The Remaining Voice by Angela Elliott Read Free Book Online

garden bore any resemblance to this painted diva. I gave up. The photograph was not clear enough. Perhaps if I concentrated on making some order of this mess, I would find out what and who I was dealing with. For sure, the youthful apparition I’d seen could not be Berthe. She had been an old lady when she died. There must be other photographs here, perhaps even a diary or correspondence of some kind. It did not look as if anything had been thrown away in a very long time.
    Setting aside my concerns for the moment, I worked steadily into the late afternoon. I started in one corner of the room and listed the larger items of furniture. I should have brought my camera with me because then I could have photographed everything and made my life a little easier, but that would have to wait. I moved on to the paintings, and as best I could stacked them against the long wall, thereby clearing a little floor space. Moving the books sent me into a paroxysm of sneezing, but I diligently freed a chaise longue from the weight of paper and burrowed into a box of crockery, most of which was wrapped in newspaper. It was as if Berthe had half packed her belongings, meaning to take them to England with her, but then, for some as yet inexplicable reason, gave up. I glanced at the painting over the mantle and something in the atmosphere shifted. The apartment had never been warm and it was only spring, yet now I could see my breath as I exhaled. Perhaps I had done enough for one day. I glanced round one last time. Tomorrow I would find out what rooms lay beyond this.
    I hurried to shed my apron and shook out my coat, still damp from the rain. It was as I was picking up my bag that the singing began. I could not make out the words, but the voice… oh the voice was magnificent: crescendos of sound softened by delicate phrases here and there, terrifying in their intensity of emotion, and yet strangely soothing. I listened for a full five minutes before the sound began to fade and I was left in total silence.
    It had to be a neighbour. Perhaps they were playing a record? But it did not sound like a recording, and the café owner had mentioned singing, and I had heard it when I first arrived. It was a somewhat unnerving sound. I had to investigate. I knocked on my neighbour’s door. There was no reply. I knocked again. Still nothing. Perhaps upstairs? There was just one apartment above me. I took the last flight up, knocked and waited. No one answered. I put my ear to the wood and listened, trying to work out if there was anyone inside, but it was too hard to tell. Just when I had given up hope, the door opened and a bird-like old woman poked her head through the gap. Her face twitched slightly.
    “ Oui, que voulez-vous?” Her voice was barely audible. Certainly, she was not the singer. I wondered too how she managed the stairs. Perhaps she lived with someone more able-bodied. Or perhaps Armand Pascal ran errands for her.
    I replied in French: “Excuse me Madam. I am your neighbour. I live downstairs. I wonder if I might ask you… were you playing a record just now?”
    “ Moi? Non. Non.”
    “ I’m sorry. It’s just that it was such beautiful singing. Did you hear it ?”
    “Non. Non. Allez-vous en!” She waved me away and made to shut the door. I put my hand out to stop it closing. I did not want to be rude, but I felt compelled to ask one more question.
    “ Madam, is there someone else I can talk to ?” Perhaps she had a visitor.
    “Non.” She fidgeted and I thought her frightened of me, or perhaps my questions. I smiled weakly and nodded, letting go my hold on the door. It closed quickly.
    I took my weary body back downstairs to the foyer. I could have knocked on the Pascals’ door, and doubtless Armand would have welcomed me in, but I was tired and did not want to wrestle with either his, or his father’s, lascivious attentions, so instead I opened the front door quietly, and slipped out onto the street.

Chapter 5
    At the hotel