Chapter Twenty #2
She retrieved a pencil from her bag and picked up the Café Colette matchbook, scribbling across the inside of its cover. “If you learn anything more, telephone Madame Roche at the tabac next door to Maggie’s. She’ll see any message reaches me.” She pressed the matchbook into Elizabeth’s hand.
“That’s the second this week.” Elizabeth tucked it into her bag alongside the black one. “At this rate, I’ll have to buy another valise for the return journey.”
“Et voilà, mesdames.” The waitress set the small silver saucer on the table between them.
Cybil reached for her purse, but Elizabeth was quicker, covering the saucer with her hand.
“My turn. You paid last time.”
“Café Colette may not be as grand as Le Frisson.” Cybil drew on her gloves. “But give me a decent cup of coffee over a glass of champagne any day of the week.”
“Hear, hear.” Elizabeth counted out the coins onto the saucer, adding a few extra for the waitress, and gathered her bag.
They wove between the tables and out through the gate onto the street.
“You’ll telephone if there’s any more news from Maggie?”
“Of course. And you’ll do the same?” Cybil’s brow arched. “With anything you’re at liberty to share, that is.”
“You have my word.”
“Then off home with you, and try for that early night.”
They parted at the corner, Cybil turning towards the river, while Elizabeth raised her hand to a passing taxi.
The taxi cut across two lanes of traffic to reach her, the delivery van behind braking hard, its horn blaring as the driver leaned from his window and shook his fist. The taxi driver ignored him entirely, drawing up at the kerb and reaching back to push open the rear door for her.
“Où allez-vous, mademoiselle?” His eyes met Elizabeth’s in the rear-view mirror as she settled into the back seat.
“Rue de Louvencourt, s’il vous pla?t. Numéro vingt-quatre.”
He swung the taxi back out into the stream without so much as a glance over his shoulder, forcing a gap where none existed. A second horn sounded behind them, but he carried on, one elbow resting on the open window frame, completely untroubled by the chaos he’d caused.
She made no secret of how she felt about giving it up.
Cybil had built a tidy enough case – the debts, the retirement, a woman about to lose everything she’d spent years building.
And yet.
There was still the question of the suicide note.
She’d told Cybil she couldn’t recall its contents.
She recalled them perfectly well – every line of that confession, composed on embassy stationery and squared on the blotter.
The treason. Ashby’s murder. All of it signed and dated in Sir Conrad’s name.
And that was the part that wouldn’t sit.
A wife who killed to keep her life in Paris would need her husband’s name intact.
The invitations, the committees, her place at the head of every table – all of it rested on his reputation.
Disgrace him, and she buried the very life she’d killed to keep.
A burglary gone wrong, an accident while cleaning his revolver – either would have served her better.
Beyond the glass, the streets slid past unnoticed, one shopfront giving way to the next.
Whoever had arranged that study hadn’t wanted Sir Conrad merely dead. They’d wanted him branded as a traitor, and a murderer to boot.
The one thing his widow would never want.
“Nous voilà, mademoiselle.”
Georges was already crossing the pavement as Elizabeth counted the fare into the driver’s palm, adding a little extra – for the delivery van, and whoever had owned the second horn.
“Merci, mademoiselle.” He touched a hand to his cap.
“Bon après-midi, mademoiselle.” Georges held the taxi door as she stepped out.
“Bon après-midi, Georges.”
Elizabeth crossed the lobby to the lift, pulling the ironwork cage closed behind her before pressing the button for the third-floor.
The lift gave its customary shudder, then began its slow climb, but her thoughts remained fixed on the confession sitting in a dead man’s study.
Its author hadn’t only needed Sir Conrad dead – they’d needed him guilty.
Guilty of treason, and guilty of Ashby’s murder, leaving no reason for anyone to come looking for the person who’d actually committed them.
The lift shuddered to a stop on Clemmi’s landing. Dragging back the gate, Elizabeth crossed to the front door and pressed her finger to the bell.
“Ah, milady, you are returned.” Sylvie let her in, a duster still in one hand, pressing the door closed behind them.
The murmur of conversation met her in the entrance hall – Clemmi, and a second voice she couldn’t place. Elizabeth unpinned her hat and set it beside her bag on the console table.
“Does Madame have company?”
“Oui – Mademoiselle Bembridge. They are in the salon.” Sylvie was already moving towards the kitchen. “I’m about to take in a fresh pot of tea – will you be joining them, milady?”
“Not for me, thank you, but I’ll just look in and say hello.”
Elizabeth made her way to the salon.
Clemmi sat at one end of the sofa, a sheaf of papers fanned across the cushion beside her, her fashion magazine set aside on the table at her elbow. Miss Bembridge occupied the bergère armchair, a leather diary open on her knee and her satchel propped against the chair leg.
“Elizabeth, there you are.” Clemmi looked up from the papers. “You’ve been gone an absolute age.”
“I do hope you’ll forgive the invasion, Lady Elizabeth.
” Miss Bembridge set her pencil down on the open diary.
“Lady Davenport won’t hear of her engagements being cancelled.
She says the committees mustn’t suffer after…
” Her gaze dropped briefly to the floor, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
“Mrs Sterling has very kindly agreed to take on a share.”
“It’s the least I can do, and you’re hardly an invasion.” Clemmi gathered the papers into her lap.
Miss Bembridge drew her diary closer and ran her finger down the page, pausing at an entry.
“Now, the children’s fête, I’m afraid, cannot be moved. The invitations went out weeks ago.”
“Then I shall take it on.” Clemmi pencilled a note in her engagement diary. “I know how close it is to Cecily’s heart.”
“That’s very good of you, Mrs Sterling. I’ll be on hand for the arrangements, naturally.” Miss Bembridge made a tick and turned the page.
Sylvie entered with the tea tray and set it down on the tea table between them.
“You’ve only brought two cups, Sylvie. We’ll need–”
“That’s my doing. I’d already told Sylvie I wouldn’t be staying for tea.”
“Whyever not? We could certainly do with another brain on Lady Davenport’s diary. Honestly, I don’t know how she fits everything in.”
“I’m afraid mine won’t be much use to you. It’s been rather a long day on very little sleep, and I’m fit for nothing more taxing than your magazine there. May I?”
“Yes, take it, please.” Clemmi laid her hand over her heart. “The Lanvin collection was absolute torture. All those gorgeous gowns, and me about to be the size of a house.”
“I’m sure you’ll be nothing of the kind, Mrs Sterling. Here, let me.” Miss Bembridge reached across and handed the magazine to Elizabeth.
“What a lovely ring, Miss Bembridge.” Elizabeth’s gaze caught on the square blue stones set on a pale metal band in a modern geometric design.
“This old thing?” Miss Bembridge turned her hand towards the light. “I’d quite forgotten I had it. A flea market find, years ago now. It’s only paste, but I thought it deserved an airing.”
“Well, I think it’s charming.” Clemmi leaned in for a closer look. “It could pass for the real thing quite easily. Don’t you agree, Elizabeth?”
“Indeed. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” A yawn caught her before she could finish, barely stifled behind her hand. “I’ll leave you both to it.”
“Of course, get some rest, and I’ll wake you before dinner.”
Elizabeth left them to Lady Davenport’s diary, Miss Bembridge’s voice taking up the orphanage arrangements.
The bedroom door clicked shut behind her, and she leaned back against it for a moment, eyes closed. She kicked off her shoes and let them fall wherever they landed, too weary to care, and sank back against the pillows with the magazine propped against her knees.
The Lanvin autumn collection began a dozen pages in, and Clemmi hadn’t exaggerated.
Elizabeth lingered over a robe de style in ivory taffeta, black velvet appliqués circling the skirt, turned past an evening gown embroidered in gold thread, then stopped at a page of Lanvin Blue, the very shade of Clemmi’s chiffon, and every bit as divine as she’d declared it.
Her eyelids grew heavier as she turned the pages, the images blurring into one.
She would just rest her eyes … just for a moment.