Chapter Twelve
Henri edged the Citroen out onto the boulevard du Montparnasse into the chaos of the midday crush.
A delivery van had stalled broadside across the junction ahead, its driver out of the cab and squaring up to a tram conductor while the traffic backed up three deep behind them.
A boy on a bicycle shot through the gap between a Citroen and a flower cart, missing both by inches.
“Imbécile! Tu bloques tout le monde!” Henri called through the open window, his upturned palm jabbing the air. “Mesdames, je m’excuse,” he apologised, his eyes catching theirs briefly in the rear-view mirror before returning to the road.
“Ce n’est rien, Henri.” Clemmi clicked open her compact and angled it towards the window. “Perfectly understandable in this traffic. What with all the honking and shouting ... I’d be a nervous wreck.”
“Have you ever driven here?”
“Drive? In Paris?” Clemmi lowered the compact. “I’d be an absolute menace.”
Coming from the girl who’d once lapped her grandmother’s estate when they were fifteen, as though she were competing at Brooklands, perhaps Clemmi had a point.
“I look an absolute fright.” She pressed her lips together, studying her reflection. “No wonder Oliver spends so much time at work.”
“You look beautiful.”
“You’re just being kind.”
“And you’re being far too hard on yourself.”
Clemmi reapplied a coat of orange-red lipstick to her lower lip and rolled her lips together before clicking the compact shut and tucking it into her bag.
“Enfin.” Henri released the handbrake, the traffic edging forward as the van finally cleared the junction.
Clemmi settled back against the seat, her hand coming to rest against her middle as she turned to the window.
Elizabeth stole a sideways glance at her friend; the positioning of Clemmi’s hand reminding her exactly what was at stake.
Today’s lunch was never meant to include Clemmi, but one wounded look over the asparagus, and Elizabeth had invited her before she’d quite thought it through. Which left her in rather a pickle, since it had been arranged so that she and Cybil could compare notes on their chief suspect.
Who just happened to be Clemmi’s husband.
Henri drew up outside Le Jardin Suspendu, a knot of lunchtime arrivals jostling on the pavement as a waiter in a long white apron held the door, exchanging a word with a departing couple, the low hum of the lunch service drifting through the open door.
Elizabeth climbed out onto the pavement, moving aside to let a man in a pale linen suit pass, while Clemmi unclipped her purse and leaned forward to Henri’s window. “For your trouble, Henri.”
“Non, madame.” He looked down at the notes in his palm, his brow creasing as he shook his head. “I cannot accept this; it is too generous.” He held them back out towards her.
“Henri.” Clemmi pressed his hand closed around them. “I won’t hear another word about it.” She snapped her bag shut and stepped out onto the pavement as Henri pulled away into the afternoon traffic.
The doorman sprang to attention as they climbed the front steps. “Mesdames.” He touched his gloved hand to the peak of his dark green hat as they entered. “Welcome to Le Jardin Suspendu.”
“Merci,” Elizabeth replied, pausing in the doorway as the restaurant opened up before them – a soaring glass and wrought-iron structure, the original greenhouse bones still visible beneath a dense canopy of ivy and Virginia creeper that had long since threaded itself through the ironwork.
Orchids and trailing ferns spilled from planters suspended overhead, and below them the tables were dressed in deep green linen with a single low arrangement of deep burgundy dahlias at the centre.
A middle-aged man in a dark suit approached the moment they entered. “Bienvenue Mesdames. Je suis Alain Petit.” He inclined his head, switching seamlessly from French to English. “Welcome to my restaurant.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “You have a reservation?”
“We do, yes. In the name of Hughes.”
Petit turned to the ma?tre d’, exchanging a few words in a low voice. The ma?tre d’ gave a brief nod. “Mademoiselle Hughes is already seated.” Petit turned back to them with a smile. “Michel will show you to your table.”
Michel stepped forward, his hands tugging at the edges of his waistcoat. “Mesdames, if you’ll follow me.”
Elizabeth fell in behind Clemmi as Michel threaded his way between the tables.
Waiters slipped through the narrow walkways with trays of Poulet de Bresse r?ti, the savoury scent trailing in their wake, while another balanced a tower of profiteroles beneath a glossy fall of dark chocolate.
“Clemmi, ma chérie,” a dark-haired woman in oxblood silk purred from behind a curl of cigarette smoke, Pippin Westcott seated opposite her.
Clemmi paused, her smile pressed firmly in place before she turned to greet the woman. “Oriane, Pippin, what a lovely surprise.”
Oriane rose, pressing a kiss to each of Clemmi’s cheeks before settling back into her chair, the jade cigarette holder still between her fingers. “You disappeared on me the other evening before I could persuade you to stay. I hope it wasn’t anything I said.”
“I was feeling a little tired, that’s all.” Clemmi positioned her bag in front of her, covering her midriff. “Nothing terribly exciting, I’m afraid.”
“Ah, an early night.” Oriane drew on her cigarette, her eyes sliding briefly to her companion before returning to Clemmi.
“You English, what is your obsession with these early nights?” The smoke left her lips in a slow curl.
“Tucked up in bed before Paris has even had her first drink, you miss all the fun.”
“You know, you really shouldn’t be so quick to judge, darling.” Pippin removed a cigarette from his case and placed it between his lips, patting down his jacket pocket with a frown.
Oriane rested her cigarette holder on the ashtray and reached into her bag and drew out a black matchbook before tossing it down onto the table in front of him.
“Some of my most memorable evenings have ended rather earlier than expected,” he continued, the unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. “It’s purely a question of how one spends them.”
Oriane threw back her head, her laughter drawing the attention of nearby diners. “Mon Dieu, Pippin, you are without shame.”
“Oriane, you remember Elizabeth?” Clemmi said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “From the soirée at the Castellane?”
“Non.” Oriane drew deeply on her cigarette, her dark eyes narrowing as she appraised Elizabeth through a haze of smoke. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Oh, I thought you had ... Madame Oriane de Massenet this is my dearest friend, Lady Elizabeth Hawthorne.” She turned to Elizabeth. “Oriane’s husband is the Ministre de l’Intérieur. And of course, you already know Pippin.”
“Three times in as many days.” He leaned back, smoke drifting from the corner of his mouth as his gaze slid to Elizabeth, the faintest suggestion of a smile playing on his lips. “We really must stop meeting like this, Lady Elizabeth, people will start to talk.”
Oriane stabbed at the ashtray with her cigarette before snapping it out of its holder and reaching for Pippin’s cigarette case.
Clemmi’s gaze flicked between Elizabeth and Pippin, a small crease forming between her brows.
“Three?”
She had to get away before Pippin mentioned their meeting yesterday at Le Figaro.
“Michel, I think Monsieur Petit is trying to catch your attention. If you can point me in the direction of our table, I’m sure we’ll be able to manage from here.”
“But of course, mademoiselle.” Michel inclined his head with a slight bow. “Mademoiselle Hughes is at the table in the far corner by the window.”
“Madame de Massenet, enchantée.” Elizabeth turned to Madame de Massenet’s companion. “Pippin.”
“Don’t forget about our lunch date.”
Clemmi’s gaze flicked from Elizabeth to Pippin before returning to Elizabeth. “Lunch date?”
“Clemmi, why don’t you stay here and finish your conversation with Madame de Massenet while I let Cybil know we’re here.”
Elizabeth turned on her heel, striding between the tables in Cybil’s direction.
She felt bad about abandoning Clemmi, but she needed a few minutes alone with Cybil to find out whether she’d learnt anything that might shed some light on Mr Ashby or his death.
And besides, Clemmi was bound to interrogate her about Pippin the moment they were out of earshot, and explaining his comments would mean telling her about running into him at Le Figaro, which would mean explaining what she’d been doing there in the first place.
She was already keeping more than enough secrets from her, without adding more to the growing list.
Cybil lowered her newspaper as Elizabeth slid into the seat opposite. “I was beginning to think I’d been stood up.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Elizabeth set her bag on the empty chair beside her and leaned forward, dropping her voice. “Clemmi’s with me ... it’s a long story and we don’t have much time.”
“Where is she now?” Cybil’s gaze swept the room.
“She’s been waylaid on the way in by Madame de Massenet. I had to leave before Pippin gave the game away about our visit to Le Figaro.“ Elizabeth cast a quick glance over to Oriane’s table.
“Madame de Massenet is still up to her old tricks, I see.” Cybil folded the newspaper and set it aside. “You know her?”
“Of her.“ Cybil reached for her coffee. “Powerful husband, largely absent – the ministry keeps him well occupied, which leaves Madame de Massenet with rather a lot of free time and considerable resources to do as she pleases. That’s where men like your acquaintance Pippin come in. What the French call a chevalier servant. A devoted companion, an attentive escort, a man who supplies all the attentions a husband doesn’t bother with.”
“And her husband, the Ministère de l’Intérieur?”
“Monsieur de Massenet is a man of considerable influence and wields a lot of power. Half the establishments in Paris owe their operating licence to de Massenet’s signature on a piece of paper.”
This was precisely why she’d needed Cybil. Three days in Paris and Elizabeth could barely have named a soul beyond the Sterlings’ circle, while Cybil carried half the city’s private arrangements in her head, filed and cross-referenced like her press cuttings.
Cybil set down her cup. “Now. Maggie.”
“Go on.”
“Well, it seems Ashby’s transfer was very last minute, and it came directly off the back of Sir Conrad’s retirement announcement, which apparently caught everyone off guard, including Lady Davenport.
The whispers around the chancery are that Ashby was brought in as Sir Conrad’s replacement, much to the ire of Mr Arbuthnot, who believed he was a cert for the position after so many years of devoted service.
Only for a man nobody had heard of to swoop in out of nowhere to claim the position. ”
“And Mr Ashby, where did he come from? Another European position? Or London, perhaps?”
“That’s the thing, no-one seems to know. It was all very sudden and hush-hush. And now, just two months later, he’s dead and someone very powerful wants to keep it all under wraps.”
“There’s definitely something off here. It all feels very, I don’t know … contrived, somehow.”
“There’s more. According to Maggie, Lady Davenport is far from pleased about the retirement, or the prospect of returning to England. She’s apparently made her feelings on the subject perfectly clear on more than one occasion, if her lady’s maid is to be believed.”
A flash of aquamarine caught Elizabeth’s eye as Clemmi made her way towards them.
“She’s coming.” Elizabeth reached for a menu, deliberating whether to go for the Suprême de volaille or Omelette aux fines herbes with Cybil.
Clemmi reached their table and sank into the chair beside Elizabeth, her face devoid of any colour except for the dabs of rouge on the apples of her cheeks.
“Clemmi, whatever’s the matter? Are you unwell?” Elizabeth reached for the crystal water jug, cubes of ice clinking against the sides as she filled a glass and placed it in front of Clemmi.
She raised the glass to her lips and took a small sip before setting it down on the table.
“I’m all right; it’s nothing like that.” Her shoulders rose as she inhaled, taking a few seconds to compose herself before continuing.
“It’s Oriane … she just told me the most dreadful news.
” She glanced at Cybil, then back to Elizabeth.
“Mr Ashby, one of Oliver’s colleagues at the chancery, was murdered on the night of the soirée. He was … shot.”
Elizabeth’s gaze slid to Cybil before returning to Clemmi. “How awful. Did you know him?”
“Oliver mentioned him once or twice in passing, but I’d never met him. It’s strange, though don’t you think? That Oliver hasn’t said a word about it. Why would he keep something like this from me?”
“I’m sure he just didn’t want to worry you.”
“I’m perfectly capable of handling bad news, Elizabeth. I’m not made of glass, and I wish he’d stop treating me as if I were.”
A waiter appeared at her elbow, pencil and notepad in hand. “Mesdames, are you ready to order?”
Cybil glanced up from her menu. “Five minutes, s’il vous pla?t.”
“Bien s?r, mademoiselle.” He dipped his head and withdrew.
Mr Ashby had been murdered.
Those were the words Oriane de Massenet had used, according to Clemmi.
And if Cybil was right about Monsieur de Massenet’s reach, his wife’s choice of words was no slip of the tongue.