Chapter Fourteen
Cybil’s reasoning about acting on Maggie’s information before news of Mr Ashby’s death broke was sound enough, but perhaps taking the Métro during the lunchtime rush hadn’t been such a good idea.
The carriage was suffocating, every strap taken, bodies pressed in on all sides, darkness rushing past the windows as the train pushed deeper beneath the city en route to the seventh arrondissement.
Elizabeth readjusted her grip on the overhead strap, her feet struggling to find purchase on the wooden boards as the carriage swayed into the bend. She lurched backwards; her heel coming down on something soft.
“Waaahhh!”
Elizabeth twisted round, one hand still locked on the strap above her. “Je suis désolée.”
A boy, no more than six or seven years old, stared up at her in a grey flannel blazer worn through at the elbow, clutching his knee to his chest while hopping on the spot, his cries drowning out the clatter of the train on the tracks.
He turned to a woman sitting on the bench, bouncing a fair-haired toddler on her knee. He tried to wedge his skinny body into the non-existent gap beside her, jabbing a bony finger at the toddler, his words dissolving into fresh sobs, attracting disapproving glances from the other passengers.
“Je suis désolée, madame,” Elizabeth said, noting the exhaustion etched on the woman’s face.
She replied with a weak smile, the corners of her mouth barely lifting as she shifted the toddler onto her right knee and patted her left for the boy, a small smile of satisfaction spreading across his face.
“The great equaliser.” Cybil leaned close to her ear. “Nothing reminds one of one’s place in the world quite like the Métro at lunchtime.”
The crowd surged towards the doors as the train pulled into the station, taking Elizabeth and Cybil with them and out onto the platform.
“This way.” Cybil took her arm, guiding her through the crowd and up the steps, turning left onto the boulevard Raspail and into the full press of the lunch hour. A taxi stood locked in a standoff with a delivery van; the van-driver leaning from his window, his words needing no translation.
“We’ll need a cover story. We can’t just turn up there and ask to search his room.”
“How about a worried fiancée and a devoted sister, just arrived from England?”
The boulevard gave way to the rue de Varenne as Elizabeth considered her words. “It’s as good a ruse as any, I suppose.”
“I’ll take the sister. I’m not sure I’d be convincing enough as a distraught fiancée.”
They turned off the boulevard and pulled up short at the junction, two street signs on the corner, neither of them rue de la Fontaine.
Elizabeth glanced down the street. A woman a few doors down was sweeping the pavement in front of a narrow house, working the broom in short strokes towards the gutter. “Perhaps we should ask her?”
“I’ll go,” Cybil said, already moving towards her.
Elizabeth stepped back against the wall to let a man with a briefcase pass, her gaze drifting across to the opposite pavement where two girls were crouched over a chalk grid, one mid-hop, the other watching with her arms folded.
Cybil returned a moment later. “Rue de la Fontaine runs parallel to this one. She said we need to continue to the end, turn right, then take the second left.”
They followed the woman’s directions to the end of the street, turned right, then left into rue de la Fontaine.
“What colour are we looking for again?”
“Green,” Elizabeth replied, her eyes following the autobus as it rumbled past, slowing half-way down the street for a woman to get off. “There.” She pointed to a green house half-way down the street, its double doors set back beneath a stone arch.
“Now what?”
Elizabeth’s gaze swept up and down the street, waiting for a gap in the traffic to cross. “Now I suppose we find out whether a worried fiancée and a devoted sister are quite as convincing in practice as they are in theory.”
They crossed the road and climbed the front steps, Elizabeth pushing open the door into a narrow hallway that smelled of boiled vegetables and damp plaster.
A door to their left swung back, and a woman emerged, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron as she looked them over … their clothes, their empty hands.
“Bonjour, mesdames.”
“Bonjour, madam.” Elizabeth dipped her head. “Do you speak English?”
Madame Pichon shook her head. “Non, madame. Je ne parle pas anglais.”
“Would you mind?” Elizabeth turned to Cybil.
“Je suis Cybil Hughes.” Cybil took a half step forward. “Et voici Lady Elizabeth Hawthorne, la fiancée de mon frère.”
“Ah, vous parlez francais!” Madame Pichon’s face softened. “Je suis Madame Pichon.”
“Notre mère était francaise.”
Madame Pichon’s gaze flicked to Elizabeth. “La fiancée de votre frère?”
“Et elle? Elle parle francais?”
“Très peu, malheureusement.” Cybil pressed her index finger and thumb together, leaving the tiniest gap between them to emphasise her point. “Nous cherchons mon frère, monsieur Ashby. On nous a dit qu’il louait des chambres ici.”
“Oui, monsieur Ashby loue des chambres ici,” Madame Pichon said. “Mais je ne l’ai pas vu depuis un jour ou deux.”
“Ah bon?”
“Ce n’est pas inhabituel. Il a un poste très important, et parfois il doit voyager.” Her eyes narrowed as she took in Elizabeth … the pearls at her throat, the cut of her clothes. “Il ne m’a jamais parlé d’une fiancée.”
“Mon frère est un homme très discret. Je ne voudrais pas vous mettre dans l’embarras, madame, mais serait-il possible de monter jusqu’à ses chambres?” Cybil asked. “C’est son anniversaire demain. Notre visite devait être une surprise, et nous lui avons apporté un cadeau.”
Madame Pichon hesitated, plainly weighing the request. “Très bien. Attendez ici.”
“Troisième étage. Suivez-moi.”
“I had no idea your French was so good,” Elizabeth said, keeping her voice low as they followed Madame Pichon along the short hallway and up the stairs.
“One picks things up here and there.”
“What did she say?”
“She was surprised I spoke French, so I told her our mother was French, which always makes people more amiable, I find.” They continued up the second flight. “She also said that Mr Ashby has never once mentioned having a fiancée.”
“What was your reply?”
“I told her he was a private man. But it also means he hasn’t mentioned a wife either, or she would have said something. She also wanted to know why we’d come, so I told her it’s his birthday tomorrow and we’ve brought him a gift.”
“Do you think she believed you?”
“It would seem so.” Cybil took a moment to catch her breath before ascending to the third-floor. “Apparently I make a very convincing devoted sister.”
So, Mr Ashby had mentioned neither a fiancée nor a wife. Did that mean he was single or just cautious?
They continued along the third-floor landing, stopping outside the second door on the street side of the building. Madame Pichon took the key from her pocket and worked the lock before stepping aside to let them enter.
Light from a single window illuminated the small space; pale cotton curtains, thinned by washing, hung limply on either side.
Elizabeth’s gaze swept the room, taking in the narrow bed against the far wall, its white cotton sheets pulled tight, a coarse woollen couverture folded in a neat square at the foot.
Against the opposite wall stood an armoire of dark walnut, its right-hand door sitting slightly proud of the frame.
A table and chair sat beneath the window, a nightstand beside the bed with a book lying flat on top of it.
Nothing out of the ordinary … at least on the surface, anyway.
Elizabeth pressed two fingers to her temple, gripping the footboard with her free hand.
“Qu’est-ce qu’elle a, votre amie? Elle va bien?” Madame Pichon turned to Cybil.
“Ce n’est sans doute que la fatigue du voyage. La traversée a été assez mouvementée. Serait-il possible d’avoir un verre d’eau pour elle, s’il vous pla?t?”
Elizabeth lowered herself down onto the bed, the springs groaning beneath her weight. Madame Pichon’s eyes darted between them, her lips thinning. She drew a short breath through her nose. “Très bien. Je reviens tout de suite.” She pushed the door wide before leaving.
Elizabeth sprang to her feet the moment Madame Pichon cleared the third-floor landing. “I rather got the impression she doesn’t trust us.”
“And with good reason.” Cybil positioned herself part way between the doorway and stairwell. “I’ll keep watch while you search.”
Elizabeth picked up the leather-bound book from the nightstand, turning it over in her hand. She fanned the pages with her thumb and set it back down before turning her attention to the books stacked on the table.
She crouched low, taking in the spines – a French phrase-book, Poèmes de Verlaine, Baedeker’s Paris, Le Comte de Monte-Cristo. “It seems our Mr Ashby had rather eclectic tastes in reading material.”
Straightening, she crossed to the armoire, easing open its doors.
A solitary grey suit hung from the rail, the jacket sleeves carrying the faint shine of cloth too often pressed.
She slipped her hand into the right pocket, then the left – both empty, save for a piece of lint.
Alongside on the shelf, two white shirts folded with the collars uppermost, the top one worn to a thin strip where it would sit against the neck.
Below, several pairs of brown socks, a couple of loosely coiled ties, and a pair of cuff-links.
Elizabeth removed the trousers from the hanger and held them against herself, letting the hem touch the floor.
“She’s coming.” Cybil dashed into the room. “What on earth–?”
“I just wanted to check how tall Mr Ashby was.”
“Well, you’d better hurry; she’ll be back any minute.”
Elizabeth grabbed for the hanger, her fingers fumbling at the fabric until the trousers slipped and fell to the floor. “I’m all fingers and thumbs.”
Madame Pichon’s tread on the stairs grew heavier as she reached the second-floor landing, her breath ragged.
“Here.” Cybil hurried towards her. “Get back on the bed, and hurry.”
Elizabeth snatched the copy of Le Comte de Monte-Cristo from the table, shoved it into her bag and dropped onto the edge of the bed, both hands pressing the clasp shut.
Cybil lined up the leg seams, folding them over the trouser bar beneath the jacket.
Madame Pichon paused at the top of the stairs, her breath coming in short bursts.
“Hurry,” Elizabeth hissed, her eyes fixed on the doorway.
Cybil pushed the armoire doors shut and darted back across the room just as Madame Pichon entered, a glass of water in one hand, her free hand pressed to her chest.
Cybil stepped forward and took the glass from Madame Pichon, thanking her as she handed it across to Elizabeth. Madame Pichon’s eyes scanned the room, from corner to corner, skimming every surface.
Elizabeth took two small sips and rose to her feet. “Thank you, I feel much better.”
“Le cadeau–” Madame Pichon turned to Cybil. “Vous l’avez laissé?”
Cybil’s eyes met Elizabeth’s for the briefest moment. “Nous l’avons caché, madame. C’est une vieille tradition dans notre famille – on cache le cadeau et on en fait une chasse au trésor.”
Madame Pichon muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes heavenward.
“Merci encore, madame, vous avez été très gentille.” Cybil touched Elizabeth’s arm, guiding her towards the door.
Madame Pichon watched their descent from the top of the stairs.
Elizabeth waited until they’d reached the ground floor before speaking. “What did she say? About the gift.”
“She asked what we’d done with it.” Cybil kept her voice low as they crossed the hall. “I told her we’d hidden it. I said it’s an old family tradition to hide the birthday gift and turn it into a treasure hunt.”
Elizabeth’s mouth twitched at the corners. “You did not.” She pushed open the front door onto the street. “No wonder she rolled her eyes like that.”
“I spotted a small square just around the corner on our way in.” Cybil set off at a brisk pace. “We can talk there.”
They turned left at the corner, leaving the rue de la Fontaine behind them.
“It’s not far.” Cybil sidestepped a woman pushing a perambulator, its wheels in desperate need of oiling as they rattled over the cobbles.
They crossed the road into a small square, settling on an iron bench under a cluster of plane trees.
“It seems his apartment was about as enlightening as his office.”
“On the contrary, I found it quite illuminating.”
“Well? Don’t keep me in suspense.” Cybil angled her body towards Elizabeth.
“The first thing that caught my attention was his book collection – Verlaine, Le Comte de Monte-Cristo and a French phrase-book.”
“What about them?”
“Why would someone whose French language skills are good enough to read Verlaine in the original and Dumas need a French phrase-book?”
“Good point.”
Elizabeth reached into her bag and drew out the book. “And then there’s this.”
“The book you took?” Cybil arched a brow. “Don’t think I didn’t see you, Lady Elizabeth.”
“I didn’t think you’d noticed, with the whole trouser fiasco going on.” She held the book up, turning the spine for Cybil to see.
“Le Comte de Monte-Cristo.” Cybil shrugged. “What of it?”
“Look again.”
Cybil leaned a little closer, narrowing her eyes as she scrutinised the title. “Ah … Le Comte de Monte-Christo when it should read Monte-Cristo.”
“It may be nothing, just a misprint … but I can’t help thinking there’s something more to it.”
Cybil nodded, the corners of her mouth pulling downward. “Anything else?”
“His clothes.” Elizabeth tucked the book back into her bag. “A grey suit that had seen better days, the collars of his shirts a little worn.”
“Perhaps money was tight. That apartment was definitely more serviceable than comfortable.”
“Exactly.” Elizabeth shifted in her seat. “And that’s what’s been bothering me. His office, his apartment … they resemble a stage set, a space that’s been dressed just enough to give the impression that someone works or lives there. And that’s not all.”
“There’s more?”
“The man I followed that night, the man who was shot, he was well over six feet tall, but when I measured Mr Ashby’s trousers against myself, he couldn’t have been an inch or two taller than me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Which means–” Cybil settled back against the bench, her shoulders dropping.
“That whoever was shot on the bridge that night was not the elusive Mr Ashby.”