MARSEILLE COURTHOUSE‚ DECEMBER 1940
Margot sat in the dock beside the bench, nursing her head in her hands as she was sentenced. She tried to swallow, but her throat was knotted. Her white cotton shirt was clammy against her skin, and her swollen feet ached in the heeled shoes her lawyer had given her to wear to court ‘so she didn’t look like a jealous, desperate killer’ in old boots.
The courtroom broke into a merry cheer at the sentence of execution, and the jurors all stood to stretch their legs, shake hands and pat each other on the back. It had been a long, drawn-out trial. Delayed at first when the Munros were unable to travel from Britain, then again by the Occupation, which saw political trials take precedence. When her case finally came to trial, Margot found she had only the government-issued lawyer for support.
Margot had grown thin from the strain. The agony of not being believed. Her hair was lank and stringy and she couldn’t remember when she had last brushed her teeth. She spent every night alone in her cell, running over the events, remembering each tiny detail about the party … right down to the lobster canapés and the row of covered buttons down the back of Peggy Schramsburg’s plunging dress.
No one visited, except her mother once a month with a fresh baguette and a large wedge of comté she couldn’t afford. Each month, Margot assured Vivienne that it was a mistake … that she’d be released soon. But as seasons passed and the following summer rolled around, it became clear that not only did no one believe Margot, no one cared. Justice, it seemed, was a luxury preserved for the wealthy.
Margot had been certain the Munros would back her up—but they denied any suggestion of a murder game. No one else except Peggy Schramsburg knew about the game. It was Margot’s word against her employers’.
Who would believe Margot when all the evidence suggested otherwise? She had been caught with a smoking gun in her hand. A dead body at her feet.
The night Margot was arrested, she’d overheard Madame Munro say to the police, ‘We planned a party game, of course—a general amusement. Charades at midnight. But I always have games at my parties and no one has ever died.’ Madame Munro put a hand on her heart. ‘I feel dreadful. One of my own staff!
‘Darling Peggy was a ball of nerves. No doubt she was rehearsing on the balcony. Heaven knows what got into Margot—but I promise you: there was never any mention of murder.’
The Munros had lied. What were they hiding?
Margot had gone over and over the details of the murder game. First to the policeman who arrested her. Then again to his senior officer the next day. And so it went, for days, weeks, then over a year. Her legal representation had changed twice and none of her lawyers had believed her. Just like the police, her lawyers encouraged her to plead guilty right from the start.
Smoking gun.
Dead body.
The only person who believed in Margot’s innocence was her mother. Each day, Vivienne had sat in court dressed in her Sunday best, bag clasped on her knees, expression thunderous—she would never forgive Madame Munro for failing to protect Margot. Her face had pinched in pain when the charges were laid out. Today she looked so thin, so frail, it seemed she might not be able to get to her feet unassisted. She sat alone in the gallery, crying and clasping her crimson rosary beads while the crowds gossiped and chattered as they clambered past her knees to leave the courthouse and get on with the business of their lives.
Margot mouthed, ‘I love you,’ to her mother before a wall of police blocked her view.
Margot was still sitting in the dock beside the bench, head hung low, trying with all her might to swallow her tears as everyone else was funnelled from the courtroom. When it was empty, she was roughly hoisted to her feet by her elbows, handcuffed and bundled into a police van with the day’s murderers, rapists and petty thieves.
She burned with rage at the betrayal by the Munros. Where were they now? No doubt ensconced at their townhouse back in Britain … cooking up another game. The Munros should be in prison, not her. It was their game. Their party.
Her hands were cuffed so she had nothing to hang on to as the police van sped over cobblestones and whipped around corners without any care for the prisoners. With each knock and bump, Margot was jolted out of her shocked state. As her cheek slammed against cold metal and her jaw ached, her fury blazed hotter.
She huddled close to the wall of the van, hoping it would prevent more knocks. She closed her eyes and remembered the morning of the Bastille Day party.
As an employer, Tilly Munro was as changeable as the mistral that blew down from the foothills and threatened to bend in two the olive trees and pencil pines dotted along the cliffs. But as a hostess, she was charming, warm and utterly convincing when it came to getting what she wanted. This year, she wanted her Bastille Day party to be the talk of not just the Côte d’Azur, but Paris and the whole of Europe too.
‘It’s La Fête Nationale, darling Margot!’ Madame Munro called as Margot entered her chamber. She sat at her dressing table sweeping rouge across her cheeks, swathed in a navy silk dressing gown, with diamond and pearl pendants dripping from her ears. ‘Who wants to stand around for hours singing “La Marseillaise”? It’s a dreadfully boring way to celebrate. Things will remain steady in France, thank God!’
Margot swallowed. She sometimes read Monsieur Munro’s newspapers as she tidied the library, and recently she’d found out that the Germans had enlisted nearly a million soldiers for military manoeuvres. She didn’t know exactly what that meant, but she knew it wasn’t good. Her papa had fought against German soldiers, and his nightly screams after he’d returned from the war still rang in her ears. It was her earliest memory.
Marc Bisset had arrived home an empty and broken man. He’d wasted away for several years—nursed by a stoic, doting Vivienne—until he died of consumption: a carcass with ruined lungs crumpled on a straw mattress.
If Madame noticed Margot’s hesitation, she ignored it and continued to rant. ‘Herr Bloch insists this is just a hitch. You’ll see, this nonsensical standoff will pass quickly and the German economy will fly. It would be such a shame not to have a piece of that. The Windsors agree—they took tea with Hitler, after all. Heard it straight from the horse’s mouth that all will be well. They insist he’s a shy gem, misunderstood.’ Madame held up two different earrings. ‘The diamonds, or the diamond drops with sapphires?’
‘The blue matches your eyes, Madame. You were talking about Hitler and Germany?’
‘Oh, never mind that. Nobody wants to talk boring politics tonight. We need to celebrate! It’s summer. I always throw the party of the season. That’s why we need something really big this year. A distraction. So, I’ve decided that someone needs to be murdered tonight!’ She waved her hands in excitement. ‘Nobody ever remembers what we ate or drank—lobster or quail, Krug or Dom Pérignon. They only remember the fun times.’
‘But m-murder, Madame?’ Margot stuttered. Had her employer gone completely mad?
She was relieved to hear this wasn’t the case, but she still frowned as Madame explained the plan.
‘Stop worrying, Margot. And don’t tell Vivienne—she most definitely would not approve.’ Madame winked at Margot, who pictured her hardy mother bent over the laundry boilers downstairs washing endless sheets and towels for guests, pressing table linen and generally making sure Villa Sanary ran seamlessly through summer.
Vivienne found Madame’s extravagance loathsome, and silently Margot sometimes agreed. The money spent on a quarter of the champagne tipped into the pool last year would have kept the local village school going for years. Still, there were few jobs in the village that paid the full year for service, even though the Munros only visited the Côte d’Azur for summer. And Margot’s family had been in service to the Munros for three generations.
‘I’m not sure I understand, Madame. How do you fake a murder? Won’t people be ter—’
Madame interjected, fanning out her hands like stars for maximum effect. ‘Terrified! That’s the whole point, darling. I want tonight to be unforgettable.’
‘But how are you going to make this … believable?’
Her employer was applying mascara now, and she turned and batted her lashes. ‘A lady doesn’t give away all her secrets! What I will tell you is that I’ve arranged for the gendarmerie to arrive.’
Margot’s eyes widened.
‘Oh, don’t be shocked. Monsieur Munro asked Commissioner Moreau as a personal favour. They will show up, declare Peggy Schramsburg dead, and proceed to interview all the guests. Just like an Agatha Christie!’ She gave a delighted clap. Margot took a deep breath and exhaled while Madame brushed her face with a shimmery translucent powder to set her makeup. ‘Trust me, Margot. You’ll never forget this party.’ She stood up, snapping the gold compact case closed. ‘Now be a darling and go pick armfuls of the blush-pink roses for our centrepiece. That dishy new gardener brought in buckets of the white roses, even though I clearly said pink, pink, pink!’ She waved her hands in the air as if she were conducting an orchestra. ‘He’s a bit on the slow side, but we can’t be blessed with everything, can we?’ She chortled. ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away and all that …’ Madame sighed and looked out her window to where Gabriel’s silhouette was disappearing past the orchard.
Margot’s stomach groaned as she remembered how much she had to do, and how little she’d had to eat. ‘Madame, can I please pick the roses after I go to the village for Chef? All the kitchen staff are busy preparing for your party.’ She deliberately brightened her tone. ‘It smells delicious!’
‘I’m sure! Yes, you may go to the village for Chef.’ Madame’s voice hardened a fraction. ‘But don’t forget my roses. Promise?’
‘Promise. Merci, Madame.’ Margot quickly backed out of the room before she was tasked with yet another errand.
‘Honestly, Margot. You, my darling, are the only one I trust around here to do things properly.’
That night, the Munros were quick to see Margot taken away like one of Madame’s last-season silk dresses she no longer had a use for.
Peggy was bleeding from the single, dark bullet hole in the side of her skull, hidden by her curls. Margot was crouched beside her, trying to revive her, when guests spilling out onto the balcony to watch the fireworks found Margot with the still-smoking gun in her right hand.
More guests crowded onto the balcony, drawn by the screams of women melded with fireworks. Some recoiled in horror. A doctor pushed his way through the shocked crowd, knelt and felt for a pulse. Peggy Schramsburg was dead, he declared, glaring at the gun still in Margot’s hand.
She was terrified and confused. Was she about to be shot too? Was the killer still out there in the garden? She rested her dizzy head against the wall, the stone cooling her cheek. She had to make them all see what had really happened.
Two policemen arrived and barged onto the balcony, pushing guests aside to get to the victim. The Munros were mortified and tried to soothe their guests as they ushered the women onto velvet sofas in the drawing room. They demanded immediate action: their maid must be taken into custody at once. ‘Look, she still has the gun in her hand!’ Margot was truly scared now: Madame Munro had assured her Monsieur Munro had let them in on the game. Had the police been waiting nearby at the villa? Who had called them?
But mostly: why didn’t the police believe Margot when they knew about the murder game?
‘But the game …’ Margot pleaded. ‘I fired the gun into …’
She was arrested on the spot.
She stood on the balcony with her hands cuffed behind her back, flanked by two policemen. The one interrogating her and taking her statement had been to the village elementary school with her. She tried to recall his name. Jean-Marc? Jean-Paul? His blue eyes pleaded with her to pay attention and answer the questions, and he spoke her name at first as if they were friends. Comforting. Cajoling. But what to say?
The two men spoke to each other about her, offering indirect advice. Perhaps it was an accident, and Margot did not mean to kill the American. It would be easier—make the judges more lenient—if she were to plead manslaughter.
Several gentlemen stood across the door so the maid could not leave the balcony. A line of white tuxedos.
Half a dozen more police arrived and swarmed onto the balcony, now looking for evidence among shattered champagne coupes, linen serviettes and discarded lobster canapés. The gun had already been taken from her by the first policeman.
‘It will be easier for you if you confess,’ the blue-eyed inspector said to Margot, his voice hardened now, his eyes full of doubt.
Her brain throbbed with sadness, fear and confusion as she tried to unpick the moments that had led to Mademoiselle’s death. There had been a plan—the police needed to see that Margot’s involvement was just part of a game. But how? Wouldn’t the Munros tell them?
Out by the pool she could see Gabriel, with Maxime tucked over his shoulder, wailing and confused, calling, ‘M-M-Ma—’ The poor child should be in bed; it was so late. The young man tried to console his tiny brother, patting his back, but Maxime would not be hushed.
From where she was standing on the balcony, Margot saw Gabriel pass an envelope to a lanky policeman. The gardener pointed up to where Margot stood, then turned and carried his weeping brother into the shadows, with the child looking back over his shoulder.
As Margot was marched from Villa Sanary, tugged with her hands behind her back, she stumbled downstairs. Guests pressed themselves against the walls to avoid her, their faces turned away in revulsion.
When the first policeman placed his hand on her head to steer her into the car, Margot caught a glimpse of Vivienne kneeling on the gravel driveway in her black uniform. Screaming, pleading. ‘Ma fille est innocente! My daughter is innocent!’