[Fen Churche 02] - Night Train to Paris Fliss Chester (essential reading .TXT) 📖

come and find you soon. Enjoy the Mona Lisa, though do remember the poor lady has been on her travels recently so might not look as dewy and fresh as she might.’

Fen shook her head in amusement. ‘We will, Rose, adieu.’

She and James took their leave of Henri too and left Rose and her partner – of whatever sort – to their business.

‘Culture for me then,’ James breathed out a sigh once they were standing in one of the main galleries.

‘She’s just teasing,’ Fen raised her eyebrows at him and he smiled. ‘Come on, let’s find da Vinci’s finest and check she really is all in one piece. Apparently she’s been in hiding everywhere from Chambord to Montauban before coming home to her palace.’

The pair followed their noses to find the famous painting, but all the while, Fen noted how empty the gallery was. There certainly wasn’t as much on the walls or plinths as there had been the last time she’d been here, albeit that was probably in 1934, long before the Nazis decided they wanted most of the exhibits for themselves. There were some other tourists, however, or perhaps they were Parisians using the gallery as a good spot for a tryst. The thought reminded her of Simone’s offer to James and she asked him about it.

‘So where’s Simone taking you later?’

‘She mentioned some jazz café, I think, perhaps a bar or two. You should come, too.’

‘Oh, I… well, I’m not really up to it after, you know… I mean, I don’t want to intrude.’

James gently touched Fen’s elbow and said, ‘Arthur would want you to start living again, you know.’

The mention of her darling fiancé, now dead thanks to a Gestapo firing squad, brought tears to Fen’s eyes. She quickly rubbed them with the heels of her hands and smiled up at James, his kindness reminding her of how kind and patient Arthur had been too. Hadn’t it been Arthur who had asked her to look out for James? Perhaps, in his infinite wisdom, he’d asked James to look after her, too.

‘Thank you, James,’ she managed, while fishing around in her pocket for a handkerchief. ‘Perhaps I will.’

‘Good. I think it’s what Arthur would have wanted.’

‘You like her, don’t you?’ Fen asked James, as much to change the subject and give her eyes time to dry before they moved on from the Rubens they had been admiring.

‘She’s a classical depiction of the feminine form, but if you’re talking about Simone and not the painting, then yes, she’s quite a looker.’ James winked at her, making her laugh a little.

‘She was in the Resistance too,’ Fen told him, then added, ‘Brave and beautiful. The whole package.’

This didn’t elicit as much agreement from James as Fen had expected and instead he gave a half-smile and wandered on to the next painting. Maybe he wasn’t looking for love after all and, like her, just wanted a friend to show him around Paris. That they could do it together was a comforting thought. If Arthur could never share her experiences of being here, then his best friend would have to do. And perhaps, if they went somewhere terribly à la mode, they might even get to try a Coca-Cola.

Fen and James had just about taken in all the culture they could wish to when something caught Fen’s eye in one of the smaller galleries.

‘James, look here.’ She pointed at the small oil painting. It was a still life, its dark background a foil for the vase that was spilling over with colourful flowers, greenery, grasses and wheat fronds. Looking closer, there were bugs and insects hidden among the exotic blooms, butterflies and spiders, an alert lizard and a snail, leaving a delicate silver trail.

‘Very nice, if you like that sort of thing,’ James muttered, rather non-committally.

‘It’s not the merits of the painting I’m interested in,’ Fen replied, leaning forward across the stanchion rope to get a better look, ‘although those tulips are beautiful.’

‘Imported from Turkey apparently.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Tulips,’ James stated. ‘Everyone assumes they’re native to Holland, but the Dutch imported them from Turkey.’

‘That’s interesting,’ said Fen, standing back again from the painting. ‘But not as interesting as the fact that there is an almost identical copy of this painting on my bedroom wall at Rose’s apartment. Down to that little snail and everything.’

‘Hmm,’ James took more of an interest in the exquisitely rendered Dutch still life. ‘Perhaps Madame Coillard was Le Faussaire after all?’

Fen shook her head and elbowed him in the ribs.

‘Excuse me,’ a woman’s voice interrupted their play-fighting and Fen and James apologised and allowed her to look at the painting. ‘Any idea who it’s by?’ she asked them.

Fen looked at her. She was probably in her late forties and dressed smartly, a fox fur slung over one shoulder and a natty hat set at an angle. So Parisienne. And too vain to wear her reading glasses, Fen thought to herself as she leaned in and read the small card that was attached to the wall next to the painting.

‘Ambrosias Bosschaert – 1573 to 1621.’

‘I see, thank you,’ the smartly dressed lady said and peered closer at the painting. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she muttered, ‘down to the ladybird and everything.’

‘Madame, do you have a copy of this painting?’ Fen recognised her own thoughts in the woman’s words.

The woman stopped leaning and straightened her back. The fox’s legs swung to and fro as she walked off, having not answered Fen at all.

Before James could venture their usual response to such behaviour, the familiar scent of ylang-ylang and tobacco alerted them to Rose’s presence.

‘Come, come!’ She waved at them from the other end of the vast, empty gallery space and her voice echoed through the air.

‘She’s not a shy, retiring flower, is she?’ James whispered out of one side of his lips to Fen as they got closer. For this, he received another elbow to the ribs.

‘Hurry, you two, we have work to do!’ Rose ushered them out of the gallery and into