The Predator of Batignolles: 5th Victor Legris Mystery. Claude Izner

from a man living in sin with a Russian émigrée who exhibits her unspeakable paintings at Boussod et Valadon! Decent women aspire to live within the holy sacraments of marriage, to make a home and bring up children!’

      ‘Not all of them, my dear, not all of them. Polly Thomson, the oldest living British subject, has just celebrated her one hundred and seventh birthday. She never married, she says, because men enslave women. She preferred having only herself to feed.’

      ‘Well, all I can say is this: I hope that she’s still got enough teeth to eat stale bread!’ exclaimed Blanche de Cambrésis.

      Kenji was studying a Kitagawa Utamaro print, which he had purchased in London and had just hung above his Louis XIII chest.

      ‘What do you think of Woman Powdering Her Neck, Victor? Isn’t she life-like? Why the long face? Is something the matter?’

      ‘There’s been a terrible tragedy. Pierre Andrésy has died in a fire at his shop.’

      Kenji turned deathly pale. He felt a pang in his chest, as if he’d been run through with a sabre.

      ‘Kenji, are you all right? I have to go downstairs, there are some customers waiting.’

      Kenji nodded distractedly.

      ‘Yes. Go … Death is vaster than a mountain yet more insignificant than a grain of sand,’ he said, as Victor left the room.

      He sat limply on the corner of the futon, his glasses resting on his forehead, and stared into space.

      ‘There is a purpose in every event. People die; a purpose is fulfilled.’

      He pictured himself and his beloved Daphné strolling along the paths in the Chelsea Physic Garden, near the Royal Hospital. He could almost taste her scent on his lips. Daphné was buried in Highgate Cemetery. Fifteen years already! He had felt lost without her – a prisoner to hostile forces that threatened to engulf him! And then he had begun to understand that death may claim people’s bodies, but their souls live on.

      ‘The dead are thinking of us when we think of them.’

      He felt a sudden overwhelming need of affection. The image of Djina Kherson imposed itself on him. He had only met Tasha’s mother twice, but she was a woman of undeniable grace. Her heart-shaped mouth and auburn hair reminded him of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s magnificent portrait, Astarte Syriaca, which he found arousing. She radiated maturity, and possessed an almost male energy, which attracted, disconcerted and captivated him. Kenji was a conqueror by nature: when he wanted something he took it. His solitude whispered, ‘Try, you never know.’ But he knew, he knew that Djina Kherson would probably never mean anything to him.

      Tasha pushed away the plate of courgettes à la crème. She had no desire to eat in this heat. She decided to add the finishing touches to the painting she was working on. Since returning from Berlin with her mother, she spent two days a week giving watercolour classes, and the rest of her time was taken up with illustrating a translation of Homer. Her own work was suffering as a result. And yet she was happy to be able to help Djina out. She missed the two other people dearest to her heart: her sister Ruhléa, who was living in Cracow with her husband, a Czech doctor called Milos Tábor, and her father Pinkus. He tried to sound positive in his letters from New York, but they betrayed his feeling of rootlessness.

      During her time in Berlin, Tasha had realised how strong her attachment to Victor was, and although she was in no hurry to get married, she had agreed to move in with him. Their home consisted of a bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom and a darkroom. On the other side of the courtyard, the space she used as a studio doubled when necessary as a sitting-cum-dining room.

      The bond between her and the man she loved had deepened since she had decided to create a series of paintings based on his photographs.

      Victor’s studies of children at work had led to him photographing a troupe of young acrobats. From there his interest had turned towards the world of fairgrounds, to which he felt an irresistible attraction. The freaks, strongmen, lion tamers, fire-eaters, clowns, showmen and jugglers were the magical made real, and he loved working in that milieu – especially as Tasha shared his fascination. She had drawn inspiration from his prints of a wooden carousel. One of her paintings depicted a pair of soldiers capering about with two buxom women, who were dizzy from spinning, their skirts lifting as they turned. Another portrayed a solitary lad gripping the reins of his nag as he streaked past the finishing line to win the Chantilly Derby cup. She was satisfied she had followed Odilon Redon’s advice on abstract backgrounds, and she thought the relaxed posture of one of the women leaning back to kiss a soldier worked well. Her fluid brushstrokes resembled those of Berthe Morisot, differing in the precision of her contours.

      Victor loved this collaborative work, which he referred to as ‘their baby’. Djina was trying to encourage her daughter to marry and have children; she would soon be twenty-six. Tasha didn’t object to the thought of marriage, but she couldn’t imagine having a baby for several years; she was determined to be free to continue what she’d started. Victor never mentioned it any more. Did he really want to be a father? She stretched her arms, her body filled with a delicious lethargy. Madame Victor Legris! She was already associated with his photography; he’d be over the moon if she agreed to take his name as well. He was doing his best to curb his possessiveness. Of course he didn’t always succeed, like on that Thursday the previous March.

      They had gone to view an exhibition by the painter Antonio de la Gandara23 at the Durand-Ruel gallery.24 She had spent ages looking at the pastels and drawings, in particular the portraits of Comte de Montesquiou and Prince Wolkonsky. An oil painting entitled Woman in Green had fascinated her. Impressed by his masterful brushstrokes and the texture of his fabrics, she had wanted to congratulate the artist, an attractive Spanish aristocrat. He had thanked her for the compliment, and with a knowing wink had suggested she sit for him. With forced good humour, Victor had swiftly pointed out that his companion preferred painting portraits to posing for them. He had then pretended to become absorbed in a drawing of a bat, but the glowering looks he kept shooting at Gandara made it perfectly clear what was on his mind.

      ‘Thank God you’re here! I was beginning to get worried.’

      Victor had just walked in. He embraced her, and she snuggled up against him.

      ‘What’s wrong?’

      ‘There’s been rioting in the Latin Quarter and …’

      He told her briefly about the bookbinder’s death.

      ‘How horrible!’

      She held him tight. Those unforgettable images of the pogrom … Rue Voronov splattered with blood, the flickering flames, the man stretched out in front of the house, the soldiers on horseback waving their sabres …

      ‘Was it an accident?’

      ‘Apparently … They’re not sure …’

      The image of a hand tossing a scrap of burning paper into Pierre Andrésy’s shop flashed into his mind. He blotted it out.

      Tasha flinched, as though she’d been reading his thoughts; would this tragedy turn into an excuse for a new case? She began to say something then stopped and brushed her lips against his cheek.

      ‘I do love you, you know,’ she whispered. ‘I feel so afraid sometimes. I can’t imagine life without you.’

      ‘Don’t worry, my darling. I shall endeavour to endure your difficult nature with stoicism.’

      He began to unbutton her blouse as she pulled his shirt out of his trousers.

       CHAPTER FOUR

       Friday 7 July

      ‘YOU really