The Paris Secret by Karen Swan Read Free Book Online Page B

coil shapes of rust which must have come from the bed springs. It was so old and so delicate, it was a wonder the
letter had survived this long, especially given its precarious hiding place.
    Flora looked back under the mattress, checking for other letters or perhaps the envelope to say where it had come from, but there was nothing. She stared again at the paper – it was
crinkled, as though it had been crushed in a fist before being smoothed open again. Was that simply the effect of being hidden under a mattress on which people had slept and turned and made love?
Or perhaps something in the letter had upset the reader? A lover’s quarrel?
    Why had it been hidden there?
    She had to know, not least because it might contain some vital information for the family. If it was important enough to hide, then it must be important, full stop. She folded the letter and
slipped it carefully into her pocket. Angus would know someone who could translate it for them.
    She straightened the mattress, just as – further down the hall – she heard him dragging something across the floor. ‘Flora!’ he called. ‘I need a hand!’
    ‘Coming,’ she replied, noticing how her footsteps in the dust traced her path round the room like a deer’s in the snow.
    Angus was standing beside a painting he’d propped up on a chair, one hand on his hip, the other on the frame. It was large, but more than that – arrestingly beautiful, showing a
woman sitting on a garden bench in a long, vibrant yellow dress, her dark hair caught in swags, her face in profile as a parasol kept her in the shade. Indistinct blooms in lilac and rose clustered
behind and a navy ribbon clasped her throat.
    Flora stopped in her tracks as she absorbed the deftness of touch with the sable brush, the interplay of shadow and light, the exquisite mastery of texture and form. It was a masterpiece, of
that there was no doubt, and she didn’t need to read the name in the bottom right to know who had rendered it.
    ‘Go on, say it,’ Angus beamed, looking as pleased as punch, closing his eyes. ‘I want to hear those words said out loud.’
    Flora crossed her arms and smiled at him. Always so dramatic. ‘Why, Angus,’ she exclaimed wryly, playing along, excited herself. That overdraft was about to be paid off. ‘You
appear to be holding a Renoir.’

Chapter Four
    The moon was high in the sky before Flora put her key in the lock of the vast oak door and stepped into the inner courtyard. Judging by the number of Vespas and bikes propped
around the honey-coloured walls, everyone in the building was home – even those who’d been out for the evening. Her travel bag clattered noisily over the scrubbed cobbles as she walked
towards the apartments at the far end, her eyes too weary to notice the night-blossoming jasmine climbing the walls, her mind too distracted to hear the distant music that tumbled down into the
space and filled it like coloured vapour.
    She entered the building code and trudged up the stone stairs, half-hoping that her friends would have retired to bed, leaving her free to march straight to the spare bedroom – hers, by
long-standing agreement, whenever she was in the city – and conk out on top of the bed, fully dressed, teeth unbrushed, whatever. She couldn’t remember when she’d last felt so
tired and yet she wasn’t convinced she’d be able to sleep either, her entire nervous system feeling wired from the day’s strange and magnificent discoveries.
    Angus had left hours ago now, jumping onto the 13.13 Eurostar and heading straight back to London, his entire head glowing magenta with excitement, and she wondered how he had got on with his
enquiries at the Art Loss Register, the ALR. It was the absolute first step on this path; nothing else could be decided without the feedback from those records and their wildest hopes and dreams
would be dashed in an instant if the Renoir (and the Faucheux, although it wasn’t quite in the same