‘Clementine Bell,’ said the woman, holding out her hand. ‘This is my twin brother, Mason. How do you know Lady Ashworth?’ She eyed Charlie’s tatty satchel tucked under the table with scepticism.
‘Long story. I’ve worked with her and we’ve become … close.’ She needed to be convincing and brief. Charlie’s relationship with Lady Ashworth was complicated, but it opened doors and mouths. ‘Please sit. Just for a moment, won’t you? Can I please order you tea? Water?’
Clementine and Mason sat down and shook their heads.
‘I’m here because our mutual friend confided in me that your niece, Maisy Bell, is missing. I’m a reporter withThe Times.’
Mason grimaced and started to stand as his already ruddy face reddened further. ‘We agreed to meet with you because of the Ashworth name, but I can see you’re wasting our time, Miss James. We do not want the press!’ He humphed. ‘We want to find Maisy.’
‘Please, call me Charlie! Just give me a minute.’ Charlie reached out and tapped Clementine on the arm. ‘I’m so sorry this has happened to you, but maybe I can help.’
‘How is that so, Miss James? Charlie,’ Clementine corrected herself. Her accent was as wide as Texas.
‘Well.’ Charlie had to think quickly. ‘I’m a fellow English speaker and foreigner—Australian—but I can speak French. I know Paris. French people can be a little … aloof with foreigners. Especially those who poke around in official police business. And the police do have their official systems. I have a lot of contacts in the Metropolitan Police.’ This wasn’t exactly false. She knew one officer on a first-name basis, and that was one more than theBells did. ‘And I’m really good at finding out the truth. I want to help you find out where your Maisy is. I’m a young woman in Paris … I can only imagine my parents’ anguish if I disappeared for a week.Please!’
Clementine’s broad face softened and she turned to her twin for reassurance. Mason gave a grudging nod.
‘Thank you.’ Charlie pulled out her notebook and one of the photographs Lady Ashworth had slipped her. If the Bell twins were curious as to how Charlie came to have photos of their niece, they didn’t show it.
‘Why don’t we start at the beginning. You were all on holidays?’
‘Not Mason, he only arrived today. Maisy and I came over the Friday before last—her father paid for a graduation trip, a month in Paris.’
‘Graduation?’
‘Yes, she graduated from Barnard,’ Clementine said proudly. ‘My alma mater. French and Drama were her majors. Maisy was going home for some auditions on Broadway after this trip.’
Charlie let the past tense hang in the air but didn’t draw attention to it. Usually, people who had just lost a loved one took time to absorb the past tense. It was as if their heads needed time to catch up to their broken hearts.
‘May I backtrack a little, just so I can get a picture of exactly who Maisy was? You said she graduated from Barnard?’ The family had money. Barnard was a prestigious liberal arts collegefor women in New York City that had links with Columbia, the fancy Ivy League school. ‘May I confirm what her parents do?’
‘Same as us. In oil,’ said Mason gruffly.
Bingo. It was just as Lady Ashworth had described.Oil.That word explained everything. Where there was money there was often motive.
Charlie wrote downoiland underlined it. She had been dealing with the rich and powerful for long enough that she knew the bigger the wealth, the more discreet they were. Texans were renowned for their exuberance and flashiness. Still, the wealthiest would mention fancy holidays and friends with houses brimming with French furniture, but they would never mention their own. It was all just as Lady Ashworth had described.
Charlie drew Mason and Clementine back to the story. ‘So you were here to celebrate. Take me through the timeline, the days before she disappeared. Did you meet anyone unusual? Go somewhere that might be linked? Tell me everything. I promise you there is no silly answer.’
‘Well, we did the usual things. Eiffel Tower … Galeries Lafayette, where she bought the most darling pair of Mary Janes.’
‘I hardly think that’s relevant,’ Mason said, cutting off his sister.
‘It is if she was wearing them,’ replied Charlie. ‘What colour?’
‘Black. Patent leather,’ said Clementine.
Charlie transcribed the description into her notebook as she said with encouragement, ‘Go on.’ She kept her eyes averted, hoping the brother got the hint to stop interrupting.
‘We shopped, bought tickets for the opera, Wagner. Went to the Louvre, took lunch at Chez Georges.’
‘Meet anyone unusual?’
‘No one out of the ordinary. Not until we attended those fundraising drinks in the ballroom. I told the police this and they dismissed it.’ She looked at her brother, distressed.
He cleared his throat and said with a reluctant nod, ‘Tell Miss James what you told the po-lice.’ They both spoke with a distinctive Texan drawl that broke words into long syllables.
‘Well, the night before Maisy disappeared, we were invited to drinks here at the Ritz. Your friend Lady Ashworth invited us—we had a letter of introduction to her as she decorated my friend Betsy’s brownstone on Park Avenue. Filled it with French antiques and carpets from the East … Though I haven’t seen it my-self, it’s as pretty as a picture, I understand.’