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

‘Tell me, though, what were you doing in my hotel reception last night? Looking like the Kraken?’ His eyes twinkled.

‘Honestly, James, I wasn’t that bad! And anyway, why weren’t you at The Ritz like you said you would be?’

‘Maître-d’ lost our booking. Simone was terribly disappointed, but I’ve got us a table there next week.’

‘Ironed out your worries about her then? Decided not to be a… a “spoon”, was it?’ Fen wondered if the thought of Lady Arabella had been behind James’s reticence with his new girlfriend the other night, and not so much Simone’s pushy behaviour.

‘Still lion-taming, but she says someone like her would be good for me. Anyway, stop trying to change the subject, Fen,’ he cocked his head on one side, and Fen was pleased to see him back to a more playful version of himself.

‘I know, I do owe you an explanation. And I’m sorry I interrupted your little tête-à-tête. But, you see, the thing is, I was there because I was following Henri Renaud.’

‘I see,’ James sat forward, his elbows on his knees and his fingers making a steeple in front of him. ‘But what were you doing following Monsieur Renaud in the first place.’

‘It was terribly badly behaved of me, and I had to grovel to poor Magda this morning, but you see I caught sight of him on my way over to visit her last night, and I saw he was carrying a package that looked very much like a painting wrapped up in brown paper and tied with string.’

‘Hmm, highly suspicious for an art dealer.’

‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, James.’ Fen tutted and sat back in the chair. ‘It was long after gallery opening hours. Perhaps that’s why I thought it so odd.’

‘And did Magda forgive you?’ James asked, more seriously now.

‘Yes, the darling, she did. And she told me something very interesting. Joseph was here, in this apartment, just after Rose had died. He found her body before we did.’

‘What?’ James looked startled and shifted in his chair.

‘He let himself in, he was due an appointment anyway and you know she never locked the door. He said Tipper barked like billy-o, but he couldn’t bring himself to call the police.’

‘Why on earth not? If he had, it would have spared you the—’

Fen raised a hand to shush him. ‘Don’t worry about me. And you have to understand, the authorities haven’t exactly been just and fair to Joseph and his family these last few years. And before you start pondering, no, he wouldn’t have killed her. He had no motive and was rather shaken up, by all accounts.’

‘Agreed,’ James rubbed his chin. ‘And it explains Tsarina, and the countess, hearing Tipper bark.’

‘Yes, but it doesn’t explain why Tipper didn’t bark.’

‘I thought we just agreed that he did?’

‘At Joseph, yes…’ They both looked at the little dog who was curled up in a ball, snoring gently on the chaise longue. Fen thought for a moment and then shook her head, ‘… But not at the murderer.’

Forty

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