Chapter 40

Fen and James sat in silence for a few more moments, both watching Tipper’s chest rise and fall, dreaming small doggy dreams.

‘She couldn’t have killed herself, could she?’ James volunteered, acting out stabbing himself in the neck.

‘I don’t think so. She had so much to live for – a mission. And anyway, she couldn’t have then stolen her own jewels and paintings? Oh, speaking of which, James, you’ll never guess what I saw on the way back from Magda’s!’

James raised his eyebrows and Fen carried on.

‘In one of those shabby street kiosks…’ she pointed to the empty patch of the wall where the Delance had once hung. ‘Rose’s favourite painting.’

‘Really?’ James sat forward, interested.

‘Really. And the dealer wanted fifteen hundred francs for it! I was spitting feathers.’

‘Did you ask him where he got it from?’

James’s question embarrassed Fen and she blushed. ‘No, I mean, I asked if it was by Delance and he gave me some spiel about not caring about names, but then I, no…well, I was just a bit too angry to really think straight.’

‘Fen, don’t worry. We can go back and ask him. No one’s expecting you to be a super sleuth. But still, it’s another three down for you perhaps?’

Just as James had leaned over and briefly touched Fen’s knee to reassure her, the peace in the apartment was shattered by a clattering sound at the front door. Moments later, Simone appeared in the studio in complete disarray, her beautiful silk skirt torn and ripped, her hands scratched and bloodied as she clasped her blouse to her, as there were no buttons in place any more to wear it properly.

James drew his hand back from Fen and pushed himself up from the old saggy armchair. He was by Simone’s side in an instant and helped her back to the chaise longue. Fen too had jumped out of her seat and moved out of the way for the pair of them to get through. Tipper, who hadn’t been fazed when Simone had first appeared, was now yapping in excitement, picking up on the atmosphere in the room.

‘Dear God,’ James released his arm from Simone as she sat down on the chaise. ‘Are you all right? What happened to you?’

‘I was attacked…I was mobbed…by—’

‘By who? Who did this?’

James’s interruption didn’t stop Simone from repeating over and over, ‘I was attacked…’

Fen found a shawl on the back of the armchair and handed it to the girl. ‘Here, Simone, take this.’ The younger woman was still in a trance-like state of shock. ‘James, here, you put it around her so the poor thing can let go of her blouse. And I’ll go and make tea.’

‘Lots of sugar,’ James added.

‘Yes, of course. And a shot of brandy, I think.’

By the time the kettle started to whistle, Fen noticed that Simone had progressed from shocked mumblings to full-on tears. She couldn’t begrudge her the waterworks, it sounded and looked like she’d had a rough old afternoon.

She filled the silver teapot, using whatever tea she could find in one of the caddies in the kitchen. Lapsang souchong, perhaps…The smokiness of the brew brought back memories suddenly of being in this apartment before…Before Rose was murdered, before she was embroiled once again in finding out what happened to someone she cared about. Not to mention poor Gervais too.

‘Here you are,’ she brought the tea and three cups into the studio room.

Simone was now huddled up in James’s arms, a pose Fen was becoming more and more familiar with.

Fen let the tea brew for a few moments longer before saying sotto voce to James, ‘Anything?’

James shook his head, and then carefully pushed Simone away from him slightly so that she could accept Fen’s proffered cup of tea.

‘Simone, dear, can you bring yourself to tell us yet?’

‘Yes, I think so.’ She pursed her lips and blew across the teacup to cool it slightly. ‘It’s not too sweet, is it? I mustn’t have too much sugar,’ she said.

‘It’s quite sweet, dear, but you need it right now.’ Fen urged her to drink while thinking, Now is not the time to worry about your waistline. ‘So, can you tell us what happened to you? I know it’s hard, but you’re safe now.’

‘Oh it was horrible, horrible. Today was meant to be so fun, you know? A fashion shoot on the Right Bank of the river, just me and Carmella from accounts, who is very beautiful – not versatile like me, you know, but very thin and her bone structure is…Anyway…’ She cautiously sipped the hot tea and then carried on, ‘We were posing for the photographer, you know how the light is so good in the afternoon and the autumn leaves are so, how would you say, romantique.’ She playfully twiddled a hand in the air to mimic the falling leaves, before becoming serious again. ‘Then the shouts started, then there were catcalls and shrieks and then there was a mob of them…’

‘Bloody ruffians, how dare they attack two women just doing their job. I mean, talk about lowest of the low. If I find those men—’

‘They weren’t men…’ As Simone said those words, it was Fen and James’s turn to fall into a shocked silence. ‘It was women. All women.’

‘What do you mean?’ James was flabbergasted.

‘I think she means that it wasn’t an attack like we might think, but more of a…protest?’ Fen eked out the last word, testing the water.

‘A protest against what?’ James asked.

‘Against the clothes.’ Fen turned to Simone. ‘Isn’t that right? You mentioned something like this happening to you before. Up near Montmartre?’

Simone just nodded and raised a handkerchief to her eye. ‘It’s just jealousy, they’re just jealous.’

‘Sadly,’ Fen sat back in her chair, relieved to have cracked one small puzzle at least, ‘I don’t think it’s just jealousy. I’m sorry, Simone, and please don’t take this the wrong way, or think that I agree with them, but it’s rather pushing their buttons, isn’t it?’

‘Whose buttons? What have buttons got to do with it?’ James was still confused. He just couldn’t get his head around the fact that women could be so violent.

‘You know, psychological buttons. These women, these Parisiennes, have been through so much during the occupation. Rationing, shortages of food, clothes, life’s essentials. There’s a feeling that too much of a good thing is just too much, full stop.’

‘But I am the future!’ Simone rebuffed Fen’s words. ‘The war is over and we should look to tomorrow, you know?’

‘I know, I know. And perhaps you’re right and maybe it is mostly jealousy from the other women. But—’

‘No. No “but”.’ Simone seemed to be more in a huff now than scared or upset. ‘This is my life and I shall wear what I like. Catherine didn’t risk her life and end up in Ravensbrück for us all to wear sackcloth for the rest of time. You’ll both see, Christian will start his own atelier and the clothes will be fabulous and luxurious and I shall be wearing them.’ She sounded nothing less than triumphant and all Fen could do was nod and sip her tea and let the young woman, ably supported by James’s strong arms and words of reassurance, settle down.

A little while later Fen stirred the pot of bean cassoulet on the stove as James rested his back against the wall of the galley-style kitchen. She had picked up some simple cooking tips from her hostess in Burgundy a few weeks ago, and although that sojourn had ended in a murderer being brought to justice, it had also left Fen with a new appreciation for simple French cooking.

After she had drawn Simone a nice steaming bath to help her forget the trauma of being set upon, she had sent James out to see if he could find a grocer still open to pick up some items she could cobble a supper together from. James had returned with some canned goods and half a pound of good herby sausages from the local butcher who was just closing up for the day.

‘I either caught him at the right time or wrong time, depending on your viewpoint,’ he had reported back to Fen.

‘Meaning?’

‘Good in that I got a very keen price on the bangers and he threw in those lardons too. Bad in that they were practically the only things left, so sorry if you fancied gammon or lamb tonight instead.’

Fen had laughed and taken the waxed paper parcel of meat from James. ‘This will do very well, James, thank you.’

So she had started to cook and soon enough Simone had emerged from the bathroom and got herself dressed. She was in the studio room and Fen could imagine that James felt slightly torn as to which room he should be in. Fen was about to put him out of his misery and claim he was getting under her feet in the kitchen when he brought up the subject of the painting again.

‘How much did you say that street vendor was charging for the Delance?’ he asked.

‘Two thousand francs at first. That’s about three pounds! He came down to fifteen hundred as I kept telling him I wasn’t interested.’

‘He might have given it to you for nothing if you’d kept playing that game,’ James joked, but Fen just shook her head at him.

Simone appeared around the kitchen door, a pretty shawl draped around her slim frame, covering the peasant-style blouse she had dressed in, along with a simple floor-length skirt, after her bath.

‘What are you two talking about in here?’

‘That painting of Rose’s,’ James explained, ‘The little Impressionist one. Fen’s found it for sale on the Right Bank of the river.’

‘Oh really?’ Simone looked interested.

‘I’m pretty sure, yes. This apartment was like a second home to me when I was younger, I’m sure I’d recognise those swirls and colours anywhere.’

‘How macabre, to find something of Rose’s so soon after…’ Simone couldn’t finish her sentence. Her eyes filled with tears and she dabbed the corner of one with the edge of her shawl. ‘Was it expensive? Could we afford to buy it back, do you think?’

‘Out of my reach, sadly.’ Fen sighed and stirred the pot.

‘I could buy it for you…’ James pushed himself off the wall and stood up straight.

‘Oh, James, that really is awfully kind, but I couldn’t possibly accept—’

‘Ah, well, I meant Simone…sorry, Fen.’ James looked a bit awkward and pushed his fingers through his sandy-blond hair a couple of times. He smiled apologetically to Fen and shrugged, then turned back to Simone. ‘If you’d like it?’

‘You would do that for me?’ Simone looked at him, her eyes still glistening with tears and her hands clasped up to her chest.

Fen accidentally dropped the wooden spoon on the floor. ‘Oops, sorry.’ She nudged James out of the way as she picked it up and carried it over to the sink.

‘Well, there we go,’ James seemed pleased with himself, the awkwardness of just a moment ago gone. ‘We can go there tomorrow morning if the fine weather holds. That would cheer you up, wouldn’t it?’

Both James and Fen were a little shocked when Simone stammered and started to cry. ‘Oh, no…no…I can’t go back. I mean, in that direction. The memories of this afternoon…’ She clutched the shawl around her some more and shivered. ‘Please don’t make me cross the river by that quayside. It’s too embarrassing to think that those men, those kiosk vendors, might have seen me so…so vulnerable.’ She shuddered.

James reached a hand over to her shoulder to reassure her. ‘Of course, of course. I’ll take Fen, she can show me which one it is…’ James followed Simone into the studio, comforting her as he went.

Fen rinsed the wooden spoon off in the sink and let out another sigh. She would have loved to have bought that painting, but at least if James bought it for Simone it would be back in its rightful home, in this apartment. For the time being anyway.

Supper was delightful and the sausages really were a treat and so unlike the wartime ‘bangers’ that had popped and spurted in Mrs B’s greasy frying pan. The meat content in some sausages from as far back as the Great War had been so low and the water content so high that the sausages often exploded if left too long to sizzle over a high heat, hence the term ‘banger’. These sausages, however, were more like the ones from Toulouse, filled with pork meat and bulked up with herbs and spices. They were delicious, but that didn’t stop Simone from picking at her plate. Fen couldn’t bear waste so was pleased when James stuck his fork in Simone’s untouched sausage and devoured it in two or three bites.

Simone herself didn’t even notice, and although Fen and James had tried to keep the conversation light and their spirits as high as possible in the recent circumstances, it was only when James started talking about the previous evening that she fully entered into the conversation.

‘And it wasn’t just you that surprised us last night,’ he said, nudging Simone, who was staring at the floor where Rose’s body had lain.

‘Hmm, no that’s right.’

‘Oh really? Do tell, and I hope they weren’t as sopping wet as I was.’

‘Well,’ Simone seemed more with it now and gave Fen her full attention, ‘oddly enough, it was Michel Lazard. You know that art dealer of Rose’s.’

‘That is bizarre,’ Fen agreed, and as James and Simone talked about the other people they’d seen in the hotel bar, Fen thought how interesting it was that Simone had seen Lazard in the very same place that Henri had led her to. ‘Did you see Henri Renaud, just before I came in?’

‘No, Fenella, but then, before you charged in last night, we only had eyes for each other.’

‘Right. Quite so. Of course.’ Fen felt a bit flustered and busied herself picking up the plates so that she could remove herself from the lovebirds and have some space to think in the kitchen. Something wasn’t adding up, that was for sure. It was as if she was being given all the clues she could wish for, but all mixed up. What could it mean, Henri Renaud possibly meeting Michel Lazard in private at a hotel? What had Henri been carrying and why did he lie to her so often about his relationship with the art dealer he himself said was a charlatan?