Guy had stayed in the bar for another half an hour but another waitress had brought his wine and he had been unable to find the one who knew Rose again. He worried that for whatever reason she had decided it was too dangerous to talk to him, it meant that she was losing money by cutting short her shift, so he decided to leave. He had left his name and the telephone number of the pension where he was staying with the barman, though he was not hopeful it would get passed along. He hadn’t even caught the waitress’s name and thanks to his bad eyesight and the dim lighting, was not even completely certain that he knew what she looked like beyond the disturbingly low-cut top. Disheartened, Guy had returned to his room and gone to bed. There had been no sign of Mary, who was presumably beside her husband, sleeping off his earlier enthusiasm for the French grape.
The following morning, the sky was brighter and so was their mood. Harry’s long sleep meant he bore no ill effects and Mary was full of the joys of Paris. The three of them decided to go for a walk, to find a typical Parisian brasserie and order croissants. It was then that Guy told them something he’d decided on as he’d tossed and turned on his thin mattress. ‘I’m going to go and find Louisa this morning,’ he said as the waiter set down the pretty rolled pats of butter and a pot of blackberry jam.
Harry looked shocked. ‘What? Not that old chestnut, Sully.’
‘That’s not a very nice way to talk about a lady,’ said Guy.
‘Ha ha. No, but I thought you’d never heard from her again? Do you mean to say you know she’s in Paris?’
Guy had withheld this from Harry and Mary. Quite possibly, he’d withheld it from himself, too. For all his flirtatious teasing, Harry was straight up and down when it came to marriage. He would no more look at another woman now he had Mary than he would smash his saxophone on the pavement. ‘And if I did look at another woman, that’s exactly what Mary would do to my saxophone,’ he had laughed, when he and Guy had had this discussion before, prompted by yet another pretty young girl offering to buy Harry a drink at the end of a set.
‘Yes, she’s in Paris. She works for one of the Mitford sisters, Diana. She’s here on her honeymoon and Louisa’s her maid.’
‘Coo,’ whistled Harry. ‘I thought she’d left them after … well, all that business at the party. With the murder.’ He rolled his eyes comically but Guy remembered; it had been a serious and disturbing time.
‘I think she did leave them for a bit but it seems Diana Mitford, or Mrs Guinness as she is now, has taken her back.’
‘Louisa will be a familiar face for her in her new world,’ said Mary. ‘I understand it. Harry darling, these croissants are delicious. Do have one.’
‘The point is, what about Sinéad? You’re engaged.’
‘I know I’m engaged, Harry. I’m not proposing to change anything on that score,’ he said, as firmly as he could. ‘I thought she might help with Rose. The servant grapevine and all that.’ He was aware of Harry eyeballing him but he carried on. ‘A few days ago I telephoned to find out where she was and the housekeeper said she was here. It’s too much of a coincidence not to follow up, don’t you think?’
‘What if she doesn’t want to see you? I mean, old chap, you’ve not seen her for some time.’
‘I know. I’ll admit a part of me wants to know why, though I’ve no right to ask. But I don’t feel the same about her any more. There’s no danger.’ As Guy said it, he knew he was denying a truth. He was desperate to know what she had been doing for the last few years and why she hadn’t replied to his letters. He knew that was wrong, with Sinéad, but there it was.
‘I see,’ said Harry. ‘You knew Louisa was here. Anyone else you’re keeping up your sleeve for me? Queen of Sheba here and all, is she?’
‘Don’t be so silly.’ Mary blew Harry a kiss across the table. ‘Now, eat.’
The scene over, Guy decided there was no time like the present and arranged to meet Mary and Harry for lunch at a brasserie they had spotted close by. Thanks to a friendly waiter he was able to look up Louisa’s address on a Paris map and, with the directions written out, set off.
Having decided the Metro was too complicated to undertake alone, Guy had decided to walk to the Guinness house, which was likely to take an hour but the weather was dry and clear and he was happy to have the chance to take in the Paris streets. As he walked southwards the view changed dramatically, with the streets growing broader and the buildings wider and grander. In the final furlong, Guy walked across the bridge from Place de la Concorde to the other side of the river, and he felt as if a big band was playing tunes on his heart. Was it the glory of the Champs-Elysées, where the image of Marie Antoinette and her bewigged friends on sleighs came easily to mind, or was it the thought that he was getting closer to Louisa?
When at last Guy arrived at 12 rue de Poitiers he wasn’t at all sure where to ring the bell. There was a rather imposing gate in an archway of the house that seemed to lead to an inner courtyard, but that seemed rather too stately for his own requirements. As it was, Louisa might not be pleased to see him, and especially not if his arrival meant she was reprimanded by Mr Guinness for the impertinence. So he walked along the side of the building until he found a more modest door and knocked. After a long minute, as Guy was thinking perhaps the whole thing was a mistake, the door was opened.
‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’ said the young maid who opened the door. She looked pale and harried, as if she had been expecting someone else and was frustrated by the appearance of this stranger.
‘Hello, miss,’ said Guy. ‘Sorry, I don’t speak French. Is Miss Louisa Cannon there?’
‘Comment?’ But she blinked and then said. ‘Ah, oui, Mademoiselle Cannon. Entrez.’ She walked off and left the door open, so he assumed he was to follow. Inside, the house was remarkably stylish, with its muted colours and thickly tufted rugs laid on polished wooden floors, even though he was surely in the servants’ quarters. He walked behind the maid along a narrow hallway until they reached what must have been the housekeeper’s siting room. ‘Attendez ici, s’il vous plaît.’
‘Er, yes,’ said Guy, unsure exactly to what he was agreeing. He stood nervously in the small room, turning his hat round in his hands as he looked at the rather uncomfortable chair in front of the desk, the neatly ordered papers and sharpened pencils in a glass pot. He couldn’t hear anything – those thick rugs masking the footsteps of anyone approaching, he supposed – and was, therefore, completely startled when all at once Louisa was standing before him.
‘Guy? What on earth are you doing here?’