Free Death at Dawn by Caro Peacock Page B

thought, rubbing his head. ‘Half a dozen at least, maybe more.’
    ‘English or French?’
    ‘Mostly English, but a couple of Frenchmen. Yourfather was jabbering away to them in their lingo, easy as I’m talking to you.’
    ‘Did they seem angry?’
    ‘Not in the world. They were as comfortable a crew as you’d see anywhere; bowl of punch, pipes going, some books open on the tables – quite a few books, I remember – and fiddles and flutes and so on all over the place.’
    It rang true. My father had a knack of finding friends wherever he happened to be. As children, many’s the time Tom and I had crept out of our beds and looked through keyholes at exactly the scene Amos was describing.
    ‘Were there any women there?’
    ‘Not one. All gentlemen.’
    ‘Do you remember what any of the men looked like?’
    ‘Not to describe, no. Truth was, I was dog-tired by then.’
    ‘Was one of them a thin, elderly man with a greyish face, dressed all in black?’
    ‘I don’t recall any elderly men there. They were mostly about your father’s age.’
    ‘Or a very fat man?’
    ‘A couple of them stoutish, I wouldn’t say very fat.’
    ‘Or a young fair-haired Englishman in a blue jacket?’
    ‘I don’t recall a blue jacket, no.’
    A blank. If my father’s convivial party had included a snake in the grass, I was no nearer to him.
    ‘Can you describe anybody there at all?’
    Amos thought hard.
    ‘There was this little black-haired gentleman, played the fiddle like he was possessed by Old Nick.’
    ‘Not much taller than I am?’
    He nodded.
    ‘In his mid-thirties, and very thin?’
    ‘Thin as a peeled withy.’
    ‘With his hair coming to a point like this?’
    I sketched a widow’s peak on my forehead with my finger.
    ‘Yes, that’s the gentleman. You know him, miss?’
    ‘Daniel Suter.’
    I felt myself smiling as I said the name, it brought back so many good memories. Daniel Suter was one of my father’s dearest friends, although around ten years younger than he was. He had ambitions as a composer but had to earn his living as a musician, playing everything from a piccolo to a cello. It was not surprising that he should be in Paris or that, being there, he and my father should have found their way to each other. It was my first step forward, that at least I knew the name of someone who’d shared part of my father’s last week on earth. Daniel was witty, observant. If anything had happened in Paris, he’d know about it. The only drawback was that he was presumably still in Paris.
    ‘Did you see any of them again?’
    ‘No. Next morning your father met me downstairs at the hotel and took me round the corner to wherethe horse was kept. It was just daylight. He was wearing the same clothes he’d had on the night before, so likely he hadn’t gone to bed.’
    It was indeed quite likely.
    ‘And there seemed nothing strange about him?’
    ‘Nothing at all. Happy as a lad on a day’s holiday, and pleased with himself on account of the horse. So we went to the stables and I took her off to where the cart was waiting.’
    ‘And that was the last you saw of him?’
    ‘Waving us on our way, yes.’
    He asked if I wanted a proper look at the mare. My tearful reaction had clearly disappointed him, and indeed it was poor recompense for having brought her so far. We crossed the yard to the corner loosebox and he put a headcollar on her and walked her into the sun.
    ‘Well, miss?’
    No tears this time, but precious little breath to answer him. You know sometimes when you see a special picture or hear a few bars of music you feel a shock to the heart, as if you’d just breathed in frosty air, a delight so intense that it feels like fear? Well, that was the way I felt seeing the mare. She was a bright bay, not tall, no more than fifteen and a half hands at most, clean legs and a long build suggesting speed, broad chest for a good heart. Her eye was remarkably large and intelligent, ears well shaped and