Night Train to Paris by Fliss Chester (best romantic novels to read txt) 📗

‘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 pâté 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.

Twenty-One

The next day brought it with it more rain and squally winds and Fen wondered if her old trench coat would suffice for the early-morning walk across the Pont des Arts to the offices of the Louvre. She and James had talked last night before he headed back to his hotel, and they had realised that Henri Renaud might not even know that Rose had been killed. Plus, due to their clandestine war work, he more than anyone would know who might want her dead.

Although the police had done a fair sweep of the apartment for clues, their insistence that it must ‘just be a burglary gone wrong’ had meant they hadn’t taken away personal items such as Rose’s carpetbag full of papers or her diary. Fen had found it open on the coffee table, untouched by the uninterested gendarmes, and had seen she was due to visit Henri today at the Louvre – or at least that’s what she thought the big red HENRI encircled several times on today’s page meant. She had been looking at it when a knock at the door, followed by Tipper’s usual tirade, had startled her. That it was only James was a relief, and Fen let him in, while scooping up the squirming little dog before he tripped either of them up.

‘How are you this morning?’ James asked.

Fen sucked in her breath and exhaled, staring at the ceiling, trying to find the right words to describe her grief. How could she burden James, who she really didn’t know terribly well, with her feelings of loss? First Arthur and now Rose, not to mention all the acquaintances and friends she and her fellow land girls had lost over the last few years. She rested her face against Tipper’s neck before putting the dog down.

‘Fine,’ she said and smiled at James, who just nodded.

The knocking and Tipper’s barking was enough to rouse Simone, who groggily opened her bedroom door. James had the decency to avert his eyes from her state of undress, and Simone closed it again, emerging a few moments later in a floor-length silk dressing gown. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and asked for some coffee, before dissolving into tears at the sight of the broken easel and stained floor.

‘Come now, Simone.’ Fen let her sob on her shoulder for a bit, while James fiddled around in the kitchen, finding the coffee pot and heating the water.

Fen always felt terribly awkward comforting people, especially such overtly emotional ones. Now was not the time for weeping and she said as much, in a gentler way, to Simone and settled her down on the chaise longue. It didn’t help that Tipper kept jumping off her every time Fen tried to leave the small dog on Simone’s lap, a warm little pup to snuggle would have been just the ticket. Still, once she was quite sure that Simone’s sobs had eased, she tracked down James in the kitchen as he was filling up the coffee pot.

‘She’s a bit calmer now,’ Fen said, finding three cups in the cupboard.

‘It’s been a shock for her.’

And me, Fen thought to herself, but just nodded. ‘I’ll go and see Henri this morning, as discussed, and let him know. Would you be able to keep an eye on Simone and possibly go door-to-door around the other apartments in case anyone saw or heard anything suspicious? I know the gendarmes did a quick whip around the building, but I still can’t believe this was just a burglary. Maybe you could ask more, I don’t know, illuminating questions rather than just the old “did you get burgled last night, too?”.’

‘Absolutely,’ James agreed and Fen felt happier leaving the weepy Simone with him in charge.

After a quick slug of coffee, she collected up her coat and bag and headed out.

Fen was bracing herself to break the news to Henri that the woman he worked so closely with during the war was dead. By the time she arrived at the side door of the mighty Louvre, she was wet through and shivering. It’s as if the weather knows… she thought to herself.

As Rose had done just a few days ago, Fen let herself in, wondering at the ease of it. So much for saving the works from the Nazis, when anyone could just waltz in and steal them now… With that in mind, she carefully closed the door behind her and retraced the steps she had taken to Henri Renaud’s office.

‘Come in!’

‘Bonjour Monsieur Renaud,’ Fen felt it necessary to be reasonably formal, given the circumstances.

‘Ah, Miss Churche, hello.’

‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, it’s just I—’

‘Madame Coillard sent you on a mission, eh? Too immersed in her paintbrushes to come herself? Or rather you than her in this rain, eh?’

He seemed so jovial and oblivious as he joked about Rose, it almost broke Fen’s heart