City of Darkness and Light(96)

Now I had to think how to attract her attention without startling her and making her cry out. I retreated a few paces then called, “Madame, are you here? A message for you from the inspector.”

She came out, her eyes darting nervously, wiping down her hands on her apron. “The inspector? What does he want now?”

Then she stopped when she saw me. “You? What do you want? You are not from the police. You should not be here. Get out immediately or I will summon the constable outside.”

“Ah, but he let me in, madame,” I said. “The inspector understands that as a representative of the Bryce family in America I would want to ask you some questions and be here when you pack up his things.”

“What kind of questions?” she snapped. “I don’t need to answer any questions. There is nothing I can tell you.”

“You could begin by telling me what was in those large bags I saw you carrying away yesterday.” I held her gaze and noticed the eyes darting nervously again. She ran her tongue over her thin lips.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said at last.

“Of course you do. You went in and helped yourself to Mr. Bryce’s things. As a representative of Mr. Bryce’s cousin—who may well inherit all of this, I should report this criminal act to the police. I have not done so, but I will if you do not help me now.”

“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.