Night Train to Paris by Fliss Chester (scary books to read .TXT) 📕

She checked her watch against the great tolling bell of Notre Dame and saw that to her relief if was now 5 p.m. Rue de l’Odéon wasn’t far from Rose’s apartment and Fen was glad to be getting back; cocktails aside, she just rather fancied putting her feet up.

As she neared the end of the Rue des Beaux-Arts, Fen heard a familiar ‘what ho’ from behind her.

‘Oh, hello, James.’ Her thoughts of a few minutes ago were still fresh in her mind. ‘Not with Simone?’

‘No, she’s at work, I assume.’ He looked guarded, or at least Fen thought that might be the reason for the sudden crossing of his arms in front of him. ‘You’re not jealous, are you?’

His question struck Fen right in the chest. It was absurd. Jealous? ‘Ha, no. I mean, absolutely no. You’re a very nice man—’

‘It’s just you left in rather hurry last night, and dammit, Fen, I don’t want you to think badly of me, as, of course, I was happy to walk you both home, but a man’s entitled to have a bit of fun and—’

‘Bit of fun? Should I tell Simone that’s all she is then?’ she snapped at James, which was as much of a surprise to her as it was to him, and due in part to the fact that her thoughts regarding it all were still rather fresh in her mind. She stopped, only yards now from the large double grey doors of the building, and took a stand. ‘Or will you tell her yourself, like a gentleman, that she’s nothing more than…’ Fen looked around her and in the dying light of the autumnal afternoon caught sight of the tailor, Dufrais et Filles. The mannequins in the window were dressed in the sort of outfits Simone revelled in. Fen pointed towards them. ‘… Well, nothing more than window dressing?’

‘Oh, that’s just ridiculous.’ James followed Fen as she entered the building and started climbing the many steps up to the fifth floor. ‘She’s not a child, she’s an adult.’

‘She must be a good ten years younger than you, James, if not more.’

‘So?’

‘So… you should know better than to take advantage of her. Unless you plan on marrying her?’ They both paused for breath as they climbed.

‘God no, it’s not like that. She’s just showing me the sights.’

‘Oh, so that’s what they’re called.’ Fen thought of the telephone kiosk clinch last night.

‘Well, who are you to say who I can and cannot see?’ James crossed his arms.

They stood face to face now, slightly panting, outside the door to Rose’s apartment.

‘Arthur told me to look out for you, but if you don’t want me to, then that’s fine. Really.’ Fen fumbled in her purse, trying to find the key, but her hand was trembling, she wasn’t used to confrontation and hated that she and James were having these cross words. Maybe it really was none of her business who James had fun with?

‘Dammit, I can’t find my key.’ Fen felt flustered. ‘And you breathing down my neck won’t help, James.’

‘Breathing down your neck? You’re the one giving me the third degree on propriety.’

Fen snorted and was about to say something about the noblesse oblige of his lordly status when she remembered that Rose seldom locked the door. She grasped the doorknob and, as expected, it clicked open. Fen exhaled with relief and let them both into the dark hallway, hoping the change of scene might also change the direction in which the conversation was heading.

‘She’s not that interested in me anyway…’ James said, pulling Fen very much back into the discussion.

‘Not you perhaps,’ Fen took a deep breath, ‘but she seems to think there may be a pot of gold hiding under your sunny disposition.’

‘What?’

‘Oh, James. You know what I mean. Mixed metaphors aside, I’m worried that if you rush into something with her… well, she might just be seeing you as some sort of golden-egg lay—’

James was following Fen through to the studio when she stopped suddenly. He almost toppled over her and grasped her shoulders to steady himself. Fen didn’t move though. She just stood there, her hand now clasped to her mouth as she took in the scene in front of her. One of the easels was on the floor, its canvas lying awkwardly on top of it. And next to it, with a paintbrush jabbed fully into her neck, piercing her throat, was the lifeless body of Rose Coillard.

Twenty

Blood pooled around the body, spreading over the dust sheets and mingling with the oil paint on the canvas and palette, which must have been in Rose’s hand when the killer struck.

‘Dear God!’ Fen looked on in shock and reached out for James to hold onto.

‘Oh Fen,’ he was there, his arm immediately around her shoulder, their ever-so recent argument all but forgotten.

‘She’s dead.’ Fen could barely believe it. This vibrant woman who had only a few hours ago been talking of cocktails… here she was now, her long beaded necklace draping limply over her velvet dress, her eyes glassily staring up at the crystal chandelier.

‘Here, boy.’ James let go of Fen’s arm and looked over to where her little dog was quivering behind the saggy armchair.

‘Oh Tipper,’ Fen knelt down and beckoned him over, but James beat her to it and walked over to the small dog and scooped him up. ‘The poor thing, he must have seen it all happen.’

‘If only you could talk, huh, pup?’ James rubbed his head between his ears and held him tightly.

‘I suppose we should call the police.’ Fen was still kneeling by Rose’s body. ‘I’m so sorry, Rose,’ she said to the recumbent figure and carefully closed her eyelids.

‘I’ll do it.’ James carried Tipper with him as he walked into the hallway, where Rose had a telephone. ‘Come on, Fen, you need a cup of tea and a shot of something stronger.’

A few hours later and the apartment was quiet. Deathly quiet, Fen thought to herself and shivered. She had decided