The Montmartre Investigation (22 page)

‘It's pretty, isn't it? It plays this tune I grew up with every hour. It belonged to your father, then your mother and then it passed down to you.'

‘I…but…'

‘How unfortunate! A detective without a clue! Did you never wonder what happened to the Aunt Gloria whom Daphné visited three afternoons a week?'

‘How do you know about that?'

His hands were trembling and he pushed them into his pockets. He could see his mother leaning towards him, feel her lips brushing his brow, hear her whispering goodbye before she left him in Kenji's charge. He remembered, too, the letters he received at his boarding school in Richmond with tedious passages concerning the fragile health of a relative who lived in Hampshire: a Miss Gloria Dulwich.

‘She died soon after I moved to France, sometime in 1879, shortly after the death of my mother,' he said softly, without waiting for a reply. ‘Kenji told me about it.'

‘No doubt he didn't go into any detail.'

‘What is this all about?'

‘When I was little I lived in a pretty cottage not far from Winchester. My nanny, whom I adored, was called Gloria. She was from Dulwich, near London, and was very proud of having visited The Crystal Palace which, you are doubtless aware, was built with materials left over from the first Universal Exhibition in 1851.'

‘Gloria Dulwich,' he repeated in a faltering voice.

‘Three times a week, a beautiful lady visited and showered me with love and treats. But what gave me most pleasure was her watch. I used to put it up to my ear and imagine that the fairies were ringing their little bells inside it just for me. When I was four years old the beautiful lady suddenly stopped coming. Gloria held me tight and told me that my mother was dead, but that I shouldn't cry because she had gone to the angels. After that an elegant gentleman with slanting eyes came into my life, declaring that he was my godfather. The little fairies watched over me and I have never felt unloved. When Gloria went to join my mother, Kenji sent me to Dawson's Boarding School in London under the name of Abbot. I suppose he wished to conceal my origins.'

Victor stared at her in dazed astonishment.

‘She's taking you in, my dear Legris!'

But the voice of another, more sardonic, Victor said: ‘What a chump! He looks like a carp standing there with his mouth open.'

‘Are you trying to tell me that you are my…'

‘I apologise if this feels like melodrama. I meant to break the news to you more gently, but your moralising tone just now infuriated me. I am happy to have a brother and for you to be him, but I am tired of being chaperoned. First Mrs Dawson, then Mademoiselle Bontemps, then Kenji, and now you.'

‘How can you be sure that Daphné was your…'

‘I found the proof in two sealed envelopes hidden beneath my father's mattress. Do you know what was in them?'

‘No,' Victor replied, stunned by the girl's inappropriate behaviour. ‘I would never have allowed myself go through Kenji's personal belongings.'

‘I am far more devious than you. When I set myself a goal I reach it. The envelopes contain my birth certificate, a photograph of Daphné holding me in her arms and my baptism certificate according to the rites of the Anglican Church.'

He found himself staring straight into the girl's face. She was deadly serious. He must adjust himself to the idea that Kenji and his mother had been lovers. Without averting her gaze, she continued.

‘It is simple. Daphné made Kenji promise not to say anything for fear of a scandal and out of respect for you, since you were old enough to judge her behaviour. You were fourteen when I was born. If we were to examine our mother's life closely, we would discover that she disappeared for four months in 1874 – the time needed to carry her pregnancy to full term. She wanted to protect you. Imagine how much Kenji must have loved her to keep this a secret for so long…After the stupid coach accident that killed his beloved, he was obliged to hide his grief and resign himself to lying…by omission. My godfather! I played the game, and, believe it or not, I shall miss it.'

‘He sacrificed you for a child who wasn't even his…How he must have hated me!'

‘That's not true. He has a deep affection for you.'

‘And for you!'

‘Of course, though we have always lived apart. It was hard for him. He has suffered with his secret and he needs to be comforted. As far as I am concerned, I am delighted to have a brother, although I would have preferred him to be a little less possessive and puritanical. Speaking of which, Joseph and I were doing nothing wrong. I find him charming. You should try to be a little more flexible, Victor. Am I wrong in thinking Tasha might disapprove of your sleuthing activities vis-à-vis a certain young girl in red?'

‘What do you know about it?'

‘I'm not blind, and Kenji's anxiety, your interrogation of me and my sudden move here to Rue des Saints-Pères confirmed my suspicions. And I read the newspapers too. Poor Élisa, she wanted a passionate love affair. I hope you find whoever did this to her. Nobody but you knows that I know.'

He felt utterly confused and incredulous. His head spun with the effort of trying to make sense of Iris's words. His mother and Kenji…The idea was grotesque. The girl was making it up! What had triggered their conversation? Oh yes, the watch.

‘Did Kenji show you the watch…'

‘No. He leaves it on his bedside table every night, and this morning I took it. When I wound it up it played that tune…'

Iris was smiling through her tears. Overcome, Victor rushed outside.

He walked very briskly down Rue des Saints-Pères in an attempt to absorb these revelations. When he reached the corner of Rue Jacob he realised he had forgotten his coat; the feeling that his brain was close to boiling point was intensified by a sudden burst of sunlight that warmed the air. He turned back, mulling over his gnawing resentment. Kenji had kept the truth from him all this time! If he had known sooner, would he have reacted positively? He couldn't say for sure. He was torn between his admiration for his adoptive father's stoicism and a cold rage at his oriental insistence on conforming to strict codes of honour. But then his newfound affection for this deceptively fragile sister of his, who had made plain her feelings for him, won him over. He knew he must talk to Kenji. It was a positive, crucial decision and one that would help allay his doubts. And yet he dreaded such a conversation, because the thought of it made him feel like the defenceless, frightened little boy he had been in Sloane Square.

‘What should I say to him? Let's shake on it and start afresh?'

He felt irritated by his own weakness. The voice of a man with a hint of an English accent echoed in his head:

‘My love. I have found him. You'll understand. You must…follow your instinct. You can be reborn if you break the chain.'

Why had he remembered these words now? They had been spoken in a trance by an English medium called Numa Winner
²⁹
he had met the year before. Had Daphné really spoken to him through this man? Had she been trying to tell him about her secret love for Kenji? Whether she had or not, he could use it to break through Kenji's shell and make him confess, for despite his pragmatism he believed in the spirits of the dead and messages from beyond the grave.

 

Joseph was leaning against the counter, his arms behind his back, like the martyred St Sebastian. Victor coughed, shifted some books around and smoothed out a magazine with the flat of his hand. No response. St Sebastian held his pose.

‘I really am sorry, Joseph. I apologise.'

The assistant stiffened, his face sullen.

‘Well, I am not going to go down on my knees! I was wrong, I admit it!'

‘You ordered me to return to my post and here I am,' retorted Joseph.

‘Oh for goodness' sake, let it go now! Where is Mademoiselle Iris?'

‘She's still upstairs.'

‘She likes you a lot.'

‘And I suppose that comes as a surprise.'

‘Not in the slightest. I'm sure you are a perfect gentleman. She needs…looking after.'

Joseph relaxed, trying to conceal his pleasure.

‘She need have no fear. I am a gentleman. But what about the case, Boss?'

The case! It had gone clean out of his head, and he would gladly have put off thinking about it, but he needed to act quickly before Inspector Lecacheur discovered the trail leading from Noémi Gerfleur to Iris via Corymbe Bontemps, Élisa and Gaston.

‘I need to check something important. If Monsieur Mori isn't back by five o'clock, ask Mademoiselle Iris to cover for you, go to the pawnshop and tail Charmansat. I shall be back before closing time.'

‘Yes, sir, Boss!' cried the beaming Joseph, standing to attention, his arms straight by his side.

 

A skinny maid showed Victor to the drawing room. He gave her a friendly smile that sent her scurrying away. He stood waiting amidst a profusion of house plants that eclipsed the mahogany furniture and velvet armchairs. A bearskin rug draped over a chaise longue brought a smile to his lips: Antonin Clusel had been right, Fifi Bas-Rhin had, it seemed, managed to seduce a grand duke. A silvery glint caught his eye. He was intrigued to see a cane lying on the bearskin. He immediately recognised the jade handle carved in the shape of a horse's head with inlaid peridots for eyes: It was Kenji's! He was about to beat a hasty retreat when Eudoxie wafted in, wearing a pink silk negligee.

‘My favourite bookseller! What a fool that girl is – she didn't even bother giving me your name!'

He stooped to kiss her hand and glancing towards the bedroom door, which was ajar, glimpsed a mauve silk cravat and a black pinstriped frock coat. There was no doubting they were Kenji's. Victor imagined an extraordinary scenario. He would pretend to be shocked and rush to the bed, declaring that the daughter of this wicked man in a state of undress was in need of her father's help. By the time he had regained his composure, the cane had disappeared and Eudoxie was making a show of polishing the leaves of a rubber plant with her negligée.

‘Servants aren't what they used to be. What can I do for you?' she asked, walking over to close the bedroom door.

‘I want to find Louis Dolbreuse. I was under the impression you were close friends when we met the other night at Le Moulin-Rouge. I imagined…'

‘That you might drive him out from between my sheets?'

‘That you might be able to give me his address. He suggested I might be interested in writing for an editor he knows at
L'Écho de Paris,
and I wanted to tell him that I am.'

‘Oh! Is that all! I thought you might be concerned about my fidelity!'

‘My dear Eudoxie, I would not be so presumptuous as to interfere in the complexities of your intimate relationships,' replied Victor, pretending to be fascinated by the cane that was hidden behind the rubber plant.

‘Just as well, you naughty boy, for there are some secrets that should never be revealed.'

She placed herself between him and the plant, baring her neck and forcing him to step back.

‘I'm willing to please you…and to give you that address. Here it is. I rely upon you to be discreet. Louis is a charming man, but a little hot-tempered.'

‘Have no fear. Neither he nor anyone else will get wind of your…secret.'

She looked at him a trifle anxiously and rang for the maid.

The clamour of traffic on Rue de Rivoli penetrated the fog of his thoughts. No sooner had Iris's confidences revealed an unknown side to Kenji's personality – that of doting father and brilliant schemer – than this image was replaced by that of a shameless womaniser. Who was the true Kenji?

After all, it is partly because of me that he has avoided a formal relationship. It is strange how none of his conquests have anything in common with Daphné…

The sound of the cannon blasting in the Jardin du Palais Royal reminded him that it was midday and he was hungry.

 

Tasha wiped her hands on her smock and stared at the painting before her. It would be best to give up now. She stepped back from the easel. After weeks of effort, this was the disastrous result. She smeared red paint over the tousled figure of a cancan dancer, ripped the canvas off the frame and rolled it up tightly before cramming it into the rubbish bin.

The emphatic gesture calmed her. She was clear in her mind how she would proceed; there were many different approaches but what mattered most were language and style. She crouched on the floor, her chin resting on her knees.

‘Yes, painting is a synthesis of all that you have experienced, loved and learnt, which is then transformed into an individual body of work. I should go back to copying the old masters. The best way to discover myself is through them. A few months working at the Louvre would do me good.'

When Victor appeared she leapt to her feet and seized a folder of drawings, which she threw on the bed.

‘I have to deliver these to the newspaper before four o'clock. Did you want to talk?'

Victor nodded his head.

‘I felt like chatting to you for a moment, Tasha.'

He noticed her drawn look and her pale complexion. He could tell she hadn't been eating properly. She turned away, snatching up her hat so vehemently that the marguerites quivered.

‘Do you intend to go out in that?' he asked, pointing to her painted-smeared smock.

‘I was about to get changed.'

He noticed that the canvas that had been so important to her was no longer on the easel. He walked over to her, smiling, and registered the uncertainty of her expression, which he understood as an appeal not to mention it. He felt like telling her that he often sensed her despair even when she did not tell him about it, that he could tell she was feeling her way and was held back by self-doubt, and that she had probably forgotten how easy and good it was just to let go. But he did not. Instead he held her in his arms.