ Fen said, rather guardedly, hoping that a lack of spoils wouldn’t put Simone off helping her.

‘Who is to say what is valuable to whom? She had some amazing dresses and I don’t think Henri would be interested in them! Or the men’s clothing she had either.’

‘Men’s clothing?’ Fen raised an eyebrow.

‘For her models. You know, a cloth cap, a pair of trousers…in case someone needed props for their portrait.’

‘Explains this tricorn hat, I suppose!’ Fen laughed as she pulled the dusty, felt-brimmed thing out from under the bed.

Together they set about sorting and tidying, placing various items in piles either for refugee charities or to sell. Fen kept a little pile of the best pieces separate, hoping that Magda might like them, and she hoped Henri wouldn’t mind if she took one of Rose’s feathered hatpins home for her mother as a small memento.

Simone was the most animated Fen had ever seen her, as she dramatically pulled long satin gowns and velvet housecoats out of the wardrobe and large tea chest at the bottom of Rose’s bed. ‘These fabrics are so beautiful! Oh, Christian and Catherine would love these!’

‘You should take them to them. I think Rose would like to think that her dresses were inspiration for the designers of tomorrow.’

‘And you’re right, Henri wouldn’t be interested at all. He was never one for commenting on what we wore.’

Fen wanted to question her more when Tipper suddenly started barking and emerged from under a pile of feather boas and scarves and dashed towards the door.

‘That’ll be James then,’ Simone said matter-of-factly and put the silk blouse down that she was folding and went to go and answer it.

Fen could hear the door click open and the yapping finally cease.

‘What ho!’ James popped his head around the door. ‘Captain Lancaster reporting for knicker-drawer duty.’