I left by way of the front door. The policeman had no way of knowing I was not a resident of one of the other flats, I reasoned. I nodded as I passed him and said, “Bonjour” in a sprightly manner. He didn’t attempt to stop me. I heard a distant clock chiming eleven as I hurried along the Rue Fran?ois Premier. I was in two minds of what to do next. I would have to be back at Mary Cassatt’s house to nurse Liam at lunchtime, but should I go to seek out Willie Walcott or Ellie before I went in search of Shosette Petit? Which one of them was more important? All three had been upset with Reynold Bryce, all three had had words with him. But Willie had apparently seen him the day before he died and there was no reason to believe he had returned. Shosette and Ellie had definitely been with him on the day he died. I couldn’t think what either of them might have to do with his death, but I was particularly concerned about Miss Ellie. There were enough discrepancies between the truth and what Ellie had told me to raise some red flags.
For example she had told me she had visited him the day before he died but he hadn’t had time to see her. That much was true. What she hadn’t said was that she had returned the next day—shortly before he was killed. Why had she kept quiet about that? And then I remembered one more thing—she had asked me to lie and say that we had been together all the time she had been in Paris. At the time I had thought that was in case her fiancé worried she had gone around unchaperoned. Now it seemed she might have wanted me as her alibi.
I decided I had to see her right away. Liam would be well-fed by Celeste and his aunts if I didn’t return on time. So I set off to cross the river to the Left Bank and the H?tel d’Alsace. I hoped she was still staying there and hadn’t moved to the more elevated world of the Ritz. I had no wish to seek her out there, with her most proper fiancé and his family. It would be rather awkward to have to question her about a possible involvement in a murder.
I crossed the Seine at the Pont des Invalides, then followed the quay until I came to the Boulevard Saint Germain. The fine day that had seemed so perfect this morning was now a little too warm for comfort and I could feel the fabric of my dress sticking to my back. One of the disadvantages of acquiring clothes from a rich acquaintance was that they weren’t as comfortable as the muslins and shirtwaists I was used to wearing before my marriage. At this moment I’d have given anything for a white cotton shirtwaist. And a pair of comfortable shoes. The road stretched on and on. I watched fishermen along the river, a tug pulling a string of barges. It all looked very cool and inviting. I tried to concentrate on the task at hand. Ellie had chosen to lie to me. She told me only about her meeting with Reynold Bryce the day before he died. Why was that? And why had she wanted me to be her alibi?
It didn’t make sense. He was a friend of her family. He had once painted her aunt, long before she was born. She had never met him. I had assumed the visit had been a courtesy call. So why had she returned on the day he died, and why, in heaven’s name, had the housekeeper heard her say, “I don’t want your money.” It sounded almost like a threat or a case of blackmail. I had come to suspect that Ellie was not the angelic being she appeared. She had shown herself to be a devious little miss. She had misled both her family and her fiancé about her journey to Paris. Was it possible she had uncovered some kind of scandal about Reynold Bryce and had confronted him with it? And he was trying to pay her off? So why then didn’t she want his money?
I stopped to watch some children playing by the river. They were dancing around barefoot, in ragged clothing, squealing in delight as a bigger boy tried to splash them. And slowly an idea took shape in my head. Why had Reynold Bryce suddenly forsaken a country where he enjoyed considerable success and fled to Paris and never once returned home? Why had his wife not come with him? “Eighteen years” ago, the housekeeper had said. Eighteen years. And what had one of the men at the Steins’ party said about Reynold Bryce? He had thrown Pauline over because she was too old. And hadn’t one of the men at the Nouvelle Athènes said, “lock up your daughters”?
Reynold Bryce liked to have the young and the beautiful around him. The housekeeper had acknowledged that. But what if it went further? I stopped, frowning into the distance at the sturdy buildings on the ?le de la Cité, because I hardly dared to form the thought, let alone say it out loud. What if the Angela in the paintings wasn’t Ellie’s aunt at all?