Classical Murder Page 2

  “But he’d never do such a thing. It’s inconceivable. They adored each other. How dreadful for him.”

  “I think it’s worse for her, actually.”

  “Ned!”

  “Sorry. Anyway, let’s see what happens. And remember, I’m not saying that he did do it, only that the police are questioning him. Anyhow, I must go. Oh, and by the way, don’t pass any of this on until the police have issued a statement.”

  There was no chance of Imogen going back to sleep. She pulled on her dressing gown and stumbled into the kitchen to fill the kettle. Elodie Dufrais, dead. It was difficult to comprehend. Imogen had been sitting next to her only a few hours earlier. Surely Frédéric couldn’t be a suspect? After all, he had said, “We are in love, I adore her…”. But then, it was a fact that Dufrais had withdrawn from the production at the last moment. And what did ‘indisposed’ really mean? She flicked on the TV. As she did so, the phone rang.

  “Darling, what’s all this? I see your idol has got himself into trouble.”

  “Sebastian, how do you know? And what on earth are you doing up at this time in the morning?”

  “I didn’t quite make it to bed last night. I must say they put on an awfully good bash at the Opera House. Then, of course, one thing led to another. I’ve just got back and seen it hinted at on one or two blogs. It’s probably on the box by now.”

  Ned’s cautions aren’t necessary, thought Imogen. The story’s out. “Do you know what happened? The press seem to have picked up on it awfully quickly,” she said, out loud.

  “They usually do. Don’t forget that these celebrities are followed everywhere they go. And staff in the top hotels know a good story when they see one. I don’t know any details yet, but I’ve got plenty of contacts who will.”

  “Do ring me if you learn anything.”

  “You’ll be the first to know. Just a little nap, then I’ll be on the trail.”

  *****

  There was no point in Imogen trying to find out any details herself. She hadn’t built up contacts in the way Crispin and Sebastian had – that could take years. She spent the morning trying to polish her review of La Bohème while worrying about Frédéric. He must be desolate. Neither Ned nor Sebastian called her, and the TV news kept returning to the same reporter standing outside the hospital and reporting that a statement was expected soon. In desperation, Imogen sent a text to Ned. Sorry to disturb you, but any news?

  The text alert on her phone buzzed immediately. Yep, busy, talk later.

  Later wouldn’t do. Imogen wanted to know now. Pulling on her coat and grabbing her work, she set off for the offices of Opera London.

  *****

  The magazine’s offices were in a small, modern block just to the north of Shaftesbury Avenue, close to theatre land and the two main opera houses – the Royal Opera House and the Coliseum. It was the perfect site for a publication based on the world of opera. As she entered the building, Imogen wondered whether Sebastian had made it in. She soon found out.

  “Well met, darling,” he said, as he slipped into the lift just before the doors closed. In his fifties, he was impeccably dressed in a navy suit with a wide pinstripe, a pale pink shirt and a navy tie. He was a tall man and cut an imposing figure.

  “Sebastian,” said Imogen. “Have you heard anything about Frédéric? You didn’t ring, so I decided to come in.”

  “Sorry, my love. When I said a little nap, I meant it, but I was obviously more tired than I thought.”

  “Not surprising if you’ve been up all night.”

  “Quite, but I’m as fresh as a daisy, now, so let’s get going. You make the coffee and I’ll do the phoning.”

  As Imogen filled the kettle, she could hear Sebastian at his most charming.

  “Well, of course, we’re very surprised here. Especially as one of our top feature writers (Make that your only feature writer, thought Imogen) lunched with Junot earlier in the week and was sitting next to Dufrais at last night’s performance. No,” he chortled, “she didn’t finish Dufrais off. I think there’s an ex-lover who’s first in line for that treatment.” He lowered his voice. “Oops! I shouldn’t have said that” He glanced over to where Imogen was making the coffee. “What’s that you say? Ah, now that’s what I suspected all along. No, of course I won’t pass on a word. Love to you, Geraldine,”

  “What won’t you pass on?” asked Imogen, as soon as Sebastian had replaced the receiver.

  “Apparently Dufrais and Junot had been at loggerheads for months. Everybody knew it,” said Sebastian, still looking rather sheepish about having mentioned Imogen’s private life.

  “Well,” said Imogen, “I didn’t know it and I don’t believe it, either.”

  “I’m sure we’ll find out sooner or later. Ah, let’s see who this is,” he said, picking up his phone as it began to flash. “Johnny, good to hear from you. What a mess…”

  Imogen left Sebastian to get on with it. So much for good contacts. Good gossips, more like. Anyway, contacts weren’t always useful in a situation like this, which depended on official statements. Unless they were Ned, of course, who happened to be in the thick of it. She wished she could contact Junot; she was sure she could support him. She wasn’t going to tell Ned that, however. He’d only tease her. The best thing was to concentrate on her work. Sebastian wouldn’t be pleased if her piece was late. Murder or no murder.

  *****

  “At last,” said Imogen, as she let Ned into her flat.

  “I know. I know.”

  “But it’s nearly ten o clock.”

  “I’m a doctor, remember, not a pen pusher. We can’t schedule emergencies to suit office hours. What’s to eat? I’m starving.”

  “Pasta. I’ve got some Arrabiata sauce I made earlier. Okay?”

  “Sounds great.”

  “So, what’s the story?”

  “Let me see you put the pasta on and I’ll tell you. Oh, and a glass of this is what I really need,” said Ned, pulling a bottle of wine from his bag.

  “Ned. Tell me. I am putting the pasta on. Can’t you see?”

  “I don’t know everything as I’m not on the case. However, I did speak to the people who brought her in. Remember, there is a confidentiality aspect here. I can’t reveal certain aspects of what I know, but I can tell you roughly what’s happened.”

  “Okay. Just give me the broad brush approach.”

  “Ah, lovely,” said Ned, as he took a sip of wine. “I do love a drop of Chianti after work – and how lucky that I chose Italian wine. I must have sensed we were going to have pasta.”

  “Ned, you were saying?”

  “Basically, staff responding to an emergency call found her semi-conscious in her hotel bedroom. I gather Junot made the call. She died on the way to hospital. It was almost definitely murder.”

  “That doesn’t mean that Frédéric murdered her. He could have found her.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “It’s just awful.”

  “Don’t give up on your hero just yet. I gather he is denying any involvement.”

  “If she was semi-conscious, could it have been an overdose? She had withdrawn from Bohème. She seemed to be unsettled.”

  “No evidence of that. And she had been knocked about a bit. It’s probably okay to tell you that there were marks on her neck.”

  “What, you mean she was strangled?”

  “Maybe. It could be that someone was trying to scare her and she had a heart attack. We’re waiting for the post-mortem result. There’s one thing I find very intriguing about it all.”

  “Yes?”

  “One of the ambulance men who brought her in said that she became distressed just before she died – it’s not unknown – and then she cried out…” Ned paused. “Let me get this right: ‘Mariette drowned and I
will die, too. Marcel is going to kill me.’”

  “What on earth does that mean? Was she talking about La Bohème? Is he sure that’s what she said?”

  “That’s what I asked him. He’s a French speaker. Swears he got it right.”

  *****

  Of course the newspapers are full of it, thought Imogen, as she surveyed the newsstands the next morning. They love a celebrity murder. That didn’t stop her from buying several and taking them into work with her. She’d wasted her money, as they were all saying pretty much what she’d already heard. There was just one nugget of information that intrigued her. The Times, in a profile of Elodie’s career, mentioned that she’d been researching the background to La Bohème when she died. Could that have something to do with what the ambulance man had reported?

  “Sebastian, do you know Felix Braithwaite of The Times?”

  “Can’t say I do, lovey. I take it he’s on the arts side?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s just that one or two things he’s written about Elodie Dufrais’ murder are rather interesting. I wouldn’t mind talking to him.”

  “Give him a ring then.”

  “Isn’t that rather cheeky?”

  “Darling, I am a bit cheeky. That’s how I got where I am.” He stood up. “Let me have a look,” he said, going over to Imogen’s desk and taking the paper from her. “Diva Dies in Hotel Murder,” he read out. “Hmmm, he seems to know what he’s talking about. He may not even be on The Times’ staff. They could just have asked him to cover it for them. Yup,” he said, putting the paper down, “if you want to know the facts, talk to the man. What exactly did you want to ask him?”

  “Oh, just one or two little points.”

  “Very secretive, I must say. All to do with a certain arrogant French tenor, no doubt. I’m not surprised he’s in the frame.”

  “Sebastian, that’s out of order.”

  “Sorry, sorry, I won’t say another word.”

  As she turned to her computer, Imogen noticed a “Breaking News” flash. “Fantastic,” she said to Sebastian. “Frédéric has been released – although it’s pending further questioning. The police would never release him if they thought he’d murdered Elodie.”

  “Not unless he’s a brilliant con artist.”

  “Oh, stop it, Sebastian. Don’t tell me that the police would let him go if they had the slightest suspicion he’s done it.”

  “I surrender. Anyhow, I’m off to lunch. Just in case I don’t make it back today, you’ll be able to hold the fort, won’t you? Only there’s rather a lot to discuss.”

  “Of course. Enjoy your lunch.”

  “Someone has to do it. Keep the contacts happy, I mean.”

  “Yes, but you don’t have to take all day about it,” muttered Imogen, as Sebastian closed the door to the office. Good thing some of us stay at our desks, she thought, as she typed ‘Felix Braithwaite’ into Google.

  *****

  “Felix Braithwaite speaking.”

  “Good afternoon. This is Imogen Charles, of Opera London.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I read your piece in The Times about Elodie Dufrais. I wondered whether I might ask you a couple of questions about it?”

  “You can try me.”

  Imogen took a deep breath. “I was interested to read that she was researching the background to La Bohème when she died. Did she elaborate on this at all?”

  “What exactly do you want to know?”

  Imogen bit her lip. She couldn’t admit to being rather infatuated with Junot. “She had pulled out of the production and I wondered whether the two facts were related.” She knew it sounded lame.

  “I don’t want to get pulled into gossip surrounding her death.”

  “Of course not.”

  “What I will say is that I interviewed her shortly before rehearsals began as part of some work I am doing on French personalities. She didn’t tell me that she was going to withdraw, but she seemed anxious. She mentioned that she was researching into the background of the opera, but I got the impression it was a private interest she was following up. Nothing to do with the current production.”

  “I see,” said Imogen, although she didn’t really.

  “The Times asked me to do the piece as they knew I had recently interviewed her. Normally, I don’t do journalism. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Well, thank you very much for your time.”

  “One other thing. She asked me if I knew what the significance of the Atlas shipwreck was. I’d never heard of it.”

  “Me neither,” said Imogen. But I’m very definitely going to find out, she promised herself.

  CHAPTER 3

  “So, what’s it going to be? Chinese or Indian?” asked Ned, as he and Imogen entered her flat late the following Sunday afternoon.

  “I don’t mind. I’m going to have a shower. That was a very long game of tennis for me. Sunday afternoons are meant to be for reading the newspapers.”

  “There’s no such thing as a long game of tennis.”

  “You would say that. You can reward me by ordering the takeaway. I’ll let you decide what we have.”

  “That’s very good of you. Let me see. A nice light Chinese, I think. Perfect for a post-exercise meal.” Ned went to pick up the phone. “You have a message. Do you want to listen to it before I order?”

  “I’d better. It’s probably Sebastian explaining that he’s going to be in late tomorrow and could I open up the office. It’ll be something like, “Working breakfast, darling – so tedious, but I have to make the effort.”

  “I don’t know why you let him get away with it.”

  “Perhaps I just like him. Here we go…” Imogen pressed the play button on her answering machine.

  “Yes. I would like to speak to Madame Charles. Please could she telephone me…”

  “I didn’t know you had a continental lover,” said Ned. “You are a dark hor—”

  “Shh,” said Imogen, as she replayed the message.

  “As I was saying,” said Ned.

  “Don’t you realise who that is?” said Imogen. “It’s Frédéric Junot.”

  “What!”

  “I gave him my card. He asked for it. What on earth can he want? And why did he choose my home number to ring?”

  “I can think of a very good reason.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. He was devoted to Elodie. I’m sure he’s broken-hearted.”

  “Not for long, if he’s already phoning other women.”

  “For goodness sake. He probably just needs help. Finding something out – or that sort of thing.”

  “It’s not as if he’s got lots of staff to do just that. Seriously though, you should be careful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think you know what I mean.”

  “Look. Has he or hasn’t he been released? There’s your answer. Hmm. I wonder if I should ring Sebastian first?”

  “I don’t think that’s a great idea. It’ll be on the next news bulletin before you know it. ‘Junot phones attractive young woman who just happens to work for Opera London’.”

  “I think you’re right, especially the bit about attractive young journalist. Let me see… it’s an hour since he rang. I think I’ll do it straightaway. Before I lose my nerve.”

  “First things first. Let me order the takeaway, then you can ring him.”

  *****

  “Monsieur Junot? This is Imogen Charles of Opera London. We met earlier this week.” Imogen could tell that her voice was a little shaky. “You left a message on my answerphone.”

  “Thank you so much for returning my call.” Imogen hardly recognised his voice – it had lost the confident tone it had when she met him. “Especially on a Su
nday. It’s just that I need some help.”

  Bring it on, thought Imogen. “I’m very happy to help.”

  “You know, I am sure, of the tragic death of my partner, Elodie.”

  “Yes, I’m so sorry.”

  “Well, because of this, I am unable, at the moment, to leave London. I have some very good friends here, but I have a problem they would not understand. I would love to discuss it with you. It is possible that you could find a solution.”

  “Of course. If there’s anything I can do.”

  “I wondered if we could meet? Would you be able to come to where I am staying? I would prefer that our meeting was private.” At this, Imogen’s eyes met Ned’s. He could hear the conversation and there was no doubt what he was thinking

  “I’m sure that will be fine.”

  *****

  Imogen knew the area where Junot was staying very well. It was on the opposite side of Hampstead Heath from her flat. After fobbing Sebastian off with a call to say that she was doing some research on the Dufrais case – “Sounds very mysterious, darling” – she was able to walk across the heath in plenty of time for a ten o’ clock appointment the following morning. Conscious that Junot was unlikely to be in any state to notice what she was wearing, she nevertheless felt the need to look smart. So, she had put on a blue and green Liberty print shirtwaister and simple gold pumps. She had clipped her freshly washed hair back with a matching gold barrette. A touch of lip gloss and some tortoiseshell-framed sunglasses completed the effect. “Simple but chic,” she told herself.

  The heath was very quiet. Nobody was playing on the tennis courts, she noticed. Yet they’d been packed yesterday afternoon and would be again later, as many young professionals liked to play on summer evenings. It was so green and incredibly peaceful, apart from some dog walkers and a few mothers with toddlers. Inevitably, there were also a couple of yummy mummies being put through their paces by personal trainers. A couple of runners were cruising around the athletics track. This was how Imogen liked the heath. She rarely ventured onto it on sunny Bank Holidays when the whole world descended with picnics and loud music. As she made her way off at the other side and walked into Hampstead, the warmth of the sun on her back emphasised the awfulness of Dufrais’ death. What on earth can Frédéric want with me? she pondered. Dismissing Ned’s suggestions as to Junot’s motives (which she didn’t for a moment think Ned believed), she couldn’t fathom why he wanted to see her. Surely someone who had suffered a bereavement would only seek help from a stranger if there were a good reason for it?