Cezanne's Quarry by Barbara Pope

evenings.”
    “She didn’t play?”
    Arlette shook her head.
    Westerbury had said Solange Vernet had taught herself to read and write. If she did not play an instrument or sing, it was indeed true that she had not had a formal education. “What did the others think of her?” Martin asked.
    “Excuse me?”
    That had come out crudely. “M. Westerbury told me who the guests were, and they came from a very different place in society than Mme Vernet. Did they hold that against her? Did they treat her well?”
    “Oh yes, sir, yes. Everyone liked Mme Solange.”
    “But . . . did they know her background, that—”
    “She didn’t talk about that, sir, no. Mostly it was M. Westerbury who did the talking. He is very learned. He told them about all the great English geologists he had studied. He even helped my mistress with little things, like how she should act, what we should serve—”
    “Like the tea?”
    “Yes, sir, just like that, the tea and things, so, as he liked to say, ‘we could offer something different.’ He was sure we could get around ‘social prejudice,’ as he liked to say, if we showed how polite and learned we were.”
    Really? Did the maid also believe this? “And Paul Cézanne, the painter, where did he sit?”
    Arlette chewed more slowly. Then she shrugged. “Anywhere. He only came a few times anyway.” This show of nonchalance came off as just that—a show, an attempt to avoid a dangerous topic.
    “I was noticing the paintings,” Martin said. “That one,” he pointed toward the west wall, “seems to be missing. Do you know where it is?”
    “M. Westerbury took it down.” The chewing had stopped.
    “Why? Was it by Paul Cézanne?”
    “Oh, I wouldn’t know about that, sir.” Her fingers pressed into the bread, squeezing out little bits of butter. Martin was quite sure she did indeed know about that.
    “Was it new?”
    Another shrug.
    “Look here, Arlette. If you do not tell me the truth about everything, I will have to arrest you as an accomplice to murder. The murder of someone you claim to love. Someone who saved you.”
    “But I don’t know who killed her.” Arlette put her sandwich back on the tray.
    “What you mean to say,” he could sense that this was not the moment to let up, “what you really mean, is that you are not sure if Westerbury did it. Isn’t that right?”
    “No, no, no, no.” Arlette shook her head. “No!”
    “Are you afraid of him?”
    “No!”
    “We could protect you.”
    “No!”
    Her denials came out in sobs, her face contorted. Did she suspect that the Englishman had killed her mistress? That she was living with a murderer?
    “Then you must know that the only way to prove M. Westerbury’s innocence is to tell me all you know. You understand that, don’t you?”
    Arlette nodded and took a handkerchief out of her apron pocket to blow her nose.
    “Now, tell me about the picture on the wall. Was it a portrait?”
    “No, only a mountain,” her voice more hushed than ever.
    “A mountain?”
    “You know, the big mountain. Sainte-Victoire.”
    “Then how could it offend anyone?”
    The maid sat very still. He set his tea cup down and leaned toward her.
    “It was by Paul Cézanne, wasn’t it?”
    She shrugged again, without conviction.
    “You had better tell me. I have ways of finding out, you know.” Although he could not begin to imagine what those ways would be, especially since everyone kept lying.
    Finally, she nodded. “Yes.”
    “Did they quarrel over the painting?”
    “Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know.”
    “But surely you do. Did Mme Vernet and Westerbury quarrel often?”
    “No.”
    “But they did quarrel right before she died?”
    The maid sat very still, hardly breathing. The great salon was silent, except for the muted sounds of the traffic echoing up from the Cours. Martin sipped his tea and waited, to no avail. “If you loved your Mme Solange, if you truly loved her, you must tell me the truth about what happened,