The French Perfumer

by Amanda Hampson

  Geraldson woke up to the fact that something was amiss. He put down his newspaper and rose to his feet just as Jonathan rushed in and delivered the shocking news. Mr Farley was dead!

  There is no doubt in my mind that Farley was alive when we left him. For some reason he did not survive the night. All I can think is that perhaps the blow caused a reaction in his brain from the concussion. Whatever it was, he was discovered dead this morning by Mrs Somerville, who was apparently being treated for shock by the doctor.

  ‘What was Mrs Somerville doing in his room?’ asked Ger­aldson, annoyed by this anomaly.

  ‘It seems his wife slept in the old girl’s room last night,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘Did Lady Jessica say why?’

  ‘She’s still asleep,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘No one thought to wake her and break the news?’ asked Geraldson.

  But then Vivian was calling Jonathan’s name and he hurried off, leaving Geraldson none the wiser. Within an hour or so, two men arrived in a black van and took the late Mr Farley away. All I can do is hope and pray that they will not do a post-mortem. Yet how could it be otherwise, when yesterday Farley was a healthy specimen in middle age?

  I wanted to go straight down and tell Mr Brooke about Farley but we were all instructed by Vivian – in a state of extreme agitation, of course – to gather in the drawing room and not to discuss the situation. The police were coming straight up from Nice to conduct initial interviews so perhaps they already suspected foul play.

  So there we all were: Vivian, Jonathan, Mrs Somerville (still shaken), Mr Geraldson, Monsieur Lapointe, Amandine, Madame Bouchard and myself. No Menna or Lady Jessica. We were unhappily dispersed throughout the drawing room like the cast of a stage play waiting for the latest script to be delivered. In Miss Christie’s stories the guests are assembled to hear Monsieur Poirot wrap up the case and deliver the final twist. Our situation could have been rather entertaining had one not been quite so involved in the lead-up to Farley’s death. As it was, the wait was nerve-racking. I was conscious of the bruising on my neck – which I had masked with a scarf – and a residual huskiness in my voice that could be passed off as a sore throat. These were just my guilty thoughts – it’s not as though anyone would suspect the dead man had, earlier in the evening, tried to choke me.

  It was an odd situation for the servants to be lumped in with guests and the general sense of discomfort was palpable. Vivian sat perched on the arm of a chair, smoking anxiously. Jonathan circled the drinks trolley but each time he made a determined move toward it, Vivian shot him such a nasty look he recoiled and resumed his pacing. Geraldson stood gazing out the window, chain-smoking in his composed, detached way. Amandine tried to comfort Madame Bouchard, who was crying. She is highly strung at the best of times – it was probably her scream heard earlier. I can’t honestly say I’m all that upset about Farley. He was a nasty piece of work and his demise solves so many problems. That sounds horribly callous and mercenary but even the experience of us being ‘held for questioning’ would be infinitely worse if Farley were here with us, banging on about the Empire.

  During our long and increasingly disagreeable wait, the only welcome distraction occurred when Lady Jessica, still in her robe, wandered into the room looking dazed but very refreshed – understandably. Face scrubbed clean, she looked barely out of her teens. ‘How perfectly lovely to see everyone gathered together,’ she said, gazing around the room with delight. ‘What a beautiful day outside!’ Clearly our sleeping beauty had not been advised she was lately a widow, although I doubt even that would have dulled her radiance at finding herself splendidly conscious.

  Mrs Somerville and Vivian exchanged glances. Vivian looked away and said nothing. I expect she decided to leave it to the police to break the news. Mrs Somerville patted the space beside her on the settee and Lady J settled down to wait, seemingly without curiosity as to the occasion.

  Two policemen finally arrived. Vivian met with them for a few minutes and returned to address our group. She explained, first in French, then in English, that we would be asked to go into her office one at a time, after which we were free to go – unless told otherwise. Lady Jessica was the first to go in and Mrs Somerville was next. While we waited, Madame Bouchard stopped crying and reverted to her usual curmudgeonly persona. In a challenging tone, she asked Vivian something, which I gathered, was about Menna. Vivian went over and spoke to her in a quiet, firm voice but the cook was having none of it. Vivian stood her ground, unleashing her death stare. The cook, like most of us, was no match for that and capitulated with an aggressive ‘Puurff’. I heard Vivian repeat one word several times and made a mental note. I had been passing the time browsing the bookshelves so took the opportunity to consult the French–English dictionary. The word she used was ‘mutisme’ – mute.

  Finally, it was my turn. Back in the scolding chair and even more intimidating than being cross-examined by Vivian. One of the policemen was rather handsome and spoke good English but with a heavy accent that required some concentration to decipher. I was pleased to hear myself answering his questions in a steady, calm voice. The other detective, an older swarthy fellow, spoke no English. He prompted the handsome chap with questions but seemed dissatisfied by every answer. I told the story that would presumably correlate with Mrs Somerville’s – which was the truth. Since she knew nothing of the aftermath there was no risk there. Both officers were clearly unhappy with my explanation as to why, when Lady Jessica came to my door and asked for help, I didn’t fetch her husband or at the very least take her back to her room. I offered some vague comments about her needing a woman’s care – hoping this would be interpreted as ‘women’s troubles’ because I wasn’t sure how far Mrs Somerville might have gone in accusing Farley of drugging his wife.

  ‘You are a friend of Madame Farley?’ the handsome fellow asked in a way that appeared both sympathetic and interested. ‘Perhaps she speak of troubles with her ’usband?’

  I was especially careful with my responses to these ambiguous questions and avoided expressing any opinion about the Farleys or the state of their marriage. I can only hope Vivian doesn’t reveal that he had recently made a complaint about my interference. Fortunately all evidence of the earlier shoe-throwing incident has died with him.

  Menna and I had left the Farleys’ room unlocked in case he didn’t have a key and woke up to find himself inexplicably locked in his own room. So when asked about this (in a roundabout way), I was careful not to speculate or justify anything relating to the keys, merely saying that security was not an issue in the house – the implication being that an unlocked door would not be unusual. I am almost certain that’s what the others will say.

  Finally I was released and able to rush down to the cottage and tell Mr Brooke the story. Not the whole story, obviously. If it was Menna’s blow that killed Farley, her secret will go with me to the grave. I realise there is a risk writing all this down but if I am to remain composed on the surface, I need to pour it out somewhere. After a lengthy exploration of my room I have found the perfect hiding spot for my journal in a gap behind the skirting board. The contents could now be deadly. A convicted murderer in France would face death by guillotine.

  The atmosphere in the house has been subdued and Vivian in such a temper one daren’t even speak to her, but Lady Jessica resembles a butterfly liberated from her chrysalis. Once the post-mortem is complete and Farley’s body released, she plans to return to England by aeroplane for the funeral – accompanied by none other than Mrs Somerville! Over the last couple of days, the two of them have become inseparable. One can see them at different times of the day strolling in the garden, playing mahjong in the drawing room or taking tea on the verandah, as though enjoying a delightful holiday together. Lady Jessica seems entirely happy apart from the occasional tearful moment that may be related to grief or possibly whatever she endured at Farley’s brutish hand. In my short experience of Mrs Somerville I have never seen her happier either, now she
has both a purpose and a protégée.

  Dr Renaud has come to see Mr Brooke several times a week lately. They are good friends so these are social visits as well as medical ones. Father Furolo, the Italian priest, also visits him regularly in the evenings. I suspect those visits are not so much pastoral care, more an opportunity to debate the woes of the world over whisky and cigars. But this afternoon Monsieur Lapointe took Mr Brooke into Marseille for a medical appointment. Something is going on but he hasn’t said a word to me.

  With an afternoon to myself, I decided to make a start on Madame Bovary, borrowed from Vivian’s library. Quite an undertaking and indication of my sense of optimism for my future here. I settled myself out on the patio in the shade of the bougainvillea, now smothered with scarlet blossoms, and had barely finished the first line when I was joined by Mrs Somerville, who rang the bell for Amandine to bring coffee and biscuits. Despite the interruption it was a beautiful afternoon and very pleasant to be relaxing outside. Mrs Somerville had, as she phrased it, ‘put Lady Jessica down for a nap’, which seemed an extraordinary thing to say about a grown woman. She does adore fussing over her new friend.

  ‘The English aristocracy are feudal – so behind the times,’ announced Mrs Somerville. ‘That poor girl was practically traded – like a horse – to that monster. People think England is a civilised country but it’s still in the dark ages. Barbaric.’

  Barbaric? Not sure if she realised I am actually English, I suggested that she was perhaps overstating it a little.

  ‘Not at all,’ she said darkly. ‘What that girl has had to put up with. Practically prisoner to a man with excessive sexual appetites.’ She enunciated this last part with some relish. ‘Poor dear child.’

  My eyes wandered back to Madame Bovary in the vain hope she would not share further intimate confidences.

  ‘Honey, would you like to join us this afternoon? We’re going down to Nice to buy Jessie a few little French outfits to take home. We’ll stop in for a cocktail somewhere and be back in time for dinner. What do you say?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think —’

  ‘Come on, why not?’ she said. ‘You haven’t been out for weeks.’

  It was true. Apart from the occasional walk, I had barely left the place. I supposed Madame Bovary could wait another day.

  Mrs Somerville had made her own transport arrangements and a uniformed driver arrived on the dot of three in a large black Mercedes and swept us off to Nice.

  There was a mood of celebration in the car – relief at escaping the oppressive atmosphere of the house, I expect. Lady Jessica wore a frilly frock and Mrs Somerville an indulgent smile. Lady J is giddy at the best of times and seems to find Mrs Somerville’s brittle attempts at humour wildly amusing. They made quite a pair. They will have to sober up somewhat back in England. It wouldn’t do for Her Ladyship to be so deliriously happy at her late husband’s funeral.

  Shopping in Nice could have been a pleasant experience but was made tedious by Mrs Somerville’s extravagant pampering of Lady Jessica. Being dragged in and out of ruinously expensive shops, where her every whim was satisfied, I felt like the orphan child tagging along to provide contrast. Everything was paid for by Mrs Somerville since the young widow apparently has not a penny of her own. Never mind that she brought trunks full of clothes with her when she arrived.

  Finally we retired to the sumptuous lounge of Hôtel Le Negresco, leaving our poor driver, who had patiently followed us around all afternoon collecting the booty, sitting outside in the car. Mrs Somerville immediately ordered ‘the best champagne you have’ in an unnecessarily loud voice and I wished profoundly to be somewhere quiet in the company of Madame Bovary. The hotel is decorated in an extravagant Belle Époque style with footmen decked out in eighteenth-century livery – excessive to my simple tastes. However, Mrs Somerville gazed around with great satisfaction and pronounced the place ‘classy’, which Lady Jessica found hilarious, causing me to wonder if that sleeping draught had caused long-term damage. Further confirmation came when, quite out of the blue, she announced furiously that she had never liked France. ‘I detest the French. And that policeman was terribly rude to me. I do hope they finish with Douglas soon. I simply can’t wait to get home to England.’

  Our champagne arrived and we raised our glasses to Lady Jessica’s future, which seemed to calm her down. I noticed a well-dressed couple wander into the foyer from the opposite bar. It took a moment to realise it was Topsy and William. Although I was side-on to them, I knew Topsy had seen me as the lobby area was reflected quite clearly in the mirror to my right. For a moment, she dithered. There was a discussion and it seemed William was the reluctant one. But Topsy prevailed and they came into the lounge. She kissed me effusively and I made the introductions, explaining that Lady Jessica was recently widowed but Topsy had apparently already heard of Farley’s death through the expat grapevine. She was terribly sympathetic.

  ‘What happened to the poor man? Was he ill?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh no, he just died,’ said Lady Jessica. ‘He —’

  ‘We don’t know,’ interrupted Mrs Somerville. ‘There’s a post-mortem.’

  ‘How distressing for you,’ Topsy said in a faux-sympathetic voice.

  The conversation was stilted and uncomfortable as Topsy explained they were just leaving. Mrs Somerville, with typical indiscriminate American hospitality, absolutely insisted they join us and the next thing more glasses and champagne were being delivered. William seemed less than enthusiastic and didn’t involve himself in the conversation but Lady Jessica and Topsy were a match made in heaven, chatting away excitedly about various mutual friends in London with Mrs S left out in the cold, conversationally speaking.

  In a quiet aside, William asked, ‘And what have you been doing today, Miss Turner?’

  ‘Very little. I’m here simply as an audience,’ I said. ‘To witness and observe.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate your value. What is a performer without an audience?’

  ‘I see your point, but I have yet to find anything to applaud.’

  He laughed quietly. Topsy glanced over and although she couldn’t have heard our exchange, her expression was most intriguing. Considering she had so recently been trying to matchmake us – so I thought – she looked oddly vulnerable, which led me to speculate as to how they came to be here in the hotel on a Friday evening. Perhaps the business of setting me up with William was actually a smokescreen? I confess to a slight pang of disappointment.

  ‘I never expected to find you at this salubrious watering hole, Iris,’ said Topsy.

  ‘I insisted,’ said Mrs Somerville. ‘She never seems to leave the place.’

  ‘Understandably,’ replied Topsy. ‘There’s bound to be a problem when you live and work in the same place.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Mrs Somerville looked at me with new curiosity. ‘I thought you were a friend of the family. What work do you do?’

  Before I could think of how to curtail the conversation, Topsy explained that I worked for Mr Brooke. ‘Mr Brooke? There’s a Mr Brooke?’ asked Mrs Somerville, sounding quite irritable.

  ‘I don’t think Mrs Somerville will be interested in all that,’ I said.

  ‘I believe he is a recluse, but I’m surprised you haven’t met him since he lives on the property.’ Topsy gave me a cool smile. She knew perfectly well that she was embarrassing me.

  ‘I’ve never even set eyes on him,’ said Mrs Somerville in wonder.

  ‘You must have heard of him. He’s a famous perfumer —’ insisted Topsy.

  ‘Famous?’

  Topsy tossed back her champagne as if to get down to business.

  ‘Topsy, please, I’d rather you didn’t —’

  My lame protests were no match for the lure of the spotlight. She leaned toward Mrs Somerville and breathed, ‘Aurélie!’

  It is well accepted that Americans have a gift for overreaction, to be utterly repulsed by something mildly disagreeable or turn an incident that might war
rant a raised eyebrow into a theatrical event. Mrs Somerville is no exception, and delivered a jaw-dropping parody of shock. She stared at me in wonder, as though my royal origins had been revealed. ‘Oh my! She never said a word. I had no idea! Where in the world is he hiding?’

  Although by comparison to my involvement in Mr Farley’s death, this conversation was a relatively minor problem, there is no doubt that my earlier indiscretion has betrayed Mr Brooke’s trust in the worst possible way. I couldn’t see any way now to stop Mrs Somerville tackling Vivian and/or taking herself down to the cottage, intent on meeting the great man himself. She is the personification of someone who doesn’t take no for an answer.

  Lady Jessica, too young to remember Aurélie and further confused at no longer being the centre of attention, kept asking what on earth we were talking about. As Mrs Somerville began to explain the situation to her, William glanced over at Topsy and discreetly tapped his watch. She nodded vaguely, loathe to leave the excitement she had generated, but nevertheless gathered herself and said her goodbyes. Once they had departed, Mrs Somerville continued to bother me with questions. I had to be quite firm that Mr Brooke’s privacy was paramount and that it would not be possible to meet him – to little effect.

  Lady Jessica sulked a little and then said petulantly, ‘I don’t see why we have to stay here any longer.’

  ‘Oh, let’s get back – it’s almost dinner time anyway – you’re probably hungry,’ said Mrs Somerville.

  ‘I hate that house. I wanted to go to Paris. Douglas promised me. Now I’ll never go,’ said Lady Jessica, seeming to contradict her earlier condemnation of everything French.

  ‘Honey, we can go to Paris anytime you like,’ said Mrs Somer­ville.