Classical Murder Page 5

  “I’m all ears.”

  “When I was leaving, she offered to walk back into town with me. I waited in her salon while she got her bag and I noticed a brochure for the Chorégies on her table. That’s the festival in Orange that I mentioned to you. I didn’t ask her about it and now I’m kicking myself because it could have been such a good opening. To be fair, it could be a bit like going to the concerts at Kenwood on Hampstead Heath. They’re very social occasions.”

  “So you’re going to the Chorégies on Saturday evening?”

  “Oh, yes, I can’t wait. I’ve got a very good seat. Needless to say, Sebastian knows a man who works with one of the organisers.”

  “Well, keep an eye out for Sabine.”

  “We are talking about 8000 people being there. Even if she does go, I will be unlikely to spot her. Oh, one other thing.”

  “Yup?”

  “Well, the chap who got me the ticket actually had two. I was wondering whether you’d like to come. As it’s Saturday, you could just come down for the weekend.”

  “I’d love to, but I’m working late Friday, although I do have a lot of leave owing. I might be able to wangle it.”

  “In the summer months, the train runs from St Pancras straight to Avignon every Saturday morning. I can pick you up and we can have dinner before the performance. You can take the train back late Sunday, although you will probably have to change in Paris.” Imogen realised that her body was tense as she waited for Ned’s answer.

  “It’s possible I could make it. I need a treat.”

  “So you’ll come?”

  “You bet.”

  It was too soon for Imogen to be falling in love again, she told herself, but she couldn’t quite believe how thrilled she was when Ned agreed to join her. “I mustn’t let this friendship become any more than that,” she told herself. “It’s just company I need at the moment.” Ned seemed happy to play the role of supporting friend for now, but she feared he was biding his time.

  CHAPTER 6

  On the following Saturday morning, Imogen picked up a hire car from the depot just by Avignon station and found it easy to park in the station car park. Ned arrived just after 11am and they set off up the motorway to Orange.

  “I must say, it’s an incredibly smooth journey by train,” said Ned, once they were on the right road. “Roughly six hours from London to the heart of Provence.”

  “I know. We’re really lucky, by the way. I managed to book into a little hotel right by the amphitheatre because of a cancellation, so we can walk to the performance this evening.”

  “Better and better. I’m so glad that I could make it, but tell me, it seems you were impressed by Sabine?”

  “She’s fabulous.” Imogen laughed. “Chic, glamorous and oh so profound. She told me that she spends time thinking each morning, so as to make sure she uses the day in a way that will help her progress intellectually.”

  “Ouch. Although that’s pretty apparent from her books.”

  “I know. It seems her latest – and this is top secret – is concerned with a male university lecturer, who is having an affair with a female student who is researching Proust. What do you make of that?”

  “Not a lot,” Ned laughed. “Let’s say it doesn’t sound like an easy read.”

  “Exactly. Hold on, I think we’re coming up to where we exit the motorway. Here we go.”

  A main road led almost straight from the motorway into the centre of Orange, a small provincial town, with the usual central square and mix of shops and restaurants. It was fairly quiet as they were arriving mid-afternoon, which was during siesta time. Imogen had booked them into a tiny, family-run hotel, situated right by the wall of the amphitheatre where the opera was to be staged. The car park of the hotel seemed to have been carved from the hillside of the Colline Saint-Eutrope, which overlooked the town. There were a few tables and chairs in the hotel’s shaded courtyard, and Imogen and Ned decided to have coffee and a snack before showering and changing for dinner.

  “So you really don’t think that Sabine could be our murderess?” said Ned.

  “We’re not even sure yet that Elodie was murdered, don’t forget.”

  “We are, actually. Results are out and there’s no doubt she was strangled.”

  “Oh dear, Frédéric must be feeling dreadful,” said Imogen. Ned coughed. “But no, she’s too learned, too intellectual. Apart from the fact that we haven’t found any musical connection – or a connection to anything.”

  “Don’t forget the words.”

  “True.”

  “Let’s hope there’s a murder tonight in St. Rémy. Then, we’ll have a definite link.”

  “The only person who’s going to be murdered tonight is Carmen and I don’t think they’ll be calling the police to investigate,” said Imogen, laughing.

  “I suppose you’re right. Did you know, by the way, that the word ‘Carmen’ in Latin means ‘song’ or ‘spell’? I’ve always thought that was rather lovely. It adds such depth to the title. Let’s just enjoy tonight and we can resume our studies when you get back from your supposed reference work.”

  “It’s funny you should mention that.”

  “Why?” asked Ned.

  “Well, talking to Sabine made me feel that I would like to produce such a work. Initially, I felt a bit of a fraud – that I was deceiving her. But then, there are so many interesting people in this area. I love it down here, and it crossed my mind that I could ask Sebastian for a sabbatical and come back to do some research.”

  “Surely he wouldn’t agree. He so relies on you.”

  “I know, but as it happens we are going to have a student on placement towards the end of the summer. I could wait until Sebastian has had his holiday and then come down here for a few weeks. Anyhow, it’s just an idea at the moment. I’ve been saving quite hard recently so I can afford some time without a salary.”

  “Sounds like an extremely good idea to me. I fancy a few short breaks in Provence,” said Ned.

  “Let’s hope I can get the go ahead.”

  *****

  “Wow, this is quite something. It looks like the whole town is out tonight,” said Ned, as he and Imogen walked into the centre of Orange that evening.

  Imogen had decided that only the best would do. She was wearing a calf-length, navy silk dress and was carrying a white stole, in case the evening became cooler. Her hair was coiled into a low chignon. With high-heeled patent sandals and several gold chains around her neck, she was the epitome of sophistication. It caused Ned to emit a whistle of appreciation when he saw her. He had also risen to the occasion and was wearing a cream linen suit with a pale green short-sleeved cotton shirt. Even then, they failed to stand out from the crowd. People were invariably well turned out, with elegant dresses, shawls and jewellery much in evidence on the women.

  “That’s what’s so lovely about the Chorégies,” said Imogen. “It’s such an occasion. I’ve heard about it before. The whole of Orange becomes involved. The centre is completely closed to general traffic and all the restaurants put tables and chairs onto the streets. The atmosphere is one of great anticipation and excitement. I’ve booked a table right opposite the Amphitheatre, so if we’re lucky we’ll see the stars arriving. We must be there on time, though, or they’ll give the table to someone else.”

  “Let’s get moving.”

  *****

  The restaurant was one of three that faced, from across the road, the entrance to the amphitheatre, which was used as the stage door on the evening of performances. The road around the amphitheatre was closed and only cars used by performers were allowed access. This gave Imogen and Ned a clear view of all the arrivals. Taking their seats, they studied the Menu Chorégies – a limited menu served only on Chorégies evenings, when everyone ate around the same time.

 
*****

  “Can’t say I’ve recognised anyone yet,” said Ned, after their food had been served. “Mind you, there’s only one real star: Genevieve Tian, the mezzo Carmen. Most of the others are pretty good, though – what I call workhorses. Still, who needs star singers when one’s sitting beneath the real stars, eating a superb daube and sipping a surprisingly good claret. This is really my type of evening.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Yes, an excited hum from the punters, wonderful dining, good music to come and all on a warm summer’s evening. I was made for this kind of life.”

  “I’m sure it would bore you eventually,” said Imogen.

  “Yes, but that would be a long time coming. Now, who’s this arriving?”

  It was the arrival of the tenor, Michel Picault. He was to sing the role of Don José, the young soldier who falls in love with Carmen, then tragically murders her when she later rejects him. He stepped from his limousine to an excited chorus of “Bravo” from diners and onlookers, plus much applause. He waved, before signing some autographs.

  “That’s amazing,” said Imogen, grabbing Ned’s arm. “Look.”

  “I am looking,” said Ned.

  “The couple standing by Picault. The ones who got out of the car after him. The woman is Sabine.” Imogen’s voice rose in excitement.

  “What, Sabine Devergne?”

  “Exactly, and she’s here. With Picault. I can’t believe it.”

  “Well, you’d better believe it.” Ned’s voice had a hard edge as he looked intently at the couple. “So, no musical connections, eh? I’d think that arriving in the same car as the tenor would indicate that you’re pretty well in, wouldn’t you? Unless she’s having an affair with him.”

  “No. He’s married. His wife has just had a baby – which is why, I suppose, she isn’t here.”

  “Who’s the other bloke?”

  “I don’t know. I wish Sebastian was here. I bet he’d know. He knows everyone.”

  “Take a photo with your phone. You can send it to him.”

  “Good idea.” Imogen rummaged in her bag.

  “Quick,” said Ned, “they’re going in.”

  Imogen stood and, by leaning to one side, managed to snatch a photo of the mystery chap just before he was ushered through the door into the amphitheatre. “Got it.”

  “Brilliant. So you’ll send it to Sebastian?”

  “Done. I can’t wait to see what he comes up with.”

  “Nor can I. Changing tack a little, we just have time for a glace while Picault warms his vocal chords up. What do you fancy? Ananas? Or maybe pistache?”

  *****

  “Fabulous seats,” said Ned, as he and Imogen settled in Row D of the stalls with a perfect view of the orchestra and the stage. By now, night had fallen and the orchestra pit glowed in the dark. Looking up behind them, they could see several thousand people seated on the stone banks of the amphitheatre.

  “What do you expect when Sebastian is in charge?” Imogen said, before sighing softly. “Don’t you just love that buzz of anticipation that comes from so many excited people sitting together?”

  “Yes, it’s fabulous.” Ned sounded distracted. “There she is,” he said. “Second row, over there on the right.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Devergne. I’ve been looking for her. She’s with the same bloke.”

  “So she is. You’re a very good spy.”

  “I’m just very suspicious. Think about it. We’ve gone from a murdered opera singer to a mystery phrase, which led us to a French author who now appears to be connected to an opera singer.”

  Imogen laughed. “Doesn’t that mean we’re back where we started?”

  “No, it means we’re making progress. Anyhow, here’s the conductor. Just listen to that applause. It’s like a role of thunder.”

  *****

  “A world-class performance, if ever I heard one. And what a fabulous atmosphere. Perfect for an opera like Carmen,” said Ned, as they left.

  “I loved it. I always find it so sad that just when Don José resolves to do the right thing by going back to his regiment, he has to hide and his fate is then sealed. I wish the sergeant had come knocking just half an hour later, then Don José wouldn’t have got into trouble.”

  “Ah, but that’s tragedy for you. It wouldn’t be half as exciting if Don José had just gone back to the barracks like a good little soldier, would it? No, he had to have his life ruined.”

  “Drat.”

  “Pardon?” said Ned

  “Look over there. That car pulling away. Sabine Devergne and her consort are in it. I had hoped to sort of casually bump into her and see what she’s up to. Just my luck.”

  “Never mind,” said Ned. “I’ve got a much better idea.”

  “Which is?”

  “I spotted a rather nice little bar on the way here. I wouldn’t mind a nightcap.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Just a little brandy. A cognac to celebrate the fact that we’re in France.”

  “Now, why didn’t I think of that?”

  *****

  “I take it you’ve heard nothing from Sebastian,” said Ned, as they enjoyed a leisurely petit déjeuner in the courtyard of the hotel the following morning.

  “No, but then he’s very erratic when it comes to checking his phone or computer at weekends. I may give him a ring at the office tomorrow, just to update him and to see if he recognised the chap.”

  “I’ll be very interested to hear. He must be a key player in our plot.”

  “He may be, not must be,” said Imogen. “I’ll ring you when I find out and let you know. Then, you can decide just where he fits into things.”

  “Don’t talk about me going back. I’m just so happy sitting in this little courtyard, drinking coffee, eating croissants and with the sun warming my back. Whenever I look up, I see the bluest sky with the very occasional white cloud floating across. I can’t bear to think about London.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Fortunately, I’ve had a very good idea that will soften the blow,” said Ned.

  “And that is?”

  “Well, I couldn’t help noticing in the guidebook that there’s a rather wonderful Michelin-starred restaurant just outside Orange. It’s a château, actually. I thought we could make a little detour for lunch on the way back to Avignon. It will stop me getting hungry on the train.”

  “A sandwich will do that.”

  “I know, but we are in France and it would be a shame to miss such an opportunity.”

  “Okay. If you give me their number, I’ll ring them and see if they’ve got a table,” said Imogen.

  “Actually, I’ve already done that. And guess what? They had a table, so I booked it.” Ned’s grin was triumphant.

  “I should have known better than to think I was actually being consulted. Won’t it be rather expensive?”

  “My treat. To celebrate.”

  Imogen felt uneasy. Surely Ned couldn’t be thinking of proposing. That was the last thing she wanted at this moment in time. “Celebrate what?” she asked.

  “I’ll work that out by the time we get there.”

  Imogen relaxed. As usual, Ned was playing games.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Imogen.” Sebastian was on the phone the following afternoon. “How are you? I got your review of Carmen. I’m thinking of feeding a review out to the dailies – you know, that Opera London is there even if no one else is. We can do the full article later.”

  “Sounds good. Everything’s fine here. Did you get the photo I sent you?”

  “Yup, he’s Gilles Parterre. Not someone very high-profile in the opera world. More of a production adviser than a musician. I think he’s a local man. I’ve he
ard of him because he worked on a production I reviewed in Paris, but I’ve never met him. I can get you more detail if you need it. Why are you interested in him?”

  “Well, there’s quite a bit of fuss surrounding him. Photos being taken, that sort of thing. I wanted to put a name to a face,” said Imogen.

  “You could always have a chat with him,” said Sebastian.

  “I think I might.”

  “I’ll get his details and send them to you. It’s always good to increase one’s circle of contacts. I mean, look at me.”

  “Quite.”

  *****

  It was actually very easy, Imogen found, to arrange the interview with Gilles Parterre. His reply was friendly and open, suggesting that they meet soon as he would shortly be travelling to Italy to work on a production in Rome. Most importantly, he spoke very good English. Imogen spent a couple more days in Avignon, attending some of the events there, then took the high-speed TGV train to Aix-en-Provence, where Gilles was staying. Aix had been one of the places on her itinerary anyway, as it had one of the biggest music festivals in the South of France.

  Things had turned out surprisingly well, Imogen reflected, as the train sped down towards Aix, alongside the stunning view of the Mont Sainte-Victoire – the mountain Cézanne so loved to paint. Meeting Sabine had been fascinating; the Chorégies were incredible; she had loved revisiting St. Rémy; and now she was about to meet an unknown, handsome Frenchman in the loveliest of French towns, Aix. All in all, a good trip – although she felt a twinge of guilt that none of it had really moved them any closer to finding out who had murdered Elodie Dufrais and thereby helping Frédéric. Still, something may come out of it all, she mused. There certainly seemed to be links between the various strands of their investigation. They just needed more pieces of the puzzle.

  On arrival, Imogen checked into her hotel. It was a small logis that wasn’t too expensive, but fortunately was situated quite close to the Cours Mirabeau, the famous artery that runs through the centre of Aix. Prices were high in Aix during the festival, so there was no possibility of staying in any of the more luxurious establishments.