Free Sepulchre by Kate Mosse Page A

and Musee Picasso were nearby - but mostly for the Conservatoire, and the various concert halls, archives and private addresses she needed to visit for Debussy.
    The driver put her tote bag in the trunk, then slammed her door and climbed in. Meredith was thrown back in her seat as the taxi accelerated sharply into the crazy Parisian traffic. She put her arm protectively around her purse and hugged it tight to her, watching as the cafes, the boulevards, the scooters and streetlamps zoomed past.
    Meredith felt she knew Debussy's muses, mistresses, lovers, wives -Marie Vasnier, Gaby Dupont, Therese Roger, his first wife Lilly Texier, his second, Emma Bardac, his beloved daughter Chouchou. Their faces, their stories, their features were right there, at the front of her mind - the dates, the references, the music. She had a first draft of the biography and she was pretty satisfied with how the text was shaping up. What she needed now was to bring them to life on the page, a little more colour, a little nineteenth-century atmosphere.
    From time to time, she worried that Debussy's life was more real to her than her own day to day. Then, she dismissed the thought. It was good to be focused. If she wanted to hit her deadline, she needed to keep at it for just a while longer.
The cab screamed to a halt.
     
'Hotel Axial-Beaubourg. Voila.'
     
Meredith settled the fare and went inside.
     
The hotel was pretty contemporary. More like a boutique hotel in New York than what she expected to find in Paris. Hardly French at all.
    It was all straight lines and glass; stylish, minimalist. The lobby was filled with blocky outsize chairs covered in black and white dogtooth check or lime-green or brown and white pinstripes, arranged around smoked-glass tables. Art magazines, copies of Vogue and Paris-Match were stacked up in brushed chrome racks on the walls. Huge, supersized lampshades hung from the ceiling. Trying too hard.
At the far end of the small lobby was the bar, with a line of men and women drinking. Lots of toned flesh and good tailoring. Gleaming cocktail shakers stood on the slate counter; the glass bottles reflected in the mirror beneath blue neon lights. The rattle of ice and the chink of glasses. ' Meredith pulled a credit card from her wallet, different from the one she'd been using in the UK, just in case she'd hit her limit, and approached the desk. The clerk, sleek in a grey pantsuit, was friendly and efficient. Meredith was pleased her rusty French was understood. She hadn't spoken the language in a while. Got to be a good sign.
    Turning down the offer of help with her bags, she made a note of the password for wireless computer access, then took the narrow elevator to the third floor and walked along a dark passageway until she found the number she was looking for.
    The room was pretty small, but clean and stylish, everything decorated in brown, cream and white. Housekeeping had switched on the lamp beside the bed. Meredith ran her hand over the sheets. Good-quality bed linen, comfortable. Lots of space in the closet, not that she needed it. She dropped her tote on the bed, took her laptop out of her purse, put it on the glass-topped desk and plugged it in to charge.
    Then she went to the window, pulled back the net curtain and opened the shutters. The sound of traffic surged into the room. Down below in the street, a glamorous young crowd was out enjoying the surprisingly mild October evening. Meredith leaned out. She could see in all four directions. A department store on the corner opposite, its shutters closed. Cafes and bars, a patisserie and a deli were all open, and music filtered out on to the sidewalks. Orange streetlamps, neon, everything floodlit or silhouetted. Night-time tones.
    With her elbows resting on the black wrought-iron balustrade, Meredith just watched awhile, wishing she had enough energy to go down and join in. Then she rubbed her arms, realising her skin was covered in goosebumps.
    Ducking back inside,