Chapter 21
Twenty-one
The graphologist, Marc Benjamin, was a small, slight man with untidy grey hair and a habit of peering short-sightedly through round glasses perched on the end of his nose.
At first glance, Romy thought that he might have given the impression of an unworldly, somewhat bewildered bird.
But after the introductions, it soon became obvious that impression was wrong, for Benjamin’s intelligent green eyes and precise voice were neither unworldly nor bewildered.
Romy half-expected that Carlos would leave them to it, but he made no move to go as Isabelle gave the graphologist a very brief account of how she’d found the letter and what had happened afterwards.
Benjamin listened carefully and, after she’d finished, said, ‘Firstly, I want to say that I’ve looked at the photos of the letter which you sent Madame Diop and I am confident that the letter is both authentic and unique.
I have seen multiple examples of Mademoiselle Fontaine’s handwriting and am in no doubt it is hers.
Most of what I have seen are notes to suppliers and other business contacts, though I’ve also sighted notes of thanks to journalists and others who came to the showing of her first collection.
But I have never’—and his eyes gleamed behind his glasses—‘ever seen a letter like this one, for very little of her more informal correspondence remains. This is truly a major discovery.’
Great, Romy thought, but that wasn’t exactly new information, was it? Isabelle must have thought the same, because she said, ‘Yes. It’s extraordinary. But—’
‘The vast majority of Elisabeth Fontaine’s surviving documents are in the museum devoted to her,’ he cut in, with a smile, ‘but I have also seen two or three examples which are in the possession of a lady called Madame Landry, Patricia Landry, whose paternal grandmother lived and worked in Paris as a young woman in the late twenties and early thirties, and who knew Mademoiselle Fontaine. Not socially, you understand,’ he went on.
‘I believe it was just a slight connection, through her work, but because Madame Landry’s grandmother greatly admired Fontaine, she’d kept a few mementos, including two or three old order notes.
Her granddaughter has them now, and she engaged my services some years ago to verify their authenticity, which I duly did. ’
The three women exchanged glances, and Romy, with a catch of excitement in her throat, suddenly found herself blurting out, ‘Isabelle, show Monsieur Benjamin the envelope.’ As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she felt embarrassed, as if she’d overstepped the mark.
But Isabelle nodded, took the envelope in its plastic wallet out of her pouch, and handed it to the graphologist. ‘This is who the letter was addressed to. Do you by any chance happen to know if Madame Landry’s grandmother’s surname was Houssaye? ’
Benjamin didn’t answer straight away, but took the wallet carefully, examining the envelope without taking it out.
Finally, the graphologist looked up. ‘May I say first, Madame, that this envelope is vital. It’s proof of your claim to ownership, for even if you’d given Monsieur Cazenave the letter, you would most certainly not have given it to him without the envelope.
With that and the timestamped photo on your phone of the letter itself, you should be able to bring a legal case against the thief. ’
‘Yes, perhaps,’ Isabelle said. Romy thought it unlikely that fighting a court case was something she’d want to do. Still, what Benjamin said made sense. They certainly weren’t helpless in the face of Cazenave’s brazen behaviour.
‘Anyway, to return to your question,’ the graphologist said, ‘Patricia Landry took back her maiden name after she divorced, so as her father was a Landry, so was his mother, her grandmother. At least, that was the grandmother’s married name.
As to her maiden name, I’m afraid I don’t know.
But I’m sure she would be glad to tell you.
I still have her contact details. Would you like them, Madame Bernard? ’
‘Yes please,’ said Isabelle, very restrainedly in Romy’s opinion.
But the flush in her cheeks and her bright eyes told a very different story.
She was no longer the downcast woman she had been half an hour before.
Hope had sprung up again for her, and, glancing at Audrey, Romy saw that she too was looking keyed up.
And as to herself, well, the flutter in her stomach wasn’t for nothing.
Benjamin fumbled in a satchel he was holding and took out a battered old-fashioned address book.
‘Wait a moment’—he thumbed through the worn pages—‘yes, here it is.’ He looked up.
‘When I first met Patricia, she was living here in Toulouse, but she’s since moved to Paris, to be closer to her only daughter and grandchildren.
So unfortunately even if she was available, you wouldn’t be able to see her in person today—’
‘That’s okay,’ Isabelle interrupted, and Romy could tell that by now she was only barely keeping her impatience in check.
She caught Carlos’s eye and he gave a little amused raise of the eyebrows.
He knows her well, she thought. ‘We don’t need to see her today,’ Isabelle went on.
‘But might you have her mobile number? Or an email address?’
‘I have both,’ Benjamin said, unruffled. He handed the address book to her. ‘You are welcome to write them down.’
‘Thank you,’ said Isabelle. She rapidly typed the details into her phone and forwarded them to Romy and Audrey. Turning back to Benjamin, she said, ‘This is an immense help to us, it is very kind of you.’
‘It is a pleasure,’ he replied, beaming. ‘It isn’t often I get a case as interesting as this one.’ Benjamin produced a card and handed it to Isabelle. ‘I have to go to my next appointment now. But if you need to check or clarify anything, please don’t hesitate to call.’
‘Thank you, I will,’ Isabelle said.
He was at the door when Audrey suddenly spoke. ‘Monsieur Benjamin, do you know what the first name of Madame—Patricia Landry’s grandmother was?’
He turned and looked at her, forehead creased in a frown of memory. ‘It was a while ago, but let me think—yes, I think her given name was Rose-Marie.’
Something flickered in Audrey’s eyes, but all she said was, ‘Thank you, Monsieur Benjamin. That’s very useful to know.’
As the graphologist’s footsteps receded, Romy knew that Audrey had certainly not asked that question idly. Trying to keep her voice steady despite a rush of excitement, Romy said, ‘You know who Madame Landry’s grandmother was, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Audrey said, her eyes bright. ‘Rose-Marie Fabre was the full first name of Alice’s best friend from those days in Paris—Mariette. Of course she couldn’t have been Mademoiselle Houssaye, but she might have known her. So …’
The unfinished sentence hung in the air as they all digested this. ‘We need to call Madame Landry right now,’ Isabelle said, with a catch in her voice.
‘And maybe,’ Alex said, speaking for the first time, making everyone look at him, ‘it would be best if it was you, Audrey, because of your connection through Alice.’
Their eyes met, then Audrey said, ‘If that’s okay with everyone?
’ They nodded, and she went on, ‘Right, I’ll tell her about the book I’m writing, and that you are helping me with the research.
I’ll ask if we can meet tomorrow in person in Paris, to talk about it.
I won’t mention anything else for the moment.
What do you think?’ she asked, turning to Romy and Isabelle, who nodded.
Romy held her breath as Audrey took out her phone, composed the number and waited. Then she spoke. ‘Good afternoon, Madame Landry. My name’s Audrey Oliver. I was given your name and number by a mutual acquaintance, Monsieur Marc Benjamin.’