Classical Murder

By Joan Carter

A young music journalist, Imogen Charles, is asked by an opera star to help decipher some strange letters he has received… letters that he believes could well shed light on the unsolved murder of his partner.

Imogen and her good friend, Ned, follow the bizarre trail left by the letters across various concert halls and opera houses all over Europe, travelling to London, Paris and Provence in search of clues.

This is a tale of mystery heavily infused with music, romance, murder… and the heady scent of lavender.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: May 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781788032131

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Copyright © 2017 Joan Carter

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

CHAPTER 1

It was important to look professional. Imogen knew that and she had tried very, very hard. Her smartest suit – lightweight beige wool with a skirt that fell to the knee – and expensive patent heels. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was pulled back into a chignon. A touch of glamour was provided by the silk scarf (green, to match her eyes,) and pearls. Earrings and a necklace. Professional, yes, but for an interview with the most charismatic tenor of the day, it would be criminal not to play the chic card. She could barely trust her legs to support her as she stepped onto the escalator at the Opera House. Lunch with Frédéric Junot. What luck.

*****

Imogen recognised Poitiers, Junot’s PA, as soon as she reached the top of the escalator. Short and plump, with a rather shiny pate, he looked to be on the wrong side of fifty. He wore a navy suit with a white shirt and a maroon silk tie. His smile revealed a row of much whitened teeth.

Madame Charles, he said. How nice to see you. We have a slight change of plan, I’m afraid. I hope it will not inconvenience you.

Imogen’s smile was polite, but not warm. Her heart was sinking fast.

Rehearsals are running a little late, said Poitiers. Frédéric wondered whether you would mind waiting, say, thirty minutes? Or perhaps you would prefer to return later in the day for a coffee?

I’ll wait, said Imogen. There’s no problem at all. I have some work with me. She wasn’t going to be short-changed on this one.

As you wish. I understand there is a small office near the rehearsal room. Would you like to work in there?

I’m happy to sit out here with a coffee, said Imogen, gesturing in the direction of the Amphitheatre Bar. I’ll be fine. She gave what she hoped was a very determined smile.

An aficionado, I can tell, said Poitiers.

But of course.

Imogen bought a coffee at the Amphitheatre Bar and took it to a table overlooking the elegant Paul Hamlyn Hall. She had meant it when she said she was happy to sit and have a coffee. There was a certain peace about the Opera House in the daytime that she loved. A few people were going about their business; there were one or two tables occupied by folk earnestly discussing some musical matter; and the smell of coffee was wafting from the bar. Of course, there was always the hope that one might spot someone famous passing through.

*****

Imogen could feel the tension rising as the moments ticked by. She rifled in her bag for her mobile.

Sebastian. Hi, it’s Imogen. She tried to keep her voice down. I’m in the Opera House now. I’m worried that I’m not going to get the interview. They’re delaying the lunch, claiming that rehearsals are overrunning. They tried to fob me off with a coffee later on.

I shouldn’t worry, darling. Sebastian was always so reassuring. He’s probably just playing the diva. In any case, rehearsals nearly always overrun.

I know. I suppose I’m just nervous.

I don’t remember you being so anxious about an interview before. Could it be because he’s such a heartthrob? I couldn’t help but notice your response when I asked you to interview him. I thought you might faint.

Sebastian, don’t tease. Just wish me luck.

You don’t need luck, Imogen. I’m sure you’ll have him eating out of your hand. If they mess you about, just tell them they’ll be dealing with the hugely influential Sebastian Taylor of Opera London.

I’m sure they’ll be terrified.

*****

I suppose I can look at these for the millionth time, thought Imogen, as she took her notes for the interview out of her bag. Not that anyone could know their subject better than I do. Few people get to meet their idol. Pity about his partner. If Elodie Dufrais wasn’t around, I might be in with a chance. Unfortunately, I’m not a leading soprano – one who is beautiful to boot.

Madame Charles?

Imogen looked up.

Yes.

Frédéric Junot. I am so sorry to have kept you waiting.

Not at all, said Imogen, trying to stand on legs that suddenly didn’t seem to be there. She shook Frédéric’s hand and gave a nervous smile. So pleased to meet you, she said.

Frédéric was in his late thirties – so probably getting on for ten years older than Imogen – of medium height and slim build. Like so many artists whom Imogen had met, he wore his dark hair long and swept to one side. His features were strong with an angular jawline and an aquiline nose, yet his smile was gentle and his eyes, kind and blue.

I hope you are hungry, said Frédéric, as he steered Imogen towards the Amphitheatre Restaurant. I certainly am. I am afraid that the directors of operas always think rehearsals are more important than food. For a Frenchman, this is very difficult. He smiled. It was a smile of such charm and sweetness that Imogen felt completely disarmed.

I understand completely, she said.

*****

The restaurant wasn’t full, lunchtime tending not to be a peak time at the Opera House. Black chairs and white tablecloths coordinated with the black and white photographs of former productions that lined the walls, creating an atmosphere of cool elegance. Imogen noted the deference accorded to them as they were seated in a prime position overlooking the terrace. It felt good to be lunching with a star. One could get used to this.

Even although I am hungry, continued Junot, once they were seated, I will have to be careful how much I eat. We have more rehearsals later and it is not good to sing after too much food.

I can believe that, said Imogen. I’ll believe anything you say, she thought.

Now, despite this lovely setting, Junot gestured towards the main body of the restaurant, and my beautiful companion, – Imogen could feel herself blushing –we have some work to do. What would you like to know about me?

Everything, thought Imogen. "You’re here to sing Bohème, she said. You’ve never sung at the Opera House before. Is it important to you to sing here?"

"I have always wanted to sing at the Opera House. I love London and to make my debut here singing La Bohème is very special. It is one of my favourite operas."

Can you explain why?

"First, it is my view that Puccini knew best how to write for singers out of all the composers. Technically, he is brilliant. If one follows what he writes, then the result is always one hundred per cent. Plus, he can – how do you say – pull at the heart strings. In Bohème, when Mimi dies, all our hearts are broken. Singers, audience – everyone experiences great passion."

I know exactly how they feel, thought Imogen, gazing at Frédéric. It is very tragic.

Of course it is. But then, life can be very hard. And, after all, who is going to write an opera about everyday life – say, like washing the dishes? It must be about emotion, tragedy. It is sad, yes, but it gives the opportunity for some wonderful music. He gave a mischievous smile.

When you sing a part such as Rodolfo, do you need to form a relationship with the soprano singing Mimi to bring more feeling to the role?

Not at all. It is a job. And, anyway, the music carries me along. I get swept up in it. Of course, when I sing with my partner, Elodie Dufrais, then we create a very special feeling. But we are in love, I adore her, and I think that shows when we sing together.

I’m sure it does, said Imogen. You must be very disappointed that she has had to withdraw from this production, and at such short notice.

Without a doubt. But her replacement, Beverley Chambers, is excellent. I have sung with Beverley before.

Could you shed some light on why Mme Dufrais withdrew? It has caused some surprise in the opera world.

Frédéric’s tone was suddenly abrupt. She is indisposed. Let us leave it there. I would prefer to concentrate on the production, if you don’t mind.

Of course. Imogen deserved the rebuke, but it had been worth a try. So many rumours were flying around as to the reason for Dufrais’ withdrawal, and it would be such a coup to find out what was going on. ‘Indisposed’ was a useful term in such a situation.

"Could you comment on this production in comparison to other Bohèmes in which you have sung?"

That is something about which I have a lot to say. But look, here is the waiter. It is not good to talk on an empty stomach, as any Frenchman will tell you. Frédéric laughed as he opened the menu. What would you recommend? he asked the waiter.

*****

Later that evening, at Imogen’s flat, Ned was pretending to be put out.

So what you’re saying, really, is that if I want to make any progress with women – in particular, you – then I need to become an opera star and strut about exuding passion and emotion.

Imogen giggled.You also have to be very, very handsome, she said. Preferably dark and mysterious. Oh, and it helps if you can sing.

I think my fair hair and open demeanour have ruled me out, said Ned. I’d better stick to medicine.

Definitely.

So, tell me. Is this the start of something new? Or is that not a professional way to behave?

There’s no chance of romance with Elodie Dufrais around. She can be pretty fierce. I think she’d murder anyone who tried to steal her lover. Anyway, she added, her tone becoming rather curt, you know I’m not looking for anything like that.

Sorry, said Ned. He seemed to be steeling himself. On a serious note, though. What do you say to dinner tomorrow? I’ll be finished by six and there’s a little Italian restaurant in Camden Town I’d like to try.

"Sorry, I can’t. Would you believe that I’m going to the Opera House to hear Frédéric sing his Rodolfo in Bohème?"

I should have guessed. You obviously can’t get enough of the man. Well, enjoy it. I’d come along if I thought there was a chance of getting a ticket. I’ll just go to bed like the conscientious doctor that I am. I’m starting at the crack of dawn tomorrow.

*****

As she waited for the heavy red velvet curtains of the Opera House to part, Imogen reflected on her good fortune. A stalls seat on the aisle in Row K – her favourite. And this, on the opening night of a production. The buzz of anticipation from the audience was almost tangible. It was, in fact, a very glamorous audience that occupied the red plush seats beneath the blue and gold ceiling and the brilliant lights. But then, it was a very special occasion. Frédéric’s first Bohème at Covent Garden. It was a pity that Ned couldn’t have come, especially as there was an empty seat right next to her. Just right for an opera nut like him. When the lights went down and the curtain drew back to reveal Rodolfo and Marcello, the young, impoverished artistes in their Parisian attic, a spontaneous round of applause broke out – for the set, for Frédéric, and from sheer excitement.

Pardon, Madame. A voice whispered in Imogen’s ear.

Irritated, as latecomers were not supposed to enter until a break in the performance, Imogen eased back to allow a woman to sit next to her.

*****

As Rodolfo and Mimi searched for the legendary lost key, touched hands and fell in love, Imogen lost all awareness of time. As always, tears welled in her eyes when Rodolfo sang of his dreams and Mimi described the flowers she loved to embroider. She became so involved, in fact, that she jumped when the woman next to her rose and again asked Imogen to let her pass just before the interval. This time, as she moved to one side, Imogen showed her irritation by tutting very quietly. She noticed that the woman was wearing dark glasses.

*****

Imogen couldn’t take notes during the performance, but she reached for her bag as soon as the lights came up.

Imogen. She felt someone prod her in the back. Turning, she recognised Crispin Tyler, a respected critic who worked for the magazine Operatic.

What on earth was she doing here? he said. Some cheek, don’t you think?

What do you mean?

That was Elodie Dufrais sitting next to you. I can’t believe she had the nerve to turn up after ditching a performance. Not very incognito, either.

I didn’t recognise her. I’ve never seen her in the flesh and I was concentrating on the performance. The dark glasses didn’t help, either.

Great way to draw attention to oneself, wearing dark glasses in an opera house. I’ll be interested to hear what the management makes of this. Coming for an interval drink?

No thanks. I’d better write my notes up. I need to get it all down while it’s fresh in my mind.

You won’t need notes when you’re my age. I’ll let you know after the performance if I hear anything.

*****

I notice she didn’t have the nerve to turn up for the second half, said Crispin, as they sipped champagne at the post-performance gathering. I’ll have to get to the bottom of this. See you, Imogen.

Imogen watched Crispin swan off to grill the press officer at the Opera House. I hope I’ve got as much confidence when I’ve been in the game for as long as him, she thought.

Haven’t you got an article to write?

Imogen turned to find Sebastian standing behind her. Sebastian! I didn’t know you were coming tonight!

Last minute invitation, darling. A friend of a friend just insisted. But what gossip! Your deadly rival sitting right next to you.

I know and I didn’t even spot her.

Never mind, my dear. You couldn’t exactly interview her in the middle of a performance.

True. It’s quite embarrassing for Frédéric to have her turn up like that.

Oh, I don’t suppose he cares – though, maybe you do.

Imogen didn’t rise to Sebastian’s teasing. I think I’d better get off before this champagne goes to my head. I’ve got a review to write.

Okay, darling. Think I’ll just hang on a little.

More like a lot, thought Imogen

*****

What on earth? muttered Imogen, as she groped for her alarm the following morning. She had set it to go off a little later than usual, after staying up to write the first draft of her Bohème review. However, she realised that it was, in fact, her phone ringing.

Imogen. It’s Ned. Did I wake you?

What do you think? It’s six am.

I had to ring you. You won’t believe this.

It had better be good.

Elodie Dufrais. She’s dead. They’ve brought her here. She died on the way to hospital. And lover boy’s been arrested.

CHAPTER 2

Imogen couldn’t take in what Ned had just told her.

Are you saying that Frédéric Junot murdered Elodie Dufrais? That can’t be true.

I’m saying that she is dead, possibly murdered, and that the police are questioning Junot. I shouldn’t have rung you, only half of Fleet Street is outside the hospital with a pretty good idea of what’s going on.

But he’d never do such a thing. It’s inconceivable. They adored each other. How dreadful for him.

I think it’s worse for her, actually.

Ned!

Sorry. Anyway, let’s see what happens. And remember, I’m not saying that he did do it, only that the police are questioning him. Anyhow, I must go. Oh, and by the way, don’t pass any of this on until the police have issued a statement.

There was no chance of Imogen going back to sleep. She pulled on her dressing gown and stumbled into the kitchen to fill the kettle. Elodie Dufrais, dead. It was difficult to comprehend. Imogen had been sitting next to her only a few hours earlier. Surely Frédéric couldn’t be a suspect? After all, he had said, We are in love, I adore her…. But then, it was a fact that Dufrais had withdrawn from the production at the last moment. And what did ‘indisposed’ really mean? She flicked on the TV. As she did so, the phone rang.

Darling, what’s all this? I see your idol has got himself into trouble.

Sebastian, how do you know? And what on earth are you doing up at this time in the morning?

I didn’t quite make it to bed last night. I must say they put on an awfully good bash at the Opera House. Then, of course, one thing led to another. I’ve just got back and seen it hinted at on one or two blogs. It’s probably on the box by now.

Ned’s cautions aren’t necessary, thought Imogen. The story’s out. Do you know what happened? The press seem to have picked up on it awfully quickly, she said, out loud.

They usually do. Don’t forget that these celebrities are followed everywhere they go. And staff in the top hotels know a good story when they see one. I don’t know any details yet, but I’ve got plenty of contacts who will.

Do ring me if you learn anything.

You’ll be the first to know. Just a little nap, then I’ll be on the trail.

*****

There was no point in Imogen trying to find out any details herself. She hadn’t built up contacts in the way Crispin and Sebastian had – that could take years. She spent the morning trying to polish her review of La Bohème while worrying about Frédéric. He must be desolate. Neither Ned nor Sebastian called her, and the TV news kept returning to the same reporter standing outside the hospital and reporting that a statement was expected soon. In desperation, Imogen sent a text to Ned. Sorry to disturb you, but any news?

The text alert on her phone buzzed immediately. Yep, busy, talk later.

Later wouldn’t do. Imogen wanted to know now. Pulling on her coat and grabbing her work, she set off for the offices of Opera London.

*****

The magazine’s offices were in a small, modern block just to the north of Shaftesbury Avenue, close to theatre land and the two main opera houses – the Royal Opera House and the Coliseum. It was the perfect site for a publication based on the world of opera. As she entered the building, Imogen wondered whether Sebastian had made it