Classical Murder Page 3

  *****

  The house was a typical Hampstead house, tall and narrow, and dating from the late 19th century. It was one of a row of terraces lining a road that faced a quiet offshoot of the heath. Imogen was familiar with the area as one where many musicians, writers and artists lived. Junot didn’t open the door himself, but Imogen thought she recognised the man who welcomed her in. A tall, retiring sort with greying hair, he introduced himself as Philip Benton, a well-known concert pianist and long-time resident of Hampstead. Philip ushered Imogen into the patio garden, which was full of roses - their perfume in the small, enclosed space was almost overwhelming. Frédéric rose to meet her.

  “I’ll fix some refreshments,” said Philip, and he left them together.

  Frédéric embraced Imogen – more as an old friend than in the polite, air-kissing manner. He seemed very emotional.

  “Good morning,” he said. “Thank you so much for coming. Please sit down.”

  He pulled out a chair from under a small table, which was in the middle of the patio.

  “Thank you,” said Imogen. “I was so sorry to hear the news of Madame Dufrais’ death.”

  Junot looked strained, even though he was still immaculately dressed in cream chinos and a lime green polo shirt,. His eyes were bloodshot and there were dark circles under them.

  “I can’t begin to tell you how I feel. It just doesn’t seem possible that she is no longer here. What can I say? She was my life and now she is gone.”

  “It must be terrible,” said Imogen. It was difficult to know what to say.

  “Never do you imagine that such a thing will happen. Never. Oh, Philip, thank you so much,” he said, as Benton appeared with a tray of coffee, orange juice and croissants. He placed the tray on the table before saying goodbye, explaining that he was leaving for a rehearsal. “I am fortunate because I have friends like Philip to help me,” Frédéric continued. “We have known each other for many years and I have often stayed in this house. Now it is a sanctuary, away from the eyes of the world. I have to be in London for, as they say, police enquiries.”

  “I see.”

  “Let me get you a drink. Then I can explain why I have asked you to be kind enough to come and see me.”

  As Frédéric poured orange juice into two tall glasses and offered her a croissant, Imogen reflected that the contrast with their previous meeting couldn’t have been starker. Frédéric’s smooth charm and relaxed confidence had been replaced by an air of devastation. And no wonder, she thought, after all he had been through.

  *****

  “As you know,” Frédéric began, “Elodie withdrew from La Bohème at almost the last moment. She knew this would cause many problems, so she didn’t do it without much consideration. To do such a thing can reflect very badly on one’s career and she didn’t like to let people down. I think a reason for this could have been some letters I had been receiving.”

  “Really?”

  “I am beginning to wonder. The letters were very odd and related to La Bohème,. They started to arrive earlier this year. I assumed they were from a crazy opera fan – in our position, one attracts the attention of such people.”

  “Of course.”

  “There were three of these letters and they were very disjointed, constantly referring to the opera. I did not mention them to Elodie – there seemed no need – but for some reason I did not dispose of them. Shortly before we were due to come to London for La Bohème, another arrived. Elodie opened it, as I was out. When I got back, she was very agitated and asked to see the others. Where I had dismissed them, they seemed to worry her, although she pretended otherwise. I knew her too well. Then, once we had come to London, she decided she could not go on with the opera, but refused to give me any reason for her decision. She said she felt crushed inside. Now, of course, I wonder if I should have looked more carefully at these letters.”

  “Did you show them to the police?”

  “That is what I find so strange. They spent so much time questioning me. They seemed to think that Elodie and I had argued and that is why she withdrew, but that was one of the special things about our relationship. We never, ever argued. The police did take the letters, but I didn’t feel they really showed much interest in them. They said, as I already knew, that it was common for people in my position to receive such mail. Also, of course, they had been sent to me and not to Elodie.”

  “How do you think I can help?”

  “I feel that the letters are important. I want so much to know who sent them. I was impressed when you interviewed me. You are the only journalist ever to have checked out all of the performances of Bohème in which I have sung before you interviewed me about the current production. I didn’t know where to turn and then I thought of ringing you. I have no energy for such things, yet the letters keep coming back to my mind.”

  Imogen could see how distressed Frédéric was as he wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. She ached to put her arms around him, but daren’t. “I would be delighted to help,” she said. “I have a friend who is fluent in French. I am sure he will translate the letters for me.”

  “Thank you. I felt that you would understand.” Frédéric reached into a briefcase, which was under the table, and pulled out a large white envelope. “Here. I have photocopied them. You can take the copies and let me know what you think. There is no hurry. I never want to see them again. I have written my details on the envelope so that you can contact me if you need to.”

  Imogen took the envelope. “What are you going to do now?” she asked.

  “I have to wait for the police reports on Elodie. I also have to see her family. It is all too terrible to contemplate.”

  *****

  “Okay, then, let’s hear it,” said Ned, when he came to have dinner in Imogen’s flat that evening. “Junot confessed to you and he wants you to save him. No, I know, he wants you to help him find solace.”

  “If you don’t stop, you won’t get any dinner. Anyway, it’s in very bad taste. His partner has been killed. He actually broke down while talking to me.”

  “A genuine sob story! Let me pour you some wine to help you tell it.”

  “I’m not sure I want to tell you if you’re not going to be serious. It’s not a joking matter, you know.”

  “I am serious. Look at me, I’m seriously pouring wine.”

  “I’m warning you.”

  “Okay. Okay.”

  Imogen went to get her bag and took out the copies of the letters. She threw them on the kitchen table, where Ned was sitting.

  “These are why he rang. They’re hugely confidential.”

  Ned picked them up and started to peruse them. “I take it these were sent to Junot?” he asked.

  “They were sent to him, but it was Dufrais who was upset by them. He’s desperate to find out who sent them.”

  “How interesting. I assume they were all posted in France. They are all written in French.”

  “I don’t know. He just gave me those photocopies.”

  “So he is maintaining that he didn’t kill Dufrais, but that the writer of these letters may hold the clue to her murder?”

  “Well, sort of. I think he’s just very confused. He’s certain that these letters unsettled her and he wants to get to the bottom of them.”

  “They are very odd. Almost a random collection of words. There are references to La Bohème, though. Junot’s right that far. Mmm. I’ll have to look at them very carefully.”

  “I knew they’d be just up your street.”

  “I do like a mystery. Presumably he showed them to the police?”

  “Apparently the police didn’t think they had much significance. People in the public eye get a lot of this sort of thing.”

  “It really is intriguing. There is no coherence at all.”

  “I
’ll leave it to you to decipher them. Your French is much better than mine.”

  “I’ll make some copies for myself.”

  “Remember, they are highly confidential. I think I may be the only person who knows about them outside the police. I shouldn’t really show them to you.”

  “My lips are sealed. What happened to the lasagne, by the way?”

  “ It’s ready, don’t panic.”

  “Phew.”

  *****

  “Hello.” Imogen looked at her watch as she answered the phone the following evening. It was after midnight and she was preparing for bed.

  “Hi, it’s me, Ned.”

  “Don’t you ever go to bed?”

  “Not long home from work. It’s the letters. There was something puzzling me about them while I was at work today. I’ve checked since I got home and I was right.”

  “In what respect?”

  “I noticed that one of the letters refers to Mariette as drowning in La Bohème. That’s not right and yet I’m sure I’ve seen it before.”

  “It’s Musetta, not Mariette. And it’s Mimi who dies – of consumption, not drowning.”

  “I know, but because it’s not the first time I’ve seen this, I wonder whether the message in these letters is less random than it appears at first sight.”

  “Why don’t you check it out? I’ve got two tickets for the first performance with Junot’s stand in tomorrow evening. It’s Thomas Tavy.”

  “I’d love to come. It may be difficult for me to get away, but I’ll do my best. I just might find something out.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “That was close,” said Ned, as he slipped into the seat next to Imogen just as the lights were going down in the Opera House.

  “Well done,” whispered Imogen. “I didn’t think you were going to make it.”

  “Neither did I. Now, where is that key? Don’t tell me Rodolfo still can’t find it.”

  “Shut up, you idiot.”

  *****

  “There’s no doubt that Thomas Tavy can’t hold a candle to Junot,” said Imogen after the performance. “Would you say that?”

  “Mmm,” said Ned. They had decamped to a Chinese restaurant and he was obviously enjoying the food.

  “Very nice of you to buy me dinner,” he said.

  “I’m not really buying you dinner. Sebastian gave me an allowance for a post-performance snack and I’m sharing it with you. We’re just lucky that the Opera House is so near Chinatown.”

  “And so good. This duck is delicious.”

  “As I was saying, I wasn’t overly impressed by Thomas Tavy. Do you agree?”

  “If you say so.”

  “Were you actually listening to the performance?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think I’ve got it.”

  “Got what?”

  “Junot’s letters. Where they’ve gone wrong.”

  Imogen froze, her fork suspended in mid-air. “What do you mean, gone wrong?” she said.

  “As I said to you before, the letters sometimes refer to Mariette, which isn’t correct. I assume it’s a substitute for Musetta. Similarly, they talk of Marcel, not Marcello. These are French renditions, not Italian, as used in the opera. I realised that after hearing it live tonight. Whoever composed the letters is referring to the characters in French. Presumably, this is what was worrying Elodie and why she was researching the background.”

  “What difference would it make if French was used rather than Italian? After all, Junot is French.”

  “It could. I think that the person who sent the letters is hinting at something and that there is a reason for French, rather than Italian, being used.”

  “Well, obviously Elodie thought the same, at least according to Frédéric.”

  “Exactly. Although I’m not inclined to believe what he says, to be frank. Anyway, all one can say is that the plot thickens – like my waistline, if I eat any more of these fabulous noodles. I think we’d better ask for the bill.”

  *****

  “Well, Imogen,” said Sebastian, the following morning. “What’s the verdict on Thomas Tavy?”

  “I wasn’t very impressed. It’s rather a shame for him to have to pick up the pieces. Frédéric Junot is a difficult act to follow.”

  “I had a feeling it wouldn’t go too well. That’s why I didn’t bother. Unlike Junot, Tavy’s not a spinto tenor. He hasn’t got that extra push. All the Puccini tenor roles are for spintos, so I don’t think Tavy would have got the role in normal circumstances. By the way, your phone’s flashing, darling. You’d better answer it.”

  Imogen picked up the phone.

  “It’s your favourite physician.”

  “Hi, Ned.”

  “Serious business has prompted my call.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I decided to pop into Maison Blanc in Hampstead for a coffee and an almond croissant on the way to work. While there, I read something very interesting in Le Figaro. I don’t suppose you spotted it?”

  “That’s hardly likely, as I don’t read Le Figaro. What was it?”

  “It’s an interview with a French author, Sabine Devergne. She’s not very well known. Writes highly intellectual stuff.”

  “That’s why I haven’t heard of her.”

  “Anyway, she’s talking about her writing and she uses some of the words contained in the letters.”

  Imogen could feel her chest tightening. “Which ones?”

  “I’ll translate for you, but roughly speaking, “Like Mariette on the Atlas.”

  “But that’s incredible,” said Imogen, her voice rising with excitement.

  “I know.”

  “In what context did she use them?”

  “Oh, it was very vague – something like, “one can get sinking feelings like Mariette on the Atlas.”

  “But it must surely be a coincidence.”

  “Lawyers don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “Since when were you a lawyer?”

  “My brother is. He told me that.”

  “Even so, she doesn’t have anything to do with music or Frédéric, does she?”

  “I can’t help being suspicious.”

  “But why would she use those words in a newspaper interview?”

  “That’s what I mean to find out. Perhaps we could do a bit of research over the weekend. What about Sunday?”

  “Sounds okay.”

  “I have a late shift. Meet me by the bandstand on Parliament Hill at ten and we could have a run over to Hampstead before we start.”

  “I suppose a run is preferable to more tennis.”

  “See you there.”

  *****

  “There’s no doubting that Carluccio’s serves the best brunch at the moment – at least I think so,” said Ned, as he and Imogen strolled back across the heath towards Imogen’s flat. It wasn’t exactly a relaxing stroll as they had to keep dodging children on scooters and bikes, as well as dogs and joggers. Weather permitting, Sunday was definitely family day. Ned and Imogen both wore tracksuit trousers – his dark blue, hers pink – and white sports shirts. Imogen had a cap and sunglasses.

  “Fabulous scrambled eggs and the mushrooms were just perfect. I’m so glad they opened a branch in Hampstead.”

  “As if we needed more places to eat.”

  “We always need more places to eat. Now, let me tell you about Sabine Devergne. She mainly writes about the deeper recesses of the mind.”

  “No wonder I’ve not read any of her books.”

  *****

  “I’ll just put her name into Google if you want to shower first,” said Ned, when they got back to the flat. “I’ll put
the kettle on, despite our slap-up brunch. A bit more caffeine might stop us falling asleep.”

  “Fine.”

  “Ah here we are,” Ned muttered to himself, “Sabine Devergne. Author. No age – why doesn’t that surprise me? Lives Provence. Publications… Biography… Divorced, doesn’t say from whom.”

  “Any luck?” said Imogen, wrapped in a white cotton dressing gown printed with pink rosebuds, and drying her hair with a pink towel.

  “Not as far as I can see. There’s plenty about her work, but nothing to link her to Junot or Dufrais, or even to music in any way.”

  “You shower and I’ll have a look. She’s a rather attractive woman, I must say,” said Imogen, as she scrolled through the links. Hey, that’s interesting.” She waited for Ned to reappear.

  “You’ve found something?”

  “Not really, but look at this.”

  “Sabine Devergne outside her house in St Rémy. What of it?”

  “I know St. Rémy pretty well,” said Imogen. “We used to stay there often with our parents when we were young. We toured a lot and St. Rémy was one of our favourite stopping places. It’s a very pretty Provençal town with a wonderful market on Wednesday and Saturday mornings.”

  “Sounds great.”

  “That’s given me an idea.”

  “Which is?”

  “Well, there is an opera festival nearby in Orange every summer.”

  “I thought it was Aix that had the opera festival.”

  “Oh, there are loads of festivals down there in the summer. Aix, Avignon, Antibes. It’s not just opera; there’s a lot of theatre, jazz, dance etc. The festival in Orange is called Les Chorégies. Here you are,” she said, as she typed the details into Google. “Chorégies d’Orange. 30th July – Carmen. 5th August – Concert Lyrique. They’re doing Butterfly as well. It’s a wonderful occasion. Great weather, lots of wine and food…”