‘Of course. A girl has to be ready at a moment’s notice in this town. Surely you’re beginning to realise that, my dear friend?’
Chapter 11
GARE DU NORD TRAIN STATION, PARIS
Charlie weaved along the platform between the barrels of roasting chestnuts, accordion players and newspaper stands until she reached the second-class cabins. Violet was nowhere to be seen, so she craned her neck to look up the platform past a juggling clown and a huddled family with three toddlers. Sure enough, right behind the engine room near the first-class carriage stood Violet. Her monogrammed leather suitcase and matching hat box were stacked neatly beside her. They’d both ducked home to pack overnight bags. Violet wore a yellow two-piece suit nipped in at the waist that seemed to be printed with black-eyed Susans, and black kitten heels with matching hat and gloves.
‘Keeping it subtle for the crime scene,’ quipped Charlie as she dropped her duffel bag onto the platform and greeted her friend with a kiss to each cheek. ‘Of course you wrangled first-class seats.’
‘Well, I have George’s expenses budget.’
‘Yes, but there are two of us.’
‘I know, silly, that’s why I took four envelopes.’ She winked.
The whistle blew and the women climbed the steps into the carriage, a kind porter handing their bags to them.
‘Merci,’ Violet said to the porter as she tipped him. ‘And I think we shall need a bottle of Krug,s’il vous plait.’ After he replied in accented French, she switched to another language and gave further instructions in staccato fashion as she slid open the wooden door to their compartment.
‘Russian?’ Charlie guessed. ‘I thought you said you didn’t speak much Russian.’
‘I speak enough. More since meeting Aleksandr, and certainly enough to ask if they have any caviar.’
‘Of course, the staples.’ Charlie chuckled, thinking about the banana and strawberry jam baguette she’d folded into a serviette and packed into her bag. She’d need to eat to concentrate. The hours on crime scenes could be long as various police officers and medical experts attended and left, and it was important to hang around just back from the tape to see if you could make any informal connections.
The whistle blew and they were off. Charlie and Violet sat on opposite sides of the compartment, each with their own leather banquette, a cedar table between them. The dark wood of the doors and table was shiny and polished with the slightest hint of beeswax and lemon. The platform clicked away and with it,a sea of people waving their farewells. One young woman in a polka dot dress ran alongside the cabin behind them, flapping a pink handkerchief, her face streaming with tears. Charlie wasn’t sure what she admired most, this woman’s open display of love and vulnerability, or her ability to run the length of a platform in heels.
The polka dots faded and two minutes later, the porter appeared with a silver ice bucket containing the promised Krug.
Violet hoisted the champagne from the bucket and poured them each a glass.
‘Just the one for me, thank you, Violet. You are always so generous, but I need to rest and have my wits about me when we get to Tours.’
‘We have a couple of hours, but yes, I trust you to know your limits. I just wanted to make a toast to our first work excursion together out of the city.’
‘I believe my first excursion with you was a trip out of the city to Lady Ashworth’s ball at Versailles.’
Violet’s smile faltered for a beat. ‘Let’s hope this one turns out better than the last.’
‘That visit also started with a dead body,’ said Charlie. She pushed her champagne to one side and took out her notebook to run her eye over the notes she’d taken in George’s office on the case so far.
‘To be fair, I did not know a guest was going to be murdered.’
‘Fair,’ agreed Charlie.
‘You look sad. I mean, sadder than normal when you are working on these ghastly stories.’
Charlie tapped her notebook with her pen and shrugged. ‘I have to focus on this new case as there are no leads on Maisy Bell’s disappearance. Forged traveller’s cheques. A grieving aunt. What if there really is a monster out there—a Bluebeard—and Maisy is locked somewhere in a dungeon?’
Violet put down her glass and pulled her ponytail over one shoulder to run her fingers through it as she considered this. When she spoke, it was gentle.
‘Charlie, you said yourself the opera we saw was sanitised. The real Bluebeard took what he wanted from his wives, then killed them.’
Charlie shivered. ‘Monster.’
‘Monster,’ agreed Violet as she put her hand over Charlie’s. ‘You tried all angles. I get that Maisy Bell is under your skin, we canallsee it. But right now, we are on a train for a totally different story. This time weknowthe victim is dead. George sentyouto get the facts. Not one of the other reporters fromThe Times—you.
‘Charlie James, you are an excellent reporter, and one unresolved story does not a failure make. You are not the police. I’m sure your … friend Inspecteur Bernard is not dismissing his entire career as a failure because he could not crack the Maisy Bell case.’