‘I do. We have a number of important clients here on the Riviera. As I speak French, I was given the opportunity to come out and open a branch office about two years ago.’ He explained it was a small operation, just him and a secretary. Over dinner, he regaled me with amusing stories about his adventures with fabulously wealthy and eccentric clients. Isolated by wealth and mistrust, they enlist his services for all sorts of purchases and investments, from spending exorbitant sums on luxury yachts to investing millions in the Middle East. It’s easy to imagine him being very sensible and down-to-earth, making sure all is in order. He radiates dependability and good intention but there is something else more complex; I picked up strains of uncertainty – self-doubt, maybe? I often intuit the scent of crushed violets around him, as though something were grinding him down.
‘If you get it right for them, clients are prone to buying extravagant gifts,’ he said. ‘Even for their humble accountant.’
I expected him to show me a watch or some cufflinks but it seems his Wolseley was a gift from a client. I wondered if his bosses in London knew the scale of their clients’ generosity, but thought better of mentioning it.
‘When we met at Le Negresco, there was some intrigue about your employer – the perfume fellow?’
‘It’s not really an intrigue. Topsy was making more of it than necessary,’ I said. ‘He’s something of a recluse and part of my job is to protect his privacy.’
‘Like a bodyguard?’
‘I suppose so,’ I laughed.
‘Topsy is very eager to meet him for some odd reason.’
I felt a twinge of concern that must have shown on my face.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not here as Topsy’s lackey,’ he assured me.
‘No, of course not, I didn’t think —’
He placed his hand gently over mine. ‘Let’s not talk about Topsy or Sebastian tonight.’
There was no further mention of Mr Brooke and we found many other things to talk about. We discovered we both enjoyed walking and shared a love of the Lake District in particular. He is extremely well-read and, of course, much more widely travelled than myself. Before we knew it, the evening had disappeared. After dinner we wandered arm-in-arm through the darkened lanes. There was a blissful sense of intimacy between us and we stopped on several occasions to exchange lingering kisses. It was as though time stretched into the distance and the world was held at bay. There was only this moment, this night redolent with honeysuckle – the scent of contentment.
It is almost a week since that evening with William. I have found it difficult to think of anything else, reliving every gentle kiss and caress. I do hope to hear from him soon.
Mr Brooke has been increasingly unwell. There is the most appalling foul odour in the cottage as though everything has become rancid and rotten. From deep within that overwhelming stench there is a pervading smell of utter despair. He has been confined to his bed, so no work can take place. Two days ago he simply shouted at me to get out, which I did without further ado. Now he’s been admitted to a hospital in Marseille for a few days.
While he was away, Menna must have opened up the place and ventilated it because when I went to the cottage today the odour was much diminished. Although he won’t discuss it with me at all, whatever is going on with his health is clearly not over. In the past few weeks, the doctor has been to the cottage almost every day – as has Father Furolo. The three of them spend hours sitting in the garden talking and even at a distance I have picked up sharp traces of dissension.
After many delays, we finally completed the inventory this morning and packed the last of the materials away. Although Mr Brooke was obviously exhausted, I felt duty-bound to raise the issue of the disappearing crates.
‘That’s not possible! Are you absolutely certain? Go and have another look. Jesus Christ! They better not be gone! What are you waiting for?’
I went out and checked even though I didn’t need to. I knew the number of crates had diminished but discovered there are now only a few left with no attempt being made to disguise the losses. I reported back only to be told furiously I could go. He had a call to make.
So, safe to assume that Vivian is behind this. Now all the materials have been packed, I realised it was quite likely that the last of the crates will be removed this evening.
Once the house was asleep, I positioned myself at the upstairs hallway window which provides a view across the orchard to the cottage. Menna returned from her nightly chores with Mr Brooke and disappeared into her room, which I have discovered is in the cellar. Before long, two figures appeared on the downstairs patio and went off into the orchard.
I slipped down the back stair and waited in the shadow of the house near the cellar stairs. Menna must have recognised my shoes as I passed her window because she came out and beckoned me into her room. I couldn’t make out much in the darkness. Being half underground, the barred window is set high enough that you need a stool to see anything other than sky. She fetched a box for me to stand on and we stood side by side, watching out the window.
Vivian arrived and unlocked the potting shed, then Geraldson appeared out of the gloom carrying the last three crates. They both went inside and we could see the flashing of a torch as they rearranged the contents of the packed shed. Eventually they came out and locked up. After a brief discussion, Vivian went back into the house but Geraldson headed straight toward the cellar. Moments later, there was a thump on Menna’s door. I huddled in the corner of the room, out of sight. Geraldson spoke brusquely. Someone would arrive ce soir – tonight. It was all a bit of a jumble but I thought he was telling her not to go to sleep – ne va pas dormir. I then caught the word clé – key.
Once we were certain he had gone, we made our way out to the shed. Menna unlocked the door and we slipped inside and closed it behind us. By the light of Menna’s candle we took in the sight of two dozen crates, boxes and tins – everything from the storeroom. We walked back to Menna’s room and sat down at her little table. The candlelight flattered the grim little room, really more of a cell, with a few sticks of furniture and an army cot against one wall. Cold damp air. Winter must be appalling. Disgraceful she should have to live in these conditions.
Although communication is frustratingly difficult, I could see in her face that we shared a sense of finality. Tonight was the end of something after which everything would change. There was a tacit agreement that I would stay for the collection of the crates. Menna made sweet mint tea on a gas ring. She brought a pack of Spanish playing cards to the table and we spent the next couple of hours keeping lookout and, ironically, playing double patience.
At around 1 a.m. we heard the sound of a van approach. It stopped near the villa and the engine was turned off. Menna blew out the candle and we took up our post at the window. We could make out the figure of a man, short and stocky, walking up the path to the shed. He stopped at the door, rattled the padlock and glanced around. His face was illuminated for a second in the flare of a match as he lit his cigarette.
I heard a sharp intake of breath beside me. ‘Ah non – le Corse!’ So soft it could have been imagined, but there was no mistaking Menna’s fear, that pungent metallic odour like blood. She rushed over to the cot, dropped to her knees and pulled something out from under it. I caught the glint of a blade as she concealed it in the folds of her skirt and then slipped out the door.
I watched with trepidation from the window as Menna approached the shed, unlocked it and opened both doors wide. The man flashed his torchlight over the crates and flicked the beam onto Menna’s face. Unflinching, she made no effort to cover her eyes. This seemed to gall him because he took a step toward her and prodded her in the chest with his torch. She turned away, picked up a crate and carried it down the path toward where his van was parked. He sat down on one of the boxes and smoked as she walked back and forth with the goods. The terrifying stench of a brutal man, a predator, was putrid in the night air.
Eventually I saw him flash
his torch around the empty shed. The only crate that remained was the one he sat on. He stood up; there was a splash of embers as he flicked his cigarette into the garden. He closed one of the doors, left the other half open and waited for Menna to return. There was a sense of him readying himself. He fumbled with his clothing and I presumed he planned to urinate in the garden. But he was removing his belt. Waiting for Menna. The trap was set. I didn’t know what to do. I looked around for something to use against him but it was so dark in the room I could barely see the floor beneath me. I opened the door and crept up the cellar steps, crouched near the top and watched. Perhaps I could at least distract him so Menna could escape. Where was she?
It took him a while to realise he had been outwitted and that Menna was not coming back for that final crate. She had vanished into the night. Finally, he picked it up himself and stamped off down the path. I didn’t breathe easy until I heard the sound of his van recede into the distance. Menna then came running down the cellar steps. We clasped each other’s hands and tried to smother our relieved laughter.
Mr Brooke’s shoulders slumped in defeat when I told him what I had witnessed last night. He asked if I had seen the man before. I repeated what Menna had said. Curiously, he made no comment about the fact that Menna had spoken. ‘That bloody Corsican thug. So that’s it – gone. Vivian got the jump on me.’
‘Do you know where to?’
‘Geneva, so I believe. Apparently Geraldson’s brokered some deal with a pharmaceutical firm; chemists who think they can make perfume.’
‘Can’t you stop it?’
‘What can I do? It really doesn’t matter any more. Those materials are replaceable. It’s all coming to an end anyway. Vivian has no vision for the future. She’s only looking to resolve her current crisis.’
‘Which is?’
‘Same as always – money. More money. She can have this battle. It’s the war that I care about. That I will not lose.’
‘What about the formulas – don’t they need those?’
He gave an ironic shrug. ‘That’s what they need now. I’m assured it is all just chemistry. Like filling in a prescription, more or less. So that is what we will give them. Tomorrow I’ll dictate the formulations to you. Let her know. Might calm her down.’
I saw Vivian prior to dinner and passed on the news, expecting a warm response. She looked suspicious. ‘How clever of you. Hammond said this himself, did he? It’s not like him to announce he will cooperate. Generally he either does or he doesn’t.’
‘Is he very ill?’ I asked. ‘He won’t discuss it.’
‘Well, that’s his prerogative, isn’t it?’ She obviously remembered that she was making a conscious effort to be pleasant to me now the finish line is in sight because she then softened her tone. ‘He may well have to go into hospital for an operation in the next several weeks. But once this final job is done, your role with him will be finished. You’re no doubt desperate to get home to London by now.’ She gestured toward the dining-room door. ‘Let us join the others, shall we?’
Although the conversation unsettled me, I had to force a smile as we were joined this evening by the fabled sisters from Florida; a couple of dry old sticks with brittle perms and straying lipstick, so angular their clothes hang off them as if draped on coathangers. They smell rather artificial to me, like this ‘air freshener’ that is all the craze now. As they both answer to Miss Anderson, they insisted we address them as Shirley and Lillian. Mrs Somerville is clearly delighted that numbers from her side of the Atlantic are building and did her best to establish a rapport with them.
While the rest of the table was distracted by the newcomers, I noticed Vivian catch Geraldson’s eye and give him a nod. He glanced at me, raised his eyebrows in pleasant surprise and tipped his glass in an almost imperceptible tribute.
It has been evident in recent weeks that Vivian has received an injection of funds. Normally something of a miser, she watches every centime like a hawk and won’t hear of anything being sent to town for repair. But during the lead-up to the arrival of the sisters, the house has teemed with tradesmen and a sixth bedroom has been renovated, leaving only two remaining in their dilapidated state.
Passing the new room each day, I had watched the transformation with admiration. There is no doubt Vivian knows what she is doing in this regard. She has impeccable taste for the style of décor favoured by wealthy visitors to the continent, which could be described as a sort of timeless French luxuriousness – Marie Antoinette tailored to the well-heeled tourist. She ran the project with military precision from the frenzied preparations – stripping wallpaper and paint and sanding floors – to the refurbishment – walls repapered, floors polished, drapes hung, rugs laid. An extravagant crystal chandelier arrived from Italy and was installed by four men with much fuss and bother and furious swearing. French antique furniture was put into place under her precise direction: a four-poster bed, ornate writing desk, armchairs, mirrors and paintings. The villa is not blessed with a bathroom for every bedroom (quite normal for a family home), but Vivian has created these using the smaller bedrooms and storage areas. Overall it must have cost her a pretty penny – tens of thousands of francs, one suspects. Although they are apparently here for three months, it is hard to imagine that the tariff the sisters will pay would come close to meeting the cost of the renovation. Although I suppose there is always the chance they will return or recommend the place to other members of the tribe of wealthy, bored women on an endless Grand Tour of Europe.
Lillian and Shirley have quickly established an unwavering routine that is probably unaltered wherever they go. They have hired a limousine and driver and leave the villa after dinner every night for casinos in either Cannes, Nice or Monte Carlo. They arrive home sometime in the early hours and sleep until noon, when they arise and paste themselves to sun chairs, toasting their desiccated skin and painting their nails until it is once more time to don their diamonds, have a bite to eat and head out into the night. The first evening they were quite congenial, but now they have a terribly rude habit of only talking to each other, as though they are in a restaurant rather than at a communal dining table.
We are such an odd assortment, conversation can be a strain at the best of times. The London papers arrive once a week and Jonathan reads every word, so that provides a basis for conversation under a mandate of neutrality, which we now all adhere to – even Mrs Somerville – as dissension makes for poor digestion. Generally Vivian and Jonathan hold things together, although Geraldson has become more relaxed and at least makes some effort these days. He too is very well-informed about international affairs but exceedingly diplomatic. Mrs Somerville is less controversial – obviously Farley had ruffled her feathers with his reactionary views. Provided I have something worthwhile to offer, I make my small contribution. We have evolved into a conversational quintet that had, with practice, become relatively harmonious. But now we have this discordant duo in our midst, it all feels rather artificial.
Mrs Somerville has been attempting to ingratiate herself with the sisters since their arrival, with limited success. Why she bothers, I don’t know. They are so uninteresting and uninterested in the rest of us. Since her return, Mrs Somerville seemed to have forgotten all about her ambitions to meet Mr Brooke. However, at dinner this evening, in a desperate bid to gain their attention, she turned to the sisters and announced, ‘It’s all very hush-hush but there’s a famous perfumer living right here on the estate. I’m hoping that Miss Brooke is going to introduce him one day soon. I, for one, would be just fascinated to meet him.’
‘It is out of the question,’ said Vivian, glaring at me. ‘He’s very busy and not at all well. He’s only recently been released from hospital.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Is it something serious?’ Mrs Somerville’s curiosity was piqued.
‘We’re waiting to see if this latest treatment has worked,’ said Vivian.
Impervious to the note of finality indicating the closure
of that topic, Mrs Somerville wedged her foot in. ‘What sort of treatment is he undergoing? I have an excellent physician in Paris, I could —’
‘Really, thank you, but it’s all in hand,’ Vivian assured her.
The rising tension at the table was beginning to make everyone squirm but Mrs S didn’t seem to know how to extricate herself. ‘I just thought —’
‘Maggots,’ said Jonathan fiercely.
Vivian pursed her lips, disapproving, but said nothing.
Mrs Somerville’s lips twisted in a knot of disgust. The Anderson sisters were suddenly all ears. I felt quite sick. How absolutely appalling!
‘You insisted on knowing. I’m telling you. He’s been undergoing maggot treatment.’
‘I didn’t mean to pry. I was trying to help. I don’t know what maggot treatment is,’ said Mrs Somerville. ‘Do you mean real maggots?’
Jonathan was turning puce, thoroughly rattled by this intrusive display of bad manners. Vivian leaned over and patted his hand to calm him. ‘Mr Brooke is diabetic,’ she explained. ‘He is suffering from gangrene and this treatment is considered preferable to amputation.’ She held Mrs Somerville’s eye with her magisterial gaze. ‘Now, can we please change the subject? This is hardly a suitable topic for the dinner table.’ And, for once, there was a sense of universal agreement.
It seems as though Mr Brooke is being systematically stripped of everything he has and everything he is. The thought of the maggots makes me feel ill every time I think of it. On no account would I ever raise that one with him. We were supposed to start documenting the formulas a week ago but he has been too unwell, so today was the first opportunity. He would, he told me, be dictating the formulas from memory. There’s something queer about this. ‘Surely they were recorded somewhere?’ I asked.
He agreed there had been a journal. ‘Probably one of the most valuable books of fragrance formulas in the world. It had the formulations my grandfather created, my mother’s and some of mine. It was lost during the war. What Vivian has sold off is the scraps that are left of the business. She obviously can’t sell the name of Rousseau, only the perfume brands. What I’m going to give you are the more recent formulas, the ones I keep in my head.’
The French Perfumer Page 14