in the eye. ‘Monsieur Tissot, are you quite certain … Is it at all possible that you have the wrong Grace Munroe?’
Monsieur Tissot regarded her warily. ‘Why would you ask that?’
‘Are you certain,’ she repeated, ‘that I am the right woman?’
He reached again for the file, taking out an envelope. He handed it to her. ‘Is this you?’
Grace opened it. There was an old newspaper photograph cut out from the society section of The Times. It showed Grace and two other young debutantes in long white strapless ball gowns, standing on the massive sweeping marble staircase at Grosvenor House. The caption underneath read, ‘Miss Grace Maudley, Lady Sophia Hapswood and Miss Daphne Sherbourne attend the Grosvenor House Ball’. There was also a piece of paper, folded. Grace opened it. It was written in a woman’s handwriting, flowing, slanted letters.
Grace Jane Munroe (née Maudley)
39 Woburn Square
London, NW1
Born: 30 May 1928
Only child of Jonathan and Catherine Maudley of The Great Hall, West Challow, Oxfordshire, England
Grace stared at it.
The words seemed to float, blurring together on the page.
‘Madame Munroe?’
Suddenly the room was too hot; too close. The papers slipped through her fingers, drifting to the floor.
‘Would you be so kind as to call me a taxi?’ she heard herself say. ‘I think perhaps I’m a little unwell after all.’
Monsieur Tissot drove her back to her Hotel. They didn’t bother to talk. Instead, Grace stared out of the window at the winding narrow streets and the people, so much more vivid than in London, pushing in and out of shops and businesses. They seemed to be removed from her by more than just language. French people leading French lives. Why was it that anything you couldn’t readily understand became mysterious and glamorous?
When they pulled up at her Hotel, her hand was already on the door handle, pushing it open. ‘Thank you.’
‘Madame Munroe.’ Monsieur Tissot turned off the ignition and faced her. ‘I don’t mean to be intrusive, however, I’m curious. What was your relationship to Madame d’Orsey?’
‘Well, Monsieur Tissot …’ Grace stiffened, assuming her loftiest tone. ‘I’m … I’m not really certain that it’s any of your business.’
He was disturbingly immune to her rudeness, looking at her with a distinctly French mixture of amusement and indulgence. ‘Of that I’m certain.’
She reached again for the door handle.
‘You’ve never met her,’ he guessed.
Grace glared at him. ‘That’s preposterous!’
‘It is preposterous. However I’m right, aren’t I?’
She frowned, pursing her lips tightly together. She should have taken a cab.
Easing back in his seat, he continued, ‘I’ve overseen countless will readings. Never before have I witnessed a beneficiary as perplexed as you are. Is it true, Madame Munroe?’
Grace hesitated. ‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘So,’ he crossed his arms in front of his chest, ‘you’ve received an inheritance from a woman you’ve never met. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘A woman, if I’m right, you’ve never even heard of.’
She flashed him a look. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Am I right?’ he asked again, ignoring her question.
‘Yes.’
‘Well then,’ he shrugged, ‘why didn’t you say so?’
‘I … I don’t know,’ she faltered. In her panic, she’d imagined more dramatic consequences – possibly a trip to the local police station or the British Embassy. ‘I wasn’t sure what would happen.’
‘Nothing can happen. The inheritance is yours, regardless of whether you knew her or not. You’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘It feels as if I’m stealing,’ she admitted, loosening her grip on the door handle.
‘It is unusual.’
‘Yes. But she had my name and address; that photograph from the newspaper.’
‘Is she a friend of the family?’
‘I suppose she might have known my parents before they died. Still, what kind of person gives her money to a complete stranger? And what kind of stranger just takes it?’
‘I don’t know.’ The whole idea appeared to interest rather than disturb him.
‘Did she ever explain the bequest to you?’
‘No. I only met her once, when she composed the will. She came through another client of ours, Jacques Hiver.’
‘Hiver?’ Grace repeated, trying to place the name. ‘Where have I seen that name before?’
‘In every chemist’s window in the city. He’s the owner of one of the biggest cosmetics companies in France.’
‘Yes, of course!’
Hiver rouge – the advertisement featured a drawing of a beautiful dark-haired woman, blindfolded with a black silk scarf, wearing the deepest shade of red lipstick. Underneath it read simply, Embrasse-moi – kiss me. She’d noticed it because the image seemed so daring; not at all the type of poster one would ever see in England.
‘So,’ she tried to fit the pieces together, ‘Madame d’Orsey was his wife?’
‘Well, no …’ He looked at her sideways. ‘He passed away earlier this year. His wife is still alive. You see, we didn’t handle Monsieur Hiver’s – how do you put it? – legitimate affairs. He had another, much bigger firm for that. We dealt with those matters that required a more delicate legal approach.’
‘In what way delicate?’
‘I believe she was his mistress.’
‘Oh!’
Grace stared at the cobbled street in front of her. Her first inclination was to judge. And yet it wasn’t so easy, when you were on the receiving end of such generosity.
They sat a moment.
‘Did she give you any indication … any clue when she drew up the will, as to why
