Chapter 26
Twenty-six
Patricia removed two other cellophane bags from the box: one small, one big; both filled with printed material.
Drawing on the white gloves, she carefully extracted the contents.
The larger bag contained a program similar to the one Romy had seen on the museum website, plus a pair of stamped tickets and a clipped-out article about the showing.
The second contained three brief notes: one a carbon copy of a typed sheet, the other two handwritten; all three confirming orders from Elisabeth Fontaine’s workshop.
These must be the order notes that Marc Benjamin had authenticated, Audrey thought.
With her next words, Patricia confirmed it.
‘The handwriting is definitely Fontaine’s, as is the signature on the typed sheet.
Monsieur Benjamin told me that they could fetch high prices at auction, but I don’t want to sell them yet.
Maybe one day, if I run out of money.’ She smiled a little sadly.
‘But even then, I think I’d prefer them and all the rest of it to go to the Fontaine museum.
I’m just not ready for that. I want to keep my grandmother close to me for a while longer. ’
‘Of course,’ Isabelle said, exchanging a quick glance with her friends, who nodded. Yes, now was the right time, Audrey thought. Whatever happened, whether or not Patricia knew anything about the letter, they had to tell her. They couldn’t put it off any longer.
‘Patricia, there is something we want to show you now if you don’t mind,’ Isabelle went on, carefully.
‘Two things, in fact. The first is something I found a short while ago. The second was found by Romy in the flat where she lives,’ she added, nodding to Romy, who slipped the catalogue out of her bag.
‘We thought perhaps you might be able to shed light on them. Would it be okay if we show you?’
Patricia looked surprised, but she nodded. ‘Of course. Please do.’
‘My discovery was a letter in a box half-full of undelivered mail which I picked up at a brocante stall.’ Isabelle took the envelope in its plastic wallet out from her pouch.
‘We don’t know why it wasn’t delivered, and it’s unlikely we ever will.
These things do happen—there was a case in England a few years ago of an old postman who died and when it came time to clear his house, they discovered a box in his attic full of letters still in their envelopes, which he’d never delivered or opened.
’ She shook her head. ‘It’s a strange world.
Anyway, in the box I found there were mostly postcards but also four letters, none of which had been opened.
One was a rather dull business letter, two were ordinary family letters.
But the fourth—that one was very different.
’ And so saying, she handed the plastic wallet to Patricia, whose puzzled frown changed almost instantly to wide-eyed astonishment as she read what was on the envelope.
‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed, then again, as Romy handed her the catalogue, pointing out the name pencilled at the top. ‘Oh this is—this is simply—I can hardly believe—but the name—it’s not exactly common—and the address—so—’
‘What is it?’ Audrey cried, unable to stop herself. ‘Do you recognise the name Houssaye, Patricia?’
‘Oh yes, I recognise it all right.’ Patricia raised her head to look directly at them, her eyes shining with what looked like awe. ‘You see, that envelope is addressed to my great-aunt, Mariette’s eldest sister, Annie Houssaye, who was deputy manager at Tissus Tellier.’
For an instant, they sat stunned, unable to take it in, but it was Audrey who stammered, ‘But—but I thought Mariette’s maiden name was Fabre.’
‘Yes,’ said Patricia, ‘it was. But Annie was Mariette’s half-sister.
She was the child of her mother’s first marriage, and she kept her father’s name when her mother remarried and had three other daughters.
Annie was fifteen years older than Mariette, the youngest sister, and she moved to Paris when Mariette was only six.
’ She motioned to the envelope. ‘This was Annie’s address in Paris, and it was here that Mariette herself came to live when she came up to Paris in her turn.
They lived there together till Mariette got the job at the department store, which came with staff quarters nearby.
’ She tapped the catalogue and smiled at Romy.
‘Yes. At this very store. At La Belle Jardinière. I suppose Mariette must have given this catalogue to her sister. She was very proud of working there.’
There was a moment’s silence as they absorbed what Patricia had said.
There was no doubt now. The quest to find Mademoiselle Houssaye was over.
They knew who Elisabeth Fontaine had written to.
But before anyone else could speak, Patricia turned to Isabelle and said, ‘This is all simply extraordinary, but you said you found a letter, not just an envelope. Who was the letter from? What does it say? May I see it?’ Then she shook her head.
‘Forgive me, I don’t mean to be impolite—to ask so many questions—it’s just that … this is so unexpected.’
‘Of course,’ Isabelle said. Audrey saw a flush rising up her neck.
‘It’s a letter from the designer Elisabeth Fontaine, but I’m afraid I don’t have the original at present—unfortunately it was stolen …
’ and Isabelle quickly explained the situation.
‘We’re going to try and get the letter back, but meanwhile, I do have a photo of it.
’ Taking out her phone, she scrolled to the photo and handed it to Patricia, who took it without a word.
Audrey watched Patricia’s face as she read, scanning the letter rapidly first then more slowly, and finally once more, as everyone else stayed silent, tensely waiting.
Patricia’s expression was unreadable but Audrey felt sure she must be feeling disoriented, to say the least. Clearly, she was very invested in the stories of her grandmother’s past, but equally she’d had no idea whatsoever about this particular twist. Which meant that either Mariette had known nothing of her sister’s close connection to Fontaine’s secret, or that she’d kept quiet about it.
Audrey thought the former was much more likely.
In her notebook, Alice had painted a portrait of Mariette as being in awe of her big sister, even rather intimidated, due to their difference in age, experience and very different personalities.
And from the little that emerged in the notebook about Annie herself, Audrey had got an impression of a capable, self-sufficient, even solitary woman who kept her cards close to her chest and didn’t offer confidences.
As a single woman well past what was considered marriageable age at the time, and a provincial nobody in a notoriously competitive city, she would have had to forge her own path and that would not have come without considerable difficulties and personal sacrifice.
That might well have toughened her, made her hard, even.
But also it could not have been achieved without a strong sense of self-belief and integrity.
All those things could have been said of Elisabeth Fontaine, too.
Perhaps that was what had made her sure that Annie could be absolutely trusted.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Patricia looking up from the photo.
‘My grandmother did tell me that her sister and Elisabeth Fontaine had a good rapport,’ she said quietly.
‘But it was just through work, not socially, because they moved in very different circles. Elisabeth never came to their place, or Annie to hers—all their dealings were at the fabric store, or else at the workshop. As an expert in silk, Annie would advise Elisabeth, and she’d source new fabrics for her.
They were in close touch about all of that and must have developed quite a lot of understanding of each other.
But I had absolutely no idea they were so close that Elisabeth trusted Annie, and Annie only, with this knowledge.
And I am certain Mariette didn’t know either. ’
It was then that the insight that had flashed into Audrey’s mind the night before, and then vanished, suddenly re-emerged.
‘In our searches for who Mademoiselle Houssaye might have been, we’ve been looking especially for an employee of Fontaine’s,’ she said, ‘but what we didn’t think of was someone outside of the Fontaine workshop, but involved in an associated business.
Someone who was invested, but independent, and thus able to see things more clearly.
’ She thought about her agent, Debbie Malkin, who occupied that kind of place in her own life.
‘I think that Annie and Elisabeth must have known each other very well on a certain level, but didn’t need to socialise or tell each other everything to trust each other.
And so Annie must have absolutely understood the need to keep the secret of the gown till Elisabeth was ready.
In the letter it says this time I’ve left the copies, which implies she’d done it before. ’
They all stared at her, and Patricia said, ‘Yes, what you said completely makes sense,’ and she sighed.
‘I wish I could tell you more about her, but I never knew Annie in person, unlike my other two great-aunts. In fact, neither did my father, as she died of breast cancer when he was just a baby. She was only forty.’