The Perfume Collector(35)

‘Actually,’ Grace straightened, ‘I thought it was improving.’

‘You’re wrong.’

‘Well then, what do you propose?’ she challenged, crossing her arms too. ‘I hope you understand, I cannot simply accept a large sum of money without knowing where or why it’s come to me. I have to have some answers.’

‘And what if there are no answers?’

She held her ground. ‘Then at least I will have asked the questions.’

Monsieur Tissot sighed, running his hand across his eyes. She was surprisingly stubborn. Not a lot of people argued with him, ever. And he wasn’t used to capitulating. But he judged the fastest way forward was to let her have her way for an hour more. And, in truth, part of him respected the fact that she wouldn’t let go of her principal.

‘Fine,’ he decided, ‘then I will help you. As I said, your interests are my interests.’ Suddenly scrunching up his face, he sneezed violently, three times in quick succession. ‘Mon dieu! The dust in here. Allô! Bonjour!’ he called out.

A small middle-aged man poked his head up from behind a wall of soft furnishings. He had thick glasses and a sharp pointed nose underneath a worn leather cap. ‘Oui? Qu’est-ce que vous cherchez?’

‘Please tell him that I’m looking for anything to do with Madame d’Orsey,’ Grace said.

Monsieur Tissot explained but before he’d even finished, the man interrupted him.

‘He says,’ Monsieur Tissot translated, ‘that most of the furniture went very quickly. He had people waiting for it, bidding against one another.’

‘Are you telling me there’s nothing left?’

Monsieur Tissot quizzed the man again. But he just shook his head, waving his hand dismissively.

‘He says he could hardly even unload it from his truck.’

Grace looked at him in disbelief. ‘Is that normal?’

Before he could answer, the man began to talk again, very rapidly, hands waving emphatically. Whatever he was saying, he felt strongly about it.

‘Apparently, she had a reputation,’ Monsieur Tissot elaborated.

‘Really?’ Grace didn’t like the sound of that. ‘What kind of reputation?’

‘Everyone knew her. Or rather,’ he corrected himself, ‘everyone knew of her.’

Grace bristled, suddenly defensive on this stranger’s behalf. ‘And what precisely does that mean?’

Monsieur Migret didn’t answer but instead spat on the floor and narrowed his eyes, suspiciously.

‘What about the bed?’ Grace persisted. ‘Why did he leave that behind?’

Again, Monsieur Tissot asked and the man shook his head.

‘Apparently the bed wasn’t his to sell,’ Monsieur Tissot explained. ‘It’s an antique, belonging to the Hiver family. The new owner is to collect it himself.’

‘Arnaud Hiver,’ Monsieur Migret interjected, with a low, sneering chuckle. ‘Le souvenir de son père!’

‘A memento from his father,’ Monsieur Tissot offered quietly, under his breath.

Grace glared at Monsieur Migret. She didn’t like him at all. But to Monsieur Tissot she whispered, ‘Is that customary? To leave such a thing to one’s son?’

Monsieur Tissot shrugged. ‘I’m unfamiliar with the customs of having a mistress, a son or an antique bed, madame.’

The man stepped forward. ‘J’ai quelques plaques, des bagages, quelques lampes . . .’ He pointed to a table in the corner piled with odds and ends.

‘There are just a few things left – over there on the table.’

Grace headed eagerly to the table and Monsieur Tissot followed.

There were a pair of matching chinoiserie black lacquer lamps, a stack of blue-and-white china plates, a couple of large leather cases . . . Grace bent down, rifling through a box of books, all of them in French, while Monsieur Tissot dug half-heartedly through a box of table linens. She’d joked about the address book and journals but still she’d hoped to find something more revealing. However, the novels looked like rather mundane romantic popular fiction. There were no hidden notes inside; no telling inscriptions; no underlined passages.

Monsieur Tissot picked up an old leather satchel. ‘This isn’t half bad, actually. It reminds me of something I had as a student.’

Grace got up again and began combing through another crate of kitchenwares. Serving spoons, mismatched cutlery . . . nothing.

She sifted through a box of art and exhibition catalogues. Then she rifled through a pile of old shoes; opened handbags, turning them upside down. That was it. In a matter of minutes they’d been through what was left.