Chapter One
Frances Palmer hurried along Oxford Street, huddled into her woollen coat. Whatever people said about a mild December, for an Australian the dampness and wind in London cut straight to the bone.
She thrust her hands deep into her pockets. Until five minutes ago, they’d been toasty in knitted gloves. Now those garments, together with a scarf, kept a woman with a baby in her arms warm. Frances had encountered the pair trudging along towards the nearest soup kitchen, bare legs mottled with cold and the mother’s face old with hopelessness. Yet she could have been no more than Frances’s twenty-two years.
As exciting as London was with its bustling streets, grand buildings and magnificent shops like Selfridge’s, her goal for this excursion, the poverty struck Frances much more than it did back home in Adelaide. Here in England, nobody pretended to believe that 1932 would bring a return to prosperity. The stiff upper lip attitude smacked of habit, and of resignation.
Still, Frances had no reason to complain, with enough money in her pocket to replace scarf and gloves and still be able to buy a few presents for her family back home.
Outside the enormous building that was Selfridge’s, Uncle Sal waved at her. He’d been to visit his old theatrical agent, dating from his heydays as “Salvatore the Magnificent”, while Frances window-shopped. She’d enjoyed it more on her own than she had expected. Her fiancé, Jack Sullivan, had stayed behind with his mother.
Ever since they had arrived in London, answering an urgent if vague call for Jack’s help, Frances had done her best to give them some space. She also refrained from prodding them for details about the purpose of their stay on the other side of the world. Whatever Jack’s mother needed from him, his mum would decide when to tell him. For a fleeting moment, the thought crossed Frances’s mind that Jack did know but couldn’t tell her for some strange reason. She admonished herself. Jack had never lied to her. He would at least mention it to her if he couldn’t divulge something.
Selfridge’s, with its cream-coloured columns and stuccoed façade, took her breath away. She had first seen the store from the top deck of a bus, when Jack and Uncle Sal took her on a whirlwind tour of the city. Up close, she couldn’t stop gawking at the Queen of Time clock, an eleven-foot bronze statue of a winged woman in front of two angled clock faces.
‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’ she asked Uncle Sal as she caught up with him. For Frances, this was her first proper voyage, but Uncle Sal had travelled half the world during his stage career as a vaudeville artist and was used to all sorts of marvels.
He smiled at her. ‘She is really something special,’ he said. ‘And new as well.’
‘New?’ Her jaw came close to dropping. How could any store owner be that rich during this depression that had millions of people hungry and without a proper roof their heads?
As soon as they stepped inside the store, she could understand how. Dozens of shoppers strolled around, in the manner of people who were neither strapped for cash nor lacking leisure. Even the shop assistants possessed a refined air that Frances would never ever be able to imitate without huge effort. Three weeks in London had made her conscious about the stark differences that existed in Great Britain between the upper and the lower classes, and also between a native Londoner and a colonial girl like herself.
Uncle Sal gave her arm a light squeeze. He too went scarf-less, although he’d set out with a checked muffler wrapped around his neck. In his case, a one-legged veteran had been the recipient.
Frances inhaled the fragrant air, redolent of roses and violets and orange blossoms. Her gaze kept wandering to the beauty counters. Enamelled powder compacts and swan’s down powder puffs would make heavenly presents, and she could mail them without worrying too much about the postage or damages during the transport. She imagined her mother flicking open a compact and mentioning to her friends that Frances had sent it all the way from London.
‘If you see something you fancy, love, go ahead.’ Uncle Sal beamed at her. ‘It’s not as if we’re here forever.’
‘True,’ she said. ‘It can’t hurt to ask for the price.’
Uncle Sal disappeared while a shop assistant helped Frances select the three prettiest powder puffs and compacts in the lower price range. She had expected the glamorous girl to look down on her, because the lady on the next counter didn’t so much as mention money while she piled up a whole beauty arsenal, but instead the shop assistant suggested the best bargains without any prompting.
She wrapped Frances’s purchases in elegant parcels as Uncle Sal joined her, with a large shopping bag in his hand.
‘Tea, milady?’ He offered her his arm.
‘There’s a Lyon’s around the corner,’ Frances said, proud of her newly acquired knowledge of local customs and popular places.
Uncle Sal winked at her. ‘Good-oh. We’ll save that for another day.’
Frances held her head high as they let the lift boy take them all the way up to the Palm Court restaurant. A waiter led them to a table directly underneath a glass roof, with large chandeliers glittering despite the dullness of the day. A few months ago, Frances would have gaped. Now, inured to opulence by their sea voyage on the SS Empress of the Seas and visits to the British Museum and the Old Vic theatre, she enjoyed her fancy surroundings without being overawed. Having Uncle Sal by her side also helped.
He didn’t bat an eyelid at what must have been an enormous bill for their tea and an assortment of cakes. Everyone would have thought he was born to wealth, instead of growing up on the stage.
When she’d devoured the last morsel of Victoria sponge, Frances swept a crumb off the bottle green jumper Uncle Sal had given her for Christmas. The tweed skirt she’d bought herself, from a small dressmaker’s shop Jack’s mother frequented. They had one more treat in store before they took the underground back to Hampstead, where Frances and Uncle Sal occupied the guest bedrooms while Jack slept on a comfortable sofa in the study.
Jack already awaited them outside the underground station, in a crowd of expectant people. At his side stood his mother Katherine, wrapped in a camel hair coat with a fur collar, with a dark red hat on her silver-streaked brunette curls.
‘Frances, darling. You’d better let Jack carry your parcels.’ Katherine pecked her on both cheeks. ‘I’m afraid it’ll be an awful crush, but it can’t be helped.’
As if on cue, the crowd moved forward. Jack and Uncle Sal shielded Frances and Katherine bodily, until they all came to a standstill to admire a small winged statue on top of the Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain. After a prolonged absence, Londoners were welcoming Eros back in its original pace in Piccadilly Circus. For nine years it had stood in the Embankment Gardens, while under their feet an underground station was being built.
Frances’s heart drummed faster, but if she was honest, that had more to do with Jack’s presence than the return of the statue, beautiful as it was.
‘Shall we let others have our spot?’ Katherine asked. ‘There’ll be plenty of occasions after your return to visit Piccadilly Circus, and at least you can say you were there on this special day.’
‘Splendid idea. Shall we take a taxi?’ Jack stepped out onto the street and beckoned a chauffeur.
During their ride, Frances had to stop herself from pressing her nose against the window. Everywhere she looked there was something else to catch her attention. She wondered if Katherine ever got used to the wonders of London that not even the long lines of people outside the soup kitchens or the beggars with their handwritten signs could diminish. Or did she miss Australia, with its endless sunshine and the freedom for women that had allowed her to divorce Jack’s irresponsible father? In England, she’d still have been married to him instead to Charles Parr, a man who adored her and had welcomed Jack, Frances and Uncle Sal with open arms.
She’d purchased a jar of honey for him. Tomorrow, Frances, Jack, and Uncle Sal were due to travel to the south of France, to spend a fortnight with friends they’d made on their voyage over.
A chuckle rose in her throat. If somebody had told her three months ago that Frances Palmer, a switchboard operator from Adelaide, would gallivant across Europe and be invited to perform as Uncle Sal’s assistant, Signorina Francesca, she’d have called them barmy as a bandicoot. No, she silently corrected herself, here in the heart of the Empire, she’d have called them daft. But anyway, here she was, riding through London and bound to attend a New Year’s party in Nice.
A few minutes later, aromatic logs crackled and blazed in Katherine’s fireplace. The upper floor of an Edwardian terrace where the Parrs lived in what they called a maisonette, possessed a small morning room they also used for the meals, but in the afternoon, it no longer received any sunshine. The spacious living room with its large open fire, upholstered furniture, and a Christmas tree festooned with glass baubles, tinsel, and tinfoil birds, was by far the cheeriest place to have their afternoon tea, and it saved them from having to heat another room.
Until recently, Jack had supported his mother and stepfather financially, but when Charles had finally found employment again a year ago, they’d declared themselves independent.
He worked long hours, but today he had been able to join them for their tea and contentedly warmed his hands in front of the fire. His dark hair thinned at the top and wire-rimmed spectacles gave him a bookish appearance, but he possessed a dry wit that made him memorable despite his quietness. Frances had taken to him at once.
At one side of the room stood a baby grand piano, which Uncle Sal played in the evening. Frances had been surprised by both his delight and his talent. When they were back home, she’d see if they could afford an instrument of their own. Or he could play during closing hours at the Top Note, Adelaide’s best nightclub which Jack had opened in 1928. It enabled him to look after his family financially and to take care of a dozen or so men who’d served under Captain Jack Sullivan in the Great Stoush.
Childhood pictures of Jack and his sister, who now lived in New Zealand with her new husband, stood on the mantelpiece. On the wall hung a portrait of her. Jack had painted it as a Christmas present to his mother.
Katherine kept her gaze fixed on her daughter’s likeness with a mixture of longing and pride as they drank their tea. Her husband put a sympathetic hand on her sleeve, and she gave him a brave smile that tugged at Frances’s heartstrings. It must be hard to be separated by such a long distance, she thought, and to have a son-in-law she only knew from photographs, and through letters.
No wonder Jack had wanted his mother to meet Frances before they got married. She thought of her own mother, and how difficult it had been for her to have her son and his family living up in Queensland, more than a thousand miles away from Adelaide. Yet compared to the distance between England and New Zealand, they almost lived within cooee of each other.
Katherine had taken off her shoes and warmed her toes by the fire. A shawl around her shoulders protected her from any draught. She’d recently recovered from a cold, and Jack had reminded her to be careful. Her stillness and pensiveness struck Frances as unusual, so much had she grown accustomed to Katherine’s quick wit and constant good humour.
‘Is something wrong?’ Jack said. ‘If you want me to, I’ll stay, and Frances and Uncle Sal can travel on their own to Nice.’
‘Gosh, no.’ Katherine smoothed her curls in a gesture much like her son’s. She also had his blue eyes, but where his were deceptively sleepy, hers sparkled with a fire untouched by age. ‘You go and have fun.’
‘Are you sure?’ Jack sat on the arm of her chair and wrapped his arm around her. She leant her head against his shoulder. ‘You still haven’t told me what you need my help with.’
‘Absolutely sure,’ Charles chimed in. ‘Your mother’s happiness is my responsibility, dear boy, and you’ve already done more than your share. You go and look after your bride and Uncle Sal.’
Frances shot them a sideways glance before she and Uncle Sal rose to give them some privacy.
Katherine, whose cheeks had turned a becoming pink, motioned her to sit down again. ‘I’ve lured you here under false pretences, I’m afraid.’
Uncle Sal and Frances exchanged a surprised look. Charles took off his spectacles to polish them, very much at ease, which in turn made Frances relax.
‘I don’t understand,’ Jack said.
His mother stroked his arm. ‘It’s quite simple, darling. You’ve spent so many years taking care of all of us, which frankly saved us and a lot of others from ruin, but like Charles said, don’t you think you should do a few things for yourself?’
She turned to Frances for support. ‘The club is in capable hands, isn’t it?’
‘The best,’ Frances said with conviction. Thanks to the wonders of airmail, they received weekly information about the well-being of both Top Note and their friends.
‘And Charles and I are fine for money. All I wanted for you was to come here and take a few months for yourself, Jack. Do the things you really care about.’ She gave the portrait, which had captured her daughter’s face in exquisite detail, a pointed nod. ‘Go, paint, be happy, let me organise a nice wedding, and when you return home with your wife, figure out a way to distribute the heavy load on your shoulders.’
Your wife. The words gave Frances a warm, fuzzy feeling in the pit of her stomach, but she also felt a pang of regret. It should have been her who saw what Jack was missing. Instead, she’d been so wrapped up in her happiness and her own responsibilities as breadwinner for herself, her mum and, to a lesser extent, Uncle Sal, that she hadn’t realised Jack made sacrifices too.
‘Your mother’s too right,’ she said. ‘This is a holiday. Make the most of it.’
Katherine twinkled at her son. ‘Your sister put me up to it. I don’t know where she gets that meddlesome streak from.’
‘We’ll see to it that things change a bit,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘I’m not out to pasture yet, and I do know my way around a stage, and the entertainment world.’
‘See? All sorted.’ Katherine sipped her tea. ‘Shall we attempt to wangle tickets for a show tonight, or shall we have a quiet evening in?’
Jack kissed the hair on his mother’s head. ‘Let’s stay home.’
‘Excellent. I’ll just arrange for our dinner.’ Katherine rang a bell, to summon the elderly maid who also did the cooking and was the only servant the Parrs had. She went home in the evening, only to be back in order to serve them morning tea at eight. Frances’s upbringing had at first demanded that she make her own tea, but she had caved to silent reproaches from the maid. In truth, she hadn’t put up much reluctance. She enjoyed being spoilt for a while.
Chapter Two
At the railway station, her future mother-in-law hugged Frances so tight she could smell the scented powder on Katherine’s face. ‘Enjoy yourself, dear child,’ she said. ‘The Cote d’Azur is lovely even in winter.’ She pressed a bundle of glossy magazines and travel brochures into Frances’s hands. ‘If you have the opportunity, do visit the casino in Monte Carlo.’ She chuckled at Frances’s astonished expression. ‘I’m aware you don’t gamble, but it’s such a beautiful palais it would be a shame to miss it.’
‘I’ll try,’ Frances said and pecked Katherine on the cheek. Jack’s mother had the same undefinable gift he possessed, to make people feel at ease. ‘I wish you would come along,’ she said.
‘Lovely of you, but you’ll be back before you know it.’
Katherine embraced her son. ‘Do have fun, my darling. On your first night, take Frances and Sal to the Promenade des Anglaises, to watch the sunset on the water. Too, too utterly marvellous.’
It sounded blissful, Frances agreed. Standing at Victoria Station, waiting for the train to Dover, London hadn’t lost its allure, but seeing the travel poster for the Riviera with its golden, green, and blue hues, made her heart ache for it. It looked almost indecently exciting against the backdrop of coal-blackened walls and the long line of people in shabby clothes who queued for a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread. How fast the fortunes of the world had changed.
The train pulled into the station and blew its whistle. The funnels belched and blew out steam.
Jack pulled Frances aside, away from the soot that accompanied the train’s arrival. A porter stood a yard behind them with their luggage.
The three of them had the second-class compartment to Dover to themselves. They rattled through a landscape that in summer must be lush and inviting. At the end of the year it appeared desolate, with a few herds of cattle and sheep half shrouded in mist and the bare trees raising warning fingers into the low sky.
They had a hamper with refreshments with them, so they wouldn’t have to search for the dining car. Uncle Sal eyed it. ‘I don’t know about you two, but I could do with a bite. Railway travel makes me peckish.’
Frances’s stomach rumbled, as if to agree. ‘Much better than to eat on the ferry,’ she said. ‘Your mum said the crossing is bound to be rough.’ She’d been spared seasickness on their ocean voyage, but then the big liner was built to withstand rough seas. A P & O ferry only meant for the English Channel might be less well balanced.
When they finished their repast, only hard-boiled eggs and fruitcake were left. Frances hoped they would be able to refill their thermos with tea in Dover. While their hostess, the Right Honourable Mrs Walter Clifton, or Aunt Mildred to them, had paid for their travel arrangements in return for their performance at her New Year’s party, Frances intended to spent money prudently.
She was in luck. In Dover, another traveller who was on her way to take up employment as a nanny, showed her where she could help herself to hot water for her thermos. Once they’d reached Calais and were on the train, meals were included.
***
In Calais, Frances inhaled the tangy air outside the French station. It had a balmier quality than on the other side of the English Channel, and the Golden Arrow that had taken them from London to Dover, changed its name to Fleche d’Or for the journey to Paris. She pinched herself to make sure this wasn’t a dream. She really had arrived in France.
All around them bustled dark-eyed men with berets, smoking cigarettes and yakking away at rapid-fire speed. Women carried baskets with shopping as they hurried along the street.
‘Ready to board?’ Jack slung his arm around her shoulder, and they entered the station building, where Uncle Sal guarded their belongings.
‘I can’t believe we’re in France,’ she said. ‘I mean, you’ve been here before but …’ She clapped her hand over her mouth. Of course, Jack had been in France before, fighting in the blood-soaked trenches. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Don’t be. It’ll be good to see the country in peace time.’
‘It’s a painter’s paradise,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘Almost as good as Italy.’
Jack and Frances both grinned. Although Uncle Sal had left his native country as a small boy, his loyalty had never wavered. The only country that could compete in his opinion was Australia, where he’d spent the last seventeen years after half a lifetime touring from country to country. He had left Europe with months to spare before the war broke out.
‘Do you speak French?’ Frances asked the men. Her foreign language skills consisted of a few words of Italian Uncle Sal had taught her and she fervently hoped she’d not have to deal with French people on her own.
‘Not fluently, although I can get by.’ Uncle Sal helped her onto the stepping board. ‘We’ll take care of you, won’t we, Jack?’
‘Too right we will.’
They settled in their compartment, which they shared with two silent nuns who whiled away the hours studying the bible.
Jack held Frances’s hand as she watched the unfamiliar landscape fly by with an unsettling speed. The train to Melbourne which Frances had travelled on twice before had nothing on the Fleche d’Or.
After her original unease about racing along the tracks, the rhythmic chugging of the wheels lulled her into a doze. She’d spent most of the night before lying awake in Katherine’s guest room, fretting over possible mistakes she might make in polite society.
When she woke up, they were just pulling into the Gare du Nord. From here a taxi would take them to the Gare de Lyons. Frances allowed herself to be bundled into the car. She rubbed her eyes, intent to shake off her drowsiness. After all, they’d drive through Paris, the most romantic city in the world. Gleaming, high buildings and wide avenues made her gawk. ‘It’s bonzer,’ she said, lost for a better expression.
‘We could stop here for a few days on our way back,’ Jack said with a wistful note in his voice. ‘What do you think, Uncle Sal?’
Her godfather rubbed his hands in glee. His dark eyes shone with enthusiasm. ‘Absolutely. I’ll take you around Montmartre, and the Left Bank. Then there’s the opera, and we mustn’t miss the Louvre. But first, two weeks at the Riviera.’
***
‘Mr Sullivan? Here’s a telegram for you.’ A middle-aged wagon-lit conductor in a crisp tunic handed Jack a sealed envelope as they showed their tickets to step onto the train again. His lilting voice held only a trace of an accent.
A chill ran through Frances. A second ago, she’d revelled in the beauty of the station with its ornate iron-work and palm trees on the concourse, and the glory of the fabled Blue Train itself. Now, she silently prayed that the telegram did not contain devastating news. For someone, anyone, to pay for an expensive telegram, the matter had to be urgent.
The metallic taste of blood crept into her mouth. She had bitten her lip without noticing it.
‘Thank you.’ Jack managed a grateful smile as he slipped the envelope into his pocket. The conductor led Frances to a second-class sleeping compartment with two berths and a nifty fold-away sink in a corner. Her suitcase went into a luggage rack above the upper berth.
‘Yours is the top one, Miss Palmer,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’
Jack and Uncle Sal shared the compartment next to hers. She splashed cold water over her wrists, to help her calm down before she knocked on their door.
Jack unfolded the telegram as she sat down next to Uncle Sal.
‘It’s from Aunt Mildred,’ he said.
A wave of relief swept over Frances. At least her family was safe. Annoyance followed. ‘Does she no longer want us to visit? Why not ring us before we set off?’
Uncle Sal shushed her.
Jack perused the message. His jaw set in a grim line. ‘She still wants our company, but she’s afraid circumstances have changed. Something has happened, something bad. She’s asking for our help, and she mentions our adventure at sea.’
‘Another murder? That’s fast becoming a bad habit, my boy.’
Frances agreed with Uncle Sal. Dead bodies and the solving of murder cases had become all too familiar over the course of this year. During their ocean crossing, Aunt Mildred and her nephew Tommy had joined their investigation into the death of a passenger with relish. But she knew from experience how different it felt if the case struck too close to home.
‘I don’t think so,’ Jack said. He rubbed his clean-shaven chin. ‘Whatever it is, Tommy is going to meet us in Nice and inform us in greater detail.’
Later, at dinner in the plush restaurant car, the leg of lamb with rosemary potatoes and peas turned to ash in Frances’s mouth. She’d grown fond of Aunt Mildred and her nephew Tommy. What if they were in trouble? Both Frances and Uncle Sal had been looking forward to being the guest stars at an elegant affair. It might be silly to pine for attention, but she couldn’t help it.
Jack ate with good appetite, as did Uncle Sal. She pulled herself together. An empty stomach didn’t change anything.
They retired early. The morning would bring them to their destination.
Frances’s roommate already lay in bed. The blanket covered her to the tip of her nose, and she snored gently.
The woman had cranked up the heating too. Frances longed to fling the window wide open. London’s air was the least agreeable aspect of the city, with its millions of chimneys and factories. She missed the sweetness of the countryside or the ocean where a lungful of fresh air always restored her.
She changed into her night dress with as little noise as she could before she climbed the short ladder to her berth.
The bright light from the overhead lamp ended a too short night. She peered down onto her roommate, a smart young woman with brisk movements. Dark, marcelled hair was topped by a coronet cap that, together with the apron over her neat blue dress, classified her as maid.
Outside, the world was still dark.
‘I’m sorry to wake you,’ the maid said. ‘My mistress likes her morning tea at the crack of dawn.’
‘No worries.’ Frances stifled a yawn. ‘Is it far until Nice?’
‘We’re just outside Fréjus. It should be light enough soon to catch a glimpse. It’s ever so pretty.’ The maid smoothed her apron and popped out of the door.
True enough, when Frances sat down with her companions for a breakfast of tea and flaky pastries whose name she couldn’t pronounce, the winter sun shone on pastel-coloured villas and a glittering sea.
As they departed the train at Nice station, Frances spotted her roommate following an elderly lady to a waiting limousine. A uniformed chauffeur hastened to bow as he opened the door for them.
Jack followed her gaze. ‘I can’t imagine Bluey like that,’ he said, mentioning his old sergeant and second-in-command who doubled as a driver when needed. He and his wife had become good friends with Frances and Uncle Sal, and while she could imagine the stolid Bluey in many roles, acting servile wasn’t one of them.
A bad imitation of a kookaburra call alerted them to Tommy’s presence. He stood half-hidden behind a tall palm tree. Jack gave him a quick nod, but to Frances’s surprise their friend strolled away.