The Perfume Collector

‘Hiver?’ Grace repeated, trying to place the name. ‘Where have I seen that name before?’

‘In every chemist’s window in the city. He’s the owner of one of the biggest cosmetics companies in France.’

‘Yes, of course!’

Hiver rouge – the advertisement featured a drawing of a beautiful dark-haired woman, blindfolded with a black silk scarf, wearing the deepest shade of red lipstick. Underneath it read simply, Embrasse-moi – kiss me. She’d noticed it because the image seemed so daring; not at all the type of poster one would ever see in England.

‘So,’ she tried to fit the pieces together, ‘Madame d’Orsey was his wife?’

‘Well, no …’ He looked at her sideways. ‘He passed away earlier this year. His wife is still alive. You see, we didn’t handle Monsieur Hiver’s – how do you put it? – legitimate affairs. He had another, much bigger firm for that. We dealt with those matters that required a more delicate legal approach.’

‘In what way delicate?’

‘I believe she was his mistress.’

‘Oh!’

Grace stared at the cobbled street in front of her. Her first inclination was to judge. And yet it wasn’t so easy, when you were on the receiving end of such generosity.

They sat a moment.

‘Did she give you any indication … any clue when she drew up the will, as to why she was giving the money to me?’

He shook his head. ‘The question never arose. She had the information I showed you, which she handed to me as soon as we began. I don’t recall that we ever discussed any personal aspects of the will. She came fully prepared. I remember being very impressed with how clearly she’d outlined her wishes and how straightforward everything was. Her main concern seemed to be that the assets should be liquidized as quickly as possible. And that you should receive the bequest in person. On your own.’

‘Really?’ That was an odd caveat.

He nodded. ‘If you’d come with someone else, I was to ask that they wait outside.’

‘I see.’ It sent a chill through her to think of the care and planning this stranger had expended on her behalf.

It began to rain a little, a soft misting that settled silently on the windscreen.

‘What did she look like?’ she asked quietly.

‘Very striking, with dark hair. She must have only been in her early forties and she was quite attractive. But one could see that she seemed to be in some sort of pain, and I think it wore on her; it showed in her face.’

Grace continued to stare at the cobblestones, now damp and glistening in the flickering lamplight, as the afternoon drew to a close. ‘I have no idea of what to do.’

‘But there’s no need for you to do anything. I can assure you, the will is perfectly legal and binding. Once you sign the papers, you can simply take the proceeds and return to London.’

‘But how?’ Couldn’t he see how impossible that was? ‘I couldn’t live my life without even knowing who she was or why she gave it to me. It would drive me mad!’

‘Think of it like winning a lottery,’ he suggested.

‘I don’t believe in gambling, Monsieur Tissot. To me, chance isn’t random. The universe is bound by unseen threads. We have only to untangle them a little to see a pattern unfold.’ She turned to face him. ‘Are you certain there hasn’t been a mistake?’

He straightened, clearly irritated at the inference. ‘I can assure you, I’m not in the habit of making mistakes. And I have no evidence that Eva d’Orsey did either. On the contrary, all the information she has provided has been correct so far.’

Grace sighed, running her hand across her eyes. There were no answers, only more questions. Now her head was beginning to ache. ‘I’m completely at a loss. I honestly have no idea of where to begin.’

He thought a moment.

He’d been instructed by the senior partners to deal with this case as quickly and discreetly as possible. They were eager to prevent any scandal that might impact on the remaining Hiver family members. But he hadn’t expected Madame Munroe to be quite so baffled by the situation. And he found her reluctance to simply accept the bequest intriguing. Her insistence to know more hinted at some measure of character; a quality he found increasingly rare these days. And so, despite his instructions, Monsieur Tissot made an unorthodox decision. ‘Well, then.’ He turned on the ignition. ‘You need help,’ he said matter-of-factly.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Madame Munroe, I’d like to be of assistance but I can’t do anything until I’ve had my supper.’ He pulled out. ‘There’s a bistro round the corner.’

She looked at him in surprise. ‘And you’re taking me with you?’

‘Do you have plans?’

‘I … No.’

‘Then it seems the kindest thing to do.’ And for the first time he smiled; a rather surprising, angular grin, punctuated by two dimples. ‘I cannot solve your mystery, but at least I can feed you.’

Monsieur Tissot took Grace to a café with a bistro on one side and a more formal restaurant on the other. The staff seemed to know him there and quickly seated them at a corner table, where they sat, side by side, looking out on to the rest of the room. Grace hadn’t dined alone with a man who wasn’t her husband since her marriage. But perhaps because of the circumstances, or the strangeness of the country, it was easier than she imagined. Monsieur Tissot didn’t seem to require or expect conversation. Instead they sat, watching the other diners – a fascinating occupation in itself.

Grace surveyed the menu. ‘I think I’ll have the ragout de cou d’agneau,’ she decided, closing it.

‘The lamb’s neck stew? Excellent choice.’

‘Lamb’s neck?’ She picked up the menu again.

He grinned. ‘Shall I order for both of us?’

‘Well …’ She scanned the entrées again, searching for something familiar. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have a very sophisticated palate. By French standards, that is.’

‘Well then,’ he leaned back, stretching out his long legs, ‘tell me what you like to eat at home and I will advise you.’

‘Well, I suppose I eat a great deal of … toast.’

‘Toast?’ He cocked his head, as if perhaps he hadn’t heard her correctly. ‘I’m sorry. Out of choice?’

‘The thing is, I’m not used to anything too … too French.’

‘You are in Paris, madame.’

‘Yes, but you know what I mean, don’t you? Dishes with too much flavour?’

‘How can anything possibly have too much flavour?’

‘What I mean is too many strong flavours, like onions and garlic …’

They gazed at each other across a great cultural divide.

Grace gave up; put the menu down. ‘Yes. I trust you.’