Chapter Nine
She hadn’t imagined it.
A man had been shot on the Pont Neuf last night.
To think she’d very nearly let Oliver talk her out of it. He’d all but said she’d imagined the whole thing.
And now a man was dead – exactly as she’d said.
“Forgive me, Lady Elizabeth.” Maggie stepped away from the door. “I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that.”
“Please don’t apologise. It must have been a dreadful shock for everyone.”
“It was rather. And such a waste; he can’t have been more than thirty.”
“Had he worked here long?”
“No more than a couple of months, so I can’t say any of us knew him well. But he seemed a pleasant sort.”
“Do the police have any idea what happened? Was it a robbery?”
“I really couldn’t say. Mr Sterling made the announcement not half an hour before you arrived.” She shook her head. “I don’t think anyone quite knows what to do with themselves.”
Mr Sterling made the announcement not half an hour before you arrived.
Was it merely a coincidence that Oliver had been standing barely a hundred yards from the Pont Neuf when one of his own chancery colleagues was shot?
She didn’t believe in coincidences.
Any more than she’d believed him when he’d tried to persuade her that what she’d seen amounted to little more than a trick of the light.
But perhaps she was doing him a disservice. Perhaps he’d kept his word and spoken to the commissaire first thing, and it was the police who’d told him about Ashby.
Or perhaps he’d already known last night, when he’d put her in the Daimler and sent her away.
The door swung open, and Miss Bembridge swept in, a sheaf of papers clutched to her chest.
Drat! Elizabeth angled her head towards the window. Of all the people to see her here.
“Miss Howard.” Miss Bembridge’s dark eyes cut straight to Maggie.
“I appreciate that this morning has been unsettling for everyone. However, I will be the one answering to the Ambassador when the correspondence isn’t cleared by close of day.
One or two of the younger girls appear to be letting their feelings run rather ahead of their responsibilities. Perhaps you might have a word.”
“Of course, Miss Bembridge.” Maggie inclined her head. “I’ll see to it directly.”
“Lady Elizabeth. I didn’t realise you were here. I do apologise for the interruption.”
“Not at all, Miss Bembridge. I just needed a quick word with Miss Howard about a private matter. But I can see you’re all terribly busy, so I’ll be on my way.”
“As you wish. And do give my regards to Mrs Sterling – I caught her last night just as the car came round, and she was good enough to drop me at the chancery. Though I fear the evening had rather taken it out of her. I hope she’s feeling better this morning.”
“Much better, thank you. I’ll be sure to pass them on.”
“Do. Well, I must dash; the Ambassador hates to be kept waiting. And don’t forget to speak to the girls, Miss Howard,” she called over her shoulder as she breezed out, leaving the door open behind her.
“Miss Bembridge is quite the whirlwind, isn’t she?”
“That she is. Sometimes I wonder if she has a camp bed tucked behind her filing cabinet – I honestly don’t think she ever goes home.” Maggie glanced at the open doorway, then leaned in, her voice dropping. “And the Ambassador – she does everything for that man short of tying his shoelaces.”
They stepped out into the corridor, Maggie falling into step beside her.
“Cybil was rather disappointed you didn’t make it last night.” She glanced sideways at Elizabeth.
Cybil.
News about Mr Ashby’s death had driven the reason for her visit clean out of her head.
She liked Maggie, but she didn’t know her nearly well enough to reveal the real reason for her absence the previous evening.
“I was rather done in after the journey and slipped away early.” Elizabeth kept her voice light.
“But I was hoping you’d be able to tell me how I might get hold of her, so I can apologise in person. ”
“I’m supposed to meet her for lunch, as it happens, but with the news about Mr Ashby, I’m not sure when I’ll get away now.” Maggie slowed as they reached the entrance. “She’ll be at Café Weber on the rue Royale. Do you know it?”
“I do, yes.” Elizabeth touched Maggie’s arm briefly. “I’ll let her know you’ve been delayed.”
“Would you? I’d be grateful.” Maggie glanced back down the corridor. “I’d best see to the girls before Miss Bembridge comes looking.”
Elizabeth made her way back across the courtyard and passed beneath the arch.
“Good day, Miss Winston.” The commissionaire touched the peak of his cap.
Miss Winston? Ah. “Good day.” She stepped through the gates and into the midday crush of the Faubourg, falling in behind two gentlemen deep in conversation and following in their wake along the crowded pavement.
The last time she and Cybil had worked together, it had been on an island cut off by the tide, coaxing a forger’s mistakes out of a photograph by the red light of darkroom lanterns. If anyone could find out what the Paris papers weren’t printing, and why, it was Cybil Hughes.
At the rue Royale she gave up her escort and turned down towards the Concorde, klaxons blaring as motorcars fought for every yard, until the awnings of Café Weber came into view across the pavement.
“La visite américaine! L’édition de l’après-midi! La visite américaine!”
A boy no more than twelve worked the pavement, papers tucked under his arm. He thrust one towards her without breaking his stride. “L’après-midi, mademoiselle?”
“Oui, merci.” Elizabeth took it and pressed the coins into his palm.
She stopped to run her eye over the front page, the lunch crowd streaming around her.
The delegation’s arrival. The Ambassador’s welcome address.
The fireworks display over the Castellane, drawing considerable admiration from the American guests.
A shoulder caught hers, and a man in a dark suit muttered something without slowing.
“Pardon,” she said, her eyes still moving down the column.
Not a word about the Pont Neuf.
An elbow caught her arm, and a woman’s voice came sharp and close. “Vous gênez le passage, madame.”
“Pardon.” Elizabeth folded the paper and tucked it under her arm as she stepped aside.
A man had been shot dead on the Pont Neuf, and it hadn’t merited so much as a line.
She slowed beneath Café Weber’s awning, the luncheon service in full swing around her.
Her gaze swept the closely packed tables, past diners deep in animated conversation, until she spotted her at the far end: a rich burgundy cloche pulled low, a Gitane between her fingers, a newspaper spread open beside an empty coffee cup.
Elizabeth threaded her way between the tables.
Cybil glanced up as she approached, her mouth curving into a wide smile. “Elizabeth!” She was on her feet in a moment, the Gitane abandoned to the ashtray, and kissed her on both cheeks. “I was beginning to think Maggie had made the whole thing up.”
“I’m afraid Maggie’s quite innocent.” Elizabeth pressed a kiss to her cheek in return. “And once you hear the reason, you’ll understand why.”
Elizabeth’s gaze fell to the Gitane smouldering in the ashtray.
“I know.” Cybil waved a hand. “Old habits and all that. But when in Rome…” She gestured to the empty chair, settling back into her own.
Elizabeth drew out the chair and sat, setting her newspaper on the table beside Cybil’s.
“How did you know I’d be here?”
“I popped into the chancery to see Maggie.” Elizabeth slipped off her gloves and tucked them into her bag.
“Is she with you?” Cybil glanced past her towards the pavement.
“She’s been held up–”
“Mesdames.” The waiter was already at the table, pencil poised above his pad.
Elizabeth straightened in her seat.
“Nous attendons une amie.” Cybil arched a brow across the table. “Coffee?”
Elizabeth nodded.
“Deux cafés serrés, s’il vous pla?t.”
“Très bien, mesdames.”
“So, what’s keeping Maggie this time? Miss Bembridge cracking the whip again, is she? I’m quite convinced if Miss Bembridge had been running the German war effort, we’d all be speaking German by now.”
“It wasn’t Miss Bembridge … well, not directly, anyway. It was something else.” Elizabeth leaned forward, her eyes sweeping the neighbouring tables before continuing. “It concerns one of the chancery staff … a Mr Ashby.” Her voice dropped further. “He was shot last night … on the Pont Neuf.”
“Shot?” Cybil’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
“Positive … I saw the whole thing. I just didn’t know who the victim was.”
The waiter cleared his throat as he approached, a small tray balanced in one hand, and set the cups down. “Voilà, mesdames. Deux cafés serrés.”
“Merci.” Cybil crushed out the forgotten Gitane, its ash long since fallen, and drew a fresh one from her case, tapping it once against the lid before placing it between her lips.
As if from thin air, the waiter conjured a lit match, touching the flame to the end of the cigarette.
“Thank you.” A thin curl of smoke rose between them.
“Will there be anything else, mesdames?”
“Non, merci.”
He inclined his head and moved on to another table.
Cybil took a long pull on the Gitane, her eyes fixed on Elizabeth. “Now. Tell me everything.”
Elizabeth kept her voice low as she recounted the previous evening – the two shots, the man buckling against the parapet, the police swarming over the bridge within minutes. And Oliver Sterling standing barely a hundred yards from it all.
“Oliver Sterling?” Cybil’s cup stopped halfway to her lips. “Wasn’t he supposed to be at the Castellane with the rest of the delegation?”
“He was. He’d told me he had a meeting with de Massenet’s chef de cabinet – one likely to take some hours. Yet scarcely twenty minutes later, there he was on the quai.”
“And not a word of it in print.” Cybil set down her cup and spread her newspaper open across the table, her eyes scanning every inch of column space. “Nothing. When did this happen?”
“Some time between half-past-nine and ten.”
“Too late for the morning editions, perhaps. But by the afternoon, a story like that should have been front-page news.”
“There’s nothing in this one either.” Elizabeth set her copy alongside Cybil’s.
“Someone with very long arms wanted this kept out of print.” Cybil settled back in her chair. “Which brings us back to your Mr Sterling. Does he have that kind of reach? Enough to keep something like this quiet?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.” Elizabeth shrugged. “I’ve only met him a couple of times – one of which was his wedding day. I’m not even entirely sure what his position is.”
“But if it was Oliver who hushed it up–”
“Then why tell the chancery staff about it? That’s exactly what I keep coming back to.”
Cybil pushed back her chair and got to her feet, reaching for her bag. “Right. Come on.”
Elizabeth rose. “Where are we going?”
“To see an old friend.”
“What about Maggie?”
Cybil tucked her newspaper under her arm, drained her cup, and dropped several coins on the table. “Maggie will be lucky if she makes it home in time for supper.”
They threaded their way between the tables and out onto the rue Royale, Cybil setting the pace.
A man shot dead barely a hundred yards from where Oliver had been hanging about in the shadows.
The newspapers completely silent.
And Oliver doing his level best to persuade her she’d imagined the whole thing.
Just how deeply was Oliver Sterling involved in Mr Ashby’s murder?