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

‘Ooh la la,’ Fen sighed, thinking of how little she had left in her purse at the moment and placed the bill along with the one for the grocer.

The third envelope looked less official, it was on blue paper for a start and was altogether grubbier, as if it had been stepped on a few times or dropped in the coal scuttle. Fen opened it carefully and pulled out the handwritten note within.

As she read it, the hairs on the back of her neck rose and a shiver went down her spine. She raised the hand that had been idly petting Tipper to her mouth in shock and read it through again, just to make sure.

Madame Coillard,

Thought you could get away with it? I know what you’re doing. Stealing from Jews and helping the Nazi scum. You’ll pay for this, you mark my words. I know you’re no better than a dirty thief. I’m watching you. Pay what I asked or I tell HR. NOW!

Fen couldn’t believe what she had just read. She dropped the letter suddenly, her pragmatic mind suggesting that her fingerprints might contaminate this evidence, while her more emotional side wanted nothing from that letter to contaminate her. Tipper, roused by her sudden movement, jumped off her lap and then stood, looking at her, as if demanding an explanation for her behaviour.

‘What is it, Fen?’ James asked, lowering the newspaper from in front of his face.

Fen was speechless, but James followed her eyeline down to where the letter had floated gently to the floor. Then she picked up the envelope again, reminding herself that preserving the sender’s fingerprints would be no use as countless postal workers must have touched it. It was only as she was staring at it, reading the handwritten address, that she realised that there was no stamp, no postmark. It had been hand-delivered.

Twenty-Seven

‘Whoever this is from,’ Fen could feel herself shivering slightly as she held the letter between her forefinger and thumb, subconsciously distancing herself from its filthy contents, ‘is more than likely our prime suspect now.’

James nodded. ‘Lazard?’

Fen thought back to the words. I know you’re no better than a dirty thief… ‘If it was Lazard, wouldn’t he blackmail her on her forging rather than collaborating or stealing?’

‘True, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. But then…’

‘What?’

‘Well, it doesn’t make sense to us as we – you – very much believe that Rose was this wonderful person, an angel of the arts.’

‘She was.’ Fen put the letter down on the coffee table and braced herself for a mini war of words with her friend. ‘And Henri said so too.’

‘HR…’ James pointed towards the letter, while Fen frowned at him. ‘All I’m saying is that the blackmailer seems to think there’s something even Henri didn’t know about his dear friend.’

‘No, no…’ Fen shook her head. ‘It just doesn’t make sense. Forging, fine, I can get my head around that, though I still don’t think she miss-sold any paintings on purpose. But it’s a grey area morally and I think Rose was in need of a few extra francs. But stealing? No. And she definitely wouldn’t collaborate. You saw her passion when she talked about her cipher and her list. She was desperate to help the Jewish families get what’s rightfully theirs back. No, I’m sorry, James, but, whoever this blackmailer is, he or she has it quite wrong.’

Before James could play devil’s advocate one more time, the doorbell buzzed and Tipper, who had curled up again in the warm armchair seat while Fen and James had been standing looking at the letter, jumped into action and yapped his way to the door.

Fen pulled her cardigan tight around her and left James mulling over the hateful letter.

‘Oh, hello, Joseph.’ She kissed him on both cheeks.

‘Good day, Fenella.’ Joseph Bernheim paused before he entered the apartment. ‘You look upset, are you quite well?’

Fen wasn’t sure if she was ready to share the secrets of the blackmailer’s letter with anyone else yet, not even Joseph, so quickly thought on her feet and replied, ‘Quite well, thank you. It’s all just becoming more real, I suppose, the sense that Rose is gone forever.’ It may have started out as a cover for her current upset, but Fen had to admit that as she said the words she felt them very keenly too.

‘Gone, but not forgotten.’ Joseph took a moment, then, as was his habit, started passing the brim of his hat through his fingertips as he spoke. ‘When we realised that my parents hadn’t made it, it didn’t seem real at first. How could two such lively, musical and artistic people be silenced? But the days wear on and the grief thickens until you feel like you will drown in it. Then, very slowly, if you are lucky, it lifts, just very slightly, and you can catch a breath. You will find that happens too, I hope.’

‘Thank you, Joseph.’ Fen stood back and let him into the apartment. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard what became of them, yours and Magda’s parents, I mean?’

‘Just this morning…’ Joseph shook his head, and reached his hand up to squeeze the bridge of his nose.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Joseph, I shouldn’t have asked.’

‘No, no. We mustn’t skirt around this as if we’re in polite society and what happened to them was merely unfortunate.’ He took a deep breath and regained his composure. At that moment, Fen thought that she had never seen a braver man stand in front of her. He continued, ‘Just this morning, we had confirmation from the Red Cross of what we believed to be the case anyway; that my parents are dead. Magda’s we still have hope for, if there could be anything as beautiful as hope ever whispered in the same breath as those death camps.’

‘I’m so sorry, Joseph,’ Fen replied, touching him briefly on the arm.

‘Thank you, Fenella. But now is not the time