A Crime of Fashion (16 page)

Pierre's uncle died some years ago. By that time, Pierre was a complete drunkard. He's still alive – if you can call it that. He lies all day upstairs in a room I've made up for him. As long as he gets his daily ration of you-know-what and the newspapers, he's okay. By that I mean that he stays quiet and in his room. He's been like this since before Paris was invaded. To his credit, he acknowledged Violette as his daughter (not that I gave him much of a choice). And to their credit, the townspeople haven't asked any awkward questions. Truth be told, I believe the general consensus is that I've done a good job of managing the inn. I've brought more business to the town and I think the people living here have been willing to turn a blind eye to keep Violette and me happy. Everyone bends over backwards to please her. But she's such a serious little thing – everything has to be just so.

Her father left town soon after the war with promises to return. Of course he hasn't, but I don't begrudge him his lie, nor do I regret the time I spent with him. Violette has been a greater gift than I could have imagined… You see, poor darling Jacques is not well. The doctors say he should get better. I pray for the best, and, in the meantime, Violette adds a touch of gaiety to our lives.

Please don't worry about me. The inn is doing well, Violette and I are healthy and Pierre is too weak to be of trouble. To be honest, for the first time in my life, I'm content. I've worked hard to attain this bit of freedom and independence. It's not as bad here as you'd imagine. I'll leave you with this rustic but relatively tranquil image of your little sister!

Love always,

Giselle

“What a destiny.” Sebastian carefully folded the letter and handed it back to me.

“Either that or just a lot of unfortunate choices. I wonder if Giselle is still alive?”

“If she is, she must be about a hundred by now.”

“But Violette is probably alive somewhere.”

“And she could be rightfully entitled to financial compensation from the La Lunes…”

“If she can prove François La Lune stole her Uncle Hector's drawings.”

“Exactly.” Sebastian was quiet suddenly.

“But…?”

“No buts – just something interesting. This morning, when I was going through the city records, the lady helping me said I wasn't the only one who'd been asking after Hector Merlette.”

“How did she know?”

“They keep a record of enquiries.”

“So who else is on the same trail?”

“Someone called…” I waited as he unfolded another slip of paper. “David le Néanar. Ring a bell?”

“Not at all. And the clerk helping you couldn't tell you more?”

“No. She wasn't on duty when this David person came through. She only noticed that he'd signed in and that his subject of search was listed as
Hector Merlette
. He was there yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

He nodded. “Quite a coincidence, right?”

“It's too much of a coincidence… It's one more question to add to the boxful we already have. Anyway, the first thing we've got to do is find Giselle's daughter, Violette. She must be alive…”

“I thought that tomorrow I'd keep digging – and don't worry, I'll let you know about every little discovery,” he quickly added when he saw my crestfallen face. “Axelle, you're doing the shows, remember?”

Arghhh!
Remember?
I'd completely forgotten! Hervé would be furious that I hadn't rung him. Pulling out my phone I saw that after calling me several times and getting no reply he'd sent a text confirming my schedule for tomorrow: Lanvin in the morning at the Louvre and Chanel in the afternoon at the Grand Palais Exhibition Hall. I was also confirmed for a half-day of beauty for French
Elle
on Thursday. These prestigious jobs had clearly made him happy: he'd signed off with a row of smiley faces.

I couldn't say I was smiling, though. Again, my modelling disguise seemed to be pulling me away from the mystery – not taking me towards it, as I'd hoped. But it was too late to back out now. “You're right, Sebastian,” I said as I put my phone away. “At least I might have more leads after I'm finished with the letters. Although judging by the next one, there might not be more to go on,” I said as I pulled a slip of paper from the next envelope.

“What's that?” he asked as I pushed it towards him.

“
Swan Lake
. Palais Garnier. 17th April, 1961. We've gone from the war and alcoholic husbands to Paris and the ballet in the 1960s.”

“Hmm. Must have been a special night,” he said. Then he flashed me his smile and we got up to leave – the cafe was locking up for the night. I carefully wrapped the letters before slipping them back in my bag. I'd finish reading them as soon as I was home – I had to know the next part of the story.

Sebastian walked me to my aunt's, pushing his scooter along beside me. It was a cool, calm night. No one else was out, and, apart from our footsteps, the street was quiet. Somewhere, if they were still alive, Belle and Darius were maybe being held against their will. If so, what were they thinking? Were they nearby? Were they okay? And how did the letters tie in to it all?

“Shall we meet after your morning show? With any luck I'll have found out where Violette is by then,” Sebastian said.

“And I'll catch you up to date on the letters.”

“Great. I'll wait for you downstairs, in the Louvre, at the Lanvin exit. And then there's the Juno bag launch in the evening. Maybe afterwards we can go over our new leads?”

“Yeah, that sounds…” I trailed off.

“Axelle?”

I'd completely forgotten that I was thinking of meeting Dom after the launch – that hopefully I'd get him to answer a few questions. Quickly, I told Sebastian as much.

“Are you sure this is only about the case?” he asked, as he fiddled with the lock on his scooter.

I didn't know what to say. I mean, of course it had to do with the case…but maybe a tiny bit had to do with Dom, too. So I said nothing.

I had the impression Sebastian wanted to say something, but he didn't.

He waited until I went in. A few moments after the heavy door shut behind me I heard his scooter drive off. Slowly I trudged up the stairs to my aunt's. It seemed she was still out – probably at a party – the apartment was quiet. I was tired now and longing for my bed – which, I noticed with a start when I nearly sat on her, had been appropriated by Aunt Venetia's cat, Miu Miu.

I didn't even bother moving her as I slipped under the fluffy duvet and pulled out the letters. I read them quickly, one after the other. Riddles, names, emotions and theories raced through my mind: the letters posed more questions than they answered. I turned the light out and slipped the packet under my pillow. Someone else had considered them important enough to hide – and now I was beginning to understand why.

Slowly sleep overcame me. My last thought was of Sebastian, standing downstairs, watching me leave, his light blue eyes serious. I wondered again what it was he'd wanted to say…

She'd recognized his strained breathing…

It was Darius, her brother.

She'd rolled off her bed and wriggled to his. The packed earth underneath her was cool and damp. She tried not to panic as a rat scurried over her foot.

Darius was in a deep sleep. Had he been drugged? And for how long could he breathe without his medication? What was he doing down here?

She shivered.

Had he made the same mistake she had?

SHOWS GO ON, BUT BELLE STILL MISSING!
screamed the morning headlines. The shows had started with a bang yesterday.

Ellie adorned the front page of
Le Figaro
. Head held high and Mona Lisa smile on her lips, she was shown bounding down the runway in a frilled pencil skirt and ultra-high stilettos. A wonderfully vertiginous and messy librarian's bun wobbled atop her head and an enormous magnifying glass dangled around her neck (all the models wore one).

Forget Hitchcock's
Dial M for Murder, my aunt was quoted in the article as saying,
instead Dial D for Dior. The dynamic charge running through these separates is sure to please any modern-day Miss Marple looking for striking solutions to the mystery of the contemporary woman's wardrobe.

Otherwise, the reviews were minimal. Uncertainty and unease loomed over the city, the glaring hole left by Belle too large to be forgotten – no matter how nice the clothes. Where were Belle and Darius? Were they alive? And what was taking so long to find them? Photos of the La Lune mansion swarming with police did nothing to reassure the public. And the media reports that every one of the La Lunes was under constant surveillance became more farcical, as each hour passed and no real clue was forthcoming. Inspector Witt's face looked out at me from the morning paper. He was not amused.

My aunt, meanwhile, had taken no chances: she'd ordered a
Chic
company car to drive me to the Lanvin show at the Louvre (although I'd insisted that afterwards I'd get around on my own, thank you very much). In the car, my phone suddenly rang. I set the morning paper down and, without thinking, answered.

A bubbling stream of words rushed out: “Good morning, darling! How's my favourite model? I hope you got your beauty sleep. I'm going to watch the Fashion Channel later. I've invited Kathy, Annie and Camilla. I've made a delicious chicken lemon risotto which I'll heat up and then we'll sit and watch you! I'm so excited! Didn't your father and I tell you this would be a fantastic experience?”

“Uh—”

I was about to tell Mum that the line was cracking up, but, luckily for me, she had an appointment. “I'm meeting a new client with a fabulous apartment in Chelsea. They want me to decorate the whole thing. So I have to keep it short, but I'll be out on Friday to watch you in the Barinaga and La Lune shows, then I'll stay on and we can have fun all weekend – together!”

“The Barinaga show? Friday?” I hadn't heard anything about the Barinaga show.

“Yes, darling, Barinaga! Haven't you spoken with Hervé yet this morning? Axelle, honestly! It's nine in the morning your time and you haven't even called him yet! Well, don't worry – I'm here for you, darling! Right, I have to go. I'll call you later!”

Trust my mum to have already begun checking in with Hervé – on my behalf!

When I saw the mayhem, crowds and paparazzi blocking the side entrance to the Louvre, I was happy to have the car and driver. To avoid the chaos, we drove past the Rue de Rivoli entrance and around to the large glass pyramid in the courtyard of the Louvre. Here there were no crowds – for once. Today everyone was at the side entrance, hoping to catch sight of any famous models that were on their way into the Louvre. I jumped out of the car, slipped through the heavy glass door and walked onto an escalator that took me down to the level of the shows. From there I found my way to the space reserved for Lanvin. Backstage was packed. And again, just like at Miriam's, I felt I was stepping into another world.

Amidst all the chaos and excitement, Ellie stood waiting for me. She spotted me as soon as I walked in and led me through a haze of hairspray and glittering face powder to a large buffet table decked out with an amazing array of salads, quiches, cold cuts and tiny bite-sized desserts. “This is for whenever you get hungry. Why don't you load up a plate now, and then follow me to hair.”

I once went with my family to Crufts, the big London dog show. I remember walking down aisle after aisle of Afghan hounds, Pomeranians, golden retrievers, etc., just before they were getting ready to judge Best in Show. The scene before me now looked similar: long tables, bright lights, intense concentration, models lined up, each with their respective hairdresser blowing, teasing, and brushing oodles and oodles of hair. Ellie took me to a wisp of a lady who had just finished with a six-foot-tall blonde. Ellie introduced her as Brigitte.

I stayed with Brigitte for an hour. My nerves, now that I was finally getting ready to walk my first show, expanded with anxiety as every second ticked past. I began to feel queasy. I longed to rip the curlers out of my hair, slip out of a side entrance and run into the fresh air. High heels, lace and accessories would be tossed by the wayside in my bid for freedom.

Calm down, Axelle
, I told myself as I took a deep breath. Slowly I took another, then turned to Ellie. Her hair was still pinned up and would remain so until her make-up was finished. I watched as she devoured a plate full of goodies without moving one single hair out of place. Despite the late night and early morning (as well as the scarily hectic week ahead), she looked amazing.

For me, on the other hand, everything proceeded in a blur of nerves and distraction. I was relieved when Brigitte leaned in to my ear and said, “Axelle,
chèrie
, the curlers have to stay in your hair for thirty minutes. I'm going to finish Ellie's hair, so I'll leave you here during that time, okay? Will you be all right?”

“Absolutely,” I answered.
Perfect
, I thought. Now I could turn to the one thing that was certain to distract me from my impending fashion show debut: the letters. I needed to read them through again, fully awake and with fresh eyes, to truly understand their importance.

I hung my new pea coat on my shoulders for extra warmth and popped my earphones in so that it looked like I was busy listening to music. Then I pulled the packet out of my shoulder bag and took another look at the ballet ticket. Slowly I turned it over in my hand before replacing it in its envelope. Last night, in the cafe with Sebastian, it hadn't made sense, but reading the next letter again, I began to understand…

Épaignes, 10
th January, 1961

Dear Hector,

My patient brother, it has been so long…I'm not even sure if your address is the same. I hope, however, that this long silence on your part is not due to any unfortunate circumstances?

I am writing because my daughter – your niece – Violette has asked to go to Paris. Actually, “asked” is something of an understatement. Declared is more like it. Apparently, the thought of staying on here and taking over the inn doesn't appeal to her. I can't say I blame her. Honestly, she is too clever and too beautiful for a place like this. Furthermore, having gone through what I did at her age, you know I'd be the last one to stand in her way…

So I'm sending her to Paris with a bit of money I've been putting away for something like this (if truth be told, I think that in my heart of hearts I'd always thought this moment would come). I'm also sending her off with your address. Please, Hector, would you give her a helping hand? She'll be alone and doesn't know a soul…

She'll be arriving in three days' time. Her train will arrive at midday. She'll ask for a bus that will take her to your address.

Thank you, Hector. I know she'll be in good hands. Don't worry about writing back to me – Violette will do so.

Love always,

Giselle

So Violette had decamped to Paris…and then what? The letter from Giselle was written in January 1961, just three months before the night at the ballet. I folded the letter and took out the next one…

Paris 13th January, 1961

Dear Maman,

I don't know where to begin so I'll start with the sad news: Uncle Hector is dead. Apparently, according to his concierge, no one knew that he had any living family – he never mentioned us. But before you begin to worry, I'll say that I'm all right. I'm warm, I'm safe and I've found a clean, respectable room to call my own. I'll explain…

The journey went smoothly. I had to cross all of Paris to get to Uncle Hector's. As I was scanning the list of names by the buzzer, the concierge came out to ask if she could help me. At the mention of my uncle's name she turned her small, friendly face up to me and asked if I hadn't heard. “Heard what?” I asked. “Why, heard that Monsieur Merlette died a few months ago,” she said.

I thought I'd faint, Maman, when she said that. All of our planning, all of that money you've worked so hard for in my pocket, and that long journey all by myself…and then to have it all dashed by such sad news. The one person I had a tie to in this city and now he's gone. I've never felt so alone before! I could barely stand after hearing what she said. She is a kind woman, though, Maman. She immediately took up my satchel and ignored my refusals of a cup of tea. I sat for some minutes, drinking the strong, sweet brew, until I was ready to speak. And when I finally did, I told her everything. I told her all about you too, Maman. I must have gone on for some time, because when I stopped the sun was setting outside.

After listening to my long story, Madame Fourré – the concierge – kindly offered to help. And how fortunate I am, in that she has a cousin who runs a boarding house for women! The room I have is basic – I'm in it right now – but it's clean and the landlady runs an honest and respectable house. All of this Madame Fourré arranged for me. Before leaving she also gave me the name and address of Uncle Hector's solicitor. He'd instructed her to do so should anyone claiming to be a relative of his come asking questions. I'll see the solicitor first thing tomorrow morning. At the very least he might know of someone who can be of help to me.

Despite the dramatic start I still plan on staying here. I'll begin looking for a job tomorrow afternoon. I'm sure that with some luck I'll find the job I've been dreaming of. Paris is full of the most elegant shops! Oh Maman, how I wish you were here!

Madame Fourré has said that I'm the only person whom she's ever seen wanting to visit my uncle (apart from his solicitor). She said that Uncle Hector was a very kind man, a gentleman, very quiet. She rarely heard him speak. It appears he was something of a loner and angry about some business transaction that turned sour several years ago – it seems something was stolen from him. Madame Fourré didn't know more. I wish we could have helped him…

I'll write to you again tomorrow, Maman, straight after I've seen the solicitor. Remember my promise, Maman: that I'll call you if I really need help. The fact that I'm writing to you with all this news should appease your worries…

I'll enclose a card of the boarding house. If need be, you can call me here in the evenings or mornings. The fixed times are noted on the card.

With all my love,

Violette

I let my breath out as I came to the end of the letter. So Hector died a lonely man and his niece Violette stayed in Paris. The ballet ticket was obviously hers, then. And the date of the letter was true to the death certificate Sebastian found yesterday. Furthermore, the concierge's description of Hector also explained the lack of a paper trail. He must have been shy and introverted to begin with, and the theft of his drawings and subsequent success of his former business partner seemed to have pushed him fully into a life of solitude and bitterness.

Again and again the same thoughts ran through my mind: is Violette still alive? And, if she is alive, is she trying to avenge her uncle's suffering by bringing the curse to life? Is she hoping to scare the La Lunes into giving her an acknowledgement of François's theft? And maybe some financial redress? And why now?

But above all, the one thought that pulsated through my mind was that I wasn't the only one who knew of her existence. Whoever had hidden the letters knew of her. And so, in all probability, did the mysterious Mr David le Néanar. The big question was: who would find her first?

The next envelope contained a short note:

14th January, 1961

Maman,

I must tell you what Uncle Hector's solicitor told me today! I'll call you on Sunday – I dare not write about it!

Love,

Violette

Interesting…

The next, and last, envelope was thick with several letters of exchange between Hector's sister, Giselle, and Hector's solicitor, confirming the small legacy that Hector had bequeathed her. After the solicitors had verified that she was indeed Giselle Roux, née Merlette, the paperwork had gone through and Giselle had taken delivery of a few pieces of furniture, some small personal effects of Hector's and several letters. A wire transfer of a small sum of money followed shortly thereafter.