The judge read the note and his face dropped, as though he recognised what was written there. Had the accused killed a politician? A policeman? An officer of the court?
‘You would like me to read this out—as a matter of public record?’ The judge’s face looked sad as he addressed the accused.
‘Ja,’ replied Fischer. ‘You must, as sadly I cannot speak it, although it is most certainly true.’
The magistrate coughed and read out the lines. ‘I, Hans Fischer, current resident of Saint-Cloud, declare the American tourist, Miss Maisy Bell, is dead.’
Chapter 27
SAINT-CLOUD CENTRAL SQUARE
Autumnal skies. Low clouds. Cobblestones scattered with golden leaves. Charlie James sat waiting for Inspecteur Bernard at one of the finer bistros of Saint-Cloud during a busy lunch hour. The bistro was tucked into the corner of a cobblestoned town square with the Town Hall perched proudly at one end and the police station and courthouse at the other. From the nearest window to her little table she could see the plane trees that lined the square’s perimeter like living sculptures.
Market stalls had been set up in the middle of the square, selling local produce and refreshments. People sipped on wine or pulled apart crêpes oozing dark chocolate. Little boys kicked a soccer ball against a stone wall and their parents laughed and refilled their cups as the wind started to beat its way up from the valley.
Charlie was exhausted, though she was buoyed by the simplicity of families going about daily life. Sometimes, when she was deep in her stories, she forgot that the reason she reported on the darkness—chased it—was so people like those warming their hands on porcelain cups could move through their lives informed and cautious but happy.
She considered the Bell family and how lonely they must be. There was nothing she could do to bring back Maisy, but she had given them closure. The Bells deserved that.
A man not much older than Charlie wrapped his arm around a woman with a baby nestled against her chest. He kissed her cheek and tugged a wayward curl from her face, placing it gently behind her ear. Charlie remembered the look Aleksandr had given Violet at the opera. Simple moments of respect, longing and love. She remembered Allard’s lips at her throat, his hands in her hair, and shivered. Those had been illicit moments, not for the bright midday markets or the streets of Saint-Cloud.
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like to have someone share her everyday life: shopping for trinkets; a kiss at the markets washed down with wine. Her life had no room for idle time, days spent meandering markets or stores. When she’d come to Paris, she’d imagined she would have a postcard life. A balanced life. Violet made sure Charlie squeezed pockets of joy in, but if it weren’t for her best friend, Charlie would just work. She always felt just one failed story away from George sending her packing, back to Sydney. The newsroom chewed people up. Familyremained a distant concept. Take George’s wife, Mrs Roberts. Charlie had never met her. George didn’t mix social and work events and discouraged his staff from doing the same.
But watching the man and woman laughing, Charlie realised she wanted to create her own version of balance. She was done with her whole life being dictated by her career. It had brought her to Paris but it was time to enjoy more of that beautiful city.
Charlie squeezed her hands and forced herself to focus on her job right now. Paris would have to wait.
The restaurant itself was the epitome of provincial cosiness: fireplace in the far corner, red-checked tablecloths and rustic breadbaskets with a huge, chrome cheese trolley parked near the waiter’s station.
Inspecteur Bernard arrived, removing his hat, scarf and coat and placing them neatly on the hooks provided by the front door but keeping his satchel. This was a good sign. He waved at Charlie and a waiter led him to their table.
‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle James,’ Bernard said as he primly shook her hand, and Charlie wondered how many stories it would take for him to call her Charlie again and peck both cheeks.
‘Bonjour, Inspecteur. Thank you for meeting me in person. There’s so much to go over in this trial—’
‘Understood. I know you take your responsibility seriously and will not report anything that will influence a jury during the trial.’
‘I’ll do my best, but you and I both know we can’t control what the sentence will be. Or what the judgement reads.’
‘Even so …’ He let the words linger as he gave her a pointed look. ‘Wine?’
‘Oui. I think we could both use a drink, given the circumstances.’ The inspecteur ordered a half-carafe of white burgundy and when it came, it was accompanied by a plate of pâté, cornichons and pickled onions.
As the inspecteur poured wine into their glasses, Charlie smeared some pâté onto a slice of baguette and put a tiny cornichon on top before biting the bread in half.
Inspecteur Bernard said, ‘I wanted to share with you the details of our interview with Fischer after the debacle in the courtroom.’
Following Fischer’s mention of Maisy Bell, the court had erupted and the magistrate had ordered the accused be taken away for further questioning and investigation.
Charlie gulped. The inspecteur was back on the case due to the Maisy Bell link, but why was he being so open?
‘The accused could not be more polite and forthcoming. You saw he was wearing Jean Auclair’s braces? Well, we found Mademoiselle Bell’s shoes—size eight—stored neatly on a shoe tree in Fischer’s wardrobe. He denies it, but we have no doubt he murdered her too.’
Fischer was a serial killer. A monster. Bluebeard.
Charlie James had committed the cardinal sin of journalism. She had been unable to keep her objectivity and the Maisy Bell story had gotten under her skin—she’d taken it personally. The young Texan graduate had dreamed of having her name in lightsand being a household name in her own right; now her name was on everyone’s lips for all the wrong reasons. The American Tourist in Paris. Maisy Bell was famous.
‘Thank you for sharing this with me.’