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

‘Two thousand francs at first. That’s about three pounds! He came down to fifteen hundred as I kept telling him I wasn’t interested.’

‘He might have given it to you for nothing if you’d kept playing that game,’ James joked, but Fen just shook her head at him.

Simone appeared around the kitchen door, a pretty shawl draped around her slim frame, covering the peasant-style blouse she had dressed in, along with a simple floor-length skirt, after her bath.

‘What are you two talking about in here?’

‘That painting of Rose’s,’ James explained, ‘The little Impressionist one. Fen’s found it for sale on the Right Bank of the river.’

‘Oh really?’ Simone looked interested.

‘I’m pretty sure, yes. This apartment was like a second home to me when I was younger, I’m sure I’d recognise those swirls and colours anywhere.’

‘How macabre, to find something of Rose’s so soon after…’ Simone couldn’t finish her sentence. Her eyes filled with tears and she dabbed the corner of one with the edge of her shawl. ‘Was it expensive? Could we afford to buy it back, do you think?’

‘Out of my reach, sadly.’ Fen sighed and stirred the pot.

‘I could buy it for you…’ James pushed himself off the wall and stood up straight.

‘Oh, James, that really is awfully kind, but I couldn’t possibly accept—’

‘Ah, well, I meant Simone… sorry, Fen.’ James looked a bit awkward and pushed his fingers through his sandy-blond hair a couple of times. He smiled apologetically to Fen and shrugged, then turned back to Simone. ‘If you’d like it?’

‘You would do that for me?’ Simone looked at him, her eyes still glistening with tears and her hands clasped up to her chest.

Fen accidentally dropped the wooden spoon on the floor. ‘Oops, sorry.’ She nudged James out of the way as she picked it up and carried it over to the sink.

‘Well, there we go,’ James seemed pleased with himself, the awkwardness of just a moment ago gone. ‘We can go there tomorrow morning if the fine weather holds. That would cheer you up, wouldn’t it?’

Both James and Fen were a little shocked when Simone stammered and started to cry. ‘Oh, no… no… I can’t go back. I mean, in that direction. The memories of this afternoon…’ She clutched the shawl around her some more and shivered. ‘Please don’t make me cross the river by that quayside. It’s too embarrassing to think that those men, those kiosk vendors, might have seen me so… so vulnerable.’ She shuddered.

James reached a hand over to her shoulder to reassure her. ‘Of course, of course. I’ll take Fen, she can show me which one it is…’ James followed Simone into the studio, comforting her as he went.

Fen rinsed the wooden spoon off in the sink and let out another sigh. She would have loved to have bought that painting, but at least if James bought it for Simone it would be back in its rightful home, in this apartment. For the time being anyway.

Supper was delightful and the sausages really were a treat and so unlike the wartime ‘bangers’ that had popped and spurted in Mrs B’s greasy frying pan. The meat content in some sausages from as far back as the Great War had been so low and the water content so high that the sausages often exploded if left too long to sizzle over a high heat, hence the term ‘banger’. These sausages, however, were more like the ones from Toulouse, filled with pork meat and bulked up with herbs and spices. They were delicious, but that didn’t stop Simone from picking at her plate. Fen couldn’t bear waste so was pleased when James stuck his fork in Simone’s untouched sausage and devoured it in two or three bites.

Simone herself didn’t even notice, and although Fen and James had tried to keep the conversation light and their spirits as high as possible in the recent circumstances, it was only when James started talking about the previous evening that she fully entered into the conversation.

‘And it wasn’t just you that surprised us last night,’ he said, nudging Simone, who was staring at the floor where Rose’s body had lain.

‘Hmm, no that’s right.’

‘Oh really? Do tell, and I hope they weren’t as sopping wet as I was.’

‘Well,’ Simone seemed more with it now and gave Fen her full attention, ‘oddly enough, it was Michel Lazard. You know that art dealer of Rose’s.’

‘That is bizarre,’ Fen agreed, and as James and Simone talked about the other people they’d seen in the hotel bar, Fen thought how interesting it was that Simone had seen Lazard in the very same place that Henri had led her to. ‘Did you see Henri Renaud, just before I came in?’

‘No, Fenella, but then, before you charged in last night, we only had eyes for each other.’

‘Right. Quite so. Of course.’ Fen felt a bit flustered and busied herself picking up the plates so that she could remove herself from the lovebirds and have some space to think in the kitchen. Something wasn’t adding up, that was for sure. It was as if she was being given all the clues she could wish for, but all mixed up. What could it mean, Henri Renaud possibly meeting Michel Lazard in private at a hotel? What had Henri been carrying and why did he lie to her so often about his relationship with the art dealer he himself said was a charlatan?

Forty-One

The next day was bright if a little blustery, which meant that James and Fen’s plan of visiting the quayside art dealer could go ahead. Simone had insisted the night before that even if the thought of heading towards the Right Bank hadn’t given her the shivers, she should really head back to the atelier for a debrief on the disastrous photo shoot. Expensive clothes had been ruined and no doubt the police would be called. So it had been agreed, as James had bid the ladies farewell that