Veil of Secrets by Rachel McLean, book 1 in the Roscoe & McBride series - Chapter 1

“Mademoiselle!”

The young waitress stopped and turned, gripping a tray of champagne flutes. Henri de Saint-Clair, France’s greatest living novelist, reached out and took a glass.

“Merci,” he said with a nod, before turning to his companion. “She must have walked right past me at least seven times.”

“Then she cannot have recognised you,” Michel said. “Despite that thing around your neck.”

Henri frowned, adjusting his cravat. “It’s my signature look.”

“And it’s one you haven’t changed in decades. Salut!” Michel clinked his glass against Henri’s. “Here’s to the success of…” Michel, former literary editor of Le Monde, but now languishing somewhere between freelancing and retirement, checked the poster hanging from the vaulted glass ceiling of the Musée d’Orsay “…Emmanuel Koundé.”

Henri leaned in with a sneer and raised his glass. “The future of French literature.”

“They said that about you, once.”

Henri smiled and puffed out his chest. “And they were right.”

After an awkward pause, Michel asked, “I don’t suppose you’ve actually read the damn thing, have you?”

Henri raised an eyebrow. “I was sent a review copy, naturally.”

“But you never?”

“No.” Henri lowered his voice. “If I thought he had got his publishing deal on merit…” He gave a dismissive flick of his hand. “I get letters all the time from aspiring French writers asking for my help. But with a surname like Moreau or Dubois, they don’t stand a chance these days. I want to tell them to change their name to Mbappé or Dembélé. Or pretend to be gay.”

Michel snorted. “I don’t think gay cuts it anymore, my friend. Six figures? You probably need to be non-binary at the very least.”

Henri’s gaze wandered across the room. His agent, Sabine Leroy, gave him a loose wave, though her attention was fixed on Koundé, laughing at something he’d said.

Henri sighed. He remembered what it had been like to be the man of the moment, to hold court with the great and the good of the publishing world. When he won the Prix Renaudot for his second novel, Drift, people would stop him in the street and ask for his autograph.

Forty years on, if someone approached him, it was usually to ask for directions.

“I hear it’s actually very good,” Michel said.

Henri swilled champagne around his mouth before answering. “You know what they say, Michel. Do not judge a man by his first book, judge him by his tenth.”

Michel gave a knowing smile. “And how is your latest doing?”

Henri hesitated. “Some of the best reviews of my career.” He omitted the part about the abysmal sales.

Michel patted his shoulder and disappeared into the throng. Henri strolled through the gallery, pretending to admire the sculptures rather than looking like he had no one to talk to.

The Musée d’Orsay was housed in a former railway station, and the central gallery was enclosed by an enormous arched glass ceiling. It was easy to visualise the commuters of the early twentieth century catching a train to the banlieues. Now the space was filled with sculpture – a polar bear in white marble contrasting with the black bronze of Rodin’s The Gates of Hell. In the rooms off the main hall hung paintings by Degas, Renoir and Monet.

Henri had always envied painters. Their work endured on gallery walls. His words, once celebrated, now gathered dust in second-hand bookshops.

When no one approached him, Henri decided to slip out unnoticed.

“Monsieur de Saint-Clair?”

Henri turned hopefully. “Yes?”

“It is you. I recognised your cravat.” The young man, his eyes pink with alcohol, held out his hand. “Rémy Lacroix. I work for your publisher.”

“Very nice to meet you.” Henri smiled, waiting to be asked for an autograph or some advice.

“I once dressed as you at a fancy-dress party.” The man gestured to Henri’s attire. “Linen jacket, purple cravat. Hardly anyone recognised me.”

Henri’s smile tightened.

“Obviously, they were philistines,” Rémy added. “Actually, you were one of the reasons I wanted to work at Ricochet Publishing.”

Henri felt himself warming to the young man. “I’m flattered. You’ve read my books, then?”

Rémy nodded enthusiastically. “Like everyone, I consider Drift a masterpiece.” It was clear it was the only book of Henri’s that he knew.

“Well, I have become a much better writer in the intervening forty years.” Henri cleared his throat. “If you’ll forgive me.”

“You’re leaving? Before the speeches?”

“Another engagement.”

Henri walked towards the exit, his stride measured. He had no engagement. Just a cognac, a crossword and the last of the news on Le 20H if he was quick. Besides, it was better to leave early than give the impression he had nowhere else to be.

It was a warm June evening, so he decided to walk along the Seine to his apartment on the Île Saint-Louis. He ambled along the bank of the river, remembering the launches for his own books, where Catherine Deneuve had been spotted talking to Madame Chirac, or the time Gérard Depardieu had appeared and insisted he play the lead in the film adaptation of Drift. In the end, the producers had decided it was ‘unfilmable’, which Henri took as a compliment.

He passed the recently renovated Notre-Dame cathedral where tourists gathered for selfies and romantic assignations. Did any of those visitors, he wondered, recognise the tall, silver-haired man walking through the background of their photos? He crossed over the Pont Saint-Louis, the water shimmering beneath the streetlights, before navigating his way back to his apartment.

Inside, he emptied his pockets – keys, wallet and the battered paperback copy of Drift he always carried in case he was asked to do a reading. He placed them beside his awards on a console table.

The Prix Renaudot was the most prestigious, but not his favourite. He reached for the Prix Chevalier, a crystal obelisk engraved by Cartier. It caught the dim light and seemed to glow.

He ran a finger along its edge, as he did every night, then headed to his book-lined study. He poured a cognac from a cut-glass decanter, stood by the window, and toasted the Paris skyline. This view, north across Le Marais to the shining dome of the Sacré-Cœur, was the reason he’d bought the apartment.

He had just taken his first sip when he heard a sound from the kitchen. A faint clatter. The brush of something against metal.

Henri turned, listening. The apartment was still, except for the slow tick of the grandfather clock.

He shook his head. It’s nothing.

Just a summer breeze, or the creaking of an old building.

But he put down his cognac and crept towards the source of the noise.

The kitchen door was ajar.

He reached for the light switch.

A figure. Hooded. Standing by the refrigerator.

They locked eyes.

For a moment, neither moved. The figure’s head tilted slightly, as if measuring Henri. Assessing him.

Henri’s legs began to tremble. “Who are you?”

The figure lunged at him. It muttered something, like a worshipper reciting a prayer, then slammed Henry to the ground, cracking his skull against the tiled floor. The figure loomed over him, the Prix Chevalier clasped in its hands.

Henri blinked up at it, his breath catching.

A weapon now. Not an award.

The last thought he had was of how much it resembled a glass dagger.