Night Train to Paris Fliss Chester (e novels to read online .TXT) 📖

had helped Simone rinse off as much of the caustic solution as possible from the varnished wood, saving it from being permanently damaged. The dust sheets were bundled up and taken out to the rubbish bins at the back of the building and Fen had spent a quiet, contemplative hour packing away Rose’s oil paints and cleaning her paintbrushes. She and Simone had made conversation throughout the rest of the morning rather sporadically, but now they were nibbling on some toast and butter that Fen had scratched together for a bit of lunch and talking more seriously about what they should do.

‘It’s not that I’m altogether happy here…’ Simone cast her eyes over to where the body had lain. ‘But it’s like I said earlier, I just don’t have anywhere else to go.’

‘I understand. I suppose we need to speak to Rose’s solicitor, but for now I can’t see there being a problem with the both of us staying on while things are sorted out.’ And while I get to the bottom of all of this, Fen thought to herself. ‘Plus, someone needs to look after Tipper. The poor little chap will be grieving in his own way and I don’t think we can just biff him off to the dogs’ home just yet.’

‘Ooh la la, no! I will have him. Little dogs like him are all the rage and I think Christian could make a wonderful little coat for him.’

Simone’s flippancy made Fen smile. It was light relief to be talking fashion again.

‘Of course,’ Simone carried on, ‘perhaps I will return to England with you and James?’

‘Oh really? Have you both, well, discussed that? I’m not sure he wants to go back to London just yet.’ Or at least he hasn’t mentioned it to me, Fen thought. ‘Has he said otherwise?’

‘Not in so many words, but what is there in Paris for us both?’ She shrugged. ‘And I think James has a house or two in England. It could be very comfortable.’

‘House or two?’ Fen hadn’t really thought what being filthy rich might actually mean.

Simone looked at Fen, examining her. Then she laughed. ‘You mean you don’t know?’

‘I hadn’t really thought about it. What don’t I know exactly?’ Fen was genuinely puzzled.

‘James. Viscount Lancaster… His London house was bombed, I think, which is a shame, but the land itself – Knightsbridge perhaps, or Kensington – you must know these areas better than I do, well, it must still have value, you know? And the country house in Sussex is apparently vast.’

‘How do you know all of this?’ Fen was aware she didn’t know much about James – finding out about his aristocratic connections had been a surprise enough the other night – but she did know he was a taciturn sort of chap and not one to spill the family secrets, or jewels, in idle conversation. Or was he seriously thinking Simone was the future Mrs Lancaster, or Lady Simone even, and he needed to show off to her?

At that moment, there was a loud rapping on the door of the apartment. The two women looked at each other and frowned.

‘Who could that be?’ Simone whispered, pulling her cardigan closer around her. ‘You don’t think it’s the murderer, do you?’

Any chance the women had of pretending not to be there until the visitor went away was ruined by Tipper barking like crazy and scampering towards the door.

‘I’m coming,’ Fen called into the air, hoping the person in the vestibule could hear her. ‘Who is it?’ she called out when she was closer to the door.

‘It’s Joseph Bernheim,’ the voice called back from the other side of the door.

Simone, who had followed Fen into the hallway made some excuse about being too unsightly to be seen and disappeared back into the studio and from there into her room, leaving Fen to unlock the door.

‘Oh, Joseph, come in, come in.’ She was pleased he was here, although she wasn’t sure if she was looking forward to breaking the bad news about Rose’s death to another of her friends on the same day.

As he entered the small hallway, Joseph took off his hat but hadn’t got much further before Fen continued.

‘It is lovely to see you, but I’m afraid I have something terrible to tell you.’

‘I’m so used to the door being unlocked.’ The frazzled man sat on the edge of the chaise longue, running his Homburg hat through his hands. ‘Even after she… I mean, before the war when I would meet Magda here, we would just walk in.’

‘I just thought for security…’ Fen murmured as she poured him a cup of tea, the pot now refreshed several times and the loose leaves of the tea running slightly out of oomph.

‘Of course, of course,’ he nodded, ‘and this happened… yesterday?’

‘Yes. I remember Rose saying you were due to come and see her. What time was that?’

‘Just after lunch, about two o’clock,’ he paused and threaded his hat brim through his fingers again. ‘But I was held up and never made it.’

‘You may have stumbled on her killer if you had.’ Fen then explained to Joseph, ‘I overheard the police saying she had been killed in the early afternoon.’

Joseph sighed. ‘I don’t suppose you know what she had found out, do you? About our paintings, I mean.’ Joseph looked keenly at Fen, who could only shake her head.

‘I’m afraid not. Just that she thought she had tracked down one of them—’

‘Ah, such bad luck!’ Joseph tossed his hat across the chaise longue and hung his head down, with his hands hanging between his knees. ‘So close yet so far.’

Fen held her tongue from saying something about Rose not meaning to get herself killed, but it was as if Joseph was reading her mind.

‘Look at me, thinking only of myself and my paintings when our dear friend has died.’ Joseph accepted the cup of weak tea from Fen and carried on. ‘It’s appalling of me. But it’s Magda I feel so sorry for now. She was