4

CHARLOTTE’S RESPONSE TO her discovery had been so instinctive, and the action it had prompted her to take so urgent, that it was not until late afternoon, aboard a train drawing ever closer to Paris, that she began to consider the difficulties and possible consequences of the task she had set herself. She had, after all, promised Chief Inspector Golding she would pass any information she obtained on to him immediately. In the event, however, she had not even thought of doing so. Instead, she had sworn Mrs Mentiply to secrecy, driven back to Tunbridge Wells to collect her passport, then raced to Dover just in time to catch an early afternoon hovercraft to Boulogne.

She had justified her behaviour to herself on the basis that the police would have been much slower and more painstaking. Their heavy-handed approach might also have deterred Madame Vassoir – if there was such a person – from co-operating, whereas Charlotte was uniquely well placed as Beatrix’s niece and Samantha’s aunt to appeal to her on behalf of the whole family. But there was, as she had realized, another less worthy motive driving her on. She wanted to find the solution to the mystery on her own and to flourish it beneath the noses of those who had doubted her ability – or her right – to do so. She wanted to finish what Maurice had begun.

Wanting and achieving, however, were not the same. She had looked no further till now than finding Confiserie Vassoir, trusting to luck and French shopping hours that it would still be open when she arrived. The train reached Paris at half past six. A drizzly dusk was settling on the city and the imminence of nightfall had an instantly erosive effect on her confidence. But she succeeded in holding it at bay. From the Gare du Nord she took a taxi, stating her destination as ‘Dix-sept, Rue de Tivoli’. Fortunately, it was not far. She was set down in a quiet side-street near the Madeleine. Most of the shops seemed already to be closed and her heart sank as she identified the unlit frontage of number seventeen. All she could do was stare glumly at the sign hanging inside the door – CONFISERIE VASSOIR: Ouvert 9.30–18.30 Mardi à Samedi – then glance at her watch, which confirmed she was fifteen minutes too late.

Suddenly, there was the hint of a reprieve. It took the form of a blaze of light at the back of the shop. A stocky male figure entered from a room at the rear and began looking for something beneath the counter. Charlotte rapped on the window with her knuckles. He looked up, made a shooing gesture with his hand, then returned to his search. She rapped again and shouted ‘Monsieur Vassoir!’, praying he was indeed Monsieur Vassoir and could hear her. But, having found what he evidently wanted, he only frowned and waved her away once more. ‘Monsieur Vassoir!’ she bellowed, striking the glass so hard she thought it might break. ‘S’il vous plaît! Très important!’ He stared, then, with an enormous shrug of reluctance, walked to the door, unbolted it and edged it open.

‘Nous sommes fermes, madame!’ He was a short, balding man of late middle age, with a bristling black moustache and a gruff voice. He was clearly annoyed.

‘Monsieur Vassoir?’

‘Oui, mais—’

‘I hope you speak English. I’m looking for Madame Vassoir. Your wife, perhaps? It’s vital I find her. A matter of life and death.’ His frown deepened. ‘My name’s Charlotte Ladram. I—’

‘My wife does not know you,’ he retorted.

‘No. But I think she knows – knew – my aunt.’

‘Please go away.’ He made to close the door. Desperately, Charlotte thrust her shoulder into the gap.

‘Beatrix Abberley!’ she shouted. ‘My aunt was Beatrix Abberley.’

He pulled back and squinted at her, pushing out his lower lip in a gesture combining pugnacity and deliberation.

‘She sent a letter to a Frenchwoman in June. Arranged to have it sent, I should say, immediately after her death. The Frenchwoman’s name began with V. If your wife was the recipient, then I must speak to her. There was an appeal in the papers here, I know, for Madame V to come forward. But they won’t have explained why it’s so urgent. My niece has been kidnapped and the letter may hold the key to her freedom. To her very life!’

‘What makes you think my wife is this … Madame V?’

‘She sent Beatrix chocolates every Christmas and Easter. She was a friend. Beatrix said so. The label on one of the tins is what brought me here.’

He hesitated a moment longer, then grunted and opened the door sufficiently for Charlotte to enter. As he closed it behind her, the lingering aroma of rich chocolate emerged from the gloom around them. The counters and display cabinets were empty, save for a few of the distinctive green and gold Confiserie Vassoir tins.

‘What has the letter – if there is a letter – to do with your niece’s … enlèvement?’

‘It’s the letter her kidnappers want.’

‘They have said so?’

‘Not exactly. But when I spoke to them—’

‘You have spoken to them?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you know about them?’

‘Nothing – except that they’re Spanish.’

‘Espagnol?’

‘Yes. Definitely.’

‘Espagnol,’ he repeated in a disbelieving murmur. ‘Wait here, madame. I will telephone my wife.’ He hurried into the back room. Charlotte heard him dial, then, a moment later, announce himself. ‘Ma chérie? C’est moi. Oui. Au magasin. Écoute bien.’ His speech accelerated beyond Charlotte’s comprehension, though she caught her own name – and Beatrix’s – on several occasions. Vassoir said less – and listened more – as the call proceeded. It drew to a close with expressions such as ‘Oui, oui’ and ‘Immédiatement’. Then he put the telephone down and rejoined her in the shop, frowning solemnly. ‘My wife wants me to take you to her, madame. She is at our home in Suresnes. It is not far. Will you let me drive you there?’

‘She is the Madame V Beatrix wrote to?’

‘Oui.’

‘Then, yes, please take me to her. Straightaway.’

‘My car is parked at the back. Come this way.’

‘One thing, monsieur. When I mentioned Spain, it seemed to make a big difference. Why?’

‘Because my wife is Spanish.’

‘I see.’ Guesswork prompted her to add: ‘What was her maiden name?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Her surname – before you married.’

‘Ah, je comprends.’ For the first time, he smiled. ‘Ortiz. Isabel Ortiz.’

‘And Vicente Ortiz was …’

‘Her father.’