Our Lady of Pain Page 8

  The maid bobbed curtsies as they entered and then moved to the front of the party and led them through large shady rooms to a garden at the back. Rose expected to meet an elderly woman, still beautiful and elegant, this famous coquette who was reputed to have broken so many hearts.

  At first she thought that the round little woman who rose to meet them must be some sort of companion, but she said in a grating voice, “I am Madame de Peurey. To what do I owe the honour of this visit? Pray sit down.” She spoke English with a heavy, guttural accent.

  They arranged themselves in cane chairs shaded by a vine trellis. Madame de Peurey was dressed in a narrow skirt and a blouse with a high-boned collar over which heavy jowls drooped. Her feet were encased in square-toed boots and she sat with her legs apart.

  “As you will have seen from my card,” began Harry, “I am a private investigator and I am investigating the murder of Dolores Duval.”

  “Poor Dolores,” sighed Madame de Peurey. “Without me, she would have given it all away. I took her to my lawyers when she embarked on her first liaison. Ah, what a success she was! Then the Baroness Chevenix started to scream that Dolores had stolen her jewels and it was all over Gil Blas.” Gil Blas was a journal which delighted in reporting the scandals of French society. “I advised Dolores to leave France for a little. I told her it was perhaps time she took the unfashionable route of getting married. We do not normally marry,” she said calmly. “But with the English milords marrying low creatures like chorus girls, well, I told her she could be a duchess.”

  “Who were her friends?” asked Harry.

  “Just me, I think. The others were jealous of her. She appeared from nowhere some years ago. Poof! Just like that. She told me she was brought up on a farm in Brittany.”

  “Whereabouts in Brittany?”

  “Saint Malo. She said the farm lay just outside.”

  The air in the garden was becoming unseasonably warm. Madame de Peurey unselfconsciously hitched up her skirt to reveal muscular calves in black stockings.

  “I do not wish to appear vulgar,” said Harry, “but did Miss Duval leave a significant sum of money?”

  “She owned a pleasant villa near here and an apartment in the Sixteenth, and then, on my advice, she invested well in stocks and shares.”

  Madame de Peurey rang a little silver bell on the table in front of her and when her butler appeared, she ordered tea. “And bring my album.”

  The duchess, who had remained silent, raised her lorgnette. “Do you not wish you had led a decent life?”

  Madame de Peurey threw back her head in a full-throated laugh. When she had finished laughing, she said, “And where would I be now? Worn out with childbearing and housework? Believe me, I am a success and you are impertinent.”

  The duchess pretended she had not heard the last sentence.

  “Ah, here is my album,” said Madame de Peurey. “Sit by me, Lady Rose, and I will show you what I was like in the old days.”

  Rose moved her chair over next to the courtesan and opened the album. There were early photographs of madame riding a white horse in the circus. She had indeed been beautiful, like a plump cherub, all dimples and curls. “That’s me with my first, a timber merchant,” said Madame de Peurey. “I moved on up the social ladder after him. Now there is me with the next, the Viscount Patrick. Such legs he had! A great catch. And there is the carriage he bought me so that I could drive in the Bois.”

  Madame de Peurey smelt strongly of a mixture of mothballs and patchouli. Rose longed to move her chair away. Harry came to her rescue. “I would like to see your photographs,” he said. “If I might change places with you, Lady Rose?”

  Rose gratefully retreated to the chair he had vacated. She wished this odd visit would come to an end. Daisy had fallen asleep, her face turned up to the sunlight filtering through the trellis of vines. Rose watched Harry as he bent his dark head over the photographs and felt a sudden frisson of desire. He looked up at that moment and gave a little half smile. Rose blushed, lowered her head and played with her fan.

  Tea arrived. Madame prattled on about her past but they could not find out any significant information about Dolores or why she had been killed. The duchess barely said a word. She considered such persons as Madame de Peurey highly undesirable and so she simply pretended the woman wasn’t there. Any qualms she might have had about Rose being in such company were suppressed by her thoughts that her ducal presence was enough to bestow respectability on the flightiest girl.

  Back at the hotel, Harry suggested they should travel to St. Malo on the following day. The duchess grumbled, but Rose wanted to go and Rose had to be chaperoned.

  The weather was still fine when they set out with Becket at the wheel. Daisy had enjoyed another night of passion and was pleasantly sleepy. They decided to check into a hotel when they arrived at Saint Malo. Dolores had been photographed for a postcard—postcards of famous beauties sold well—and Harry had bought several to show around the town to see if anyone recognized her.

  Daisy was disappointed when she found that her room adjoined Rose’s and so there would be no chance of a night in Becket’s arms.

  The following morning, Harry told them all to relax and look around the town while he went off with Becket to see if anyone knew of the farm where Dolores had lived.

  Rose and Daisy walked along the ramparts of the fortress town. A steamer advertising Chocolat Meunier lay below them in the harbour, being boarded by tourists.

  Daisy was dying to confide in Rose, but decided against it. She felt sure Rose would put down her loss of virginity to her low background.

  Harry moved farther and farther out into the countryside, stopping at farms and showing them Dolores’s photograph. He was about to give up because the light was failing and he was tired and dusty when he saw a little farmhouse set up on a rise.

  He ordered Becket to drive up to it and got stiffly out of the car, his old war wound throbbing.

  Harry knocked at the door. A child answered it and stared up at him. Harry, in slow and careful French, asked if he might speak to her father or mother. She was pulled aside by a young woman who demanded to know Harry’s business. He showed her the photograph of Dolores. She stared down at it and then jerked her head as a signal that he was to follow her indoors.

  A family were seated around a kitchen table having their evening meal. There seemed to be three generations—grandparents, parents and three children. A pot of cassoulet stood in the centre of the table and the kitchen smelt sweet from the bunches of herbs hanging from the rafters. The woman who had called him in explained the reason for his visit and the photograph was passed from one work-worn hand to the other.

  When it got to the old man at the head of the table, he said something and Harry caught the name Betty.

  He approached him. “Do you recognize this woman?”

  “Looks like our Betty,” said the old man.

  “Your granddaughter?”

  “No. She came along out of nowhere one day. In a bad way she was. No shoes. Hungry. We gave her food and then said she could stay if she worked on the farm. Said her name was Betty. That was all.”

  “Betty?” asked Harry eagerly. “English?”

  He shook his grey head. “Betty spoke Breton as well as French. Stayed with us for six months, about. Then one day, we sent her into Saint Malo to buy some cloth and she never returned. We tried to find her. She had called at the mercer’s and paid for the cloth and it was there waiting for us. We searched the town but no sign of her.”

  “She changed her name to Dolores Duval,” said Harry. “She was murdered in London.”

  The family looked at him in shock. Then the grandfather’s brows lowered and he said, “Get out of here. Dirty English coming around my home, trying to accuse me of murder.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Get out or I’ll set the dog on you.”

  Harry walked towards the car. A blue dusk was settling down over the sleepy countryside. The
air was redolent of woodsmoke, manure and the ammonia smell of animals. He thought of Rose. He remembered that look she had given him in Madame de Peurey’s garden. He suddenly came to a decision. When this case was over, he would ask her to marry him. If she refused, he would never see her again.

  The duchess received his news that Dolores had originally been called Betty-something and had disappeared one day on a shopping expedition to Saint Malo.

  “This is all becoming rather fatiguing and boring,” she complained.

  Rose looked at her uneasily. If the duchess became tired of their company so soon, she and Daisy would be returned to the convent.

  The hotel was not grand enough for the duchess, although the food was good and the rooms clean.

  Rose’s worst fears were realized when they set out the next morning for Paris. As she arranged her various shawls and scarves before leaving, the duchess said, “This is all very tiresome. I think I was a bit hasty about that convent. Sterling ladies. Do you good to go back.”

  “I really think the regime is unnecessarily harsh,” pleaded Rose. “Can you not bear with us a little longer? My parents should soon be returning.”

  The Earl and Countess of Hadshire reclined side by side on deckchairs on the terrace of the Palace Hotel. “Suppose we should be thinking of packing up,” said the earl sleepily.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” said Lady Polly. “The Cremonts are going on to Cairo. We’ve never been to Cairo.”

  “The Season will be starting soon,” her husband pointed out.

  “And why should we scamper back for the Season? Rose is in Effie’s care and Effie can cope with her. Cairo would be fun, camels and things. I’m really weary of the Season, dressing Rose and parading her around and watching her get into more trouble. Effie can cope.”

  There was a shock waiting for the duchess and her party when they arrived back at the Crillon. There seemed to be a great number of press outside. Magnesium flashes went off in their faces. Waiting for them in the entrance hall was a commissioner of police and two detectives.

  The commissioner approached. He looked a little bit like Kerridge with his heavy features and grey hair. He bowed low. “I am Thierry Lemonier. I regret to say I have many questions to ask you.”

  “About what?” snapped the little duchess. “Come up to my rooms. I am tired and do not wish to stand in the public gaze being interrogated by a bunch of peelers.”

  “We need to interview your whole party.”

  “Then follow me,” said the duchess and stalked ahead, trailing scarves and stoles.

  They arranged themselves in the duchess’s private drawing room. Lemonier began. “You visited a certain Madame de Peurey two days ago, did you not?”

  “We saw the creature, yes,” said the duchess.

  Harry interposed. “What’s this all about?”

  “Madame de Peurey was found yesterday in her garden by her maid. Her throat had been cut.”

  “Good heavens! Fetch me brandy,” said the duchess. She rounded on Rose. “I should never have become involved in your detective exploits. Now look at the mess!”

  Harry told Lemonier the reason for their visit, ending up by saying that they had all been in Saint Malo the day before. Lemonier noted down the hotel they had been staying at and then told them he would be grateful if they would remain in Paris.

  “But I’m tired of all this,” raged the duchess. “I want to go home!”

  “Did you see any suspicious persons while you were visiting?” asked Lemonier.

  “No,” said Harry. “Did her servants not see something?”

  “They were going about their duties. Madame de Peurey liked to have a siesta in the garden in the afternoons if the weather was fine. The garden can be easily accessed from the road.”

  “There was a man on a bicycle,” said Daisy suddenly.

  “You never said anything,” said Rose. “What man?”

  “It didn’t seem important at the time,” said Daisy. “I looked back and there was this man cycling behind us. He was pedalling furiously and I thought he might be trying to race the motor.”

  “Description?” asked Lemonier.

  “I can’t say. He had a cap down over his eyes and he was wearing goggles.”

  “Height?”

  “Medium, and he was wearing a grey tweed jacket and knickerbockers.”

  “Dolores Duval left everything to Madame de Peurey,” said Harry. “Perhaps, Mr. Lemonier, you could ask the French lawyer who now inherits.”

  Lemonier made a note.

  “There is something else,” said Harry. He told Lemonier about Dolores being originally called Betty and how she had worked on the farm.

  “We will interview her lovers,” said Lemonier. “Fortunately we know who they are. I shall return tomorrow. I may have more questions for you.”

  When he and his detectives had left, the duchess said angrily, “Go away, the lot of you. I’m tired.”

  Outside her drawing room, Harry said to Rose, “I am going to telephone Kerridge.”

  “This is awful,” said Rose. Her lip trembled and with a sudden impulse he folded her in his arms. “There now,” he said gently. “I will look after you. Go to your rooms and I will join you shortly.”

  Rose smiled at him tremulously. He pressed her hand and hurried off, leaving Rose looking after him, torn between an odd sort of elation and fear.

  But ten minutes later, Becket arrived to say that the captain had been called to police headquarters to discuss the case further.

  “Are you going with him?” asked Daisy.

  “No, he went off in a police car that was sent for him.”

  “I feel restless,” said Rose, pacing up and down. “Let us go for a walk.”

  Daisy and Becket exchanged glances. “Do you mind if I stay here?” asked Daisy. “I am very tired.”

  “Do not worry. I shall go myself, only a little way.”

  “Becket,” said Daisy, “go to Her Grace and ask that one of the footmen accompany Lady Rose.”

  While he was gone, Rose changed into a blouse, skirt and long coat. Becket seemed to be away a long time and when he returned his normally pale face was flushed. “Her Grace is in a taking,” he said. “She said her servants are no longer to be of use to us. It is my opinion she is sulking.”

  “Oh, I’ll go myself,” said Rose. “The streets are full of ladies walking on their own.”

  Rose walked out of the hotel and stood looking at the cars and carriages circling around the Place de la Concorde. She had a sudden impulse to see Notre Dame. She went back into the hotel and asked for directions and then she set out again on foot after refusing the concierge’s offer of a carriage.

  The concierge picked up the telephone after she had left and dialled police headquarters. He had been told to report on the movements of the duchess’s party.

  Rose made her way down to the Seine, along the quays of the right bank and then crossed to the left at the Pont Neuf. She walked steadily, enjoying the rare feeling of freedom.

  At last she reached Notre Dame and went inside. She sat down in the gloom, dimly lit by all the flickering candles in front of the various saints, and felt at peace.

  After half an hour, she left. She felt hungry and had no francs with her to buy food, but was reluctant to return to the hotel.

  Rose walked a little way away from the front of the great cathedral and looked down at the river. She walked along to a flight of steps that led to the lower quay. The black water was hypnotic, swirling past. A barge sailed past. She could see the bargeman’s family at dinner in a cosy cabin.

  She felt a sudden frisson of fear. There was a murderer on the loose in Paris. She should never have gone out for a walk without protection.

  She was aware of a movement behind her and half turned round. A man leaped towards her and pushed her violently and Rose hurtled down into the waters of the Seine.

  Harry had gone over and over the little he knew about the case with
Lemonier. While he was talking, a policeman came in and handed Lemonier a note.

  “Lady Rose has gone out walking to Notre Dame,” said Lemonier. “I’m sorry, you were saying …?”

  “When? When did she go out?” asked Harry sharply.

  “The concierge telephoned about an hour ago.”

  “Why was I not told sooner?”

  “We decided that perhaps you did not want to be disturbed.”

  Harry said, “I’ve got to go. She could be in danger.”

  He hailed one of the new motor cabs and told the cabbie to get to Notre Dame as quickly as possible. Harry fretted as the cab sped over the cobbles of the Place de la Concorde, past the obelisk and down towards the Seine.

  When they drew up outside Notre Dame, he hurriedly paid the cabbie and was about to rush into the cathedral when he saw an excited crowd of people farther along looking over the bridge.

  He sprinted along and looked down. A figure was struggling in the water. The current was strong. He sprinted towards the steps leading down to the lower quay. He pushed his way through a gesticulating pointing crowd, stripped off his coat and hat and dived in. He didn’t know whether it was Rose or not. Harry lunged out and grasped an armful of clothing.

  “Rose!” he spluttered, recognizing her. “Hang on.”

  The great bell of Notre Dame began to ring, booming in their ears, reverberating across the swirling black water.

  He struck out for the steps, fighting against the current. Arms reached down to help them and they were dragged up onto the quay. The watchers cheered him as he clutched a dripping-wet and shivering Rose to him.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said. Someone handed him his coat and hat and he draped his coat around Rose.

  A policeman came up and said, “You must come with me.”

  “Nonsense,” said Harry angrily. “The lady will get pneumonia if we do not get her back to her hotel.”

  “We always arrest attempted suicides.”

  “I was not attempting suicide,” howled Rose. “Someone pushed me.”

  “You left a letter,” said the policeman accusingly. “It is in English, but as you can hear, my English is very good.”