VILLA SANARY‚ PRESENT DAY
Evie leaned against the kitchen bench and sipped her coffee while Hugo sat at the oversized table with the Laurents, polishing off his second croissant. Madame Laurent was busy in the kitchen preparing a chicken curry for dinner.
Evie and Hugo had stayed in Paris for a week, sorting through Raph’s paperwork and storage boxes for any hint of Joséphine’s first manuscript. All she’d come up with were tax returns and handfuls of Paris Saint-Germain ticket stubs. Gilles was making good progress on the Leroux paperback and had promised to send some images very soon. She’d also negotiated the sale of the Australian orchids manuscript to a collector in Singapore; she would be sad to see this one go—the spidery lines of blue had woven their way into her heart.
Evie planned to enjoy the rest of her summer here at the villa with Hugo as she worked with Clément. The sun was starting to rise, and it bathed the conservatory in a pink hue. The day was going to be a hot one. Evie studied the soft rosy haze and took a deep breath as she thought about her early years with her dad out in the paddocks, where the relentless Australian sun beat down on parched, cracked soil. A glance at the grandfather clock in the corner told her it would be 6 p.m. back home. Her dad would be in his favourite chair on the veranda, having showered away the dust, a whisky in hand, studying the stock reports.
‘Ready?’ Monsieur Laurent had kindly offered to drive Evie to the museum for her meeting with Clément.
‘Smells good,’ said Hugo, who swung around the kitchen bench to see what Madame Laurent was cooking in her wok. ‘You spoil us.’
‘Not at all. I love having people to cook for. This big old house needs filling up. You need filling up, Hugo—look at those long limbs.’
‘Madame Laurent, you do look after us,’ said Evie. ‘We are so lucky to have you in our lives. Hopefully I’ll be back in time for curry.’ She breathed in the spicy scent. ‘I’ll text if I’m running late. Clément says he has a stack of stuff to show me.’ She pulled a blue cashmere scarf from her bag and wrapped it around her neck and shoulders.
She was looking forward to seeing Clément. In fact, she’d changed her shirt twice and taken an extra few minutes to put on mascara, blush and a dab of the highlighter Camille had forced her to buy at great cost last week in Galeries Lafayette. Her friend had whipped off the lid at the counter and gently stabbed Evie in the corners of each eye, then painted stripes down her nose and across her cheekbones before blending it with an index finger. ‘See, it will add light here, here and here. You look dewy and delicious. Wear your yellow Isabel Marant silk shirt, and I guarantee he’ll be peeling you out of it by the day’s end.’
‘Camille! I’m not … We’re working together. The exhibition—’
‘Pfft.’ Her friend batted away her protests. ‘You’re not the first to meet a lover through work. I met my first husband on a shoot, remember? Besides, it’s not like you have a huge social life, so where else are you going to meet anyone? You refuse to try online dating.’ Camille dabbed some gloss onto her lips. ‘Just make sure you wear a good silk bra and matching knickers. Make an effort, Evie. You’re gorgeous. Enjoy it.’
‘Thanks for agreeing to meet at my office,’ said Clément as he plucked some files off her seat and added them to a pile in the corner. He waved at them. ‘This is for an exhibition later next year, after the Joséphine Murant.’
‘It must be relentless.’ Evie smiled as she looked out the floor-to-ceiling sash windows across the bay. Fishing boats, yachts and luxury cruisers huddled together, bumping against the docks.
Clément followed her gaze. ‘My great-grandfather worked on one of those trawlers for thirty years after he emigrated.’
‘Where was he from?’
‘Casablanca. Migrated after the war. He was in the Battle of Verdun in 1916.’
Evie shivered and looked from the boats to Clément. He carried trauma and displacement in his blood. She remembered him telling her and Madame Laurent that his grandfather—his jadde—had fought for the de Gaulle forces in North Africa. Suffered severe nerves. His research into Joséphine Murant clearly touched on something quite personal.
‘Do you fish?’ asked Evie, who suddenly longed to sit out by the ocean. Stripy umbrellas dotted the footpaths, luring holidaymakers and locals to sit and enjoy the region’s rosé and specialty bouillabaisse.
‘Me?’ He seemed surprised. ‘I used to throw a line off the end of those docks with my jadde. But now my fish experience is limited strictly to eating. What about you? Do you fish?’
‘Never! I grew up hundreds of miles from the sea. Raph took me a few times when we stayed down here, but it’s not really my thing. I prefer my fish cooked too!’ She grinned. ‘Sorry, I interrupted you. You were about to talk about the Joséphine Murant exhibition.’
‘I didn’t mean the Joséphine Murant, like it’s just another exhibition. It’s not, I promise you. It’s just that we have to schedule these exhibits years in advance. The next booking is a series of botanical illustrations. That’s why I wanted you to come in here—otherwise I’d have come to you, of course.’
Evie smiled, touched by his consideration.
Clément started to open a folder across the desk. ‘First, an update on Margot Bisset’s conviction.’ He tapped the folder. ‘These are copies of all the witness statements. There is a typed statement from your Monsieur Laurent’s brother, Gabriel.’ Clément lifted it up and read it aloud. ‘Margot Bisset handed a letter to my baby brother, Maxime, with instructions she pass it to me. He did at about 10 p.m. I believe she wanted my forgiveness and help. It seems your Mr Laurent was there the night of the murder.’
Evie rubbed her forehead. ‘But he was just a little boy,’ she said protectively. ‘It had nothing to do with Maxime.’
‘I know. But the note was pretty clear.’ He held up the evidence.
Cher Gabriel,
Meet me behind the hedge half an hour after the fireworks have finished. I’ll bring champagne, from Chef, and perhaps some leftover caviar.
There may be a commotion on the balcony during the fireworks. Don’t panic if you hear a gunshot. Or see police. I may be a few minutes late. Please wait!
It’s all a game. A terrible trick. I’ll be relieved when it is over.
I will explain what I have done when we meet. Don’t tell anyone.
Margot
‘That’s ridiculous. Surely nobody believes this scribbly nonsense. Look, it starts Cher Gabriel—with affection …’ Evie had no idea why she suddenly felt compelled to defend the notorious Margot Bisset. Perhaps because as an Australian, Evie had an instinctive need to defend the underdog—and because Monsieur Laurent couldn’t have been completely wrong about Margot, could he?
‘The jury believed it! Also, it says on this page—’ Clément produced another piece of paper from the folder ‘—that according to the detective’s report, Margot’s fingerprints were all over the gun that killed Peggy Schramsburg.’
‘Gun?’ Evie glanced at the charge sheet.
‘But why?’ Evie asked. ‘What would a maid hope to gain … ? Was she blackmailing this Peggy Schramsburg?’
‘Who knows? I’ve asked for the coroner’s report to check whether Peggy actually died of a gunshot wound. These newspaper articles suggest she did, but it may take some time to clarify.’
HEIRESS MURDERED
SHOT AT POINT BLANK RANGE
MURDERING MAID
‘I feel like we’re in the middle of one of Joséphine’s novels, with all this talk of murder and guns.’ Evie winced. ‘Except this isn’t a guessing game. A real person died. Also, if Margot didn’t kill Peggy, then who did?’
‘Well, it’s speculation at this point.’ He looked serious, and Evie wanted to see him smile again.
‘Let’s leave this for now,’ she suggested, then turned to survey the piles of folders on the carpet. She presumed each pile and colour represented a different exhibition, or collection. ‘If you put that folder down, will you find it again? Seems like you’ve got a lot going on here.’ She gestured around his office, sensing a fellow procrastinator when it came to admin.
‘I have a system!’ he protested with a chuckle. ‘Come on, come with me. I’ll take you to these illustrations. Then, we shall have lunch.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Evie, who right at that minute wished Gilles was there to join them. He and Clément were kindred spirits, charming leftovers from a previous century. She stood up and tugged on her scarf, then followed Clément through a rabbit warren of fluorescent-lit back corridors and poky stairwells.
‘Here we are.’ He tapped the electronic lock with his security pass.
Years of accompanying Gilles to auction rooms and specialist reading rooms had prepared her for the cellar-like conditions of museum reading rooms. But the chill was a small price to pay for the thrill of seeing a rare botanical manuscript for the first time. Outside, the sun would be climbing and the cobbled streets baking, and the ocean glinting. Not here, where it was all dim lights, velvet table covers and cotton gloves.
Evie took out her notebook and loupe magnifying glass. ‘May I?’
‘Of course!’ Clément passed her a pair of archival gloves.
She opened the first herbal and sucked in a breath. ‘I’ve seen a copy of Cesi’s Botanical Manuscripts at the rare book fair in Antwerp, but nothing compares to seeing the original.’ She studied where the museum binders were stitched onto separate paper guards so she could open the book without bending the original parchment.
‘This one was made in 1620, for the newly established academy of sciences in Rome.’ He gestured to the gold inscription on the front page.
Evie flicked through the pages, pointing out the precision of the artist. There were starry ferns and bryophytes, mustard- and lime-coloured mosses and liverworts. She turned a page back and forth, feeling the soft crick of the centuries-old vellum and admiring the brightness of the ink. A double-page spread of moss was so vivid, she almost believed she’d feel the cool, tufty softness if she pressed her cheek to the page.
Gilles’s sage advice as she’d worked on her own watercolours over the years came flooding back. People rarely read the scientific annotations in the margins—always look to what is written in the creases, Evie.
She paused, thinking of the Leroux volume now locked up at her shop with him, Joséphine’s prison diary recorded almost entirely in the margins. Would it reveal her secrets, and those of Margot Bisset? Evie hoped Gilles would be able to separate all of the fused pages so none of Joséphine’s words would be lost.
She thought about all the hard work she and Gilles put in to chase the provenance of a botanical manuscript, analysing composition. Clément seemed to enjoy the hunt as much as she did.
She leaned closer to the 1620 manuscript and ran her finger along a blade of grass. Did the artist paint this in the field, in the bowels of a ship or in a quiet room by candlelight? It could be difficult to establish the provenance: how and where things were made. A manuscript could both whisper secrets and conceal them. A glance at the vellum could take you back five hundred years, but under what conditions was it painted? How did it change hands the first time?
How many hands had been over these pages?
Evie’s head shot up, and she rested her loupe on the table. She looked at Clément. ‘I understand now why you want to see Joséphine’s working manuscripts. Especially the missing manuscript. It’s not so different, is it?’
When his eyes met hers, she sensed that he understood her perfectly. ‘Very true, Evie,’ he said. Their eyes locked, and she found herself holding her breath until he broke the contact. ‘Let’s go have some lunch! I know a place that does the freshest coquilles St Jacques with just salt, butter and white wine. And while we are there, I’m hoping I can convince you to take a daytrip to Suresnes with me. There’s a memorial I think you should see.’
Evie hesitated. Was this a work thing, or was he asking her on a date? Part of her wanted it to be a date—but there was Hugo. And she didn’t want to complicate a professional relationship.
Besides, what could a war memorial in Suresnes have to do with an exhibition about Joséphine Murant? Could it somehow be linked to her diary? The missing manuscript? Perhaps Joséphine had told Clément more than he let on.