And he’d make sure that I stayed well away from a murder case, I reminded myself. So maybe it was a good thing that he was thousands of miles away in New York. I climbed into bed and lay listening to distant sounds. I was safe. I was among friends. I should have been able to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come. How could I possibly find out who killed Reynold Bryce? I was not the police, able to compare fingerprints or examine the details of Bryce’s life, and I didn’t have the ability to question large numbers of people. I’d be floundering in the dark as usual.
Start with what you know: that was another of Paddy Riley’s favorite sayings. What did I know about Reynold Bryce? He had inherited wealth and had established a reputation for himself in the States as a painter of rather sentimental Victorian pictures. Then he had abandoned America and his wife and gone to live in Paris. He had never returned to the States. Why was that? Had it been a hasty departure? Could he have perhaps run off to Paris with another woman? But then it would have been the subject of general gossip. Why had he left his wife behind, or had she refused to accompany him?
What else did I know? He was bigoted, prejudiced, and opinionated. Such people make enemies. I also got a hint that he had an eye for the ladies. Was there one lady in particular at the moment? The housekeeper would know about that, surely.
Apart from that he frequented the American Club, where I was denied entry. I knew that he was a leader among the anti-Dreyfusards, a friend of Degas and of Monet. One of my first tasks should be to find out when and where his funeral would be held. Surely his old friend Monet would come to Paris for the funeral. Perhaps other friends would be there to chat and reminisce about him. With some sort of plan now in my head, I finally fell asleep.
*
I was awoken by a tap on my door and Celeste came in, bearing a cup of tea on a tray. “A fine summer day, madame,” she said. “Your friends say you prefer tea in the morning to coffee.” She set down the tray. “If you have laundry to be done, this is the time to give it to me.”
“I’m afraid my baby’s clothes get extremely dirty,” I said, but she waved this aside. “No problem, madame. I will take them when I come back for your tray.”
It seemed odd to have someone waiting on me again, and I couldn’t help thinking about little Aggie and her willingness to do the laundry. I pictured her scrawny form bent over the washboard as she scrubbed away. Poor young thing. She never had a chance to enjoy life.
Liam awoke and finding himself in a strange room, cried for me. I took him into bed with me and nursed him, bringing a feeling of peace to both of us. When I took him down to breakfast he was delighted to find his aunts from across the street waiting to play with him and didn’t complain at all when I slipped out. It was indeed a lovely day. The yellow stone glowed against a blue sky. It was the sort of day for picnics by the river, strolls though the gardens, shopping on the Boulevard Haussmann. But instead I turned onto the Rue Fran?ois Premier and made for Reynold Bryce’s ground-floor apartment on the circle at the far end of the street, close to the river. I was relieved to find no policeman standing outside, but then wondered if that meant that the place was now locked up and the housekeeper would not be there either. What would happen to her? I wondered. Had Reynold Bryce left a provision for her in his will? Ah, that would be another avenue to pursue, if I could find out who his lawyer was. He was a wealthy man. To whom had that wealth been left?
I stood on the front steps of the building, staring at the little garden behind the railings. Sid had indeed been agile to have climbed into the tree and then have dropped down onto the street. To me, wearing a long, tight skirt, it looked almost impossible. But then terror gives people skills they didn’t know they possessed. Had the murderer really entered and left by that route? If so he must also be strong and agile. I looked at the windows. They now appeared to be shut—or was that one on the end not quite closed? But climbing up would be even harder than climbing down. There was a gate in the railings. I wondered if it was unlocked. I came back down the steps and walked around to it. I had just reached in to jiggle the lock open when someone called, “What are you doing, madame?”
I withdrew my hand rapidly and turned to see a gaunt, hard-faced, elderly woman in black, wearing an old-fashioned black bonnet, coming toward me at a rapid rate.
I glanced hastily around the little garden and my eye fell on the lilac bush. “Very well. I confess,” I said. “I love the smell of lilac and I wanted to pick a small sprig to take with me. Are these not public gardens?”
“No, madame, they are not. They are the private property of this building.”
“I am sorry. I am a visitor to Paris. Do you live here?”
“Yes, madame. Until now, that is. I was the housekeeper of the American, Reynold Bryce. You heard of his tragic demise, I expect.”
“I did. My condolences, madame. It must have been a great shock for you. And a great loss.”
“Indeed,” she said. “I had taken care of Monsieur Bryce since he came to Paris nearly twenty years ago. He was like a son to me.”