“No, madame. That would not be possible,” she snapped. “The apartment is shut. Nobody is allowed to go in by order of the police. I myself have not been allowed to sleep in my room or to clean anything. I have been staying with my sister, which is most inconvenient as she has no room for me. I only came today to retrieve certain personal items, before the police decide to throw them out. And there is food in the pantry that will be spoiled soon, if it isn’t spoiled already. I had pies and cakes … Monsieur Bryce loved his pies, madame. I expect they have spoiled already, but I thought I would just see what could be saved.”
From the way she said this and her defensive posture I sensed there was more to her visit than looking for spoiled pies. She was uneasy, knowing that she shouldn’t be here. She had expected to slip in unnoticed and now here I was asking questions. I wondered if she only intended to help herself to a bottle or two of good wine or if she had her eye on something more valuable, like the silver, or maybe even a painting.
“Of course, it would be a shame to let good food spoil,” I said, nodding agreement and watching the hint of a smile twitch at her lips.
“It is too bad,” she said. “After all these years to be told that my services were no longer needed and I should find employment elsewhere. The inspector told me to come on Monday morning to give the place a thorough cleaning and then I’m finished. No more. I must find a new situation and I am no longer young. If I ever found the swine that took Mr. Bryce’s life, I would run him through with a knife myself.”
“The knife that killed him—I understand from the inspector that it was an ordinary kitchen knife.”
She shrugged. “He asked me if it came from my kitchen. I told him it was an inferior knife to the ones he would find in this establishment. Mr. Bryce only liked the best. Stainless steel, you know. Very modern. And now…” She turned away from me.
I put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I understand how hard it must be for you, madame.”
She nodded, putting her hand up to her mouth. “Mr. Bryce would never have wanted me to be cast aside in this manner. He appreciated all that I did for him.”
“Perhaps I could help you to go through the pantry to pack up the food,” I suggested but that clearly went too far.
“Certainly not, madame. That would be quite wrong,” she said. “I do not plan to stay long and I would be in much trouble if the police knew I had admitted a stranger. If you want to gain admission to this apartment to look at Mr. Bryce’s paintings, you must first ask permission from the police. Bonjour.” She gave a curt nod and then went up the steps, putting a key into the lock.
So much for my Irish powers of persuasion, I thought. I didn’t think Inspector Henri would be too willing to accept yet another story from me.
Twenty-seven
I felt frustrated as I walked back to Miss Cassatt’s residence. Surely I should have been able to find out more from the housekeeper. Unfortunately she was clearly anxious to get in there, help herself to what she had come for, and then escape. I was in her way and there was no point in putting myself on her bad side. Had I learned anything from her, I wondered? Well, for one thing I knew that nobody would be at Mr. Bryce’s apartment on Sunday, if I could find a way in. Also I learned that he had not been painting much recently and his paintings now commanded a high price. So perhaps we had this all wrong—it might have been a simple art theft gone wrong. I wondered if the housekeeper knew which paintings had been hanging in the studio and whether one might be missing.
I arrived back to find Sid and Gus kneeling beside one of the crates of paintings I had retrieved from Rue des Martyrs. They were holding them up to show to Mary Cassatt, sitting across from them on the sofa.
“Honestly, you two,” came Mary’s voice from the sofa. “A more eclectic mix I have never seen, and most of it, I’m sad to say, is junk. These Fauvists, they’ll never last. Fauvism, Cubism, they are fads. They’ll vanish in a puff of smoke, hopefully giving way to good art again.”
“What about this one?” Sid held up another painting.
Mary leaned back to examine it. “That’s not bad. The artist can at least handle a brush well. Rather melancholy, but most of them are. It seems that to be modern means you can find no joy in life.”
They looked up as I came into the room, and Gus held out a hand to me. “Molly, you’re back. Any luck?”
“I met the housekeeper,” I said. “I tried my best with the Irish charm but I can’t say I achieved much. She is furious at being thrown out by the police and was hoping to slip back in unnoticed. I don’t think she was at all pleased that I found her there. She said she was just rescuing some food before it spoiled and that may be true, but I sensed she wanted to get her hands on more than cakes and pies.”
“Steal from her dead employer, you mean?” Gus looked shocked.
“I don’t know about that. It could be just taking things she felt she was entitled to. But either way she was not going to let me in, and she didn’t disclose much about Mr. Bryce, except what we already know: he and his wife had a falling out, but she’s Catholic and wouldn’t divorce him. They haven’t seen each other since he came to France but there was no mention of another woman in his life.”
“Was there any mention of another man?” Sid asked.