Classical Murder Page 7

  “No, I am not sure. She never really spoke about it. It was very early on – her initial training, I believe. Most of her training took place in Paris. She was born in Marseille. Why do you ask?”

  “One or two references in the letters made me wonder about it. I’m sure it’s nothing.” Imogen rose. “If you don’t mind, I had better be going. I have a lot to do before I go to Provence.”

  “How lovely. I am so fond of the aria that Verdi wrote about Provence in La Traviata. So moving. Well, good luck with your work and let me know if you are in Paris. I hope to be there myself before long.”

  *****

  “I feel so sorry for him,” said Imogen to Ned, later that day. “He is desperately lonely. He doesn’t seem to have anyone close to rely on. Why on earth would anyone want to kill Elodie? I really think it would help him if he could answer that question. I worry, too, that he might be in danger. How do we know that whoever killed Elodie isn’t after him, too?”

  “Don’t fall for the sob story. If he killed her himself, then he’s perfectly safe.”

  “You’re so mean.”

  “Lean and hungry, more like it. I’m a working man, I need to eat. By the way, before we embark upon the hugely important topic of dinner, did Junot say anything about Nice?”

  “Not really. He knew that she had been there briefly, but he didn’t seem to know much more. I assume they met in Paris – on the opera circuit. Don’t forget that they had only been together for a few years, if that.”

  “We must be more forensic. Facts. That’s what we need.”

  “That’s what I’m really hoping to get in Provence.”

  “We also need to know who is going to wash the lamb’s lettuce and who will make the frittata. There’s also the little matter of the Côtes de Rhone.”

  “Just one more thing,” said Imogen.

  “Yes?”

  “Frédéric mentioned that he has a large apartment in Paris. He invited me to stay.”

  “I bet he did,” said Ned.

  “No, he meant if I was working in the area. It’s just that it could be useful if I wanted to find anything out in Paris.”

  “No, thank you very much, Frédéric. There are plenty of wonderful hotels in Paris.”

  “You’re crazy,” said Imogen. “Let’s get dinner.”

  As she walked into the kitchen, however, she reflected that maybe Ned was right. She didn’t really want to get involved with Frédéric – or did she? Is it just his vulnerability that’s attracting me? she asked herself. Whatever it is, I’ve promised myself not to fall into another crazy relationship for a very long time – and then there’s Ned, too. He’s very sweet, but… I really don’t know. She started to wash the salad.

  *****

  Imogen felt that quite a bit of the preliminary work she needed to complete her book could be done in London. She managed to get Sebastian to agree to let her use Tarquin – mainly, she knew, because this would keep Tarquin out of Sebastian’s way. She decided to take Tarquin out to lunch before she left to fill him in on what she was trying to do – not just with the book, but extending it a little to cover Frédéric’s letters. She felt that there was a chance that she might come across something that needed checking while in Provence , and that it would be useful if Tarquin could do it for her. She had to be careful, of course, not to let him know what was really behind such work.

  They went to a small restaurant in the Covent Garden piazza, where Imogen knew the staff well. She found Tarquin to be more communicative out of the office.

  “So,” she asked, after the waitress had taken their order and brought some drinks, “how have you found your time at Opera London so far? Just about bearable? Or not at all bearable?”

  “Okay, actually,” he replied. “It’s quite cool to do all the research and then see it become an article.”

  “Yes, of course, but you must do that, in a way, with your college work. Haven’t you just finished A levels?”

  “Yeah, but it’s not as interesting as this. A levels are all books. This is real life – well, sort of.”

  “So what’s the next step going to be?” she asked, offering Tarquin some more chips. She had noticed that the pile on his plate had disappeared, despite the flow of conversation.

  “I haven’t decided. I’m having a gap year, then wondering whether to go straight into music journalism. I quite like opera, in fact.”

  “You’ll be doing me out of a job,” said Imogen, laughing.

  “Maybe,” said Tarquin. Imogen almost wondered if he was serious. “I’m so glad you’re going to France.”

  “How do you mean?” said Imogen, not knowing whether to be affronted.

  “Well, I know that Sebastian only let me do work experience at Opera London because he’s known my mother for years, so I felt really awkward about it. In fact, I told my parents that I wasn’t going to do it at first. But with you going away, and all the research and planning, I’m actually useful, and I can see that that will happen even more while you’re away. I’m really grateful to you.”

  *****

  “Great,” said Imogen to Ned, some hours later. They had decided to stroll up to Highgate and have dinner in one of the bistros. They could walk past Highgate Cemetery, where Karl Marx was buried, then go through Waterlow Park and look out over the huge panorama of London. It was a beautiful evening for such a walk. The air was warm and the sky was still a radiant blue, even at eight in the evening.

  “What’s great?” asked Ned.

  “That Tarquin is going to be very happy, owing to the fact that I’m going to be away for a month.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Ned. “I can see what he means. He’s keen to show what he can do, rather than be a spare part.”

  “I suppose so, but he could have been more tactful.”

  “I don’t think that adolescent boys are very tactful.”

  “Sometimes even grown-up boys aren’t.”

  “I can’t think of to whom you could possibly be referring,” said Ned, laughing. “Come on. Last one up the hill pays for dinner.” He started to sprint away from Imogen.

  “I thought you said you’d pay as it’s our last dinner before I go away,” called Imogen. “Anyway, I can’t run in these stupid heels.”

  CHAPTER 9

  It was easy to get from the train to the hotel in Avignon, especially on such a lovely day. Imogen didn’t need a cab. It was just a stroll from the station, through the gate in the walls of the old town, and then a short distance along the main street. The street was lined by shops, but was wide and shaded by tall trees, so didn’t have the feel of a busy shopping centre. At the top of the street, one arrived in a large open square, with the usual cafés and rows of chairs and tables. As it was midday, people were just beginning to be seated for lunch, and Imogen had no doubt they would still be there some hours later.

  The square abutted the famous Palais des Papes, the wonderful example of Gothic architecture that was constructed in the 13th century and was home to popes until the late 14th century. This, in turn, looked onto the famous bridge over the Rhone that featured in the song ‘Sur le Pont d’Avignon’, which Imogen and her younger siblings, Jessica and Edward, used to sing whenever they visited the city.

  Imogen’s hotel was tucked into a side street just beside the square. After checking in, and a short rest, Imogen decided to go for a stroll. She wandered up the path by the side of the Palais and onto the ramparts, from where she could view the bridge on the river. There were a lot of tourists around, both on the bridge and the river, which gave a busy feel to the area. However, the sky was blue and the air was warm, which made Imogen feel very relaxed. Returning to the hotel, she started chatting with a young girl on reception. She was called Marie. Encouraged by Marie’s friendliness, Imogen asked her about the best way to find accommodatio
n in or near St. Rémy for the next few weeks.

  *****

  “I love it here,” said Imogen to Ned. “It’s warm, and less crowded than in July, though there are still plenty of tourists on the main sites. It’s much more French, if you know what I mean.”

  “I love it here, too,” said Ned. “We had quite a bit of rain yesterday. You must be crazy going to France.”

  “There’s a very sweet girl called Marie working as a receptionist in the hotel. She thinks she knows of a studio flat to rent in Eygalières, a village close to St. Rémy – it’s hugely fashionable. She’s going to let me know in the morning. She’s a local girl, a student doing part-time work, so she’s well connected. I would trust her recommendation. If it works out, it will save me from having to find an agency, or deal with someone I don’t know from the local papers or the internet.”

  “Sounds good. Make sure it’s got room for two. I’m going to be needing a bit of that warm climate before long.”

  *****

  Imogen was eating her breakfast the following morning when Marie approached her. She was wearing her own clothes – pink trousers and a white T-shirt – as she hadn’t yet started her shift, so looked more the young student than hotel receptionist. This was doubly so since she had tied her long fair hair up into a very high ponytail.

  After exchanging their bonjours, and Marie checking whether Imogen had slept well, Marie said, “I have spoken to my acquaintance – she is actually a friend of my parents. She does have a small studio flat that is empty at the moment. She usually rents it out for the whole winter, but if you want to move in straightaway, then that will be fine as it may take a while to organise a longer let. I can, if you are interested, drive you there this morning. I know her well and it will be lovely to see her.”

  Marie and Imogen set off for Eygalières at around 10am. They took the road south towards St. Rémy and then followed the line of the Alpilles to the East. It couldn’t have been a more perfect morning for such a drive. Imogen relished the warm air coming through the open car windows, which was fragrant with herbs and the smell of lavender, even though it was late in the season. They drove past vineyards and fields full of the last of the sunflowers – or tournesols, as the French call them, due to the way they turn to face the sun as the day progresses. They also heard the noisy cry of the cicadas everywhere – the keynote of Provence – before fading.

  After following the road east for five minutes, Marie turned south again – this time along a minor road, which wound its way through vineyards towards the foothills of the Alpilles. The road was narrow and began to climb as they reached Eygalières, threading through wooded terrain. The village was perched on top of a hill, very like Gordes and the chic villages of the Luberon. On the lower slopes were some modern houses. Imogen noticed a school and some tennis courts. The older part of the village was in the centre, right on top of a mound, and the road here became very narrow and steep.

  “It can become impossible to get up here in July and August,” explained Marie. “Especially if it is a day when there is something special happening, like the bulls running or a band playing. Now, of course, things are quieter.”

  Marie parked the car in a small clearing right in the centre of the village. They walked a little way along what was the main street, which consisted of small terraced houses and a couple of shops. They stopped at a house situated just before the road gave way to a gravel path, which led out onto the side of the Alpilles.

  Like the others in the street, it was a small house, built of grey stone. Imogen noticed a gate at the side, through which she glimpsed a pretty little courtyard garden. She could sense the excitement welling up inside her. This was exactly the sort of place she had dreamed of renting.

  The front door, painted pale blue, was opened by a woman who looked to be in her late fifties. Impeccably dressed, she was wearing a boho-style, calf-length skirt in navy and silver grey and a pretty white cotton shirt that was tucked in. Her hair, which was grey, was swept up into a French pleat, and she wore several rows of heavy, wooden beads. Smiling, she gave the impression of a stylish, well-put-together woman.

  “Bonjour,” she said, offering her hand to Imogen. “You must be Imogen. I am Estelle. And you, of course, are Marie.” She laughed as she hugged Marie. Estelle opened the front door wider and Imogen and Marie entered. Imogen could see that it was a simple house, but a very pretty one. The ground floor was open plan and decorated in the Provençal style, with toile de jouy fabrics and a white dining table and chairs. Estelle opened the door that led into the garden, which, as Imogen had already seen, was a small courtyard, shaded by olive trees and with pots overflowing with geraniums.

  “Let me show you the apartment first, then we can have a drink,” said Estelle.

  Imogen was falling in love with the place already. The main steps to the apartment were at the side of the house, although it could also be accessed from within. Similar to the accommodation on the ground floor, but with a raised gallery for a bed and a separate shower room, it was enchanting. Imogen had to have it. She went to the window, which looked out across to the Alpilles, and caught the scent of herbs drifting in on the warm breeze. She turned to Estelle.

  “It’s perfect.”

  *****

  “I can’t believe my luck. It’s so pretty and peaceful. Estelle won’t be there most of the time. She’s about to go back to Paris after spending the summer down here. I caught her just in time. The rent is very reasonable and she’s happy for me to stay for just a month. It means that I’m there to look after it while she organises a longer let. She wasn’t fussed about references because I showed her my passport and some of the articles I’d written.”

  “I’m hoping to get down there pretty soon,” said Ned.

  “There’s plenty of room. Estelle is happy for me to use the whole house if I have guests.”

  “I’m perfectly okay sharing your studio, actually.”

  “Let’s see,” laughed Imogen, cautious as to how the relationship would progress when Ned came down. “I’m taking my stuff over tomorrow morning. Marie is very kindly giving me a lift, again, and then we are going out to lunch. Estelle and I are treating Marie to thank her for organising it.”

  “I’ll be thinking of you while I’m here, slaving away.”

  “I’ll be working, too. I’m going to visit Victor Dufot – the music historian – in a couple of days.”

  “Wow, you’re starting with a heavyweight.”

  “Yes, I know. I only have so much time, so I thought I might as well go for it. He’s so distinguished, though, I’m shaking in my shoes!”

  “Prepare well and you’ll have no trouble at all. I’m sure he’ll be dazzled by your beauty and charm.”

  “I don’t know about that. Everyone in France is so well turned-out. For example Estelle, when she met me, had obviously planned her outfit to the last detail.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  *****

  The next day, Marie collected Imogen in her little Deux Chevaux and they drove back down to Eygalières. Imogen didn’t have much luggage, but it was great to be taken by car. She settled the cash side of things with Estelle as soon as they arrived at the house, then took her case upstairs and hung a few things in the wardrobe while Estelle and Marie chatted downstairs. When she came back down, Estelle gave her some keys, showed her which plants needed to be watered and left some telephone numbers for emergencies. Like so many people in the area, Estelle had a solar panel installed on the roof, which meant there was no need to fuss over hot water. The three of them then left the house, locking the door, and walked to the restaurant.

  *****

  “Oh, how pretty,” said Imogen, when she saw the restaurant. “It must be lovely here in the evening.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Estelle. “It is very popular. Not just because of the setting
, but because the food is very good. You generally need to book for the evenings, even in winter. They will no longer be open for lunch in a few days’ time, though, except at the weekends – maybe only Sunday – because so many people are leaving. That is how it is at the end of the summer.”

  They had seated themselves at a table in the middle of the grounds, as it was shaded by a large plane tree. A young woman approached their table with menus and water. She had short, dark hair that was cut into an urchin crop and huge brown eyes, and was of medium height and slim build. Her skin was smooth and tanned. She wore a white linen skirt and a skimpy black T-shirt. Not usual waitress gear, but very eye-catching – as was she. In fact, she was so beautiful that Imogen had to stop herself staring at her.

  There were many Bonjours and kisses between Marie, Estelle and the waitress. Then, Estelle turned to Imogen and said, “Let me introduce you. This is Sophie. She is a very talented artist, but, luckily for us, she also serves here. Marie and I know her well because we eat here so often. Don’t we?” She turned to Marie, looking for agreement.

  “Oh, yes,” said Marie, laughing.

  “Sophie, this is Imogen,” said Estelle. “She is going to be staying in my house, so I will tell her that she can come to you if she has any problems.”

  “But of course,” said Sophie. “I am here most days, although later in September I will be going back to Paris. Paul, the owner, will still be here, however, and I know he will help at any time.” She put her hand out to shake Imogen’s.

  Imogen, while extending her hand, replied, “Pleased to meet you,” and immediately felt very English.

  *****

  The food was excellent. A simple risotto with asparagus, followed by fruit. They each had a glass of Chablis and then sat drinking coffee afterwards, relaxing in the warm afternoon air. As they walked back to the house, Imogen had a great feeling of well-being. It was hard to believe that she was going to live in Eygalières, in the most bijoux of houses, for a whole month. She ignored the nagging at the back of her mind – would she make any progress on the letters, as she had promised Frédéric? And what was she going to do about Ned? She couldn’t keep him hanging on forever. No, for now, she just wanted to be part of life in Provence.