Chapter 17
Seventeen
Arriving at Audrey’s hotel the next morning, Isabelle was surprised to find Romy there on her own.
‘Audrey had to go to a meeting,’ Romy explained, waving a hand towards a pile of paper on the table.
‘She’s had the notebook file printed out for us so it will be easier to read and annotate.
She said we should make a start and she’ll be back as soon as possible. ’
As Isabelle settled herself at the table with Romy, and they began the task of continuing to decipher the notebook, Isabelle thought that it was one thing to read for pleasure, and another to comb painstakingly through text for anything that might help even in a small way towards uncovering the identity of Mademoiselle Houssaye.
They did find a way to make it less difficult, with Romy reading out passages and Isabelle jotting down anything that seemed relevant.
But it was slow and tiring, and after a while they swapped roles, just for a change.
Despite the fact that they’d not yet discovered anything significant, it was a very interesting document.
As they’d already glimpsed yesterday, Alice’s prose was sharp and immediate, giving a fascinating personal insight into a bright young girl’s life in an extraordinary time.
No wonder Audrey had decided to anchor her account of the great designers of the period around her great-grandmother’s experience.
Within an hour, they were both dazed and had to stop for coffee. ‘She sounds like someone you could meet now,’ Romy said, thoughtfully sipping her coffee. ‘There’s nothing really old-fashioned about her, is there?’
‘No,’ Isabelle agreed. ‘It’s the candour of it, I think.
She’s writing down honestly what she’s experiencing, and some of it seems naive, but in other parts it’s quite worldly, and even a bit cynical at times.
I think that’s what feels contemporary. That period was perhaps more like ours than, say, the 1950s. ’
Romy nodded. ‘And when you think she was just seventeen, and a girl at that, yet she could do all those things she did back then—it’s quite an eye-opener.’
Isabelle nodded and drained the last of her coffee. She got up just as her phone started vibrating. Glancing at it, she saw it was Carlos. She almost let it go to voicemail, then thought better of it. Apologising to Romy, she walked over to the window and answered the call.
‘Hello, Carlos. What’s up?’
‘Isabelle,’ he said, ‘I’m at the auction house in Toulouse and a colleague here mentioned something I thought you might be interested in.’
Normally, Isabelle’s ears would have pricked up, because even though Carlos’s particular expertise as an assessor was in a much later period than her own, occasionally he got wind of some object coming up for sale which he thought might fit her bill.
A couple of times, she had acquired some charming things through that insider tip.
But today, she was too busy to think about potential new acquisitions.
‘Thanks,’ she began, intending to make it clear that they could talk about this later, but he interrupted, saying, ‘It’s by that designer you like—Elisabeth Fontaine. ’
Isabelle’s pulse raced. She had long wanted to get her hands on an original Fontaine creation. ‘A dress? An accessory?’
‘No. My colleague doesn’t deal in clothes or jewellery, but in manuscripts and old books … she thinks it’s authentic, but she told the seller it would need an expert assessment.’
The hair rose coldly on the back of Isabelle’s neck. ‘What are you talking about, Carlos?’
But she knew. Oh, she knew all too well, the shockwave of it crashing over her.
She listened to his account in stunned silence, feeling the blood draining from her face and Romy looking at her in concern.
Carlos told her about the potential client who had brought in this document, this extraordinary letter, and they’d recognised its importance but told him its authenticity would need to be verified before it could be put up for sale.
That was why he’d called Isabelle, so she could get in early and put in a pre-emptive bid if she wanted to.
At that point, Isabelle interrupted him and said she’d put him on speaker, because she had a friend with her who might also be interested in what he was saying.
She wanted a witness to what she was hearing, because she couldn’t trust herself to take it all in.
Motioning to Romy to listen, she briefly introduced her to Carlos and asked if he would repeat what he had said.
After an instant’s pause, he launched into his story again.
As he spoke, Romy stared at Isabelle, uncomprehending at first, then puzzled, then incredulous as the truth dawned on her.
‘As the letter has a bearing on the mystery of the Fontaine gown, my colleague Liana said that it might fetch a high price at auction,’ Carlos finished.
‘But it needed to be properly authenticated, and she suggested to the seller that he leave it with her and she’d call a graphological expert to look at it. ’
Isabelle swallowed. ‘And what—what did the seller say?’
‘He wouldn’t leave it here. He said if she could get the expert in on site, then he’d come back with the letter.’
‘And what happened?’
‘She called the expert and he’ll be here this afternoon.’
‘And the seller?’
‘Him too. With the letter.’ His tone sharpened. ‘So, I take it you’re interested?’
Isabelle gave a bitter laugh. ‘I’m interested all right. That letter—it’s stolen property, Carlos.’
It was his turn to be shocked. ‘What do you mean? How do you know?’
Bleakly, she said, ‘Because it’s mine. I found it.
That’s why I came to Paris.’ And she told him about the box, the discovery of the letter, how she’d showed it to Cazenave, everything that had happened, all that she’d kept from him, and saying the whole thing out loud made her feel ashamed of having kept him in the dark, out of a stupid professional rivalry that only existed in her own head.
Of course Carlos would never have tried to poach it from her or tried to control what she did with it.
Of course he’d only have supported her in whatever she wanted to do with it.
Indeed, he’d had the loyalty to call her when he’d heard about something he thought might interest her. And that made it all the worse.