PARIS‚ PRESENT DAY
Before her appointment with Clément and Albert Remon at ten, Evie met Gilles for an early breakfast at a cafe overlooking the Luxembourg Gardens. They needed to discuss an assortment of nineteenth-century illustrations by William Hooker that a collector in Hong Kong had contacted them about.
‘The collector’s kids are going to college in the States next year,’ Gilles told her. ‘Twin girls, to Johns Hopkins and Brown.’
‘Sounds expensive,’ she said as she ate a spoonful of Bircher muesli and wondered if Hugo had given any thought to university applications. All his talk lately was of his gap year. So far activities mooted had been hot-bathing in Reykjavik, heli-skiing in New Zealand and going to some music festivals just outside Rio. Last week he’d mentioned getting a job at one of the infamous weed cafes in Amsterdam. She’d chosen to ignore this last suggestion, but felt pleased he was making plans with his friends. He seemed less and less bogged down with grief.
Gilles handed his laptop to Evie so she could look at the illustrations. She flicked through images of cherries, pineapples and nectarines, all etched in colourful detail. After pausing to study the disappearing edges of some oranges, she gazed at a trio of red-streaked Bramley apples, complete with brown scabs. ‘I love this one. They are so imperfect. So real.’
Gilles smiled. ‘I knew you would. Hooker was big on capturing things exactly how they were. Didn’t matter if a stem was mangled or an apple scarred, he wasn’t afraid to show the struggle that comes with growth. To thrive, a plant might sometimes have to push out at an awkward angle to get the sun, or an apple might be constantly pecked by birds. But that little apple will cling to its seeds and ripen anyway, letting the flesh be torn away.’
‘Hmm. They really are something.’
‘Like your Joséphine Murant. It’s a challenge to survive, to thrive. An achievement worth commemorating, isn’t it?’ He grinned. ‘I’m close to having more pages of the diary ready for you. Her handwriting becomes increasingly difficult to read—you’ll see how the ink has bled into the page, and the letters are very scrawled and ill-formed in some sections. Of course, it’s understandable because of the injuries she endured in Anrath.’
‘Yes, her factory work damaged her hands severely. I hate to think of the pain she must have experienced—and yet she kept writing!’
‘Indeed. Unfortunately, the notes in the margins of her manuscript you texted me weren’t very helpful because her handwriting changed so much.’
‘I can get Clément to email you more samples, just in case?’
‘Thank you. Might just help me compare and clarify some of the letters, the turn of her hand.’
Evie ordered a second coffee, sat back in the sunshine and chatted with Gilles about Margot Bisset. Joséphine had recorded their conversations in her diary, mulling over possible suspects in Peggy’s murder.
‘The thing is,’ said Evie, ‘Joséphine was an acerbic observer of the people around her. She used words to paint them in all their complexity, just as Hooker layered his oils and watercolours to paint plants. And she believed Margot. See this entry.’ Evie tapped on a photo that Gilles had sent her earlier, one of those she’d deleted after her meeting with Clément.
Margot has said she didn’t commit murder. Said it was a misunderstanding. That she is innocent. Somebody else fired the bullet that killed Peggy Schramsburg.
When I first met her, I didn’t quite believe her. After all, she was imprisoned for life. Everyone at Fresnes pleaded their innocence, even me. And I definitely did all the things on my charge sheet—and more.
We’ve all done things in this war, in prison, we thought we’d never do. Lie, cheat and steal. Dignity lies not in being righteous, but what you can do to make life a little easier, a little more bearable, for those around you. To find a way for the spirit to prevail.
But now I’d swear on my life that Margot Bisset is no killer.
The little bird simply doesn’t have it in her.
After finishing her breakfast chat with Gilles and agreeing on a price for the Hooker collection, Evie walked the few blocks to the house of Joséphine’s old friend, the former journalist Albert Remon. It was one in an avenue of Haussmanns, its grey stone façade covered with ivy, window boxes spilling over with bright red pelargoniums. It looked a little wild compared to the other impeccable houses adorned with prim topiary.
Clément was waiting outside, and he beamed and greeted her with a kiss to both cheeks. Evie savoured his smell for a moment. He looked very smart in his crisp white shirt and navy blazer. ‘Ready?’ he asked, sounding excited, as they rang the doorbell.
A young woman in jeans, a T-shirt and a broad smile answered. ‘Monsieur Tazi, Madame Black, please come inside. I’m Izzy. Monsieur Remon is in the salon, this way.’ She ushered them into the grand hallway. ‘I’m his great-granddaughter and carer. He looks tired but, trust me, he’s still very much firing up top.’ She tapped her head and opened an oversized oak door. ‘Albert, your guests are here,’ she said cheerily.
She led Evie and Clément into a large library with floor-to-ceiling windows, its walls papered in faded gold silk and lined with bookshelves, its floor covered by overlapping Persian carpets. Monsieur Remon sat in a wheelchair under a sash window, bathed in sunlight, with a checked blanket over his knee. Introductions were made and Izzy left, closing the door behind her.
‘You wish to ask me about Joséphine Murant?’ said Monsieur Remon as he gestured to his bookshelves. ‘You can see I have all her novels. First editions.’
Clément nodded. ‘I have the article here you wrote along with a review in Réalités journal in 1950. I think you were the first person who got to interview her for a feature.’ He produced it from a folder in his leather satchel.
‘I see. That was a lifetime ago.’ Monsieur Remon closed his eyes.
‘What was Joséphine like as a young woman?’ asked Evie as she sank into the sofa opposite the old man. Clément sat next to her.
‘Well.’ Monsieur Remon’s eyes opened. ‘That depends.’
Evie and Clément looked at each other, puzzled.
‘Depends on?’ asked Clément, still pushing. Evie reflected that he could have been a journalist—he was so thirsty to uncover hidden voices and find the truth.
‘I knew Joséphine before she became an author. We were colleagues at Le Monde. Then, when the Occupation started, we met with a group of friends and founded the Société Charles Perrault.’
‘A literary club?’ said Clément, who had pulled out his notebook and was taking down everything Monsieur Remon said.
‘Of sorts. We met as like-minded people each month at a cafe on the Left Bank. But soon we started doing other … work.’
Clément leaned towards the old man. ‘Resistance?’
‘Resistance.’ Monsieur Remon gave a firm nod. ‘I haven’t spoken of this in over seventy years. But, young man, when I got your letter—’
Evie smiled: Clément and his charming letters.
‘Well, I knew I had to help with this exhibition. You see, before the war, Joséphine had so much verve, she could light up Paris. She’d arrange meetings, take minutes, draft stories, edit—she even did the drop of the first few issues of Liberté, our newsletter, at Métro stations. Stuffed five-franc notes in her garters that she’d stamped with Vive de Gaulle in red ink. She was fearless. In the evenings, before the Occupation, she’d tear apart jazz clubs, drinking whisky, dancing and smoking till dawn. A different silk dress every night, fur stoles around her pale shoulders. Even after the Boches took Paris, she still managed to keep her verve.’
‘I have a couple of early photos,’ said Clément. ‘She was something.’
‘She sure was!’ Monsieur Remon chuckled, before going still. ‘But that was before her arrest. The Gestapo—they took her in the middle of the night. At the time, none of us had any idea where she was.’ His face fell as he picked up an envelope and passed it to Clément with shaky hands.
‘From Joséphine, in Germany,’ Clément said as he examined the postmark. ‘How did she send this from Anrath?’
‘Must have bribed a guard. But go on, read it.’
Clément pulled the thin paper from the envelope. ‘Swastika letterhead. A thoughtful touch.’ He grimaced as he held it so Evie could read as well.
Our days are sixteen hours, the women here suffer shortness of breath, our heart rates are dropping. Our hands are burned with acid, as are our legs and feet. Each month there are fewer of us, and I fear by the end of this war there will be none at all.
But enough of this. My days are full of this.
I write because I want to reopen an investigation. My cellmate Margot Bisset was wrongfully convicted of the murder of Peggy Schramsburg. Marseille Courthouse, 1940.
She is innocent. Please help undo this wrong. I know there are many innocent victims of this war, but she deserves a life.
‘You see,’ said Monsieur Remon, ‘I did investigate. It was difficult, of course, with the war. But I had friends—ex-court reporters and police—who could get me information. That’s what I dealt in then, cigarettes and information. I tried my best, but I found nothing to suggest that Margot Bisset was innocent. I felt that I had let Joséphine down, but what could I do?’ He sighed. ‘Years later, when I finally saw her again for the interview, she was almost shy. We exchanged hellos and swapped pleasantries. She kept her face, and that fine mane of hers, under her scarf. Understandable. The scarring across her nose and cheeks made her unrecognisable. Her eyes … they were full of pain. She could hardly look at me,’ he said sadly. ‘I decided not to bring up her request. What would have been the point?’
Evie was gutted. She’d come to believe Margot had been innocent. Obviously Joséphine had too—why would she advocate for her friend otherwise?
Clément sensed Evie’s mood and shrugged at her as if to say, I’m sorry. They’d both wanted to believe the young maid was not a murderer.
She was.
The three of them sat in silence as light spilled through the tall windows.
‘Joséphine must have thought highly of Margot, to vouch for her under those circumstances,’ said Monsieur Remon. ‘To risk sending that letter to me.’
‘Yes,’ said Evie, with a pang of sorrow, ‘they must have been very close.’
‘Perhaps too close for Joséphine to see the truth,’ said Clément. He glanced down at the Réalités interview, and Evie watched with fondness as he switched back into investigative mode. ‘I wonder, Monsieur, if you might help me with one more matter. You quoted Joséphine in this article as saying she’d had a manuscript rejected. Did she tell you about it?’
‘No, I’m sorry. She was—’
‘Brusque?’ Evie asked.
‘No! I was going to say withdrawn.’ He fixed Evie with his bright blue eyes. ‘The last time we had met in Paris, during the war, she had arranged with a friend of ours, a printer, to make contact with a town planner, who gave us access to important maps. The Resistance and the Allied soldiers used them to detonate some sites. Secret airfields outside Paris. Munitions factories, warehouses full of weapons.’ His voice was full of pride, but then he leaned back in his wheelchair, his gaze dimming. ‘Joséphine was arrested that night, along with Timothée and Louis.’
Evie and Clément exchanged a glance. ‘Timothée Martin,’ she mouthed. ‘Mont-Valérien Chapel.’ Joséphine had known those men, and honoured them with her endearing, courageous detective character.
Monsieur Remon spoke again, his voice hoarse. ‘I owe them my life—all of this …’ He gestured around the room. ‘My beautiful wife and her brothers—all passed, bless their souls. My lovely Izzy. My career as a journalist.’ He coughed, pressing a hand to his eyes. ‘I owe them everything, for they gave me my liberté.’
Evie glanced across at Clément and saw he too had tears in his eyes.
‘I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told a soul.’ Monsieur Remon leaned forward again and dropped his voice. ‘I was at Mont-Valérien the morning when Timothée and Louis were …’ His voice wavered, and he reached into the pocket of his tweed jacket for a handkerchief to dab his eyes. ‘Our network had just heard from their contacts at Fresnes Prison that the men from the last round of trials were being transported and executed. So many political prisoners were being killed at Mont-Valérien, sometimes dozens a week. There was nothing we could do against the regiment of Nazis that guarded the fort.’
Evie recalled the clearing in the thicket. Birch and oak trees huddled around the edges, branches overlapping. The rough texture of the telegraph poles used as execution posts. The charred bullet holes.
‘But,’ Monsieur Remon continued, ‘I wanted to honour these good men, so I got up before dawn and, as the sun started to break up the fog, I hiked through the forest in a filmy golden light—well, I ran like a mountain goat, weaving between those elms and oaks. It was magical, with the dappled canopy overhead, mud and leaves underfoot. Morning birdsong. The most perfect spring morning. When I got closer, I heard the engines of German trucks—the soldiers.’ Monsieur Remon wiped his nose.
Clément nodded.
‘I reached the clearing and there they were: Timothée, Louis and eight other brave men, tied to posts like dogs. Louis cried out, “Liberté, égalité, fraternité,” as twenty Nazis lifted their guns. Our men sang “La Marseillaise” one more time. I sang it too, from behind my tree. And then …’
Evie held her breath.
‘And then they shot them. My comrades. Bravest men I ever met …’ His voice faded, and he dabbed at his eyes and closed them. Seconds later, he started to snore.
‘We should go,’ Evie whispered to Clément, brushing away her tears.
‘Of course.’ He squeezed her hand.
The pair moved quietly across the room, but at the creak of the door Monsieur Remon stirred. His eyes opened a fraction, then he mumbled, ‘That architect, he told me … he told me where to find …’
‘Where to find?’ asked Clément as he quickly stepped back to Monsieur Remon and knelt beside him.
‘Where to find?’ repeated Monsieur Remon, sounding surprised, before he yawned, closed his heavy lids and went back to sleep.
Keen not to wake the old man a second time, Evie gestured to Clément that they should slip away.