Classical Murder Read online

  *****

  Gilles Parterre was, it had to be said, extremely attractive, in an arty, laid-back way. He was tall and slim and wore an open-necked, black, long-sleeved shirt and dark denim trousers, which were very slim fitting. She guessed he was in his mid to late thirties. His dark brown hair was quite long, and curled over his ears and neck. He wore dark glasses, which he tilted upwards as he rose to shake hands with Imogen. His brown eyes had a sparkle and his full mouth curved up, giving Imogen the impression that he was rather fun.

  Imogen, feeling nervous and not knowing what to expect, had gone for a rather smart look. She wore a straight, black, cotton skirt, a floral short-sleeved shirt in blues and yellows, and black patent pumps. She had left her hair loose, but pulled back on one side with a gold barrette.

  Gilles had suggested meeting at this small café, which was in the older part of the town, close to the Musée Granet, where a major exhibition of Cézanne’s works was showing. It was a charming part of Aix, with narrow streets and tall, grey stone houses, dating from the 16th to 18th centuries. Many of the houses now contained shops or offices on the lower floors, while the upper floors were dwellings, usually with pretty balconies. Most of the doors leading onto the balconies were open during the day and one could hear music or television commentary coming from them. Pots of geraniums adorned nearly every balcony. It was an enchanting area.

  “Madame Charles?” Gilles smiled, as they shook hands. It was a friendly, open smile.

  “Yes. Hello!”

  “It is a great pleasure for me to meet you.” What was it about these Frenchmen that made Imogen blush?

  “Let’s sit over here,” said Gilles, indicating a table at the back of the café. “It’s quieter and we can talk more easily. Shall we order first?”

  “Oh, just a coffee for me, thank you.”

  Gilles signalled to the waiter and ordered two coffees. He had such a macho presence that Imogen didn’t like to suggest that she should do the ordering.

  “Thank you so much for agreeing to meet me,” said Imogen.

  “No, I should thank you,” said Gilles, smiling. “I am delighted, as I hardly ever get asked to do an interview and I quite like to show off.”

  “Well, that’s very good to hear,” said Imogen, laughing. She felt a release of the tension she often experienced when interviewing someone she had never met.

  “It is my work that interests you, non?” said Gilles.

  “Yes,” said Imogen. “As I explained to you, I work for Opera London magazine. I have brought you a copy.” She passed a copy of the magazine to Gilles and he leafed through it. “I have come to Provence to do some preparatory work on a book about writers and artists living in Provence. I saw the production of Carmen in Orange. I thought it was terrific.”

  “Thank you. My trade is that of a musician – I play the saxophone – but much of my work is as a consultant to music venues. Does this fit into your definition of writers and artists? I am not, after all, famous.” He laughed. “Although I like to think that I am quite important.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Good. I would be very disappointed if you left me out now that I know about it!”

  Imogen felt herself warming to Gilles. He was such good fun compared with most of the self-important artists she was used to interviewing. “I’m sure, also, that you are acquainted with many of the artistic people living in the area,” she said. “Sabine Devergne, for example. I interviewed her last week. I noticed you were with her at the Chorégies.” Imogen watched Gilles closely as she brought Sabine into the conversation, wondering how he would react. She needn’t have worried.

  “Ah, yes. I’m definitely acquainted with Sabine.” He laughed as he said this and Imogen had no doubt that Sabine was more than a close friend.

  Imogen bit her lip. She couldn’t decide whether she dared pursue the subject of Sabine any further. “Madame Devergne is not involved in the music world, however?” she ventured.

  “Not directly, no. Although she did start out as a musician.” Imogen nearly let her coffee cup slip onto the table. She tried not to let Gilles see how interesting she found this information.

  “Oh, really?” she said. “She didn’t refer to it during our interview.”

  “Sabine comes from Nice. She studied music there before she became a writer.”

  “I have seen no mention of that.”

  “I think her musical career was something of a disappointment, so she prefers to see herself as a writer now – and a very successful one.”

  “Did she play an instrument?”

  “She was a singer, mainly, I think, but you should discuss it with her. I’m not completely sure. I just know she gave it up to write.”

  “Whereas you are still a musician.”

  “I like to think so, but, as with all musicians, it can be difficult to make a living and that is why I work as a consultant. Plus, of course, it is a fact that I have always had an interest in the technical side of productions.”

  “So, tell me about this production of Carmen. What exactly was your input?”

  *****

  “It’s good to see you back,” said Ned, when Imogen opened the door to him on the evening of her return from France.

  “Is that because you miss my cooking?”

  “I cannot tell a lie. I did miss your cooking, but I’m also glad to see you. It’s less fun when you’re away.” Ned reddened a little, but Imogen just laughed. “Did you bring back some Roquefort, by the way?” he continued, hurriedly. “I’ve got a very good wine to complement it. I decided it just had to be a Bordeaux.”

  “Yes, I remembered the Roquefort. I also managed to pick up some excellent walnut bread to go with it. Sometimes it’s difficult not to feel like a packhorse.”

  “Never mind, at least you’re a well-fed one. Let me get some plates and cutlery.”

  *****

  “Parfait,” declared Ned, after they’d demolished the Roquefort and most of the wine he’d bought to accompany it. “Now, let’s get down to business. The crucial fact you’ve established is that Sabine does have a musical background – she studied at a music college in Nice. I’d love to know exactly what she studied.”

  “Do we need to know that?”

  “If she was involved in opera, it would be very relevant to our cause. Don’t forget that it was Sabine who used the same words that Elodie used when she was dying.”

  “True. What intrigues me is why she chooses to hide her musical background.”

  “Gallic pride? Perhaps failure doesn’t go hand in hand with her image as a highly intellectual novelist.”

  “No, I’m sure there’s more to it than that. I don’t know why, exactly, but that was the impression I got from Gilles.”

  “If it were possible, it would be worth interviewing her again to explore that angle.”

  “She’s not an easy interviewee. She may be charming, but there’d be no possibility of delving into anything she wanted to keep quiet. There is just a possibility I could see her again, though.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, as I mentioned a while ago, the concept of writing a book on creative people living in Provence has become more and more attractive. I definitely think that when Sebastian gets back from Italy, I’ll try to take a sabbatical – say, a month – and go back down there to interview some more people. It would be as much for my own interest as for publication. I have some savings, so I think I can just about afford it.”

  “I’m all in favour of it,” said Ned.

  “Surely you’d miss our little meals à deux?”

  “Of course, but I could take some leave and make up for it with a few beanos in France. Anyway, maybe you’d miss me for once?”

  *****

  It was actually good to be back in the office, Imo
gen found. She enjoyed catching up on all the gossip. At first, she didn’t feel it was right to broach the subject of a sabbatical the day of her return, but by mid-afternoon, she had decided to get it off her chest while she and Sebastian were having coffee.

  “You see, Sebastian, I’ve got this idea and now it’s taken hold,” she said. “I realised while I was in Provence that it could work very well.”

  “So you’re proposing to desert me.”

  “Well, you will have this other chap. What’s his name?”

  “Tarquin, I think.” Sebastian sounded very gloomy. “He’s probably useless. I only said he could come as a favour to a friend. A very bossy friend. I suppose he’ll make the tea. I never dreamt you wouldn’t be here or I’d have said no.”

  “Don’t sulk, Sebastian, I’m sure he’ll be great. All these young people are brilliant with technology. And just think: you won’t be paying him or me, so you’ll be saving lots of money. I can leave a stock of articles if I get stuck in before I go.”

  “I bow under the weight of your arguments, as you always knew I would.”

  “You really are a sweetie, Sebastian. It’s going to be wonderful. And I’m sure that a lot of the material I gather will be suitable for use in the magazine.”

  *****

  “So how are you going to organise things?” asked Ned.

  “Well, Sebastian is back in the third week of August and Tarquin, the student, starts a few days later. I thought I’d wait until the following week to settle him in, then try to rent a small flat or something down in Provence for a month. I’ll probably just go down and see what accommodation I can find. Although it’s still fairly busy down there in September, a lot of people will have gone back for la rentrée. I feel that I should stay to help with Tarquin out of fairness. Sebastian is already calling him ‘The Squirt’.”

  “Not very promising,” Ned said, laughing.

  “Exactly.”

  “Will a month be long enough?”

  “It will if I get a lot of work in beforehand,” said Imogen. “Then, I can spend most of my time down there interviewing. I am going to be busy, though. I promised Sebastian that I’d leave the Provence articles and some others ready for him before I go.”

  “Yes, you haven’t got much time. Perhaps I could take over the catering for a bit.”

  “Great. I’ll also need your help with preparing some material for the interviews. You know how ropey my French is and I can’t rely on everyone speaking fluent English.”

  “So I’m in charge of education and catering?”

  “Yes, and I don’t want too many rich sauces. I don’t want to get too fat before I go.”

  “Don’t worry. A few games of tennis will put paid to that.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “Imogen,” Sebastian’s voice was in stressed mode, “can you come here a moment? This Tarquin chap is in reception. I suppose we’ll have to do something with him.”

  “Do you mean that I ought to do something with him?”

  “That’s very sweet of you. I’m sure you’ll be much better at handling him than I would.”

  Imogen took the lift down. She realised when she got to reception that her task wasn’t going to be easy. Tarquin was a large, scruffy adolescent, aged around eighteen. He had obviously made an effort, as he was wearing a tie loosely knotted around an open-necked cotton shirt. Imogen had no doubt that Tarquin’s mother was responsible for that. It didn’t look, however, as though the effort had extended to combing his hair, which was dark and straight and worn slightly long, as though a smart cut had become overgrown. It must have been a very good friend for Sebastian to agree to the work experience.

  “Hello, you must be Tarquin. I’m Imogen. Welcome to Opera London.”

  Tarquin rose and extended his hand. He smiled at Imogen and she decided that he was, in fact, rather charming behind his baby blue eyes. Though, whether Sebastian would think the same…

  Back in the office, Imogen managed to find Sebastian behind the screen that surrounded their coffee-making facilities.

  “Sebastian, this is Tarquin.”

  “Lovely to meet you,” said Sebastian. He turned to Imogen. “Why don’t you take Sebastian and show him the ropes? I’d love to myself, but I don’t have time. I’m due to meet Robert Howard, the music journalist, for lunch. Such a shame.”

  “I can see that must be very disappointing for you, Sebastian,” said Imogen. “Well, Tarquin, let’s get a coffee and you can tell me about yourself.”

  *****

  “So what do you know about opera?” asked Imogen, when they had settled themselves at desks with coffees.

  “Not much. A bit.”

  “Are you hoping to become a journalist?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Let’s have our coffee, then I’ll show you our computer systems.” If the conversation didn’t flow, Imogen thought that a bit of action might help.

  *****

  “Tarquin seems a dead loss as far as office relationships go,” Imogen reported to Ned that evening, when he rang. “He has no interpersonal skills at all. It’s obvious that his mother just put pressure on Sebastian, who can’t really be bothered with him. Goodness knows what’s going to happen when I’m away.”

  “That’s their problem. How are you getting on with your plans?”

  “Pretty well. I got Tarquin to check a few facts for me. He certainly knows his way around a computer. At least that means that Sebastian won’t have to call in the technicians when he crashes his – which he often does. There is one thing I’ve thought of, by the way. I’d like your opinion on it.”

  “Is this a first?”

  “Probably. I wondered if I ought to get in touch with Frédéric. Just to tell him about my sabbatical. I also feel I ought to report rather a lack of progress on his letters.”

  “To be fair, we have made some progress. We’ve unearthed Sabine Devergne. I don’t think I’d tell him what we’ve found out, though. Just in case he snitches to someone. I really don’t trust him.”

  “No, I won’t. Although I don’t think he’ll want to discuss this with many people. I’ll have to find out where he is. I haven’t seen anything in the press and I don’t suppose he’s still with Philip.”

  “Well, wherever he is, I wouldn’t meet with him alone or anywhere remote.”

  “You really have such an imagination.”

  “No, I’m just hugely sensible.”

  *****

  Frédéric had moved to an apartment in Bayswater. It was a lower ground floor flat within a large terraced house just off the Bayswater Road. Imogen rang the doorbell and Frédéric answered the door. As ever, he was smartly dressed in a navy and white striped, long-sleeved shirt and navy cotton trousers. Imogen was wearing a cream shift dress and a pale pink, cashmere cardigan. Her shoes were beige strappy sandals and, to complete the look, she wore a cream and pink silk scarf.

  “Come in,” said Frédéric. “It is so good to see you. Here, come into the salon.”

  Imogen followed Frédéric into the salon, or drawing room, which was spacious and had wide doors leading onto a pretty garden. The decor was smart, but traditional, with cream embossed silk curtains and pale blue velvet sofas. The paintings on the walls looked original, in the style of 17th-century Dutch painters such as Vermeer.

  “This is a lovely room,” said Imogen.

  “Yes. This apartment belongs to a friend of mine. I have borrowed it while he is away. I didn’t want to stay in a hotel and I couldn’t impose on Philip any longer, even though he said he was happy to have me staying with him. Why don’t you sit where you can see the garden?” He gestured towards a chair and Imogen sat down. As she did, she noticed a pink silk glove on the console table beside the chair.

  “What a pretty glove,” she said.
/>   Frédéric’s face fell. He seemed to find it difficult to speak. “Yes, it was Elodie’s,” he said, eventually. “She wore the pair in a production of La Traviata in Paris. She sang Violetta. It was her first major role. She was very upset because she somehow lost the other glove. I keep it there to remind me of her.”

  Imogen didn’t know what to say.

  “But I forget myself,” said Frédéric. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine. I thought I would come to see you to let you know that I am going to be in France for a month. I will be doing some background work on a book I am researching. I may not, therefore, be in touch. I have been doing some work on the letters. It’s rather slow, I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t worry. It can’t make any difference. I am very grateful to you, as I feel I don’t need to concern myself with them any longer.”

  “You must be finding it hard to get back to any sort of normality. It must be so difficult to start to move on when you still don’t know what happened.”

  “Yes, that is exactly how it is. But now, more than ever in my life, I am finding solace in music. Some of the composers I have always loved, like Beethoven, and some that I shared with Elodie. We loved Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro. It was one of our favourite operas. We used to laugh at the tricks the lovers played on each other and promise never to do the same. Sometimes, we would sing together – maybe a duet such as ‘O soave fanciulla’ from La Bohème. I can’t tell you how much I miss her. I keep wondering who would want to do this to her. She could be fiery, yes, but to kill her… I just can’t imagine it. She never had such enemies.”

  Frédéric was close to breaking down. Imogen’s heart went out to him.

  “One thing I would like to ask you,” she said, in an attempt to move the conversation on, “is about the time that Elodie spent in Nice as part of her training. Do you know anything about where or when that was, or exactly what she studied? All her biographical notes seem to be very vague on this point.”