Another thought strikes me. Could this be the last vista that May saw before she died? The washroom of the Gare Centrale—the nearby train station, separate from the ferry station—from which she disappeared is supposedly nearby, and no one knows if she was assaulted there or elsewhere. I’m lost in this terrible notion when cups and saucers land on our table with a clatter.
The proprietress is about to walk away, so I ask in French, “Excusez-moi, madame, may I trouble you with a question?”
“Oui.” She says yes, but she’s impatient. Her body is already turned toward the lobby, and I imagine she has rooms to tend to. She seems to be the only one working at the Hôtel Morveaux.
“We’ve just arrived in your lovely town to do a bit of shopping and touring and heard about the poor English girl. Do you thinkthe investigation will affect the sites? We’re quite keen to see the twelfth-century belfry.”
“No—the police are focused on an area outside of town. I doubt normal operations will be affected.”
I sigh in faux relief. “I’m glad to hear the girl didn’t venture into the Old Town. That’s our destination, and it sounds as though we’ll be unimpeded.”
Emma, Agatha, Ngaio, and Margery are chatting in low tones and sipping espresso as if uninterested in our exchange. But Emma’s French is excellent, and I’m certain she’s taking in every word.
The woman shifts in my direction. “You misunderstand me. The young woman and her companion spent time in Old Town shopping. But nothing untoward happened there, and the police canvassed that area when she first disappeared. So you should be able to proceed.”
“You are quite knowledgeable about the goings-on. We are fortunate to stumble across you.”
The woman puffs up a bit at the compliment, then stares at me for a long minute, as if trying to make up her mind about me. Then, all at once, she bursts out with an unexpected revelation. “The girls were here the day Miss Daniels went missing.”
I practically leap up from my seat at this new bit of information. I’d combed the police report, and while it set out biographical information on May and Celia, a statement from the French farmer who found May’s body, and a summary of interviews with Gare Maritime and Gare Centrale employees and the rue de Lille shop owners, there was no reference to the Hôtel Morveaux. But I stay still, acting the part of curious tourist.
“You actually served them?” I ask.
Her eyes glitter with a morbid excitement. I suppose her very peripheral involvement with May was an extraordinary event in her daily routine. “Yes, after they got off theGlendower. I remember them because they ordered tea and toast. Most travelers from England want the French coffee and pastries, but the dark-hairedgirl—the one who went missing—insisted on toast. She hadmal à l’estomac,you see.”
A stomachache. This isn’t exactly a shock, or shouldn’t be. After all, plenty of people suffer from seasickness, especially those not accustomed to ocean travel. But something elsedidsurprise me—the lack of mention of the Hôtel Morveaux in the report.
“The police must have had countless questions for you,” I reply, hoping to prod her along.
The gleam in her eyes disappears, and they grow dull again. “Only one police officer interviewed me, the one who canvassed the dock area after the nurse went missing. Even then, the gendarme only asked two or three questions, then left.”
“How curious,” I say truthfully. Strange that not another policeman or a single reporter has thought to pull this thread taut. Harriet Vane would never have allowed it to go slack. And neither will we. “What were the girls like? We’ve been terribly upset by the newspaper articles.”
“Pleasant, attractive, like lots of young girls who come through here on day trips. The nurse who went missing wore a well-cut black coat and a little mauve cap with a point.” She outlines a hat and the jaunty manner with which it sat on Miss Daniels’s head.
“A toque?”
“Yes!” She claps. “That’s the name.”
“What about the other girl? I think she had a friend with her?”
“The only distinctive thing about her clothes were her thick gray stockings. A bit heavy and wintry for a fine autumn day.”
This woman has a fine mind for details and astonishing recall. The police were fools to dismiss her. It sounds as though May had taken great care with her appearance—toques are all the rage—but Celia’s fashion choices seem more serviceable, even dowdy. Why the disparity? Had they differing expectations about the day?
“Were the girls friendly? I bet they were looking forward to touring Boulogne.”
“They asked me about the shops. Where they were located intown, the kind available, the hours they were open, that sort of thing.”
This sort of babble with the proprietress does not seem like the sort of chatter girls planning on buying or selling morphine, as intimated by reporters after today’s police briefing, would engage in. Why would they bother asking about stores if they were looking for the drug trade? It is nonsensical.
“Was there a particular shop you recommended?” I ask. “We might want to stop there ourselves.”
“The dark-haired girl was especially interested in a hat shop. So I suggested the millinery on rue de Lille. But I don’t think I mentioned any other stores by name.” A bell sounds in the lobby, and her mouth forms a thin line. “I must return to my duties.”
“Thank you so much for your time, Madame—I apologize, but I do not think I asked your name.”
“Madame Brat,” she says, tearing off the check from a pad in her apron pocket. “Thank you for listening.”
