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

to happen as he was needed at those apartments or galleries to value their art. Your friend Rose, too. I’m sorry… what happened to her has us all shocked.’

‘Thank you,’ Fen all but whispered, brushing her hands over the corset Simone had stitched out of one of Rose’s flamboyant turbans.

‘Anyway,’ Christian slapped his hands on his thighs, lightening the mood, ‘Henri did us a favour at the end of the war too and sent Simone to the atelier as an apprentice. And she’s got a good eye, I’ll tell you that.’

‘And the perfect model, too,’ Pierre chipped in, finally joining the conversation.

Fen let them all chat together, nodding and smiling at their anecdotes and gossip. Her mind wandered away from their conversation for a moment or two when a familiar fox fur caught her eye on the other side of the dance floor.

Adrienne Tambour! She of the forged Dutch still life. Fen kept an eye on her, although it was hard with other guests, flushed from dancing and wine, getting in the way. She didn’t particularly want a confrontation with someone who so recently had had cause to quarrel with Rose… but the thought did cross her mind that that might be exactly why she should see if Madame Tambour could be persuaded to talk and let slip if she had an alibi… or not.

Thirty-One

Just as Fen was plucking up the courage to cross the room and speak to Adrienne Tambour, Henri came back, leading a simpering wine waiter behind him.

‘Ah, here you all are. Enjoying the music, I see, wonderful.’ They all refreshed their glasses and Henri courteously pulled Fen away from the chic fashionistas. ‘I must introduce you to the director of the board. He’s a fine fellow and, dare I say, another of us grieving for our lost friend.’

Fen could just imagine Rose here, holding court with the Diors or nattering with the aged countesses. ‘She must have touched a lot of hearts round here.’

‘And quite a few canvases,’ Henri said wryly, as he steered Fen through the groups of guests enjoying themselves.

She tried to keep an eye on where Madame Tambour was, and saw her talking to the bewigged older lady with the tiara. With thoughts of alibis in her mind, Fen pulled at Henri’s sleeve to slow him down so she could ask him something.

‘When I left you earlier, was it Michel Lazard I saw entering your gallery?’

Henri frowned. ‘Yes. A coincidence indeed. He had the cheek to ask me if I wanted to buy some art of very dubious provenance. He should know better. I sent him away with a flea in his ear. Now, please, no mention of that charlatan as I introduce you to Claude and Berenice.’

Henri ushered Fen in front of him and she was soon shaking hands with an older crowd.

‘Enchanté, mademoiselle,’ the man named Claude kissed her hand instead of shaking it and then caught Fen unawares as he spun her around on the spot. Fen silently thanked Christian for the spin round the dance floor a little while ago; aside from being jolly good fun, it had prepared her for this sort of thing. ‘I see you have brought me another dancer, eh, Renaud?’ Claude laughed and turned back to his previous conversation.

‘Ignore him, chérie,’ Henri squeezed Fen’s shoulder and then turned himself to engage in conversation with a very aristocratic-looking lady who was dripping in diamonds. Fen was just wondering how many carats there must be on her fingers alone when another hand was stuck in front of her to shake.

‘Good evening, mademoiselle.’ The man was tall but portly, a chin or two’s extra weight filling out his pale face. His blond hair was swept over to one side and his eyebrows, being blond too, didn’t do much to break up the monotony of his vast forehead. He wasn’t a good-looking man, but he had a certain presence and his voice, even in those few words of introduction, held Fen’s attention.

‘Good evening,’ she replied and let him kiss her hand. ‘My name’s Fenella Churche, Fen.’

‘Fen Churche… like the station in London?’ The man laughed and Fen nodded, trying not to let the old joke get to her. The man carried on with his own introduction. ‘Don’t worry, I have a humorous name also. Valentine Valreas, at your service. Val Val!’ He laughed and Fen smiled too, genuinely amused.

‘Monsieur Valreas…’ Fen let the name register. ‘I recognise your name, where might I have heard it?’

‘Perhaps you are a local of a small town in Provence?’ He raised an eyebrow and Fen shook her head. ‘Or a lover of fine art who comes to my auction house – both of which are called Valreas!’ He laughed again and then accepted another couple of glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. He passed one to Fen.

‘Thank you.’ Fen took a sip. ‘And yes, that’s it, Monsieur Valreas, I’ve heard of you in connection to selling art.’

‘Please, call me Valentine. And tell me, how do you come to be at this fine institution tonight? Are you a collector, as I have my card here somewhere…’

‘I’m a guest, a very lucky one,’ Fen raised her glass to Valentine, who had started to look through his evening jacket pockets for a business card. ‘Monsieur Renaud invited me tonight. I fear he has taken pity on me as our mutual, and very dear, friend Rose Coillard was… well, she died very recently.’ Fen saw as she spoke the countenance of the man’s face change. He stopped looking through his pockets and went from being exceptionally jovial to having the proverbial face like thunder just as she had mentioned Rose’s name. ‘Monsieur?’

‘Ah, Rose Coillard.’ He spat her name out as if she were a dirty word. ‘You know that woman had the gall to come and see me, just the other day? Oh, some excuse or other, but I sent her packing. “Do not darken my door again with your fakes and forgeries, Madame!” I said to her.’

Fen was