Free Sepulchre by Kate Mosse Page B

she unpacked, putting her few clothes in the closet, then headed for the bathroom. It was concealed behind a curious concertina-style door in the corner of the room, again aggressively minimalist in white ceramic. She took a quick shower, then, wrapped in a towelling robe and with thick woollen socks on her feet, poured herself a glass of red wine from the minibar and sat down to check her mail.
    She got a connection fast enough, but there was nothing much - a couple of emails from friends asking how things were going, one from her mother, Mary, checking she was OK, an advertising flyer for a concert. Meredith sighed. Nothing from her publisher. The first part of the advance had been due to go into her account at the end of September, but it hadn't come through by the time she left. It was now the end of October and she was getting jumpy. She'd sent a couple of reminders and been reassured everything was in hand. Her financial situation wasn't too bad, at least not quite yet. She'd got her credit cards and she could always borrow a little from Mary, if absolutely necessary, to tide her over. But she'd be relieved to know the money was on its way.
Meredith logged off. She drained the last of the wine, brushed her teeth, and then climbed into bed with a book for company.
     
She lasted about five minutes.
     
The sounds of Paris faded. Meredith drifted asleep, the light still on, her battered copy of the stories of Edgar Allan Poe abandoned on the pillow beside her.
     
CHAPTER 10
     
SATURDAY 27TH OCTOBER
     
When Meredith woke next morning, light was streaming through the window.
    She leapt out of bed. She ran a brush through her black hair, tied it back in a ponytail, and pulled on blue jeans, a green sweater and her jacket. She checked she'd got all she needed in her bag - wallet, map, notebook, sunglasses, camera - then, feeling good about the day ahead, was out of the door, taking the stairs two at a time down to the lobby.
    It was a perfect fall day, bright and sunny and fresh. Meredith headed for the brasserie opposite for breakfast. Rows of round tables with faux marble tops, pretty though, were set out on the sidewalk to catch the best of the morning sun. Inside, all was lacquered brown wood. A long zinc counter ran the length of the room and two middle-aged waiters in black and white were moving with astonishing speed through the crowded restaurant.
    Meredith got the last free table outside, next to a group of four guys in vests and tight leather pants. They were all smoking and drinking espressos and glasses of water. To her right, two thin and immaculately dressed women sipped cafe noisette from tiny white cups. She ordered the petit-dejeuner complet - juice, baguette with butter and jelly, pastries and cafe au lait then pulled out her notebook, a replica of Hemingway's famous moleskin jotters. She was already on number three of a pack of six, bought on special offer from Barnes & Noble for this trip. She wrote everything down, however small or insignificant. Later, she transferred the notes she thought significant to her laptop.
    She planned to spend the day visiting the private locations important to Debussy, as opposed to the big public spaces and concert halls. She'd take a few photos, see how far she got. If it turned out to be a waste of time, she'd think again, but it seemed a sensible way to organise her time.
Debussy had been born in St-Germain-en-Laye on 22nd August 1862, in what was now commuter belt. But he was a Parisian through and through and spent pretty much all his fifty-five years in the capital, from his childhood home in the rue de Berlin to the house at 80 Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, where he'd died on 25th March 1916, four days after the German long-range bombardment of Paris had begun. The last stop on her itinerary, maybe when she came back at the end of the week, would be the Cimetiere de Passy in the 16th arrondissement where Debussy was buried.
    Meredith took a deep breath. She felt right