Free Murder in Montparnasse by Kerry Greenwood

a small pouchy evening bag, a leather satchel, a Russian leather purse and a large silk drawstring bag. All contained nothing but lost handkerchiefs, metro tickets, stray francs and one cough sweet glued to the lining.
    ‘Books?’
    A small cedar bookcase under the window revealed Elizabeth’s taste had largely run to books on French grammar and vocabulary, a few novels of the modern persuasion, possibly unread, a lot of detective stories and a comprehensive collection of cookbooks in both French and English. They were well used and opened easily. Phryne took each one and shook it over the bedspread, releasing a sheaf of bits of paper, metro tickets, chocolate wrappers, a postcard of Notre Dame and a few letters.
    Phryne sat down to examine them all. Nothing to be learned from the chocolate wrappers except that Elizabeth liked hard centres. One metro ticket was much like another. The letters were a disappointment. She read through each one carefully, looking for codes or underlinings, but they were so innocent that she grew suspicious and read them again. To no avail.
    ‘Two schoolfriends, female, and one from her father enclosing her pocket money. The postcard is from her chère amie, Adeline. Oh, well. Push that chair over to the wardrobe, Mr Jenkins, if you please.’
    ‘Why?’ asked Mr Jenkins, doing as he was bid.
    ‘Well, unless she has a cache under a floorboard or something of that sort, which is unlikely given how little time she has spent here recently, the best bet is the wardrobe. People often hide things on wardrobes. Give me a hand.’
    Mr Jenkins, breath held, watched Phryne climb nimbly onto the chair and sweep the top of the cedar wardrobe with her hands. He averted his eyes from her knees, which were on shameless display.
    ‘Nothing up here but dust,’ she said. ‘I’d have a word with the maids, if I were you, Mr Jenkins.’
    She hopped down.
    ‘The desk,’ she said.
    This was a slender-legged escritoire meant only for the production of little notes of condolence or very small thank you letters. The tiny desk space would have constrained any writer to be brief, if not minuscule. Phryne extracted sheets of scented notepaper, visiting cards, a few leftover ribbons and one spray of artificial baby’s breath, a packet of nibs and a bottle of royal blue Williams Superfine Ink. Elizabeth had written out several favourite recipes on square white filing cards in a small, very neat hand. Someone who wrote like that did seem an unlikely candidate for such wholesale, almost deliberate, untidiness.
    ‘I see what you mean,’ she commented. ‘She seems to be a tidy wench.’ Mr Jenkins winced at the word. ‘No sign of a lover, no passionate letters, no contraceptive devices— oh, Mr Jenkins, I am sorry, forget I said that.’
    ‘Miss Elizabeth,’ quavered Mr Jenkins, ‘is a good girl. She wouldn’t even have heard of . . . such things.’
    ‘If she has been to school in Paris she would have heard of them, but I agree that there is no sign of her having taken such measures. She likes hard centres, which argues good teeth and a good digestion. She likes cooking, ditto. Her favourite perfume is the unexceptionable lavender of Provence, not the scarlet passion of Jicky. Her clothes are very modest, considering her age and her position and the persuasive talents of French dressmakers. She is a young woman of decided tastes and strong character. She might have inherited that from her father.’
    ‘But she has sweetness of disposition from her mother,’ said Mr Jenkins, sounding much more certain. ‘She was a saint, that woman. When she died Elizabeth was shuttled off to Paris. Almost as though her father couldn’t bear to see her. Of course, she is not beautiful,’ said Mr Jenkins sadly. ‘That might have made a difference to him. But she is a good girl,’ he said firmly.
    ‘My opinion exactly. Now, Mr Jenkins, there are two matters to which I would draw your attention, and one