“Help you to do what?”
“Find out who killed him, of course. Maybe the police will discover the truth, maybe not. I intend to, and I am sure you want to find out who killed your employer.” She gave a suspicious half nod. “Now—let us start with the model he was painting.”
She pursed her lips. “Shosette,” she said. At least that was what it sounded like. Not a name I recognized. “Shosette Petit.”
“Where did he find her?”
“I believe an artist brought her to meet Monsieur Bryce.”
“Do you know where she lives? Where I can find her?”
“I do not. I know nothing about her. He had only started painting her a few days previously. He brought her in and said to me, ‘This is Shosette. I’m going to be painting her. Make sure you cook enough luncheon for two.’”
“What did you think of her?” I asked.
She shrugged. “She didn’t appear to be a bad little thing. Not like some models who are no better than they should be. Very quiet, never said a word to me. But then her French wasn’t very good.”
“It wasn’t? Where did she come from?”
“I’m not sure. Eastern Europe, or Italy? I’ve no idea. All I know is that she spoke with a strong accent and didn’t always have the words to express herself. But no matter. He was very taken with her. He never painted portraits these days, but he had to paint her.” She paused, wiped her hands again, then said, “He was that kind of man. He liked to have the young and beautiful around him.”
“Like Willie Walcott?”
She looked surprised. “Walcott? Yes, Monsieur Bryce enjoyed his company for a while. He tried to paint Monsieur Walcott, but he was not satisfied with the result. Nothing came of it.”
I tried to phrase the next question. “You say ‘enjoyed his company.’ Did he stay here for a while, as his special companion?”
“He sometimes slept…” she paused, then glared at me. “What is it that you suggest? Absolutely no, madame. Monsieur Walcott might have sometimes stayed in the guest bedroom, but then Monsieur Bryce was hospitable. He had guests to visit frequently.” I thought privately that she would not have known if someone had tiptoed down that hallway at night.
“But Monsieur Walcott hadn’t been a guest here for a while?”
“Not for a month or more.”
“So you hadn’t seen him for a month?”
“Except for the brief visit last week.”
“Last week? You mean right before Mr. Bryce died?”
She nodded. “I believe it was the day before Monsieur Bryce was killed. It’s all rather a blur to me now, madame. The shock, you know.”
“Of course, it was a tremendous shock to you. But can you remember anything about the visit of Monsieur Walcott? Was it just a pleasant social call? Do you know why he had come?”
“He was upset, madame, I can tell you that much. He stormed in, waving something at the master.”
“Something?”
“A piece of paper, madame. Maybe a letter?” She frowned, trying to remember. “And Monsieur Bryce told me to get on with my work. I asked if Monsieur Walcott would be staying for lunch and Monsieur Bryce said a firm ‘No.’ So I went but I overheard the young man saying ‘You’ve let me down. You’re a liar.’” She looked up at me now.
“Did he say why?”
“They spoke English, madame. After eighteen years of the master shouting at me in his native tongue I can understand a lot, but not when American people speak quickly together. Anyway shortly afterward the young man went.”
“And did not return again? You never saw him after that moment?”
“I did not. But I told you, after that is all a blur. One horrible nightmare. I can’t bear to think about it. Seeing my poor master there, and that fiend standing over him. I might have been killed too if I hadn’t run out, screaming for help.”
“Did you describe the man you saw standing over him to the police?”
“That’s just the problem. All I saw was the knife in Mr. Bryce’s chest and all that blood and his poor face, his eyes imploring for help. A slim young man, rather dandified. That’s all I could say.”
She looked around the room. “I should be getting on with my work.”
“I’ll help you,” I said. I opened the wardrobe and began to hand her down his jackets and suits. “Do you want them with tissue paper between them?”
She hesitated, not wanting me to get involved but glad to have someone helping her. “Yes, that would be a good idea.”
“So to return to that terrible day, madame,” I said, looking up as I lay a black smoking jacket into the trunk. “Was this model Shosette not there when he was killed? Wasn’t he working on the painting of her at that very moment?”