Mystery in Provence: Miss Ashford Investigates Read online

  Atalanta thought of the many times a knock had resounded at her door at night and a pupil had come in to confess some minor transgression or ask advice to settle a quarrel with a friend. Even a younger teacher had taken her aside in the garden one day, whispering low and urgently, blushing as she wanted to know how to handle a sudden romantic interest from a life-long friend.

  After their conversation, Atalanta had asked her why she had come to her. They had never before shared anything personal, just small talk. The other teacher had considered her question for a moment and then said, ‘I think it’s because you seem to enjoy problems. I mean, other people avoid them and ignore them but you face them head on. You actually like to look at the various angles of the situation and find the best solution.’

  It was as if her grandfather had known. Because he himself had been the same? Was it a trait they shared, a connection across the generations?

  Discretion guaranteed. Those are the words I used, sometimes, referring to what I did. I solved sensitive matters for people in the highest circles. They confided in me and I investigated.

  Atalanta gasped. ‘Was my grandfather a private detective?’ she asked Stone. ‘How incredibly exciting. My father gifted me a volume of Sherlock Holmes stories when I turned twelve and I devoured them all in a few short days.’

  She had looked for those streets in London mentioned in the stories and stood there wishing the figure of the great detective would walk around the corner and she could shadow him to see where he went and what he did… although it might be impossible to follow someone that observant without being noticed. She had reread the stories many times after that, and the well-worn volume was amongst her dearest possessions. She didn’t have much, but that book, and the one her mother had left her about Greek mythology, were things she’d never part with.

  ‘A private investigator?’ Mr Stone seemed to ponder her designation. ‘In a sense, perhaps, but he never advertised his services, nor did people around him know. Somehow, he told me, the clients always knew how to find him.’

  The lawyer frowned as if he wasn’t quite sure how this worked but had accepted his client’s word for it. ‘He told me that once his death was widely known and the heiress following in his footsteps appeared on the scene, people might come to you.’

  ‘To me? Surely that is a misunderstanding?’

  Atalanta cast her eyes back to the letter in her hand.

  I leave it all to you on the condition that when someone approaches you to ask for help, you must try to help them, the best way you can. I can’t tell you here and now what kind of help they will need. Sometimes you will have to find information. Sometimes you have to go amongst people to see how they behave. You have to be observant, loyal, and determined. You have to protect your client’s interests, but you also have to follow your own path, as the investigation directs you. Most of all, you must never be afraid to do the hard thing and stand alone. I know you’re capable of the latter; you’ve proven it. I trust you will also have the other capacities needed to make this work.

  But I’m but a schoolteacher.

  Atalanta felt again like she had as a four-year-old, sitting in a carriage pulled by horses that began to run faster and faster towards an unknown destination. The landscape outside the window was just a blur and she felt dazed and scared, wanting to get out of this. ‘But will anyone even want to engage me?’ she blurted. ‘They don’t know me like they knew him so why would they come to me at all?’

  ‘He wasn’t sure that they would,’ Mr Stone said. ‘But he wanted you to know that they might. If they do come, you can listen to the problem and see how you might contribute to a solution. You should consider it a great honour that your grandfather had such faith in you.’

  A great honour and a huge responsibility. Her grandfather had written about how her father used to dive into things headlong without thinking through the consequences. She wasn’t like that. She wasn’t sure she wanted to take this risk.

  Her gaze returned to the letter and the closing lines.

  I realise I am thrusting quite something onto you. But it occurred to me while I thought it over that a woman can have advantages in this business; that she might sooner win the confidence of other women, much more than a man ever can. Women often know secrets of a household. And their instincts are second to none. I believe you can become better at this than I have ever been. And I will guide you.

  Atalanta reread those simple words. ‘He says here he will guide me,’ she said, running her finger across the line. ‘How?’

  ‘He didn’t tell me the details. But you are to live in his houses, and drive in his cars, and visit the parties he did, and then you will come into contact with the people he knew and discover what he meant.’

  ‘Houses? Cars? Parties?’ Disbelief filled her at the almost casual mention of all these things that had been far away from her, in another world, just this morning, and were now suddenly within reach.

  But more than that, living his life could show her who he had been. It could connect her with a man she had never known but whom she had wanted to know. She could ask his servants questions about him. There might be letters, photo albums, clues to explain the troubled relationship between her father and his family.

  In accepting this assignment to become an investigator of other people’s troubles, she would also get a unique chance to learn more about her own past and about the family she had never had.

  How could she pass up such an opportunity? ‘I do want to try…’ she said to Stone, her voice shaking with nervous energy.

  ‘That’s all settled then. I need your signature on some paperwork and after that I’ll hand you the key to your Parisian home. You must go there first.’

  My Parisian home.

  Atalanta caressed the words in her mind, picturing herself dropping them casually to someone she knew. Miss Collins, for instance. What eyes she’d make!

  ‘Your grandfather’s manservant is there. He has the keys to the other homes and cars and he knows about all the arrangements. He will instruct you further.’ The lawyer looked her over. ‘Congratulations, you are now a very wealthy woman. I would advise you not to share this widely as it may attract the wrong kind of people.’

  ‘I won’t tell a soul,’ Atalanta assured him. ‘I’ll leave in the morning just as I would have for the Kiental but I’ll go to Paris instead.’

  Excitement rushed through her veins and she felt like throwing up her arms and shouting for joy. Soon she would have her own house to live in, instead of having but a room in a boarding school where even the furniture wasn’t hers. She’d have her own bed and her own bookcase to house her beloved Sherlock Holmes and Greek mythology books.

  She need not work to a schedule of lessons but could instead make her own plans for the day. She’d stand at the foot of the Eiffel Tower, eat fresh croissants, visit the gardens of Versailles. Her head was full of images of everything she would see and do and try.

  Try foremost. Life was rather dull when you could never try something new.

  And every step of the way Grandfather will be with me because he made all of this possible. He will guide me. I will walk in his footsteps, finally feeling connected to a family member, to the past. No longer adrift and alone, but connected.

  Thank you, Grandfather.

  You have changed my life.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Rue de Canclère’.

  Atalanta stood and looked up at the street name plaque with a sense of disbelief. This was it. Here on this fashionable Parisian street was her house.

  She had just walked past the windows of dress shops and hat shops, of restaurants and coffee houses, and seen the silhouette of the Arc de Triomphe. Every few steps she wanted to halt and pinch herself to ascertain she was really here and not dreaming this up while walking in the Kiental where she was supposed to have been now. It was all a dream from which she feared to wake up all too soon, realizing that everything, especially the connection with her grandfather, was but a figment of her imagination; something she could only wish for because it would never truly be hers.

  Someone bumped into her and she caught a flash of red and blue as the telegram boy sped past. He muttered some curses he probably thought she didn’t understand. ‘Pardonnez-moi,’ she called after him but the busy traffic drowned out her apology. Finally she was speaking the language to people who had known it all their lives.

  She cast the street sign one more loving look and then turned into the street itself, walking slowly, relishing every footfall past the stone steps of imposing houses with lace curtains and polished brass doorbells. At one of them a lady appeared, dressed in an elegant coat over a silk dress that fell just below the knee. Her heels were so high Atalanta wondered how she could walk on them. She descended the steps of her home with an easy grace, flinging an end of her thin scarf over her shoulder, and stepped into a waiting gleaming motorcar. A car like that might be Atalanta’s. A Mercedes Benz or a Rolls. She didn’t need fancy cars per se, but the idea that she suddenly owned them was grand and she intended to enjoy every moment of it.

  Number eight, number ten… Hers was fourteen. She craned her neck to see it, to drink in the glow of the soft beige façade in the morning light, the elegant shapes of the high windows, the gleam of gold on the stone lilies worked into the edge just under the high roof. Everything about it was perfection.

  And behind its windows lay rooms that would tell her about the man who had lived here, who had taken her under his wing, a man she desperately wanted to know more about.

  She had a key but knew that house owners rarely used it, instead ringing the bell to have the staff let them in. In her case this seemed especially appropriate as she was new here and had not even met any of her employees.
To simply walk in and surprise them with her presence seemed impolite.

  She put her gloved hand on the railing of her very own front entrance, walked up the three steps and rang the bell. She could not hear it sound. She imagined that it was attached to a board somewhere in the depths of the house where servants worked behind the scenes to keep everything prim and proper. There was not a speck of mud on the steps or the door, although it had rained overnight and violent downpours always threw up sand and dirt. Someone had done their best to make it look impeccable for the new owner.

  The door opened softly and a man stood before her, wearing a uniform. He had thin grey hair combed back across his skull and a narrow face with deep-set blue eyes. He studied her dispassionately.

  ‘I’m Miss Atalanta Ashford. I am…’ She suddenly felt a bit awkward appropriating what had been his territory under her grandfather. How much did he know about the troubled family relations, and her father’s disgraceful behaviour? Did he have his own thoughts about her new position as heiress to it all?

  Putting strength she was hardly feeling into her voice, she said, ‘I am your late master’s granddaughter. I’m so sorry that he died.’

  ‘So am I, mademoiselle. He was a very good master. Do come in. I’m glad you arrived so promptly. We have a situation.’

  ‘A situation?’ Atalanta repeated as she stepped inside. The curious word choice distracted her from her worried thoughts about his opinion of her.

  The house smelled of wax and polish. Ahead of her were broad carpeted stairs leading up, with portraits in heavy gilded frames guiding the visitor. To the right were doors and in the back a corridor led away to what she assumed would be kitchens and servants’ quarters.

  To the left were more doors that had to give access to a delightfully light drawing room. She had worked out quickly that the house faced the north, which provided excellent light for painting and drawing. The back then was to the south, which was warm and pleasant. She wagered her grandfather had a conservatory there with rare plants.

  If not, she could have one added. The first thing she’d buy for it was a snow-white orchid. Her mother had grown them, and after her death the plants had died as well, missing the loving care put into them. But here she would grow new ones. Also pink and yellow ones, Mama. I can start shaping my own home. It’s unbelievable.

  ‘A situation with a client, mademoiselle,’ the manservant said. He leaned over slightly. ‘She rang the bell this morning asking for the master. I informed her of his passing but explained that a successor was on the way. She insisted she’d wait.’

  ‘For me?’ Atalanta queried, surprised. ‘But you had no idea that I would be coming today, did you?’ He seemed to suppress a smile. ‘I assumed you would want to see your new property. I was aware that the season had ended at the boarding school where you worked and I can imagine it must be dull and empty when all the pupils have left.’

  ‘Indeed it is. Good thinking.’ Naturally, her grandfather had employed a man as observant and quick to draw conclusions as he himself had been. ‘Then we will see to this situation promptly.’

  She had taken off her gloves and coat and handed these to the manservant with her purse. In front of the tall hall mirror she removed the small hat from her curls and gave herself a critical assessment. Her cheeks were full of colour from her vigorous walk and her hair was neat. Her clothes weren’t very elegant perhaps, but it would do well not to outshine her visitor. Better to look professional, she supposed. She had no idea what this client would expect of her, but she was determined to tackle the ‘situation’ head on.

  ‘You haven’t told me your name yet,’ she said to the manservant.

  ‘Excuse me, mademoiselle. You may call me Renard.’

  ‘Renard? Fox?’ she queried. ‘Are you French?’

  ‘Half-French, half-English, mademoiselle.’ He didn’t blink under her questions, and though she was entitled to them it did feel odd to interrogate a man who was twice as old as she was, or older. There was something about butlers and manservants that was kind of impersonal and ageless, she had observed before. Still, they had feelings too, and she didn’t want to treat him callously. In fact, she might even learn something useful by tapping into his knowledge. Servants were the eyes and ears around a house.

  ‘Can you tell me anything about the client? Do you know her?’

  ‘Everyone in Paris knows her, mademoiselle.’ It sounded like a matter-of-fact statement but still Atalanta felt a bit chastised. Should she have bought a few papers and read up on the news, perhaps? What matters currently excited the Parisian public? What whispers echoed in the halls of theatres and opera houses?

  ‘So she is famous?’ she asked carefully, feeling her way to more information.

  ‘She comes from a very well-to-do family here in the city. Her father owns several factories and her mother was a concert pianist before she married. She still performs regularly at soirées. The client is the youngest of three daughters but the first to get married. A few months ago her parents suddenly announced her engagement to the Comte de Surmonne. The two of them have been in all the social columns since then, attending parties and exhibitions. You can hardly open a newspaper without the pretty face of Eugénie Frontenac smiling back at you.’

  ‘I see.’ Atalanta tried to commit the essentials to memory as best she could. ‘And Eugénie Frontenac is now here? With a problem?’

  ‘A situation, we like to call it. My master… he was very discreet.’ Renard smiled. ‘Rich people don’t have problems, he used to say. They are too important and too self-sufficient for that. Instead they get into situations, which careful consideration might solve.’

  It sounded like her grandfather hadn’t just been discreet but also discerning. Indeed, the affluent families of her pupils had considered themselves above the daily cares of the other people in the world. They didn’t want to hear from the school that their daughters missed home or failed tests. The school was supposed to take care of that.

  She would have to learn how to phrase things in a circumspect manner, something she feared would be quite contrary to her inclinations. But as a teacher she had often not been in a position to talk back and had learned how to deliver the truth without offending anyone. That might come in useful here.

  ‘We must then see this young lady,’ she told Renard. ‘And find out how we may assist her.’

  ‘How do you know she is young?’

  ‘You mentioned her being the youngest of three daughters and the first to marry. Girls from well-to-do families often marry young. So her sisters won’t be forty.’ She realized too late that it had been a less than subtle test and gave him a probing look. He didn’t show any sign of being satisfied or slightly put in place.

  Had her grandfather given this man instructions to test her? His enigmatic words in the letter that he would guide her still occupied her thoughts. How then?

  Renard strode ahead of her and opened the door leading into the second room on the left. It held a gorgeous piano against the far wall and elegant sofas to the right. Atalanta could see a fashionable crowd gathering here to hear an accomplished lady perform. But her grandfather had lived here alone. Had he invited friends over? Had he been close with certain families? Could she hope to meet people who would tell her things about him that helped her understand him better?

  From one of the sofas a young lady rose to her feet. She had golden hair piled high onto her head and secured with a red feather fascinator. Her yellow dress had a red embroidered collar and cuffs. Her hands sparkled with rings and bracelets. She wasn’t tall but she carried herself with an easy grace as she stepped up to Atalanta. ‘Bonjour. You are the successor mentioned to me?’

  Before Atalanta could confirm, her client burst into panicked speech. ‘You must help me remove this stain from my happiness. It can’t be true. It can’t be. But until I know for certain, I will not have a moment’s peace.’ She wrung her pale hands.

  Atalanta spied her purse lying on the sofa with a pair of crinkled gloves. Apparently, Mademoiselle Frontenac had been extremely nervous waiting for someone to come to her, mangling her gloves to the point of tearing them. As she had been alone then, it suggested her distress was sincere. ‘How may I help you?’ she asked.