Free The Remaining Voice by Angela Elliott Page A

hotel. The rain had cleared and the wind had died some, but it was still wet underfoot and I had earache. My day’s exertions had tired me and I wanted nothing more than to sit down with a coffee and recoup my energy, before venturing out to find a restaurant. I saw no more of the ghostly woman I had decided must be Berthe, though how and why she was appearing as a young woman, and not the elderly lady she was when she died, I did not know.
    On arrival at the hotel, I asked at the front desk for any messages. The receptionist gave me a wry smile and handed me a folded piece of paper. On it was written: “I am in the bar.”
    “Damn you,” I said to Laurent as I sank into the sofa opposite him. “What are you doing here?” I was secretly pleased to see him, but eager not to show it.
    “I have no way of contacting you other than to come here myself.” Laurent threw up his hands and shrugged, as only a Frenchman can.
    “Well, I’ve been busy,” I said. I signalled the barman and asked for a coffee.
    “I too have been busy,” Laurent said. He was all business and no charm tonight. “I have been to the archive and I have found something that may interest you.”
    He flicked open a foolscap wallet on the coffee table, shuffled through the papers inside and handed me a sheet on which he had written, in his precise lawyer’s hand, a list of dates and corresponding events.
    “What is this?” I asked, waving the sheet of paper at him. I was slightly annoyed to see the extent of his organisational skills. At that time in my life I lacked any kind of systematic approach to problems. I just blustered my way through situations, hoping for the best, and usually experiencing the worst.
    “Berthe Chalgrin,” Laurent said. “Born in 1876, studied voice and sang for the first time at the Palais Garnier in 1897. In 1899 she married a Russian Prince, Nicolai Vladimirovich.”
    “Wait – she was married?” I sat up straight. “And to a Prince? Why did I not know this?”
    “Possibly because they were only married for a brief time before he died. He was in the Imperial Russian Navy. In 1904 his ship was blown up during the Russo-Japanese War. It seems Berthe simply immersed herself in her career. They kept apartments in Paris, Moscow and Berlin. The only one remaining is that in Paris. I assume she sold the others. Possibly, his family took them. I don’t know. We can check I suppose, if it is important.”
    My coffee arrived and Laurent paused while I added sugar and stirred, thinking all the time about the importance of this new information and how it might affect the way I dealt with the estate from now on.
    “But a Russian?” It did not seem possible.
    “Oh, but there were so many Russian noblemen at that time – and all calling themselves Prince this or Count that. There were no children from this union, so…”
    “Go on,” I said, tentatively.
    “Well, Berthe’s career blossomed after her husband’s death. She sang many times in Paris and also Monte-Carlo, and one time with the Metropolitan Opera in New York.”
    “She was in New York?”
    “Oh yes. It is all here in the archive… the songs she sang, the cast she travelled with. We know much. Even the name of her maid.”
    “Her maid? She had a maid?”
    “Of course. She was, however briefly, nobility. She had a maid. Everyone had a maid.”
    “Okay. So what next?”
    “She sang with Caruso in 1905 and returned to Paris. There is a long list of performances, but in the winter of 1907 she left the Paris Garnier and never returned. There are no records after that. I did find a newspaper cutting of her with a man by the name of…” Here Laurent pulled out another sheet of paper. “Robert Truffaut. It seems they had a liaison – announced their engagement, and she said she may retire. That is all.”
    “Robert Truffaut? Who is he? Is he still alive?”
    Laurent shrugged. “I have some recollection of a Truffaut who was a… how do you say in