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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Museum Mysteries
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
Paris, 1899. Abigail Wilson has received an invitation from Professor Alphonse Flamand, a prominent French Professor of Archaeology, to join him on a dig in Egypt. Overjoyed to be presented with such an opportunity, Abigail and her husband, Daniel, travel to Paris to meet the Professor to discuss plans. However, when Abigail goes to the appointment at his office in the Louvre, she finds Flamand dead with a knife in his chest. In a whirl of confusion and despite her pleas of innocence, Abigail is arrested. Determined to prove that she has been framed for Flamand's brutal murder, the Museum Detectives will delve far into the shadowy corners of the City of Light for the truth.
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MURDER AT THE LOUVRE
Jim Eldridge
For Lynne, my inspiration
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
London, July 1899
‘You look puzzled,’ commented Daniel Wilson to his wife, Abigail.
The pair, known as the Museum Detectives, were sitting in the living room of their house in Primrose Hill, Daniel reading The Times and Abigail studying a letter that had arrived for her that morning.
‘I am,’ said Abigail. She handed the letter to Daniel for him to read.
‘This is very flattering,’ said Daniel. ‘Professor Alphonse Flamand, who one assumes is a prominent figure in the world of archaeology as he’s writing from the Louvre in Paris, is inviting you to join him on a dig in Egypt.’
Abigail, as well as working with Daniel investigating serious crimes at museums, was also an internationally known archaeologist who, before she and Daniel had got together, had spent a large part of her life undertaking archaeological excavations, particularly in Egypt, working alongside some of the world’s very best archaeologists. This included working with the renowned Flinders Petrie in Hawara in Egypt.
He handed the letter back to her. ‘Are you going to accept his offer?’
‘You don’t understand,’ said Abigail. ‘Professor Flamand is no fan of mine. On the contrary, he has attacked me in print as a female adventuress. The professor is one of those who doesn’t believe that there is any place for women in the world of archaeology, except as some kind of handmaiden to fetch and carry and admire the men. I can’t understand why he would be writing to me, of all people, inviting me to work with him on a dig in Egypt.’
‘Perhaps he’s mellowed in his attitudes as he’s got older,’ suggested Daniel.
‘I hardly think so,’ said Abigail. ‘It was only about six months ago he wrote an article in a French magazine attacking female archaeologists, as well as female scientists, and made sure to include my name. Although he referred to me by my maiden name of Abigail Fenton.’
‘But this letter is definitely addressed to Abigail Wilson,’ Daniel pointed out. ‘Perhaps he doesn’t know that Abigail Wilson and Abigail Fenton are one and the same person.’
‘Oh, he knows all right,’ said Abigail. ‘In this article he accused me of riding on my detective husband’s coat-tails in – and I quote – “another ludicrous attempt to prove she is as good as any man”.’
‘Nice chap,’ said Daniel with an ironic smile. ‘So, are you going to ignore it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Abigail uncertainly. ‘I’m intrigued to know why he’s written with this invitation, in view of his attitude towards me.’
‘Where is this dig to be?’ asked Daniel.
‘He doesn’t say. Just Egypt. He says at this moment the details are being kept secret to avoid anyone else finding out and moving in first.’ She sighed. ‘Sadly, that’s not uncommon, so I can understand his caution. He says he will furnish me with all the details if I would care to meet him in his office at the Louvre at 11 a.m. on 10th August.’
‘That’s just ten days away,’ said Daniel.
‘Plenty of time to make arrangements,’ said Abigail.
‘So you’re going, then?’
‘I am. Hopefully this could lay to rest his ridiculous bias against women.’ She looked at her husband. ‘Have you ever been to Paris before?’
‘No.’
‘Then you’ll come with me, I hope?’
Daniel looked doubtful. ‘Does this professor mention my coming with you?’
‘I’m not suggesting you have to meet him,’ said Abigail. ‘We can enjoy the delights of Paris together. Think of it as a holiday.’
CHAPTER TWO
Paris, 9 August 1899
They arrived in Dunkirk on the boat and made for the railway station and the train to Paris. At the railway station, Abigail did what she always did on arriving somewhere new: she bought a couple of newspapers.
‘Just to find out what’s happening,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve been here.’
‘You’ll have to fill me in,’ said Daniel. ‘French is a foreign language to me.’
‘French is a foreign language to everyone who’s not French,’ Abigail pointed out.
‘You know what I mean. You can read it; I can’t.’
Once they’d settled themselves in the railway carriage, Abigail opened the newspapers.
‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed, surprised. ‘Alfred Dreyfus is back in France.’
‘Who?’ asked Daniel.
‘Alfred Dreyfus. A former captain in the French Army. Do you remember I told you about him last year when there was that article about him in The Times?’
‘No,’ said Daniel.
‘It was a major scandal,’ said Abigail. ‘Still is. He was accused of treason, passing French military secrets to the Germans. He was sentenced to life imprisonment on Devil’s Island.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Some hellhole of a place in French Guiana.’
‘I guess he deserved it, betraying his country.’
‘No, that’s the scandal. He didn’t do it. He was set up. It was all in this piece in The Times.’
‘How come The Times did a piece on it? They’re not usually that interested in foreign news, unless it’s something fairly major. And then only if it’s a war involving Britain.’
‘This is major. Dreyfus was accused of treason on faked evidence. According to the article, the person who actually committed the treason was another officer. I can’t remember his name, but he was named, after Dreyfus had been sentenced. But instead of letting Dreyfus go and charging this other man, the army authorities let the guilty man escape to England. It was in England that this reporter spotted him. She did an interview with him in which he admitted he was the one who’d passed the secrets on to the Germans, not Dreyfus. But, according to this piece, the courts and the army refused to have Dreyfus released; they still insisted he was guilty.’
‘Why?’
‘According to The Times, it was because Dreyfus is Jewish and the most senior officers in the French Army are anti-Semitic.’
‘That’s a bit of an allegation,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m surprised the French Army didn’t sue them.’
‘They couldn’t because it was published in another country, but when it was republished in France, they took action.’
‘People were sued?’
‘Not just sued – people were physically attacked. On both sides. Those who supported Dreyfus and demanded his freedom, and those who insisted that Dreyfus was guilty, including some who wanted him executed.’ She checked the story in the paper again. ‘Anyway, it appears that Dreyfus has been granted a retrial. He’s been brought back from Devil’s Island for it.’
‘So we can expect Paris to be a place of uprisings, with one group attacking the other,’ said Daniel wryly.
‘No,’ said Abigail. ‘It seems his retrial is going to be held in Rennes.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘In Brittany.’
‘Well, at least he’ll get justice this time.’
Abigail looked doubtful. ‘I wouldn’t count on it. It sems it’s going to be held in a military court, so it’ll be a court martial, run by the military.’
‘Surely they can’t convict him again, not with all this publicity?’
‘I’m afraid organisations like the military have a habit of protecting themselves at all costs.’ She looked at Daniel. ‘You should know that from your time in the Metropolitan Police.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Daniel with a sigh. ‘It’ll be interesting to see how this court martial works out.’
On their arrival at the Gare du Nord, they caught a cab from the line of hansoms waiting in a queue outside the station, and Abigail gave the driver the name of their hotel in Montmartre, the Olive House. She’d booked it by post once they’d agreed they were both coming to Paris.
‘I stayed at it when I was last here in Paris, about eight years ago. It was clean and comfortable and not expensive.’
‘The Olive House,’ mused Daniel. ‘Something to do with olives?’
‘No. The owner at that time was a woman called Olive Pascal. She died a couple of years ago. Her daughter runs it now with her husband. She wrote back to confirm our booking, and at the same time told me about her mother dying.’
‘What’s the area like? Montmartre?’
‘It’s a hill, very high, but don’t worry, the Olive House is at the bottom of the hill so we won’t have to haul ourselves up it after a day’s sightseeing. I’m due to meet Professor Flamand tomorrow morning, so I suggest we spend this afternoon taking in some of the sights.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Daniel. ‘As you’ve been here before you’ll know which will be the best places for us to visit.’
‘It’s been eight years since I’ve been here,’ Abigail reminded him. ‘Some of the places will have changed.’
‘The buildings won’t have,’ said Daniel.
‘Don’t count on that,’ warned Abigail. ‘The Eiffel Tower hadn’t been long completed when I was last here, and the Sacré-Coeur church in Montmartre was still under construction. I suggest we do one major attraction, Notre-Dame Cathedral.’
‘A church?’
‘Not just any church, possibly one of the most famous in Europe. Then we’ll stroll around a bit so you can get an idea of the city, so you’ll know where to go while I’m seeing Professor Flamand at the Louvre.’
‘I expect I’ll still get lost.’
She shook her head. ‘You’ve got a good sense of direction. Look at how you find your way around London.’
‘That’s because I was born and brought up there.’
‘What about when we were in Oxford and Cambridge? And Manchester.’
‘The difference is the street signs and everything there were in English, and so were the people if I wanted to know where anything was.’
‘All right. Then I suggest while I’m at the Louvre you walk around Montmartre, get familiar with the local area.’
That evening, tired after their long journey and their visit to Notre-Dame, they decided to have a meal at their hotel rather than explore Paris for a restaurant that looked to be to their taste.
Next morning, Abigail left Daniel to explore Montmartre while she headed for the 1st arrondissement and the Louvre. It had been a long time since she had last been here, when her main occupation had been as an archaeologist specialising in ancient Egypt. In those days she had spent almost as much time at the Louvre as she had the British Museum, keen to find out about the latest discoveries from the French excavations of the pyramids. In the later days of the eighteenth century and the early part of the nineteenth, the French had dominated Egyptology with the work of men like Jomard, Coutelle, Lepere, Champollion, Auguste Mariette and Ferdinand de Lesseps. Now, Flamand, Gauthier and Jéquier were seen as the last ones flying the flag for France’s role in Egyptian excavations, in the face of the recent dominance of Britain’s Flinders Petrie and the German Ludwig Borchardt.
Was this why Flamand had invited her to take part in his forthcoming excavations? Because he would know she’d worked with Petrie at Hawara and would be interested to get as much information from her as possible about Petrie’s work and plans.
The 1st arrondissement was the least populated of Paris’s many arrondissements, as well as being one of the smallest, but in Abigail’s eyes it was the most fascinating. Most of the area was taken up by the vast Louvre Museum and the large open space that was the Tuileries Garden. Les Halles was also here, a massive area where vegetables and fruit of all kinds were brought to be distributed to the various greengrocers, the smell from the vegetables, particularly the cabbages, lingering over the whole area.
As she crossed the Place du Louvre and approached the vast and impressive building that housed the Louvre Museum, she puzzled over the invitation from Flamand. It went against everything he’d ever said about her, both in print and – she knew, because she’d been told – in his conversations with other Egyptologists. Why had he invited her?
The museum was contained in the Louvre Palace, which had originally been built in the thirteenth century by Phillip II, and had then been added to over the centuries. It had been in 1682 that Louis XIV had moved the royal household to Versailles, leaving the palace at the Louvre to display the royal collections of art and history. The Louvre as a place of exhibition had outlasted the French royal family, who’d been executed during the French Revolution. It had been during that revolution that that National Assembly had ordered that the Louvre be used as a museum to show the nation’s masterpieces. And what masterpieces they were, including Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, Alexandros of Antioch’s Venus de Milo from 125 BC, and the vast collection of Egyptian artefacts.
Abigail entered the Louvre and asked the uniformed guard on duty inside the entrance for directions to the office of Professor Alphonse Flamand. A few moments later she was walking along the dark-wood walled corridor on the second floor of the museum. She arrived at a door with the name ‘Professeur A. Flamand’ on it. She knocked at the door. There was no answer so she knocked again. She checked her watch, which showed 11 o’clock, French time. She tried the handle of the door. It moved, so she opened the door and entered.
The office was small, the shelves on the walls – which stretched from floor to ceiling – filled with books of various sizes. The top of the large oak desk that dominated the room was overflowing with papers, some rolled up, resembling old-fashioned scrolls, others piled on top of one another. But the sight that stopped Abigail in her tracks was the body of the professor slumped in the leather chair behind the desk, and the hilt of the knife that protruded from his chest where his heart would be, blood soaking his white shirt. His eyes were open, as was his mouth, his jaw hanging slackly.
Abigail hurried to him, putting her fingers against his neck, desperate to find a pulse, although she knew even before she did it that it was fruitless. The professor was dead.
There was a sound behind her, and she turned to see a young woman enter holding some envelopes. The young woman stopped, bewildered at seeing Abigail, and then she saw the professor’s dead and blood-stained body, with the knife sticking in him, and she dropped the envelopes and let out a piercing scream, and a cry of ‘Assassin! Assassin!’
‘Non!’ called Abigail in desperation, and she moved towards the young woman, who shrank back from her, still screaming and wailing, pointing at Abigail. The next second two burly uniformed security guards burst into the office. They took one look at the tableau: the terrified young woman, the dead professor, and Abigail, and then they rushed at Abigail and grabbed her arms, twisting them behind her back and dragging her out of the office, at the same time yelling for the police.
CHAPTER THREE
Daniel arrived back at their hotel after a few hours of exploring Montmartre, expecting to find Abigail waiting for him. Instead, when he enquired at the reception desk in fractured Franglais if Madame Wilson had returned, the man on duty shook his head and took an envelope from the small boxes in the wall beside him where the room numbers were listed, some containing keys, some without. Daniel opened the envelope and was puzzled to find it contained a brief message in French beneath a printed letterhead saying it was from the Paris Police Prefecture. The signature at the bottom was of a Superintendent Jacques Maison.
Daniel passed the letter to the receptionist and asked if he would translate it for him. The receptionist read the letter, then passed it back to Daniel, a worried look on his face.
‘It says your wife has been arrested. She is being held at the Prefecture of Police, on the Île de la Cité.’
‘Arrested? On what charge?’
‘The note does not give details, but it says she is being charged with a very serious crime.’
Daniel stared at the man, then back at the note in a state of bewilderment.
‘I do not speak French, nor do I know Paris,’ he said. ‘Can you arrange for a cab to take me to this Prefecture of Police?’
‘Of course, monsieur. If you follow me, I shall get the concierge to arrange it.’
Daniel followed the receptionist to the entrance, where a man in a resplendent red uniform adorned with brass buttons stood on the pavement just outside. He talked briefly to the concierge in French, his tone expressing the urgency. Daniel caught the words Prefecture de Police and Îsle de la Cité, along with Il ne parles pas Français. The concierge nodded and gestured for Daniel to join him at the kerb, then he hailed a one-horse cab at the front of a line a few yards from the hotel entrance. The driver flicked the reins and the cab moved forward and pulled to a halt beside Daniel and the concierge. The concierge rapped out the same words the receptionist had uttered, then pulled open the door of the cab and ushered Daniel inside. The cab set off immediately. Inside, Daniel’s mind was in a whirl. It said Abigail had been charged with a serious crime, not merely accused of it. What on earth had happened?
He was so lost in thought that he was barely aware of the streets and the buildings they passed. It was only when the cab crossed the bridge over the Seine to the Île de la Cité that he recalled coming this way just the previous day, when Abigail had brought him here to show him the cathedral of Notre-Dame. He could see they were nearing the cathedral now, but the cab turned off the road before they reached it and entered the courtyard of an imposing building at the entrance of which a large board declared that this was the Prefecture de Police. Paris’s version of Scotland Yard.
Abigail sat on a hard wooden chair, filled with a sense of desperation as she looked across the desk at Superintendent Maison.
‘I did not kill Professor Flamand,’ she said, grateful for the years that she’d spent engaging in conversational French. She pointed at the letter on the superintendent’s desk from Flamand inviting her to meet him, which she’d produced from her bag. ‘As you can see, he invited me to his office.’
‘His secretary says this letter is a forgery,’ said Maison. ‘She says the professor never wrote to you, and he would never have written to you inviting you to work with him.’
‘Then who did write this letter?’ demanded Abigail.
‘His secretary says you wrote it yourself in order to gain access to him.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Abigail. ‘What about the letter I wrote in reply to the professor telling him that I would come to his office at the time and day he suggested?’
‘His secretary says she has checked the professor’s correspondence and no such letter was ever received. There is no mention of him having an appointment to see you in his diary. Further, his secretary states that Professor Flamand would never have suggested a joint venture with you – she and the other staff who worked with the professor say he couldn’t stand you. His secretary has also shown me letters and articles that Flamand wrote showing that he thought you were a fraud whose reputation was built on the work of others. It is his secretary’s opinion – and, I have to agree, mine also – that this was your motive for killing Professor Flamand, to stop his attacks on you.’
There was a knock at the door of his office, which opened to admit a uniformed police officer.
‘Mr Wilson is here,’ he said. ‘In response to your note.’
‘Tell him to wait,’ said the superintendent.
The officer withdrew, pulling the door shut after him.
‘I will talk to your husband and inform him of what has happened, and that you are to be further investigated. While that investigation is ongoing you will be taken to La Santé Prison in Montparnasse and held on remand. Before that happens I will allow you to see your husband here, in my office. I will allow you a few minutes alone together.’
‘Thank you,’ said Abigail, adding, ‘My husband doesn’t speak French.’
Maison rose and made for the door, summoning the uniformed officer who’d looked in earlier from his station outside in the corridor, to stay in the office and supervise Abigail while he went to see Daniel.
Abigail sat wondering how Daniel was feeling. She didn’t have long to wait before finding out, because the door of the office opened and Daniel came in, accompanied by Superintendent Maison. Daniel hurried to Abigail, who got up from the chair, and the two embraced.
‘Non!’ snapped the superintendent.
‘I believe he means no hugging,’ said Abigail, releasing Daniel.
Maison pulled a chair to his desk for Daniel, before informing them he would give them five minutes alone, then he left. Immediately, Daniel took hold of Abigail’s hands in his.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked urgently. ‘What are you being charged with? I can’t speak French and he doesn’t speak English, which is why I guess he’s let me see you.’
‘I’m accused of murdering Professor Flamand,’ said Abigail.
‘Murder?!’ said Daniel, shocked.
Abigail explained what had happened, her arrival at the Louvre, going to Professor Flamand’s office and finding him dead with a knife sticking out of his chest, and the secretary arriving and sounding the alarm.
‘But this is ridiculous!’ said Daniel. ‘Didn’t you tell him why you were there? Did you have the letter from the professor inviting you?’
‘I did, and I showed it to him, but he says Flamand’s secretary insists it’s a forgery, and that I forged it in order to gain access to him. She also showed the superintendent various articles the professor had written dismissing me as a fraud, like the one I told you about. And that’s apparently the motive for my killing him, to stop him writing any more negative things about me.’
‘This is nonsense!’ said Daniel. ‘We have to get a lawyer to put an end to this farce.’
‘That may be the way it’s done in England, but I think the judicial system is different here. The fact that you don’t speak or understand French is going to be a problem, so I suggest you go to the British Embassy. See if you can talk to a man called Sir Brian Otway. He’s someone quite senior there. He might even be the ambassador by now, if he’s still at the embassy. These ambassadors move around from country to country.’
‘Sir Brian Otway.’ Daniel nodded. ‘Got that. It’s been a few years since you were last here, so let’s hope he’s still there.’
‘If not, using his name will get you through to someone senior there. Let them organise the legal side; they’re good at that.’
‘Where will I find the British Embassy?’
Abigail took a sheet of paper and a pencil from the top of Maison’s desk and wrote down the address of the embassy.
‘There. 35 rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Show that to a cab driver. They’re used to the English doing that.’
Daniel put the piece of paper in his pocket as the door opened and the superintendent reappeared. He spoke in French, and Abigail rose to her feet.
‘What’s he saying?’ asked Daniel.
‘Our five minutes are up. I’m being taken to La Santé Prison, which is in Montparnasse, to be held on remand. I’ll write that down for you so you can tell the embassy where I’ll be.’
She held out her hand and Daniel returned the sheet of paper to her and she added those details before handing it back to him.
The British Embassy at 35 rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré was a magnificent building in the classical style in a street of equally expensive-looking buildings. Daniel hurried to the imposing entrance and rang the bell. After a while a tall thin man dressed in a dark frock coat and wearing white gloves opened the door to him.
‘Is Sir Brian Otway available?’ asked Daniel.
‘Do you have an appointment?’ asked the man.
‘No,’ replied Daniel. ‘But this is a matter of great urgency. My name is Daniel Wilson; I’m a private detective from London. I’m in Paris with my wife, Abigail Wilson, also known as Abigail Fenton, the eminent archaeologist. She has been arrested on a charge of murdering a professor at the Louvre, and been taken to La Santé Prison. She urged me to get in touch with Sir Brian Otway, who knows her, in order to obtain her release from prison. She is absolutely innocent of the charge.’
The man nodded gravely. ‘I am afraid Sir Brian is not in Paris at this moment. If you would like to come in, I’ll get his assistant, Mr Edgar Belfont, to talk to you.’
Daniel entered and the man showed him to a waiting room just inside the entrance.
‘If you’d wait here,’ said the man, and he disappeared into the building.
Daniel forced himself to sit down on one of the plush, purple-cushioned chairs, although his agitation was such that he wanted to pace up and down the waiting room. He did not have long to wait before a smartly dressed young man appeared.
‘Mr Wilson?’
Daniel jerked to his feet. ‘Yes.’
‘My name’s Edgar Belfont. I’m Sir Brian’s assistant. If you’ll follow me to my office, we can talk privately.’
Daniel followed the young man out of the waiting room and down a long corridor to a series of doors. Belfont opened a door, ushered Daniel into his office and gestured for him to take a seat in front of his large oak desk. Belfont settled himself into a comfortable chair behind the desk.
‘Wilfred said something about your wife having been arrested on a charge of murder?’
‘Yes.’ Daniel nodded, and he explained the events as Abigail had detailed to him. ‘This is some dreadful miscarriage of justice,’ he finished. ‘That’s why she asked me to talk to Sir Brian. He knows her from her time in Paris when she was engaged in archaeological events here at the embassy.’
‘Before my time, I’m afraid,’ said Belfont apologetically. ‘I’ve only been here for three years, but I’m sure there are older members of the embassy staff who will remember her. However, I’m afraid that at this moment Sir Brian is undertaking some duties in the Loire Valley. He is the British ambassador to France now, by the way. He was promoted when the previous ambassador was relocated to Madrid, but I’m afraid Sir Brian won’t be here until the day after tomorrow.’
‘The day after tomorrow!’ groaned Daniel in despair. ‘I was hoping to get her released today. My wife is being held in La Santé Prison, which I understand is in Montparnasse.’
‘It is,’ confirmed Belfont. ‘But arranging her release may not be as simple as it might be in England. Who is the official in charge of the case?’
‘A Superintendent Maison at the police prefecture on the Île de la Cité.’
Belfont nodded. ‘Yes, I know Superintendent Maison. I’ve always found him to be a fair person in my dealings with him.’
‘Then can’t you talk to him? See if you can arrange my wife’s release?’
‘Unfortunately, it’s not that straightforward. I can certainly call on him and let him know of the embassy’s interest in the case, but I’m afraid I’m just a junior employee, a rather insignificant cog in this political machine.’ He looked at the clock on the wall, then stood up. ‘But I’ll see what I can do. If we go now to the Île de la Cité, we’ll hopefully get hold of Superintendent Maison before he leaves for the day.’
‘Thank you,’ said Daniel, getting to his feet.
Abigail stood in her cell at La Santé looking out through the barred window at the ominous sight of the guillotine in the corner of the prison yard. They beheaded murderers here in France, she thought with a shudder. She turned away from the dreadful sight of the guillotine and began to pace around the cell. It was narrow, twelve feet long and seven feet wide. The grim walls were composed of solid grey rocks stretching up to the ceiling, ten feet high. There was a metal-framed bed with a thin mattress, a wooden chair, and in one corner a bucket for use as a toilet. A bottle of water had been left beside the bed, presumably for drinking rather than sanitation.
She sat down on the bed, her mind racing with thoughts. How had Daniel got on at the British Embassy? Had he managed to see Sir Brian Otway? Would Sir Brian remember her?
How on earth had she managed to end up in this nightmare? The more she thought of it, someone had planned this. They’d sent the forged letter to her purporting to come from Professor Flamand, arranging for her to arrive at his office at 11 a.m. Just before her arrival, this mysterious person had stabbed the professor, then left. How was it that Flamand’s secretary had suddenly appeared at exactly that time? Could she have been part of whatever conspiracy was happening here? Perhaps she, herself, was the murderer.
The superintendent insisted there was no trace of Abigail’s reply to Flamand, accepting his invitation. Which meant someone had intercepted her letter. Again, the professor’s secretary would have been able to do that. But why? This was obviously a well-planned plot to kill Professor Flamand and plant the guilt on Abigail.
Abigail got up from the bed and walked again to the barred window, the terrifying sight of the guillotine drawing her like a macabre magnet. It was no wonder the French called the Revolution ‘The Terror’. That was how the thousands who were dragged to this infernal machine to meet their death must have felt. It was how she felt now.
Oh Daniel, she prayed, please get me out of here.
CHAPTER FOUR
Daniel and Edgar Belfont were with Superintendent Maison in his office. Daniel was grateful the young Englishman had accompanied him to the police prefecture; without Belfont’s fluent French, Daniel’s visit to the superintendent would have been a complete waste of time because there could have been no conversation between them, no exchanges, no questions, no answers. Daniel envied the ease with which the young Englishman and the French policeman conversed and made his own determination to at least begin learning to understand and speak French. The conversation between the two men was hampered in part by the fact that after Maison had spoken, Belfont had to translate his response to Daniel. This, at least, meant Daniel was able to follow the line of questioning the superintendent was pursuing and showed where there were gaps, to Daniel’s mind.
‘Ask him about the knife that Flamand was killed with,’ said Daniel. ‘I know Abigail had no knife with her when she went to the Louvre, so whose was it? Where did it come from?’
Belfont translated the question, and Maison replied.
‘He says the knife belonged to the professor. It had a distinctive ornamental hilt of Egyptian design,’ said Belfont. ‘The professor’s secretary, Elaine Foret, recognised it. The professor kept it on his desk and used it as a letter opener.’
‘Then tell him that surely proves that Abigail is not guilty. She did not take a knife with her to meet the professor.’
Belfont translated this, and Maison did look uncomfortable. He nodded and responded.
‘He says that thought also occurred to him,’ said Belfont. ‘It suggests that she did not come to his office planning to stab the professor. He says he thinks that some argument happened between them, during which she snatched up the knife and plunged it into the professor’s heart.’
‘Abigail would never do such a thing,’ insisted Daniel.
To this, the superintendent countered with, ‘Who knows what people do when they are in a rage. And there is no doubt there has been bad blood between your wife and Professor Flamand for some time.’
‘But you’ve admitted that there was no premeditation, no intent on my wife’s part to stab him. She did not have a knife with her when she went to the Louvre. So it cannot be murder.’
‘You are suggesting self-defence?’ asked Maison. ‘The professor attacked her and she picked up the knife to defend herself?’
‘No,’ said Daniel vehemently. ‘She did not stab him. It’s obvious to me that someone orchestrated this whole thing with the intention of letting my wife take the blame.’
‘Why?’ asked Maison.
‘At this moment I have no idea,’ said Daniel. ‘But it’s someone who wanted the professor dead. And that must be someone inside the Louvre.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because the letter my wife wrote to the professor confirming their meeting has disappeared. Someone intercepted it and destroyed it. That could only have been done by someone inside the Louvre.’
‘If she actually sent such a letter,’ said Maison.
‘She did,’ said Daniel. ‘I was with her in the post office when she sent it.’
Maison fell silent for a moment, then said, ‘There is much to think about. We will take all of this in as we conduct our investigation.’
‘But surely you must have heard enough to let her out of prison while you conduct your investigation. She did not go to see Professor Flamand with any murderous intent. She did not go armed, so it cannot be premeditated murder.’
‘Whatever it is, it still needs to be investigated,’ said Maison stubbornly.
Daniel was feeling angry and bitterly disappointed when he and Belfont left the prefecture. ‘I was sure that once the business of the knife came up, Maison would agree to release Abigail,’ he told Belfont.
‘I’m confident that Sir Brian will be able to sort something out when he returns the day after tomorrow,’ said Belfont. ‘He has political clout, which – alas – I don’t as just a junior member of the embassy staff.’
‘You did well there,’ said Daniel, still annoyed but wanting to give the young man the compliment he had earned. ‘I feel so helpless here, not able to speak or understand French.’
‘It would be the same for me if I was sent to somewhere like, say, China, where not even the alphabet nor the vocal sounds are the same as ours. One thing I can do is get us entry to see Mrs Wilson at La Santé Prison and report on our meeting with Superintendent Maison and tell her about Sir Brian returning the day after tomorrow.’
‘Can you do that?’ asked Daniel.
Belfont tapped his jacket pocket. ‘This letter of authority from the embassy will get us in. I’ve had to use it before when some poor Britisher has found themselves ensconced in a Paris jail cell, usually for some financial misdemeanour over a hotel bill.’
At La Santé there was initially some reluctance to allow Daniel and Belfont to see Abigail.
‘There are set visiting hours,’ they were informed.
‘Yes, but this is a diplomatic matter,’ said Belfont, producing his embassy credentials. ‘I represent the British ambassador and Her Majesty Queen Victoria. A refusal to allow us to talk to a British national held here on remand will mean I will have to register a strong complaint with the office of the President. And I doubt if President Loubet will be pleased to find himself in a diplomatic confrontation with the British government.’
After much unhappy muttering among the prison officials, eventually Daniel and Belfont were escorted to the visitors’ hall, a large room furnished with small wooden tables with three chairs at each. A prison warder stood on guard against the wall nearest to one of the tables, and Daniel and Belfont took their seats. A short while later Abigail appeared, escorted by two prison guards. She joined them at the table. Automatically, Daniel reached out to take her hands, but the guard rapped out ‘Non!’, and Daniel reluctantly took his hands away.
‘How are they treating you?’ he asked.
‘Well enough,’ said Abigail. She looked at Belfont and said, ‘We haven’t met before, but I assume I have you to thank for arranging this meeting outside of visiting hours.’
‘Indeed,’ said Belfont with a friendly smile. ‘My name is Edgar Belfont and I’m Sir Brian Otway’s assistant. Sir Brian’s out of Paris at the moment, but he’ll be returning the day after tomorrow and we’ll be launching a demand for your release with the full weight of the British Embassy behind it.’
‘We saw Superintendent Maison,’ said Daniel. ‘The knife that killed Professor Flamand was his own knife. His secretary identified it as one he kept on his desk. So Superintendent Maison appears to accept that you did not take it with you to the Louvre, which rules out premeditation on your part. Unfortunately, he insists it still needs to be investigated, but I’m very impressed with Mr Belfont’s powers of persuasion, and I feel we shall soon have you out of here.’
‘The day after tomorrow,’ said Belfont firmly. ‘Sir Brian can be very forceful when the situation calls for it.’
‘Is there anything I can get you?’ asked Daniel. ‘Food? Clothes?’
Abigail shook her head. ‘If you really think Sir Brian can obtain my release, I shall be fine. The food is adequate and my cell is comfortable enough. However, if you can arrange some reading material for me, I’d appreciate that.’
‘Rest assured, Mrs Wilson, that will be done,’ said Belfont. ‘When we leave I shall buy some books and magazines and bring them here. And I will again use the threat of Queen Victoria being angered if the prison authorities do not give them to you.’
They spent a few more moments talking, with Abigail reassuring them she felt better as a result of the news they had brought her.
‘I’m glad you are here, Mr Belfont,’ said Abigail. ‘I’ve been worried about how Daniel was faring, with no knowledge of the language.’
‘Trust me, Mrs Wilson, I will be Mr Wilson’s constant companion until we gain your release.’
‘You seem very confident that I’ll be let out of here,’ said Abigail.
Belfont smiled. ‘I’ve seen Sir Brian in action. I know what he can achieve.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen him in action, too. But that was in his younger days.’
‘I can assure you that Sir Brian has lost none of his fire,’ said Belfont. ‘I will stake my life that he’ll have you out of here by the day after tomorrow.’
After they left the prison, Belfont led Daniel to the nearest bookseller’s, where he purchased a book on ancient Egyptian art, three magazines and a copy of a newspaper. They returned to La Santé and Belfont gave instructions that these were to be taken immediately to Mrs Wilson on the orders of the British ambassador, Her Majesty Queen Victoria and President Loubet.
As they drove away from La Santé towards Montmartre, Daniel commented, ‘You don’t think you might be overdoing it with issuing orders from the British queen? As I understand it, this country is not fond of the monarchy. They executed their own and there seems to be no desire to bring it back.’
‘It was only a couple of hundred years ago that we British executed our king, Charles I,’ pointed out Belfont. ‘The thing is, the French respect a strong leader. They despise authority, but anyone who has remained on the throne as long as our queen has, and rules a quarter of the world as Empress of the British Empire, is someone to be looked up to and admired.’
‘I have to say, Mr Belfont—’ began Daniel, before Belfont interrupted him with, ‘Edgar, please. If we are going to be in one another’s company, do please call me Edgar.’
‘Very well. And please call me Daniel. And, as for being in one another’s company, I really do appreciate it, but I don’t wish you to ignore your own family for my sake.’
‘My family are back in England. That is, my parents. I am not married so have no family to consider. To be honest, Daniel, it is a pleasure to have English company. Can I suggest we dine together this evening? It will save you the awkwardness of having to engage with a menu in French, and French waiters who will make a point of only speaking in French.’
‘That is very kind of you,’ said Daniel.
‘In that case I will drop you off at your hotel and call for you at about seven, if that is agreeable.’
‘Very agreeable indeed,’ said Daniel.
That evening, Belfont took Daniel to a small, busy restaurant in Montmartre.
‘The food here is excellent and unpretentious, unlike many of the restaurants in the 1st arrondissement, where it is all about being seen in the right company and wearing the right clothes.’ He gestured at the framed paintings packed together on the walls. ‘Also, here, you will see original works by some of the greatest painters of modern France.’ He pointed some particular ones out to Daniel. ‘That one there is by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. That one, by Claude Monet. Then you have a Degas, a Pissarro, a Renoir, a Paul Cézanne, Berthe Morisot. That one there is by Henri Matisse. These walls hold works by some of the most famous artists of modern times.’
‘How could the owner afford to buy them?’ asked Daniel. ‘I don’t know most of the names you mentioned, although Abigail has talked to me about Toulouse-Lautrec and promised to show me some of his works. And I know about Edgar Degas because he was close friends with an English artist we worked with, Walter Sickert.’
‘Ah, Sickert.’ Belfont beamed. ‘He is revered here in France also. The answer is that the owner of the restaurant did not pay for them; they were given to him by the artists in order to pay for meals. Montmartre is like a magnet for young artists when they first come to Paris. Rents are cheap and the artistic ambience encourages them to paint. Before they become well-known, they sell their paintings on the streets. They also use them to barter. Not every shop owner or restaurant is prepared to take a painting in payment, but some have an eye to the future. Like Lucas, the owner of this place. As a result, he now has a small fortune on his walls.’
‘Isn’t he worried that someone will come in and steal them?’
Belfont shook his head. ‘He has an understanding with some of the older local villains.’
‘What sort of understanding?’
‘He pays them to make sure that the younger unruly element leave his restaurant alone. And that includes his diners.’
‘Is there much of an unruly element here in Montmartre?’
‘Indeed, as there is in much of Paris. You will see them hanging around in gangs, but they are understandably in awe of the older villains. In the past Lucas has often helped many of these older villains out with food when they were down on their luck, just as he did with all the artists whose work you see displayed. Anyone stealing from Lucas would find themselves hunted down. These paintings are safe here on these walls.’
Their food arrived and they settled down to eat. It was, as Belfont had promised, excellent.
‘How did you come to be here?’ asked Daniel. ‘At the embassy? I would imagine it’s quite a sought-after position.’
‘My father is Lord Belfont,’ said Belfont, ‘and it was through a friend of his in the House of Lords that he fixed up this position for me. It’s sheer nepotism and I really should be ashamed, but I’m not. I love it here and I doubt if I could have made it on my own.’
‘You don’t know that,’ said Daniel. ‘You’ve shown yourself eminently capable.’
‘Yes, but you need more than that if you’re to get anywhere in the political service. It’s all about family and who you know. Father knew Sir Brian, and this pal of his in the House of Lords also knew Sir Brian – I believe they were all at the same school – and that’s what it takes. Who you know.’ He smiled. ‘Unlike you, Daniel. I know all about you from a pal of mine. You knew no one. You worked your way up from a lowly place, and here you are, a famous detective. You’ve done that on your own. No relative pulling in favours from old school pals.’
‘I also did it as the result of my partnership with Abigail. Now there is someone with contacts. One of the world’s most respected archaeologists and Egyptologists.’ He gave a wry sigh. ‘And currently a prisoner in a Paris jail.’
‘Just until Sir Brian gets back,’ said Belfont confidently. ‘What do you think of the embassy? Impressive, isn’t it?’
‘It reminds me of a palace,’ said Daniel.
‘That’s exactly what it is. Or used to be. The house used to belong to Princess Borghese, Napoleon’s sister, until the fall of the emperor and his exile on Elba. Napoleon was in need of money, so his sister sold the house to the Duke of Wellington in 1814 and went to join him on Elba.’
‘The same man who’d defeated Napoleon at Waterloo, which led to his downfall,’ said Daniel. ‘Why did Wellington buy it? To rub Napoleon’s face in his victory over him?’
‘No, for practical reasons. Wellington was appointed as Britain’s ambassador to the court of Louis XVIII and he needed somewhere grand as his ambassadorial home in Paris. As the princess needed money for her brother desperately, I believe the Duke got the property at a good price.’
‘Yes.’ Daniel nodded. ‘From what I’ve read and heard about him, Wellington was quite hard-nosed about almost everything. That’s why they called him the Iron Duke. But it still must have been a bitter pill for Napoleon to swallow.’
‘Not necessarily. His sister passed the money from the sale to her brother. I believe that Napoleon was quite a selfish man. His own needs came first. As it is, the British government own one of the most impressive buildings in Paris.’
‘With no resentment from the French?’
‘Not as far as we know. But then, our ambassadors have always had a very cordial relationship with the French government, and Sir Brian is no exception. I look forward to introducing you to him when he returns.’
‘What time will he be at the embassy the day after tomorrow?’ asked Daniel.
‘That depends if there’s anything he has to deal with after his excursion today. The ambassador’s residence is at 39 rue de Faubourg Saint-Honoré, next door to the embassy, which is at number 35.’
‘Another palatial building?’
‘Even more palatial than the embassy itself,’ said Belfont. He smiled. ‘Wellington liked the good things in life. Anyway, I expect Sir Brian will arrive at the embassy at about eleven. That’s his usual time.’
‘In that case I suggest we utilise our time first thing tomorrow by calling on the professor’s secretary,’ said Daniel.
‘Elaine Foret.’ Belfont nodded.
‘Yes. As Flamand’s secretary she will have been in charge of dealing with his correspondence. Yet she claims the professor didn’t send that invitation to Abigail. She also says that Abigail’s letter to the professor accepting his invitation never arrived. In fact, she claims it was never sent. I know Abigail sent it because I was with her in the post office when she sent it. It must have arrived at the Louvre, but then disappeared. It seems to me that no one is more likely than Elaine Foret to have been able to get rid of it. It also sems to me a great coincidence that the very moment that Abigail entered the professor’s office, Elaine Foret walked in.’
‘You think she was hovering nearby waiting for your wife to enter the office?’
