‘Now, now … that’s not true. You were only looking out for Maisy’s best int-er-ests. Like you always have, Clementine.’ Mason patted his twin’s forearm, and Charlie couldn’t help noticing hisemphasis on ‘you’. He was leaving all mention of Maisy’s parents out of the conversation. To a reporter, the things people didn’t say mattered as much as what they did.
Charlie studied the formal rapport between the siblings and said, ‘I know Inspecteur Bernard at the Metro Police.’ She swallowed as she said his name and kept her voice even as the Bells started to almost deflate at the mention of police. She signalled to a waiter. ‘Let’s get some refreshments. We could be here for a bit and you need sustenance. Tea? Coffee?’
‘Black coffee,’ Mason snapped at the waiter.
‘Certainly, and for mademoiselle?’
‘Just a peppermint tea, please.’ Charlie smiled. One bad French coffee a day was enough.
‘Tea, black and weak with a splash of honey if you have it, thank you. You are most kind,’ said Clementine. She was the sweet to her brother’s sour. ‘This is all my fault,’ she sobbed after the waiter had left. Her broad shoulders shook.
‘Nonsense,’ snapped Mason.
It surprised Charlie that Mason did not put the blame squarely at his sister’s feet. She sat back and let silence fill the air, waiting for him to extrapolate.
‘You’ve been a wonderful aunt. Lord knows our sister-in-law wouldn’t take a trip like this for her own daughter.’
Charlie made a note to find out if mother and daughter were estranged.
Mason continued to speak. ‘Our Maisy has a good head on her. No one in Paris aside from Lady Ashworth knows our connections.’
‘That’s all very true,’ said Charlie. ‘But you are staying in the top-floor suite at the Ritz. Anyone you met here would assume you are wealthy. Do you know if Maisy told this Louis fellow anything of her family?’
‘I highly doubt it. She was very discreet. We were at ateliers and the like all day before the fundraiser and she didn’t say so much as a peep. Maisy was more interested in going to the cabaret shows and theatre.’
Charlie kept her chuckle to herself. She had seen Aleksandr and Violet at work and knew from experience that employees and owners at each fashion house knewexactlythe people they dressed. People who ordered haute couture were scarce, vetted by the fact that very few could afford such clothes. Their predilections, favourite colours, pet names and of course where their money came from were well known to the fashion houses. Access to funds was discreetly checked through a network of friendly bankers and financiers. Nobody wanted an order to fall through.
Mason coughed, before saying in a slightly agitated voice, ‘This chitchat is all very well and good, but you might as well show Miss James—’
‘I thought we agreed …’ Clementine Bell interrupted and blanched.
‘The police are clearly not going to take it seriously’—he eyed Charlie with suspicion—‘but perhaps we can use the press to find our Maisy. Raise the alarm.’
‘Very well.’ Clementine reached into her bag and placed a handwritten letter in front of Charlie.
Chapter 5
CITÉ METRO POLICE STATION, PARIS
Charlie James sat in Inspecteur Benoît Bernard’s new corner office at the Cité Metro Police Station, which looked over an avenue of plane trees into a green square below. She could make out a small boy of about five or six flying a red kite from a long string attached to a stick and his mother standing nearby, rocking an oversized stroller. On second thoughts, the woman looked young—so perhaps the children were with their au pair.
The inspecteur’s window was open for fresh air—what was it with the French and their obsession with fresh air?—and delighted giggles drifted up from the park. The unfettered laughter was a stark contrast to Inspecteur Bernard’s austere office. He sat at a plain oak desk with archive folders neatly labelled on bookshelves behind him.
‘They promoted you, Inspecteur. Nice corner view.’ She smiled.
‘Yes, well, it is better to have more natural light when looking at photos and evidence, that iscertaine.’ His brow furrowed slightly as the giggles from outside crept closer and he tilted his head. ‘There is more traffic and noise being next to a park. I can close the window if you find it distracting?’ Ever professional, he made to stand.
‘No need, Inspecteur, I think it’s lovely.’ She blushed, instantly regretting her words. It wasn’t like her to sound unprofessional. Perhaps her time off had made her soft.
‘You look well, Mademoiselle James. Still, I’m surprised to see you back at work so soon. You had a nasty shock. Scared us all.’ He averted his eyes and straightened the already perfect pile of paper sitting to his left.
‘I can assure you, I’m fighting fit. In fact, I’m here about a story.’
The inspecteur exhaled and leaned back in his chair. ‘What a pity,’ he said. ‘I was thinking this was a social visit.’ His lips were pursed and his voice dry as a martini. His body shifted and stiffened as though he were on alert. Charlie could hardly blame the inspecteur; the last story she worked on ended with one person dead and herself in hospital. Still, she needed to keep going before he clammed up.
Charlie placed a photo of the pretty young blonde on the desk between them. The woman’s makeup was immaculate, with long lashes, thick eyeliner and pouting lips. She looked like a young Greta Garbo. ‘This is twenty-two-year-old TexanMaisy Bell—although you already know that.’ Charlie made extended eye contact, but the inspecteur revealed nothing, only swallowed, clasped his elegant hands together and placed them on his lap.
‘I had a visit at the Ritz this morning with her very concerned aunt, Clementine Bell. She claims Maisy met a charming Swiss man—Louis—at a drinks reception last week and agreed to an excursion with him.’ Charlie flipped through her notebook. ‘Miss Bell said of her niece, “Maisy told me to have the day to myself as she was going to visit a villa right near the one Napoleon gave Josephine.” Saint-Cloud, I believe? Apparently this gentleman was Swiss, but Clementine was uncertain about that—his accent could have been German or Dutch.’