Barbara Cleverly (29 page)

‘Think hard, Simpson. We want you to try to remember whether Isabelle called the girl by her name.’

‘I’m sure she did.’ Simpson frowned in an effort to recall the events of that morning at the Gare de Lyon. ‘She used it several times, sort of barked it at her to bring her to heel

It was a common French name, um

Florence! Yes, that was it – Florence!’

Joe wrote the name in large letters on a pad in front of him. He looked at Carter. Carter got up and fetched the French newspaper. He spread it out on the table in front of them. ‘Can you find her, Joe? Can you find Florence?’

The three of them eagerly scanned the list of third class passengers. There was no casualty by the name of Florence.

‘All bodies eventually accounted for in the third class except for the one thirty-year-old man,’ Joe reminded them.

‘What does this mean?’ Simpson asked. ‘What are you trying to say?’

‘Clearly the maid’s name is not listed here for the simple reason that she was never on the train,’ said Joe.

‘Good God! Yes! I’ll bet you’re right! If she’d been in the third class she’d have been killed along with all the other humble citizens. None of them got out. And if she’d been killed she’d be listed – so,’ said Simpson, ‘she walked off down the platform and everyone assumed that she was going to the third class carriages but she must have just kept on walking! Straight out of the station!’

‘But the question is,’ said Carter slowly, ‘where is the maid now?’

Joe looked at the name he had written down. Florence. He picked up his pen and crossed out the last four letters and added an ‘a’. Flora. He drew a little flower next to the name and showed it to the other two.

‘She’s in Simla,’ he said. ‘And she’s been watching us all along.’

Ť ^ ť

Flora took the blue velvet box eagerly in her two hands and carried it to the table in the centre of her sitting room. She returned to the door and locked it behind her. Biting her lower lip in anticipation she opened it and looked inside. Her eyes grew wide with disbelief and with a gasp of irritation she drew out the contents and held the jewel up to the light. Incomprehension was swiftly followed by anger as she tried to understand what she was seeing. She turned it this way and that, her attention caught finally by the exquisite enamelwork on the back of the brooch. If the maker had gone to the immense trouble of so skilfully decorating the back of the piece perhaps her first judgement that this was a gaudy lump of costume jewellery, a paste gem surrounded by ticky tacky and an incomprehensible joke on the part of Robertson, was wrong.

She took a jeweller’s magnifying glass from a drawer and examined it in detail. She sighed. Her re-evaluation of the gem was even more disturbing than the original. What was going on? Something was going on – that was quite clear. She looked at the ruby in the centre and murmured, ‘You are a messenger. You are here to tell me something of importance. But what? And who has sent you? Not Robertson, I’m thinking.’

She put her head in her hands and thought deeply for a minute or two and then, by degrees, a narrow smile began to creep across her face. She rubbed the cool stone sensuously against her cheek and she made her plans. She got up and went to the adjoining room where her dresses were stored in cupboards. She flung one open and searched through the ranks of silks and velvets. ‘An opulent gem must have an opulent setting,’ she told herself and she chose a simply cut black velvet dress with a low neckline. She put it on and fixed the brooch between her breasts, turning from side to side and admiring the result in her looking glass. That would do well.

Flora took a French novel from a shelf and settled down to wait.

Ť ^ ť

So you’re saying,’ said Simpson, still struggling to understand, ‘not only that I must think of Isabelle de Neuville as a high class tart but that her maid – one assumes long ago initiated into the, er, arts of the profession – is still alive and plying that trade. And has been plying her trade for the past three years here in Simla? I really can’t believe this!’

‘It takes a bit of believing – but it’s true,’ said Carter. ‘And perhaps we could add that a sideline to her activities has been blackmail. Substantial sums of ICTC assets in the form of jewellery have made their way via the blue boxes into Madame Flora’s sticky little hands.’

‘You forget the more serious charges of murder,’ said Joe. ‘Remember, I’m here on George Jardine’s invitation to solve a murder – two murders – and everything else is peripheral and only of urgency if it leads us to the man – the woman – the people who pulled the trigger. Alice is never going to charge Flora with blackmail – how could she? – but there’s nothing she can do to prevent us arresting Flora for murder. Or as an accessory to two killings. She would have realized the significance of Lionel Conyers’ arrival in Simla – would have found out about it from Reggie or Edgar Troop and made her plans to make quite sure that Lionel never caught sight of his sister. Everyone in Simla knew that Korsovsky was coming to appear at the Gaiety but only one person, apart from Alice herself, knew that the Russian could identify her as Isobel Newton. Former lover. He too had to be eliminated before setting eye on Alice.’

‘But who did pull the trigger?’ asked Simpson. ‘I can see that Florence was the instigator but who was the agent?’

‘It hardly matters,’ said Carter thoughtfully. ‘Edgar Troop – if we can ever break his alibi – would be my favourite for trigger-man but what about that Italian youth she keeps running her errands for her? What was his name? Giulio?’

‘Claudio, I think,’ said Joe.

‘Yes, Claudio. But, you know, there’s about twenty other rogues with that kind of skill up here. We’ll probably never know which one was used until we break down Madame Flora.’ He sighed.

Simpson was already rising to his feet. ‘To identify the maid becomes terribly important. You’ll need my help, I think I will be able to identify her.’

‘Steady, Simpson,’ said Carter, laughing. ‘One thing at a time! We must wait a little. We wait until our irregular forces report back.’

Carter wandered out on to the balcony, leaned over the rail and glanced down. ‘Not long to wait!’ he said.

The police havildar joined him on the balcony. ‘There are some boys to see you, sahib,’ he said. ‘Do you want them up here? They’re very excited – do you think it would be better if

’

‘Yes, I think it would be better if,’ said Carter. And to Joe and Simpson, ‘I’ll go down and see what they have to tell us.’

As soon as Carter appeared in the compound, and in spite of the efforts of the havildar, Joe and Simpson watched with amusement to see him instantly surrounded by chattering boys. With difficulty he waved them to silence and, picking out Raghu, he seemed to be inviting him to speak. He did. Joe and Simpson, looking down, couldn’t understand a single one of the many words that came fluting up from below but they hardly needed to. Sometimes one, sometimes two boys speaking together, sometimes all six, mimed their recent adventure. Their account was easy to follow.

Here they had waited in concealment, here they had peered round the corner, here one of them had run ahead and the rest had fallen back. Now, between them they began to play with a ball, now they feared they had been spotted. They were denied admission to the cathedral but had lain in wait at the doors. The story was as plain as print and plainer than speech. Laughing, Charlie seemed to congratulate them and, feeling in his pockets, he produced handfuls of annas and handed these out. He took a mild part in the haggling that ensued, added a few small coins and, still laughing, climbed back up on to the balcony. His irregular forces waved a cheerful and, judging by the indignation of the police havildar, a disrespectful farewell and ran together out of the compound to disappear in the busy Mall.

‘Well?’ said Joe and Simpson together.

‘Well, indeed!’ said Carter. ‘I could give you three guesses as to the destination of our mysterious packet and I think you would not need as many as three! It goes without saying – the package made its way, much to the amusement of the irregular forces, into the local brothel by a back door. Into Madame Flora’s! It now, presumably, lodges in the predatory hands of Flora herself.’

‘What do we do now?’ asked Simpson.

‘We go and have a chat with the seductive Flora, of course,’ said Carter.

‘Would I be totally out of place?’ asked Simpson. ‘Indulge my curiosity! You owe me a turn for the trauma you put me through last night. And don’t forget – I can identify Mademoiselle Florence.’

‘Give me a moment then,’ said Carter, ‘and we’ll go together.’

Once more he descended to the compound and was seen giving orders and they set off all three together. ‘I thought it might be prudent to arrange a little armed support,’ said Carter and, as they walked down through the town, Joe was aware of the discreet presence of policemen in plain clothes. For a moment he contrasted the laborious process that would have ensued had he, in London, tried to arrange a surveillance squad of six or an armed escort in plain clothes. His respect for Charlie Carter was much enhanced.

As they arrived at the flower shop the door opened and Edgar Troop came out, stopping dead with surprise and some hostility at the sight of them.

‘Afternoon, Edgar,’ said Charlie. ‘We haven’t come to see you, we’ve come to see madame but, as you’re here, why don’t you join us?’

Troop seemed for a moment inclined to bar their way. Charlie Carter pushed his way firmly past him. ‘We’ll announce ourselves,’ he said, but Troop was just ahead of him.

‘Flora!’ he called. ‘I’m back – at the head of a posse of policemen.’

They heard Flora’s voice: ‘Admit them. Always so happy to see the police.’

She came to the door. She looked welcoming and confident. Joe’s eyes widened as he took in the almost theatrical elegance of her dress. A shawl of rich Persian colours, deep red and blue and indigo, was draped over her shoulders, glowing against the background of a black velvet gown. Even Charlie Carter seemed impressed.

‘Hello, Flora. Good to see you again so soon: Entertaining again?’

‘Charlie! Always pleased to see you and – as you see – always entertaining! But I never know quite whom I may have the honour of welcoming. Today it is yourself and Mr

Sandilands, I think I’ve got that right? But you?’ She looked Simpson up and down.

Simpson bowed. ‘We have not been formally introduced,’ he said, ‘but we have met. Once. A long time ago. No reason why you should remember me but I remember you very well.’

‘This is very intriguing!’ Flora smiled and waved a hand. ‘Won’t you come in? If we have business to discuss perhaps we should discuss it in the privacy of my room.’ And to Claudio appearing at that moment, ‘Tea. Tea for the gentlemen.’

‘Now,’ she said when they were settled, looking carefully at Simpson, ‘tell me, where was this so mysterious encounter and when? In our youth?’

‘When?’ said Simpson. ‘Well, it seems another lifetime but – three years ago. Where? At the Gare de Lyon in Paris. I was en route for the Beaune railway crash,’ he pointed to his dark glasses, ‘from which I emerged with a good deal more luck than all but two others.’

‘Flora,’ said Charlie, ‘I want to ask you a few questions about that day’

Edgar Troop, watchful and menacing, intervened. ‘By what right?’ he asked indignantly. ‘It was a long time ago and in another continent. Of what possible interest can it be to you?’

‘Oh, don’t be so silly, Edgar!’ said Flora. ‘Edgar and I are very old friends,’ she explained. ‘He tries to protect me, don’t you? He always has. Like a guard dog. But I don’t think I need protection in the present company. The police can have no official motive for speaking to me.’ There was the slightest emphasis on the word ‘official’. She smiled and added, ‘Though they might gain much, I think, from a friendly and unofficial interview. They need some information about the rail crash, apparently. And as you say, Edgar, far away and long ago and no one to remember what happened. I am surprised that you are aware of it, Charlie. But your questions are easily answered — I have no information! For the good and substantial reason that I was not on the train. I might have been on the train – I was planning to be on the train – but, by God’s mercy, I didn’t get on. All I know about the crash I learned from the newspapers like everyone else, yourself included perhaps. Now what can I tell you?’

‘You were travelling — ’ said Charlie.

‘No! I have told you I was not travelling.’

‘All right,’ said Charlie, ‘I’ll phrase that differently, you were at the time of the crash in the employment of Isabelle de Neuville, am I right? And were planning to travel with her.’

‘You are right. That was the name of my employer. I left her on the station platform. She owed me money which she would not pay. She insulted me. I have not forgotten.’ And she added in a murmur, ‘Or forgiven either.’

‘Tell me,’ said Joe, ‘just as a matter of interest – you parted from Madame de Neuville at the Gare de Lyon. Have you seen her since?’

‘Of course she bloody well hasn’t!’ Edgar Troop shouted. ‘She’s just told you – bloody woman was killed!’

‘Edgar! Edgar, I think you could leave us now. This is old news, old information. There is nothing you can add, nothing you can help me with. I am in safe hands and feel quite secure with Charlie and his friends. You may go about your business in town – you are already late for your appointment. Please do not feel that you have to stay on my account.’

With warning looks from one to the other, the guard dog turned, looking meaningfully at his watch, and left the room.

Flora continued. ‘I did see Isabelle de Neuville afterwards, yes. Once more. I identified her body, Commander. I read about the crash in the papers and went to Beaune to offer my services. The police were desperate for any witnesses who could help them with the enormous task of identifying the dead. I borrowed money from

from an old friend of Madame de Neuville’s. He was pleased to give me the cost of the rail fare – second class,’ she added with a secret smile and a glance at Simpson, ‘to travel down to identify her.’