Chapter Six
Pain seared through her shoulder as the stranger hauled her back, her evening bag slipping from her grasp as she twisted against his grip.
“Let go of me.” Her eyes darted towards the river, the shrill of police whistles growing louder.
But they weren’t for her. She hadn’t told anyone she was leaving, slipping out of the soirée in pursuit of Jonathan.
And now, with all the chaos unfolding at the bridge, if she screamed, it was unlikely anyone would hear.
“My … my husband will be here any moment now.” She tried to keep her voice steady.
“But if it’s money you want, then I have some …
in my purse.” Her gaze raked over the scattered contents of her evening bag for the Browning.
If he would just loosen his grip, even for a few seconds, then perhaps she could…
Elizabeth crouched down, her free hand reaching for her purse. A fresh burst of whistles and klaxons rang out as more officers poured onto the bridge.
Seizing her chance, she wrenched her arm free as the stranger’s grip faltered, her fingers closing around the Browning as she straightened, levelling the pistol at his chest.
“I wouldn’t come any closer if I were you, or make any sudden moves. I’m an excellent shot, and while I’m in rather a hurry, I’m not so rushed that I’d miss.” She paused. “Now, I’m going to give you until the count of ten to disappear. One. Two. Three.”
She released the safety catch, more for effect than a desire to actually shoot him.
But why wasn’t he leaving? Her eyes darted to the bridge before returning to the shadowed figure before her.
“Four. Five. Six.”
He still hadn’t moved.
Did this man have some kind of death wish? Or didn’t he believe a woman knew how to use a gun?
“It seems you think I’m bluffing.” She aimed the pistol inches away from his feet and squeezed the trigger; the bullet ricocheting off the cobbles.
A shout went up from the direction of the bridge, and a torch beam swept across the quai, past the parapet, before swinging back towards the water.
She raised her arm, taking aim at his chest.
“Elizabeth, wait. Don’t shoot. It’s me.”
“Oliver?” Elizabeth lowered the pistol and engaged the safety catch.
“Thank God you’re here. It’s Jonathan.” Her eyes never left Oliver’s face as she retrieved the contents of her bag.
“He’s been shot. I saw the whole thing. Someone shot him and then…
” She inhaled a steadying breath, the image of Jonathan clutching his side seconds before vanishing from sight still fresh in her mind.
“Then he fell over the side into the river.”
Elizabeth was already moving towards the bridge, but Oliver remained rooted to the spot. Was it shock? He and Jonathan had been friends for many years, according to Clemmi.
“Oliver? Didn’t you hear what I said?” She half-turned to him, her fingers tapping against the front of her bag. What was he waiting for? “We have to speak to the police, tell them he’s in the river.”
“Jonathan? Are you quite sure it was him?” Oliver’s gaze swept the fronts of his shoes. “Last I heard he was in Bath for a family christening.”
“I saw him, Oliver. At the soirée.” Elizabeth tilted her head, her brow arching as she held his gaze.
“You must be thinking of Ashby. Tall fellow, fair hair.”
“No, it was definitely Jonathan.” Wasn’t it?
“I suppose he does bear a passing resemblance to Jonathan, in the right light and with everyone in evening dress, but it can’t have been him because I left him with de Massenet’s chef de cabinet not ten minutes since.
And as for Jonathan Ashcroft, he’s a long way from Paris attending some second cousin’s wedding. ”
“Wedding? I thought you said christening?”
“Wedding, christening, it’s all the same to us chaps.” He took a step towards her. “Right then, let’s get you home. I’m sure Clemmi will be dying to hear all the gossip.”
“But we can’t just leave. Even if it wasn’t Jonathan on that bridge, someone was still shot, not to mention falling off the bridge and into the river. We must speak to the police so I can tell them what I saw.”
Oliver slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Now, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but are you absolutely sure you didn’t–I mean, it is rather dark and with so many people milling around, it would have been easy to have–”
“Imagined it? Is that what you’re implying? Because if you are, then I can assure you I am not the sort of woman–”
“No, of course you’re not. I’m fully aware of your reputation, Elizabeth, and my wife keeps me very well informed of your little exploits.”
Exploits! He sounded just like her aunt.
“Then what exactly are you implying?”
“Nothing … nothing. But it is rather late, and while I’m sure you thought you saw someone fall into the water, perhaps you were mistaken.”
“And what about the shots? Did I only think I heard those, too? And if it was all a figment of my imagination, why is the bridge swarming with police?”
“Quite, and with so many gendarmes there, I’m sure they have everything in hand. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Well, unless you have something more substantial to tell them, like perhaps a description of the person who fired the shots.”
Elizabeth barely heard him, her attention fixed on a gendarme leaning out over the parapet, his torch beam skimming the surface of the water. How far would the river have carried him by now? Past the Louvre? Further?
“Do you?”
“Sorry?” She glanced briefly at Oliver.
“Did you see whoever it was who fired the shots?”
“I didn’t, no. But I know what I did see.”
“Which was?”
“That someone was shot and...”
And what? She might have heard the shots, but what had she actually seen?
Elizabeth turned the scene over in her mind.
A man clutching his side, then gone from view moments later.
But she’d lost sight of him more than once between the hotel and the bridge – beneath the arcades, behind the couple on the quai.
Could the man on the bridge have been someone else entirely?
And had he really fallen into the river, or had he simply been swept up in the panic on the bridge?
“Or at least I thought I’d seen someone who looked remarkably like Jonathan shot.” Elizabeth turned her attention back to the scene unfolding on the Pont Neuf. “If he did go into the river … do you think they’ll find him?”
His shoulders lifted in the barest of shrugs.
“The current’s quite strong on this stretch of the river and without any proper lighting along much of the embankment, it’s difficult to say.
But if someone did fall into the river, then they’ll turn up one way or another.
” He drew out his pocket watch, tilted it towards the nearest lamp, and snapped it shut.
“Right then, no sense hanging around here all night. Come along, the car’s just this way. ”
They walked back along the quai in silence, the commotion at the bridge fading behind them as they made for the arcades, where the Daimler waited at the kerb.
He waved the driver back behind the wheel and opened the rear door himself. “Rue de Louvencourt, s’il vous pla?t.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“No. I think I’ll take a walk … clear my head.” His hand closed around her elbow, steering her up into the motorcar.
“Do you think it’s safe? After what’s happened?”
He dipped his head to the open window. “With half the gendarmes in Paris on that bridge, I’d say the streets have never been safer.”
The engine purred to life, swallowing the last of the clamour from the bridge.
“Oh, and best say nothing to Clemmi about tonight; in her condition she doesn’t need the worry.”
“As you wish.”
Oliver pressed the door shut, and the driver slipped the Daimler into gear and joined the traffic along the rue de Rivoli.
Elizabeth settled back against the leather upholstery as the Place de la Concorde slid by.
She’d been so certain that the man she’d followed had been Jonathan. But a flash across a crowded salon, a face caught for a moment in the lamplight … glimpses, nothing more.
Perhaps Oliver was right, and this Mr Ashby bore a passing resemblance to Jonathan.
Yet Clemmi had told her Jonathan was in the Americas, then tonight Oliver had said he was in Bath, unable to keep his story straight about whether it was a christening or a wedding.
It’s all the same to us chaps, he’d claimed.
And perhaps it was … to most men. But not men in Oliver’s position.
Then there was the shooting. He’d shown no concern for the poor soul in the river.
As for his walk to clear his head … one didn’t summon a motorcar unless one had somewhere to be.
But the question was, where … and why?