Madame de Peurey threw back her head in a full-throated laugh. When she had finished laughing, she said, “And where would I be now? Worn out with childbearing and housework? Believe me, I am a success and
The duchess pretended she had not heard the last sentence.
“Ah, here is my album,” said Madame de Peurey. “Sit by me, Lady Rose, and I will show you what I was like in the old days.”
Rose moved her chair over next to the courtesan and opened the album. There were early photographs of madame riding a white horse in the circus. She had indeed been beautiful, like a plump cherub, all dimples and curls. “That’s me with my first, a timber merchant,” said Madame de Peurey. “I moved on up the social ladder after him. Now there is me with the next, the Viscount Patrick. Such legs he had! A great catch. And there is the carriage he bought me so that I could drive in the Bois.”
Madame de Peurey smelt strongly of a mixture of mothballs and patchouli. Rose longed to move her chair away. Harry came to her rescue. “I would like to see your photographs,” he said. “If I might change places with you, Lady Rose?”
Rose gratefully retreated to the chair he had vacated. She wished this odd visit would come to an end. Daisy had fallen asleep, her face turned up to the sunlight filtering through the trellis of vines. Rose watched Harry as he bent his dark head over the photographs and felt a sudden frisson of desire. He looked up at that moment and gave a little half smile. Rose blushed, lowered her head and played with her fan.
Tea arrived. Madame prattled on about her past but they could not find out any significant information about Dolores or why she had been killed. The duchess barely said a word. She considered such persons as Madame de Peurey highly undesirable and so she simply pretended the woman wasn’t there. Any qualms she might have had about Rose being in such company were suppressed by her thoughts that her ducal presence was enough to bestow respectability on the flightiest girl.
¦
Back at the hotel, Harry suggested they should travel to Saint Malo on the following day. The duchess grumbled, but Rose wanted to go and Rose had to be chaperoned.
The weather was still fine when they set out with Becket at the wheel. Daisy had enjoyed another night of passion and was pleasantly sleepy. They decided to check into a hotel when they arrived at Saint Malo. Dolores had been photographed for a postcard – postcards of famous beauties sold well – and Harry had bought several to show around the town to see if anyone recognized her.
Daisy was disappointed when she found that her room adjoined Rose’s and so there would be no chance of a night in Becket’s arms.
The following morning, Harry told them all to relax and look around the town while he went off with Becket to see if anyone knew of the farm where Dolores had lived.
Rose and Daisy walked along the ramparts of the fortress town. A steamer advertising Chocolat Meunier lay below them in the harbour, being boarded by tourists.
Daisy was dying to confide in Rose, but decided against it. She felt sure Rose would put down her loss of virginity to her low background.
¦
Harry moved farther and farther out into the countryside, stopping at farms and showing them Dolores’s photograph. He was about to give up because the light was failing and he was tired and dusty when he saw a little farmhouse set up on a rise.
He ordered Becket to drive up to it and got stiffly out of the car, his old war wound throbbing.
Harry knocked at the door. A child answered it and stared up at him. Harry, in slow and careful French, asked if he might speak to her father or mother. She was pulled aside by a young woman who demanded to know Harry’s business. He showed her the photograph of Dolores. She stared down at it and then jerked her head as a signal that he was to follow her indoors.
A family were seated around a kitchen table having their evening meal. There seemed to be three generations – grandparents, parents and three children. A pot of cassoulet stood in the centre of the table and the kitchen smelt sweet from the bunches of herbs hanging from the rafters. The woman who had called him in explained the reason for his visit and the photograph was passed from one work-worn hand to the other.
When it got to the old man at the head of the table, he said something and Harry caught the name Betty.
He approached him. “Do you recognize this woman?”
“Looks like our Betty,” said the old man.
“Your granddaughter?”
“No. She came along out of nowhere one day. In a bad way she was. No shoes. Hungry. We gave her food and then said she could stay if she worked on the farm. Said her name was Betty. That was all.”
“Betty?” asked Harry eagerly. “English?”
He shook his grey head. “Betty spoke Breton as well as French. Stayed with us for six months, about. Then one day, we sent her into Saint Malo to buy some cloth and she never returned. We tried to find her. She had called at the mercer’s and paid for the cloth and it was there waiting for us. We searched the town but no sign of her.”
“She changed her name to Dolores Duval,” said Harry. “She was murdered in London.”
The family looked at him in shock. Then the grandfather’s brows lowered and he said, “Get out of here. Dirty English coming around my home, trying to accuse me of murder.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Get out or I’ll set the dog on you.”
Harry walked towards the car. A blue dusk was settling down over the sleepy countryside. The air was redolent of woodsmoke, manure and the ammonia smell of animals. He thought of Rose. He remembered that look she had given him in Madame de Peurey’s garden. He suddenly came to a decision. When this case was over, he would ask her to marry him. If she refused, he would never see her again.
¦
The duchess received his news that Dolores had originally been called Betty-something and had disappeared one day on a shopping expedition to Saint Malo.
“This is all becoming rather fatiguing and boring,” she complained.
Rose looked at her uneasily. If the duchess became tired of their company so soon, she and Daisy would be returned to the convent.
The hotel was not grand enough for the duchess, although the food was good and the rooms clean.
Rose’s worst fears were realized when they set out the next morning for Paris. As she arranged her various shawls and scarves before leaving, the duchess said, “This is all very tiresome. I think I was a bit hasty about that convent. Sterling ladies. Do you good to go back.”
“I really think the regime is unnecessarily harsh,” pleaded Rose. “Can you not bear with us a little longer? My parents should soon be returning.”
¦
The earl and countess of Hadshire reclined side by side on deckchairs on the terrace of the Palace Hotel. “Suppose we should be thinking of packing up,” said the earl sleepily.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Lady Polly. “The Cremonts are going on to Cairo. We’ve never been to Cairo.”
“The Season will be starting soon,” her husband pointed out.
“And why should we scamper back for the Season? Rose is in Effie’s care and Effie can cope with her. Cairo would be fun, camels and things. I’m really weary of the Season, dressing Rose and parading her around and watching her get into more trouble. Effie can cope.”
¦
There was a shock waiting for the duchess and her party when they arrived back at the Crillon. There seemed to be a great number of press outside. Magnesium flashes went off in their faces. Waiting for them in the entrance hall was a commissioner of police and two detectives.
The commissioner approached. He looked a little bit like Kerridge with his heavy features and grey hair. He bowed low. “I am Thierry Lemonier. I regret to say I have many questions to ask you.”
