The French Perfumer

by Amanda Hampson

  ‘Now? Right this minute?’

  I had never heard Mrs Somerville laugh out loud, which in retrospect was a small mercy, because she now issued an eerie braying sound at a volume that brought footmen to the door, no doubt wondering if peacocks were mating in the lounge.

  The moment we were back in the car, Lady Jessica – who incidentally speaks quite decent French – informed the driver that they would travel to Paris tonight. He made some grumbling complaints but she took no notice and told Mrs Somerville it was all arranged. Back at the house, both women were in absurdly high spirits running back and forth to each other’s rooms like a couple of schoolgirls going off on excursion. They only had room for a single valise each, so much cross-consultation was needed.

  Vivian was understandably discombobulated. One guest dead and now this unlikely pair leaving at a moment’s notice. Lady Jessica dismissed her earlier plan and decided her husband could travel to England unaccompanied. Mrs Somerville rather indiscreetly handed Vivian a great wad of notes to pay for both their rooms and instructed her to store their trunks until they sent a forwarding address. Finally – to my considerable relief – they bid us farewell and drove off into the night.

  The most extraordinary revelation this evening. We are much reduced in numbers at supper with only myself, Mr Geraldson, Jonathan and Vivian – who looked slightly less grim than previous evenings. We had just begun the soup course when she said, ‘The police have dropped their investigations. It appears that Mr Farley took his own life.’

  While this outcome was an enormous relief, how was that possible? How did he hit himself in the back of the head while in a horizontal position?

  ‘What nonsense! Absurd! Completely absurd,’ shouted Jonathan. ‘We had a nightcap with him that very evening, didn’t we, Geraldson? He was in perfectly good humour —’

  ‘For God’s sake, calm down, Jonathan,’ Vivian interrupted. ‘There were obviously some problems in the marriage for Lady Jessica to run off —’

  ‘Wives are always running off! Besides, she hadn’t even left the bloody building!’

  Vivian’s mouth set in a stubborn line. ‘Jonathan, I suggest we leave it to the experts. Better suicide than . . . than the other.’

  ‘How did he supposedly kill himself then?’ asked Jonathan.

  ‘Veronal. A bottle on the bedside table. Consistent with the autopsy.’

  ‘It could have been accidental,’ said Geraldson. ‘Perhaps he didn’t measure out the grains carefully enough. Not uncommon.’

  ‘Farley was careful. He was a careful man,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘Anyway, that was the finding. Now I suggest we put the whole ghastly episode behind us,’ said Vivian.

  ‘Anyone could have administered it to him while he was asleep – his dim-witted wife, for instance!’ said Jonathan.

  ‘She was with Mrs Somerville. The police are satisfied, I don’t see why you shouldn’t be,’ said Vivian.

  ‘Where are you getting all this information? Why are the police reporting to you, anyway? It’s not in the papers and it’s not as though you’re next-of-kin —’

  ‘It comes direct from the commissaire.’ Vivian’s tone was cold steel.

  Jonathan stared at her in disbelief. ‘Oh, I see what’s going on here.’ He stood up, knocking his chair over. ‘You’re at it with him now!’

  ‘Jonathan, sit down,’ Vivian said. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Behave yourself. You’re drunk and confused – think of your blood pressure. Sit down.’

  I sensed Geraldson was rather enjoying himself but I most definitely was not. Amandine stood in the doorway holding an empty tray. She may not have understood the conversation, but the mood needed no interpretation. I hadn’t seen Jonathan so animated and he was indeed quite scarlet in the face. At Vivian’s command, he sulkily recovered his fallen chair and flopped into it. Amandine took this as a cue to hurriedly collect the soup bowls, despite the fact that none of us had finished. Geraldson pushed back his chair and lit a cigarette, probably to mask that annoying smirk of his.

  As I left the dining room after dinner, Vivian followed and caught me on the stair. ‘I expect it is crystal clear that you do not breathe a word of that conversation – or anything else that happens in this house. The Riviera is a very small place. I will know.’

  I murmured my reassurances but could feel her watching me as I walked self-consciously up the stairs.

  ‘I would prefer you use the service stairs in future,’ she called after me. ‘The main stair is exclusively for guests.’

  I feel nostalgic now for the times when she was so charming to me. Those days are long gone. It’s hard to know what I have done to raise her ire, especially now that we are actually making progress with the work – and I am the only person she has hired who has achieved that.

  Now I have had some time to think the situation through, it is possible that Farley regained consciousness, realised that his wife had gone, he had disgraced himself attacking a defenceless woman, and impulsively decided to end it all. But I can’t see it. He was not the sensitive type, let alone remorseful. I think it more likely that someone else administered it to him while he was out cold.

  Mr Brooke has thoroughly relished all the drama up at the house. It seems that Monsieur Lapointe also has some sort of relationship with the commissaire (though obviously of a different nature to Vivian’s) or perhaps with someone else in the police department, as he had reported back some interesting snippets of information about Mr Farley. One of which was that Farley did not serve his country at all. Throughout the war, he was a guest of His Majesty, interned in Brixton Prison under a wartime regulation that allowed for enemies of Britain to be held without charges or trial.

  ‘I told you I knew that name, Farley,’ said Mr Brooke with some satisfaction. ‘Typical of Vivian to be busy cultivating a nest of fascists up there.’

  ‘I don’t know that you can call one man a nest, exactly.’

  ‘What about Geraldson? What have you found out about him?’

  I was about to remind Mr Brooke that I had turned down the role of informant when a penny dropped. ‘Actually, although he goes to some lengths to disguise the fact, I think he’s German.’

  ‘What did I tell you?’

  ‘That doesn’t automatically make him fascist,’ I pointed out.

  ‘What do you mean by “some lengths”?’

  There wasn’t much to go on and I had to admit there was no real reason for him to pretend to be British. Germans were hardly popular in France since the occupation but he didn’t seem like a man who cared about popularity. I shared my theory that he is here on business as he often goes away for several days at a time but then returns.

  ‘I’ve got a pretty good idea who he is,’ Mr Brooke said. ‘It’s bloody frustrating knowing there are people up there plotting against me – not being able to find out what the hell is going on.’

  ‘What do you mean? How are they plotting against you?’

  ‘This Geraldson practically lives there and yet no one seems to know a thing about him. He’s part of her scheme, I’m certain of it.’

  ‘Vivian’s scheme?’

  He stopped himself with a stubborn jut of the jaw so I diverted the conversation onto the tasks for the day. In fact, he is still quite invigorated about the work and suggested that, as the paperwork is almost under control, we should move on to sorting out the cupboards in that second bedroom. The air in this room is so drenched with scent it is as though you’re breathing a dense fragrant soup. This is where the core of Mr Brooke’s frustration and anger resides. It has a dark, crowded atmosphere with a large cluttered desk against one wall, the imposing cupboards standing sentry and more cartons of materials stacked on the floor. I opened a window but this did little to lighten or ventilate the room. Mr Brooke navigated the many obstacles effortlessly, giving the impression he often wandered around in there. I hope not to spend too much time in that oppressive environment.

  He unlocked one of the cu
pboards to reveal it was packed with dozens of small bottles of raw ingredients. Far from the evocative floral titles one might expect, the labels consisted only of codes. He asked me to read some of them to him. It is hard to imagine how a series of numbers and letters could bring such pleasure but it was as though I were reading poetry aloud. The tension in his face eased, and he gazed into the middle distance with a fond smile.

  The plan was for me to read out each code. He would then divulge the actual contents of the bottle which I would record in a ledger and then type up an inventory of all his raw materials.

  There was something perplexing about this process and there’s the question of why the contents and codes are not already cross-referenced and documented. Did he create this code system and commit it to memory for reasons of secrecy? And will this inventory actually be handed over to Vivian? He had me fetch some crates and straw from the storeroom for packing. It was going to be a long, slow process and I could sense his reluctance as we began – this is the heart and soul of his business we will now pack away.

  He made himself comfortable in his old swivel chair while I did the legwork getting out the bottles and cross-referencing the codes against the contents. It seems inconceivable that he could have all these hundreds of codes in his head but he does. Given each code, he responded without hesitation, naming bergamot, tuberose, freesia, neroli, gardenia, ylang-ylang, sandal­wood, cedarwood – and these are only the more common ones I can recall now. Perhaps he sensed this was an arduous chore for me, and one that will take weeks. When he suggested that I uncap F5364 and smell it, it was as though he wanted to share his almost religious reverence and affection for these materials so essential to his craft.

  ‘What are you getting?’ he asked.

  ‘Is it . . . magnolia?’

  ‘No, what do you get?’

  I don’t usually do requests but decided to indulge him. ‘Perseverance.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I suppose . . . dignity, graciousness?’

  ‘Interesting. Now try B5467.’

  I located the bottle, uncapped it and took a breath. ‘Violet.’

  ‘And?’

  I inhaled once more, allowing my instincts to do the work. ‘Loyalty. Faithfulness.’

  ‘Incredible. I’ve been remiss in not saying this before, but I have never known anyone with such a unique gift for interpretation.’

  ‘I have never considered it a gift, it’s simply one of my senses.’

  ‘I know we discussed this briefly but it seems to me that you can sense the vibrations within a smell and then intuit one step further. You have the ability to absorb subtle emotions or moods and store the memories. You’re identifying something in these fragrances that is implicit. Deeply embedded in an almost mystical way. It’s quite extraordinary.’

  ‘But you have this gift,’ I said.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ His tone had a hard edge to it. It was now or never.

  ‘Because you created Aurélie.’

  He was silent for a long moment. Sorrow crept into the room like a salty mist. It was as though I had mentioned someone who had passed on. Someone he was still grieving for. ‘Tell me what you smelled in Aurélie.’

  I thought back to my initial impressions. Colleen had been the first person in the department to own a bottle. She had always been a kind and generous person but it seemed to me that when she began to wear this fragrance her virtues were brought to the fore, highlighted in a way that abrogated any faults or failings. The fragrance seemed to herald her natural goodness and other people recognised her attributes. I tried to isolate that memory from my experience. To recapture the moment when I smelled it in its purest form. ‘Promise,’ I said. ‘It was an evocation of the promise in each of us.’

  To my surprise, his eyes filled with tears. It was so unexpected I barely knew what to say. The room filled with a deep silence. Outside the day was fading, the golden light of the afternoon sliding away, leaving shadow in its path.

  ‘You must have an extraordinary sense of smell to create a fragrance like Aurélie.’

  ‘I did once. It’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ I couldn’t have been more shocked.

  ‘Like my blindness, anosmia is associated with my condition. I’m gradually losing all my senses to this bastard diabetes. My nose is just a structure on my face now. Redundant.’

  It seems inconceivable that Mr Brooke’s greatest gift has been stolen from within. Now I understand his anger. I told him how very sorry I was. No words could do the situation justice. After a time he said, ‘Before we pack all this up, let’s make one last fragrance. Together.’

  ‘My sense is undisciplined. It’s just instinct. I don’t have any skills.’

  ‘I’ll guide you. We will make it very simple.’ He then sat thinking for so long I worried he would change his mind. ‘This composition will be made for you. It will be everything the world needs to know about you.’ He smiled. ‘It will be the essence of Iris.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘We can call it Iridescence.’

  And so we started.

  The day faded into evening. Menna brought food and slipped away. Our task was completely engrossing, almost like a mathematical abstraction that starts with a concept and works its way toward a resolution through trial and error, defined not by numbers but by smell. Mr Brooke still has the ability to derive something from nothing, from vibrations, as he puts it. He insisted that the fragrance should highlight my less obvious attributes. He noted my sense of humour, intelligence and empathy but also honesty and courage. Wonderful attributes I am not entirely sure I possess! I went along with him because it was making him so happy and I was touched that he had observed these qualities in me.

  He pondered each of my traits long and hard before giving me the code and the exact amount to measure into the beaker. I made a careful note of each element and quantity, some of which played a major role; others were minuscule.

  It was a laborious but fascinating process that involved regular rethinking and reworking. Over the last few days we have continued our work on the stocktake but his mind has been constantly drawn back to the composition, reminding me that each manifestation is a draft still to be perfected. Over and over he asked me to dip a test strip into the formulation and explain it to him. Sometimes I had to leave the cottage and stand outside in the fresh air to clear my senses. In the normal scheme of things he would create these compositions over weeks or months, reflecting on each draft and reworking it. But our time is limited.

  By the time the final composition of Iridescence was decanted into a bottle we were both exhausted and exultant. How to find words to describe it? There is no sense of it conforming with the usual fragrance structures. It’s not definable as fruity or floral or citrus, etcetera, but all those elements are present in some form. As with Aurélie the emphasis is not on the fragrance itself but what it brings to the surface. It may be quite different for someone else, but for me Iridescence is a distillation and compression of every memory of happiness in my life. It’s the scent of contentment.

  It was late this evening when we finished. I packed up the plates from the final meal Menna had brought over and had begun to wash them up when she arrived back at the cottage. I felt a little awkward at her presence but she smiled at me warmly and seemed quite relaxed about me being there. She fetched a small black bag down from the kitchen cupboard, laid the contents on the bench and went about some preparations I couldn’t observe without being obvious.

  Mr Brooke bid me goodnight and went to his room. Menna followed him in and closed the door. I had seen her discard something in the bin and went over to look. I feel such a fool. I pride myself on picking up on subtleties but so often miss what is blindingly obvious. It was an empty insulin vial.

  Alexander rang to invite me out dancing this evening and even though I’m a mediocre dancer with a small repertoire, I was delighted to accept after a week of hard work. The choice of wardrobe was limited to my violet taffeta, rat
her old-fashioned, but it has a nice full skirt. Some crystal beads would have added a little sparkle but I only had a strand of pearls that once belonged to my mother. All was redeemed by a dab of Iridescence that made me feel more glamorous than my dress really allowed for. The whole effect was considerably dampened by my cardigan and lumpy purse, but I doubted anyone would notice. Being inconspicuous does have advantages.

  Leaving via the back stair, I bumped into Menna. She gave me an appraising look and beckoned me to follow her. She led me downstairs to a box room off the service hall where the trunks left behind by Lady Jessica and Mrs Somerville were stored. Menna undid the straps of a large leather trunk. Inside, all was beautifully neat and tidy. Given that Lady Jessica had left in such a rush, this was presumably Menna’s handiwork. She carefully lifted various items out until she found a cream stole. I discarded the offending cardigan and she draped the stole around my shoulders – heavenly, like a cloud of cashmere. Next were some long white evening gloves and a pretty beaded purse in silver and cream. I went along to the servants’ bathroom to admire myself. It may have been the dingy light and mottled-looking glass, but the image that materialised looked quite lovely.

  At my discreet request (bypassing Vivian), Monsieur Lapointe agreed to chauffeur me down to Cannes where I was to meet Alexander. To my delight, when we pulled up outside the Carlton Hotel the doorman hastened to open my door as he had for those more illustrious guests. Monsieur Lapointe, who had maintained his smouldering silence throughout the trip, glanced over his shoulder and gave me a nod – it may be too far-fetched to say it was of approval, but at least of acknowledgement.

  On my first visit to the Carlton I was too shy to enter the hotel and skulked around outside like a child afraid to go into the classroom. Now here I was swanning into the foyer like a bona fide guest! I went through into the bar as instructed and found Alexander, who had secured a table and already drunk half a bottle of expensive champagne. I expected him to be dazzled by my borrowed finery and looked forward to some compliments. He didn’t notice, only asking if I was suitably shod for the dance floor.