The Perfume Collector(36)

And there was nothing, nothing at all specific or even remotely intimate.

Monsieur Tissot was still examining the leather bag, testing the latch. How like a man to be fascinated by the obscure.

Grace looked round the shop again, her frustration mounting. The whole idea of a second-hand shop had captured her imagination. Now, she was childishly disappointed. ‘Let’s go,’ she decided grimly. ‘There’s nothing here.’

‘I wonder how much he wants for it.’ Monsieur Tissot turned the bag over.

First she had to drag him in here and now she couldn’t get him out. She was losing patience. ‘The strap is broken. And I don’t like that man, he’s rude. Please, Monsieur Tissot, you were right. This was a waste of time. Let’s get out of here.’

The latch snapped open. ‘There’s something in here.’

He took out what looked to be a delicately made blouse. Only it wasn’t.

Grace bent in closer. ‘What is that?’

‘I believe it’s a dress.’ He held it up. ‘A very small dress.’

It was a child’s pinafore, cut from white linen, now yellowed with age, finished off with smocking and tiny embroidered yellow flowers. He laid it on the table.

‘That’s odd.’

‘Maybe it belonged to someone else.’ Monsieur Tissot checked the inside of the bag again. ‘It’s empty.’

Grace ran her fingers lightly across the yoke of the dress. It wasn’t a manufactured garment, but handmade. The delicate silk thread still gleamed, highlighting the exquisite detail and skill of the handiwork involved. It was a true labour of love; even the tiny leaves of the blooms were rendered in varying shades of contrasting greens.

‘I used to have a pocket kerchief with little embroidered flowers like this when I was small,’ she recalled.

‘Little girls have flowers over everything. Don’t they?’

‘These are little daffodils – narcissus. They bloom in the springtime. The English call them paperwhites.’ As she said it, she felt her cheeks flush, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I suppose it’s just a coincidence but they’ve always been my favourite flowers. Someone’s gone to a lot of effort. Embroidery like this takes real skill to make. I haven’t seen anything like it in a very long time.’

‘Look here.’ Monsieur Tissot held up the battered leather luggage tag. ‘I suppose it did belong to someone else after all.’

Scrawled across a faded, yellowed label was a different address.



M. A. Valmont

23 Rue Christine, Paris



Grace frowned, concentrating. ‘I know that address. I’ve seen it before, in Eva’s apartment!’

‘And . . .?’

She looked up. ‘Do you know where that is? Rue Christine? Is it far?’ He was staring at her. ‘I mean, not that I expect you to take me or anything like that . . .’ she fumbled.

It was his own fault. He should never have shown her the apartment in the first place.

‘Well, madam,’ Monsieur Tissot put the bag back down on the table, brushed the dust from his hands. ‘I suppose there’s only one way to find out.’



Rue Christine was located on one of the narrow winding streets down by the Seine on the Left Bank. Monsieur Tissot pulled up and turned off the ignition. ‘This is it, madam. Number 23.’

Grace’s heart sank. ‘Are you certain?’

‘Quite certain.’

They were parked in front of an abandoned building, its doors and windows boarded up. A torn black awning flapped wildly in the spring wind.

‘Oh dear,’ Grace scrutinized the bleak exterior, her face falling. ‘Well, I suppose you were right.’ She conceded. ‘That’s it then. A wild goose chase.’

A moment earlier she was full of hopeful anticipation. Now she sat back, dejected. Apparently the matter was much more important to her than he’d realized.

And for the second time in two days, Monsieur Tissot found himself doing something he almost never did – taking impulsive action.

‘Let’s see about that.’ He opened the door and climbed out.

Grace followed him. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I thought you wanted answers, Madame Munroe,’ he called over his shoulder, heading to the front door.

‘I do. But this place is deserted!’

He peered between the boarded-up windows. ‘It looks like some sort of shop.’

‘A shop?’ Grace came up next to him, squinted to see through the dirty glass. ‘What kind of a shop?’

‘I’m not sure. Let’s find out.’ Monsieur Tissot stepped back and prised off the large board nailed across the front door.

‘What are you doing?’ Grace hissed, panicking.