Chapter Eight
Elizabeth leaned towards the triptych mirror and swept the lipstick across her mouth, a bright burst of laughter carrying down through the half-open window from the floors above.
She’d given Clemmi what she could over breakfast: Maggie’s account of Madame Charpentier and her rings, one for every mistress she’d caught her husband with, and where the gossip ran thin, Madame Fournier’s pain suisse had more than compensated for any shortfall.
When Clemmi had angled for more, Elizabeth had spread her hands wide and pleaded a stranger’s ignorance. She pressed her lips together and reached for her pearl-grey cloche.
Technically, she supposed, she hadn’t lied. Her fingers paused on the brim. But she hadn’t been entirely truthful either.
She tilted it a fraction in the mirror and pushed back the stool. Whatever Oliver had been doing at the Pont Neuf last night was a matter for him and his conscience, and whether he shared it with his wife or not was his decision alone.
Elizabeth crossed to the armoire and ran her eye along the rail before selecting the dove-grey silk coat and slipping it on over her dress. She collected her handbag and the pale grey gloves from the dressing table.
One last look in the mirror, a slight adjustment to the coat’s collar, and she pulled the bedroom door closed behind her.
Sylvie started at the sight of her, a small gasp escaping her lips as she clutched the feather duster to her chest. “Pardon, milady. I did not hear you.”
“It is I who should apologise, Sylvie.”
“Non, it’s my fault.” The young maid’s gaze swept over Elizabeth, taking in her attire. “You’re going out, milady?”
“I thought I’d take a walk while Madame Sterling is at her appointments.” Elizabeth slipped on her gloves. “Perhaps have a bit of lunch somewhere.”
“Seule?” Sylvie’s brow lifted. “Alone?”
“Of course.” She rested her hand on the brass doorknob, her mouth curving into a smile as she turned back to Sylvie. “At least then I don’t have to share my dessert.”
A laugh escaped Sylvie’s lips despite her best efforts to control it.
“Bien s?r, milady… and bon appétit.”
“Merci, Sylvie.”
Elizabeth let herself out and made her way along the landing to the lift. She pressed the call button, and somewhere above, the machinery clanked into life. The cage made its slow, rattling descent and settled at the third-floor with a shudder.
Two women were already inside, heads bent together in conversation. They straightened as Elizabeth stepped in.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
“Bonjour.” Elizabeth pulled the gate closed behind her.
The two exchanged a glance and started up again before the cage had cleared the floor.
L’Anglaise, the first murmured – the one staying with the Sterlings on the third-floor. La fameuse détective, para?t-il.
Elizabeth kept her eyes on the floors sliding past the ironwork.
The second woman leaned closer to her companion – though in a cage that size she might as well have spoken into Elizabeth’s ear. Those considerable detective skills would be rather better employed finding a husband.
A snort of laughter escaped one of the women, hastily covered with a cough.
The lift came to a stop on the ground floor with a metallic clang.
Elizabeth slid the gate open and gestured for the two women to go ahead.
“Bonne journée, mesdames. Et merci pour la suggestion, j’y réfléchirai sérieusement,” Elizabeth said, thanking them for their advice on finding a husband.
The taller one’s step faltered, a flush rising from her collar to her cheekbones as she glanced sideways at her companion, who had developed a sudden and intense interest in the floor tiles.
The two women made straight for the door. Georges pulled it wide, standing aside as they swept out without a backward glance.
“Bonjour, milady!” His face creased into a smile as she crossed the lobby. “Il fait beau aujourd’hui.”
“Très beau, Georges. Bonne journée.”
“Merci, à vous aussi, milady.”
She stepped down onto the pavement.
Find herself a husband, indeed. As though detection were merely an eccentric hobby to be set aside the moment the right man appeared, a pleasant way to pass the time until real life could begin.
It wasn’t only the women in the lift. It was every raised eyebrow, every carefully worded enquiry about her plans, every well-meaning soul who looked at her life and saw only what was absent from it rather than what was there.
Elizabeth crossed the boulevard and turned onto the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.
She had never set foot inside the chancery before, but such places usually ran to a pattern. The clerks and typists would be on the lower floors, while the men who mattered, or believed they did, were stationed higher up.
With any luck, she’d be able to speak to Maggie without ever troubling the upper floors at all.
And if she ran into Oliver? She was simply calling on Miss Howard to apologise for missing their supper engagement last night. There was no need to mention the true purpose of her visit.
After all, in his line of work, Oliver would be very familiar with the concept of working on a need-to-know basis.
The dress shops and milliners soon gave way to high walls and gated courtyards, until the embassy gates came into view, the pale stone facade of the H?tel de Charost set back behind tall iron railings, the Union Flag and the tricolour hanging still above the forecourt.
The chancery gates stood open, and she’d barely stepped beneath the arch before a commissionaire was out of his lodge to meet her, straight-backed in his dark blue uniform, a row of medal ribbons above his breast pocket.
“Good morning, madam. Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Miss Howard. I believe she works in the chancery.”
“Your name, please, madam?”
“Eliz–” The word caught. What if word of her visit found its way to Oliver? “Eliza … Winston.”
“Very good, madam.” He noted it in the book on his ledge and touched the peak of his cap. “The door in the west pavilion, across the courtyard. Ask for Miss Howard at the desk, and they’ll send for her.”
The door in the west pavilion opened onto a narrow entrance hall, an enquiry desk facing the door – unattended, a telephone receiver lying beside its cradle.
Beyond it, a corridor ran the length of the building, where clerks passed between doorways with files in their arms, and here and there small groups stood huddled together, heads bent in whispered conversation.
“Excuse me.” Elizabeth stopped the nearest of them, a young woman with files pressed to her chest. “Could you tell me where I might find Miss Howard, please?”
“Miss Howard?” The woman slowed. “Er … yes, of course. End of the corridor, the last door on the left.”
The woman carried on down the corridor without so much as a request for her name or a question as to her business.
“Lady Elizabeth.” Maggie hurried towards her, her hands clasped together at her waist. “You’ve caught us in disarray, I’m afraid.”
“Why, whatever’s the matter?”
Maggie glanced back at the others, then took Elizabeth’s arm and walked her down the corridor, pushing open a door at its end and easing it shut behind them.
Maggie drew a breath, one hand still on the door handle.
“Something dreadful has happened.” Her voice dropped. “One of our staff members, Mr Ashby. He … he died last night.”
Mr Ashby was dead. The same Mr Ashby who bore a passing resemblance to Jonathan Ashcroft, according to Oliver.
“I’m so sorry.” Elizabeth placed a hand on Maggie’s arm. “What happened? Had he been ill?”
Maggie shook her head. “He was … shot … last night on the Pont Neuf.”