Chapter Thirteen
Elizabeth made her way along the eighth arrondissement, the plane trees above just beginning to lose their edges to autumn, a scatter of leaves pressed flat against the pavement where the first foot traffic of the day had already passed.
The bells of Sainte-Mérance rang out across the rooftops as she passed the florist on the corner, “vingt-deux, vingt-trois,” his moustache twitched as he counted under his breath feeding the dahlias into an old tin bucket stem by stem.
Elizabeth quickened her pace. She’d arranged to meet Cybil at nine at Café Colette and was already late.
She stepped off the pavement as a delivery cart rounded the corner at a clip, the driver hauling on the reins.
“Attention, mademoiselle!” He waved his fist as she jumped back.
“Pardon!” she called after him, her hand pressed to her chest, waiting for a gap in the stream of traffic before trying again.
Cybil’s call had come just before half-past-seven, catching her still in her dressing gown after a sleepless night.
The news that Sir Conrad was due at the Quai d’Orsay that morning had been unexpected enough.
That Oliver and Miss Bembridge were to accompany him, leaving Maggie to hold the fort, had been something else entirely.
Clemmi had still been asleep when she slipped out, leaving word with Sylvie that she was going out for a walk and would be back in time for lunch.
The afternoon had never really recovered from Oriane’s bombshell, and no amount of effort on hers and Cybil’s part had managed to lift the shadow it cast, the conversation stuttering and stalling despite their best efforts until Clemmi had finally claimed a headache and given them all the excuse they needed to leave.
The headache hadn’t improved as the day wore on, and by half-past-nine, with still no word from Oliver, Elizabeth had finally persuaded her to go to bed.
Elizabeth turned into the side street off the Faubourg and spotted Cybil at one of the pavement tables, head bent over the morning paper.
“Tut, tut, Lady Elizabeth. Late again.” Cybil set the newspaper aside as Elizabeth slid into the chair opposite, a Gitane burning in the ashtray between them. “That’s twice in two days. I see Paris’s rather casual approach to timekeeping is rubbing off on you.”
“I blame the boulangeries. One simply cannot walk past without stopping to savour the aroma of fresh pastries baking in the oven.”
“In Paris, smoking isn’t simply a bad habit, you know. It’s practically de rigueur if one wishes to keep one’s figure.”
“Bonjour, mesdames.” The waitress approached their table, order pad in hand. “Are you ready to order?”
“Un café serré.” Cybil brought the Gitane to her lips, the tip glowing orange as she inhaled.
“Un café crème, s’il vous pla?t, and–” Elizabeth hesitated, her gaze lingering briefly on the basket of fresh croissants on the next table. “Just the coffee, merci.”
Cybil arched a brow in Elizabeth’s direction, her lips curling into a faint smile as she extinguished the Gitane in the ashtray.
“Now, back to Maggie. Sir Conrad has a meeting at the Quai d’Orsay this morning with the American delegation and the French Minister of Trade.
The meeting is at half-past-ten, so if everything goes to plan, which I’m sure it will with Miss Bembridge running the show, they’re due to leave at half-past-nine. ”
“And Maggie’s sure she can get me access to Mr Ashby’s office?”
“Positive, she’s in charge of the girls when Bembridge is away and has access to her keys.”
The waitress returned, setting their coffees on the table, followed by a pain au chocolat, still warm, its pastry layers dark and glazed at the edges. “With compliments du patron, mesdames.”
“That’s very kind, merci.”
The waitress smiled and tucked the tray under her arm before departing.
Elizabeth reached for the knife and sliced through the layers, sliding one portion across the plate towards Cybil.
“She suggested you get there for a quarter-to-ten, that should ensure they’ve all left and things have settled down.
” Cybil removed a cigarette from the packet and reached for the Café Colette matchbook sitting beside the ashtray, touching the flame to the tip.
“Maggie will take you up to his office on the senior corridor and keep watch. No-one will bat an eyelid if they see her up there.”
“Are you not coming with me?”
“It’s better if I wait here.” Cybil drew on the cigarette, a thin curl of smoke leaving her lips as she turned her head to the side. “One person is considerably easier to smuggle in than two.”
“True.” Elizabeth broke off a piece of the pain au chocolat, the pastry flaking between her fingers as she lifted it to her lips, pausing mid-way. “And I’d hate to cause any problems for Maggie.”
The bells of Sainte-Mérance sounded the half hour.
“That’s your cue,” Cybil said, resting her cigarette in the ashtray.
“So it would seem.” Elizabeth lifted her coffee cup to her lips, draining her café crème. “I’ll be as quick as I can.” She pushed back her chair and got to her feet.
“Elizabeth … you will be careful, won’t you?” Cybil held her gaze, the implication of what Elizabeth was about to do not lost on either of them.
Elizabeth nodded and retrieved her bag from the table before making her way back to the Faubourg.
The chancery gates stood open, and the commissionaire was out of his lodge before she’d cleared the arch.
“Back so soon, Miss Winston?” He laid the book on his ledge, the pen already across it.
“Miss Howard was looking into some paperwork for me.” She caught herself partway through the H, turning it into a W.
“Well, if anyone can sort things out for you, it’s Miss Howard.” He drew the book back and touched the peak of his cap. “You know the way, madam. The west pavilion.”
Elizabeth crossed the forecourt and pushed through the chancery door into the narrow entrance hall. The enquiry desk was manned this morning; a young clerk looking up as she entered.
“Miss Winston, for Miss Howard.”
“One moment, madam.” He lifted the receiver and asked for Miss Howard’s floor. “A visitor at the desk for Miss Howard … a Miss Winston.” He set the receiver back on its cradle. “She’s not at her desk, madam, but one of the girls will pass the message along.”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth turned to the noticeboard on the wall and studied the duty roster pinned there as if it were the latest Christie novel.
“Miss Winston.” Maggie breezed into the entrance hall. “I’m so sorry to keep you.”
“Not at all, Miss Howard. I’ve only just arrived.”
“If you’d like to follow me?”
Maggie led her down the corridor, past closed doors on either side, and up the staircase at the far end. A line of portraits marked their ascent, sombre-looking men in high collars and orders, ambassadors long since recalled.
The upper corridor ran the length of the building, every door closed. Maggie stopped midway along, and Elizabeth drew up beside her, her eyes going to the small enamel plate on the door, the black lettering neat against the white.
Mr J. Ashby.
Maggie glanced both ways along the corridor, then drew a key from her pocket and slid it into the lock.
“From Miss Bembridge’s key-board. It has to go back before they return from the Quai d’Orsay.
” She nudged the door just wide enough for Elizabeth to slip inside. “Stay put until I come back for you.”
Elizabeth slipped through the gap, and the door clicked shut behind her. She stood in the gloom of the shuttered office, listening as the key scraped in the lock and Maggie’s footsteps faded along the corridor, leaving her alone with whatever remained of Mr Ashby.
She stood in the centre of the room and surveyed its contents.
A desk, a chair, a filing cabinet against the far wall.
A telephone on the corner of the desk. A window opposite the door, a pale rectangle of autumn sky visible above the roofline of the service yard below.
A coat hook on the back of the door, bare.
For a man who had occupied this office for two months, there was precious little of him in it.
Elizabeth started with the desk. The in-tray held a handful of papers – standard chancery circulars of the kind that landed on every desk as a matter of course, none of them addressed to Ashby by name. She lifted the blotter and turned it towards the light. Not a mark on it.
She tugged the top drawer open with a little too much force, expecting it to be locked.
The contents told her nothing – a ruler, a box of pen nibs, a pair of scissors still in their paper sleeve.
The second drawer was empty. The third held a new blotter, still folded inside its stiff paper wrapping, never opened.
Elizabeth turned her attention to the filing cabinet, finding all three drawers unlocked. The first held suspension files in alphabetical order – embassy circulars, minutes of meetings, copies of outgoing correspondence that told her nothing without the context that had produced them.
For two months Mr Ashby had occupied this office, and yet there was nothing here to account for it – not a single framed photograph, no letter tucked beneath the blotter, nothing on the coat hook, not even a scarf.
Was it the office of a man who’d never intended to stay?
Or one who’d never been given the option?
“Elizabeth, it’s me.” Maggie’s voice came through the door, followed by the click of the key turning in the lock.
She cracked open the door wide enough to slip inside before pressing it shut behind her. “Anything?”
“Nothing.” Elizabeth gave the room a final sweep in case she’d missed something. “It’s like he was never even here.”
“Then it’s just as well I managed to find an address for him.” Maggie held up a piece of paper between her fingers.
“You did? How on earth did you manage that?”