A Crime of Fashion

by Carina Axelsson

  Anyway, I’ve made my bed, as the saying goes… But there’s more to it than that, Hector (isn’t there always?). Before you start thinking that your little sister enjoys wallowing in her troubles, it’s not Pierre that keeps me here. I’m expecting a child, Hector – that’s what keeps me here.

  The baby is due at the end of March. Finally I’ll have someone to share this hell with – and someone worth staying sane for. I told you that Pierre’s uncle owns the inn, didn’t I? The inn that Pierre claimed was his own prosperous hotel and casino. (Another lie I swallowed whole – not that it matters now.) Anyway, his uncle is unwell – very unwell. And if Pierre carries on drinking as he does, he’ll no doubt be unwell soon too. But with my newly formed sense of survival, I’m pushing to take charge. My spirit isn’t entirely crushed yet. You see, I’m finally that which our parents always wanted me to be: a responsible married woman.

  Forgive me, Hector, for that last sentence. I don’t mean to sound sarcastic, but I know you’ll be kind and remember me as the carefree girl I was and not the bitter woman I’m rapidly becoming. I think you’ll understand that there is no longer any possibility of reconciliation between my former life and my present one – and judging from what you’ve told me, our parents feel the same. The baton is in your hand alone now, Hector. You always were so kind and good, so responsible. They can count on you at least to be a solace to them in their old age.

  By the way, did I ever tell you how Pierre knew about me? The Rozières’ staff had stopped at his uncle’s inn on their way to Deauville. To make a long story short, they spoke loudly, he overheard, and a plan was hatched to “marry an heiress”. I saw him drunk for the first time after Papa’s cable reached us in Monaco. When he read that I was to be disinherited he – well, never mind what he did. It was the beginning of the end.

  I’ll let you know when the child arrives.

  Love always,

  Giselle

  The child did arrive. The next letter, dated a few months later, confirmed that. A healthy son named Jacques was born to Giselle and Pierre Roux. You are now an uncle! wrote Giselle to her brother. Apart from that, and the briefest of greetings, the letter said nothing more of interest. By the next letter, however, a lot had happened – not least the destructive force of World War II, the events of which couldn’t help but colour the next decade of Giselle’s life:

  18th September, 1946

  Dear Hector,

  So much has happened, I don’t even know where to start. I haven’t heard from you in so many years… Of course, I’m not exactly the most regular letter-writer either…

  I’ll start with the good news: you have a niece! On April 18, 1942, I had the most beautiful daughter. I know every mother claims their daughter is the most beautiful, but my dark-haired little moppet really is. She has enormous eyes of the most striking colour – and like a Hollywood mother, I’ve named her after them: Violette. Her father has eyes of a similar colour.

  If you remember Pierre you’ll know his eyes are not light. So I’ll tell you what everyone here thinks, but doesn’t dare say. Namely, that Pierre is not Violette’s father. Daniel, her father, is an Englishman. He was stationed not far from here until the Liberation, and not long after he arrived he began to come round regularly with smuggled goods for Jacques and I. Of course I wasn’t about to turn my back on butter, milk and fresh meat (even a ripe cantaloupe – don’t ask me where he found it!). Jacques became his little shadow and I…well, I fell in love. Don’t shake your head in judgement before I’ve stated my case – your little sister hasn’t descended quite as low as you think!

  Pierre’s uncle died some years ago. By that time, Pierre was a complete drunkard. He’s still alive – if you can call it that. He lies all day upstairs in a room I’ve made up for him. As long as he gets his daily ration of you-know-what and the newspapers, he’s okay. By that I mean that he stays quiet and in his room. He’s been like this since before Paris was invaded. To his credit, he acknowledged Violette as his daughter (not that I gave him much of a choice). And to their credit, the townspeople haven’t asked any awkward questions. Truth be told, I believe the general consensus is that I’ve done a good job of managing the inn. I’ve brought more business to the town and I think the people living here have been willing to turn a blind eye to keep Violette and me happy. Everyone bends over backwards to please her. But she’s such a serious little thing – everything has to be just so.

  Her father left town soon after the war with promises to return. Of course he hasn’t, but I don’t begrudge him his lie, nor do I regret the time I spent with him. Violette has been a greater gift than I could have imagined… You see, poor darling Jacques is not well. The doctors say he should get better. I pray for the best, and, in the meantime, Violette adds a touch of gaiety to our lives.

  Please don’t worry about me. The inn is doing well, Violette and I are healthy and Pierre is too weak to be of trouble. To be honest, for the first time in my life, I’m content. I’ve worked hard to attain this bit of freedom and independence. It’s not as bad here as you’d imagine. I’ll leave you with this rustic but relatively tranquil image of your little sister!

  Love always,

  Giselle

  “What a destiny.” Sebastian carefully folded the letter and handed it back to me.

  “Either that or just a lot of unfortunate choices. I wonder if Giselle is still alive?”

  “If she is, she must be about a hundred by now.”

  “But Violette is probably alive somewhere.”

  “And she could be rightfully entitled to financial compensation from the La Lunes…”

  “If she can prove François La Lune stole her Uncle Hector’s drawings.”

  “Exactly.” Sebastian was quiet suddenly.

  “But…?”

  “No buts – just something interesting. This morning, when I was going through the city records, the lady helping me said I wasn’t the only one who’d been asking after Hector Merlette.”

  “How did she know?”

  “They keep a record of enquiries.”

  “So who else is on the same trail?”

  “Someone called…” I waited as he unfolded another slip of paper. “David le Néanar. Ring a bell?”

  “Not at all. And the clerk helping you couldn’t tell you more?”

  “No. She wasn’t on duty when this David person came through. She only noticed that he’d signed in and that his subject of search was listed as Hector Merlette. He was there yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?”

  He nodded. “Quite a coincidence, right?”

  “It’s too much of a coincidence… It’s one more question to add to the boxful we already have. Anyway, the first thing we’ve got to do is find Giselle’s daughter, Violette. She must be alive…”

  “I thought that tomorrow I’d keep digging – and don’t worry, I’ll let you know about every little discovery,” he quickly added when he saw my crestfallen face. “Axelle, you’re doing the shows, remember?”

  Arghhh! Remember? I’d completely forgotten! Hervé would be furious that I hadn’t rung him. Pulling out my phone I saw that after calling me several times and getting no reply he’d sent a text confirming my schedule for tomorrow: Lanvin in the morning at the Louvre and Chanel in the afternoon at the Grand Palais Exhibition Hall. I was also confirmed for a half-day of beauty for French Elle on Thursday. These prestigious jobs had clearly made him happy: he’d signed off with a row of smiley faces.

  I couldn’t say I was smiling, though. Again, my modelling disguise seemed to be pulling me away from the mystery – not taking me towards it, as I’d hoped. But it was too late to back out now. “You’re right, Sebastian,” I said as I put my phone away. “At least I might have more leads after I’m finished with the letters. Although judging by the next one, there might not be more to go on,” I said as I pulled a slip of paper from the next envelope.

  “What’s that?” he asked as I pushed it towards him.


  “Swan Lake. Palais Garnier. 17th April, 1961. We’ve gone from the war and alcoholic husbands to Paris and the ballet in the 1960s.”

  “Hmm. Must have been a special night,” he said. Then he flashed me his smile and we got up to leave – the cafe was locking up for the night. I carefully wrapped the letters before slipping them back in my bag. I’d finish reading them as soon as I was home – I had to know the next part of the story.

  Sebastian walked me to my aunt’s, pushing his scooter along beside me. It was a cool, calm night. No one else was out, and, apart from our footsteps, the street was quiet. Somewhere, if they were still alive, Belle and Darius were maybe being held against their will. If so, what were they thinking? Were they nearby? Were they okay? And how did the letters tie in to it all?

  “Shall we meet after your morning show? With any luck I’ll have found out where Violette is by then,” Sebastian said.

  “And I’ll catch you up to date on the letters.”

  “Great. I’ll wait for you downstairs, in the Louvre, at the Lanvin exit. And then there’s the Juno bag launch in the evening. Maybe afterwards we can go over our new leads?”

  “Yeah, that sounds…” I trailed off.

  “Axelle?”

  I’d completely forgotten that I was thinking of meeting Dom after the launch – that hopefully I’d get him to answer a few questions. Quickly, I told Sebastian as much.

  “Are you sure this is only about the case?” he asked, as he fiddled with the lock on his scooter.

  I didn’t know what to say. I mean, of course it had to do with the case…but maybe a tiny bit had to do with Dom, too. So I said nothing.

  I had the impression Sebastian wanted to say something, but he didn’t.

  He waited until I went in. A few moments after the heavy door shut behind me I heard his scooter drive off. Slowly I trudged up the stairs to my aunt’s. It seemed she was still out – probably at a party – the apartment was quiet. I was tired now and longing for my bed – which, I noticed with a start when I nearly sat on her, had been appropriated by Aunt Venetia’s cat, Miu Miu.

  I didn’t even bother moving her as I slipped under the fluffy duvet and pulled out the letters. I read them quickly, one after the other. Riddles, names, emotions and theories raced through my mind: the letters posed more questions than they answered. I turned the light out and slipped the packet under my pillow. Someone else had considered them important enough to hide – and now I was beginning to understand why.

  Slowly sleep overcame me. My last thought was of Sebastian, standing downstairs, watching me leave, his light blue eyes serious. I wondered again what it was he’d wanted to say…

  She’d recognized his strained breathing…

  It was Darius, her brother.

  She’d rolled off her bed and wriggled to his. The packed earth underneath her was cool and damp. She tried not to panic as a rat scurried over her foot.

  Darius was in a deep sleep. Had he been drugged? And for how long could he breathe without his medication? What was he doing down here?

  She shivered.

  Had he made the same mistake she had?

  SHOWS GO ON, BUT BELLE STILL MISSING! screamed the morning headlines. The shows had started with a bang yesterday.

  Ellie adorned the front page of Le Figaro. Head held high and Mona Lisa smile on her lips, she was shown bounding down the runway in a frilled pencil skirt and ultra-high stilettos. A wonderfully vertiginous and messy librarian’s bun wobbled atop her head and an enormous magnifying glass dangled around her neck (all the models wore one).

  Forget Hitchcock’s Dial M for Murder, my aunt was quoted in the article as saying, instead Dial D for Dior. The dynamic charge running through these separates is sure to please any modern-day Miss Marple looking for striking solutions to the mystery of the contemporary woman’s wardrobe.

  Otherwise, the reviews were minimal. Uncertainty and unease loomed over the city, the glaring hole left by Belle too large to be forgotten – no matter how nice the clothes. Where were Belle and Darius? Were they alive? And what was taking so long to find them? Photos of the La Lune mansion swarming with police did nothing to reassure the public. And the media reports that every one of the La Lunes was under constant surveillance became more farcical, as each hour passed and no real clue was forthcoming. Inspector Witt’s face looked out at me from the morning paper. He was not amused.

  My aunt, meanwhile, had taken no chances: she’d ordered a Chic company car to drive me to the Lanvin show at the Louvre (although I’d insisted that afterwards I’d get around on my own, thank you very much). In the car, my phone suddenly rang. I set the morning paper down and, without thinking, answered.

  A bubbling stream of words rushed out: “Good morning, darling! How’s my favourite model? I hope you got your beauty sleep. I’m going to watch the Fashion Channel later. I’ve invited Kathy, Annie and Camilla. I’ve made a delicious chicken lemon risotto which I’ll heat up and then we’ll sit and watch you! I’m so excited! Didn’t your father and I tell you this would be a fantastic experience?”

  “Uh—”

  I was about to tell Mum that the line was cracking up, but, luckily for me, she had an appointment. “I’m meeting a new client with a fabulous apartment in Chelsea. They want me to decorate the whole thing. So I have to keep it short, but I’ll be out on Friday to watch you in the Barinaga and La Lune shows, then I’ll stay on and we can have fun all weekend – together!”

  “The Barinaga show? Friday?” I hadn’t heard anything about the Barinaga show.

  “Yes, darling, Barinaga! Haven’t you spoken with Hervé yet this morning? Axelle, honestly! It’s nine in the morning your time and you haven’t even called him yet! Well, don’t worry – I’m here for you, darling! Right, I have to go. I’ll call you later!”

  Trust my mum to have already begun checking in with Hervé – on my behalf!

  When I saw the mayhem, crowds and paparazzi blocking the side entrance to the Louvre, I was happy to have the car and driver. To avoid the chaos, we drove past the Rue de Rivoli entrance and around to the large glass pyramid in the courtyard of the Louvre. Here there were no crowds – for once. Today everyone was at the side entrance, hoping to catch sight of any famous models that were on their way into the Louvre. I jumped out of the car, slipped through the heavy glass door and walked onto an escalator that took me down to the level of the shows. From there I found my way to the space reserved for Lanvin. Backstage was packed. And again, just like at Miriam’s, I felt I was stepping into another world.

  Amidst all the chaos and excitement, Ellie stood waiting for me. She spotted me as soon as I walked in and led me through a haze of hairspray and glittering face powder to a large buffet table decked out with an amazing array of salads, quiches, cold cuts and tiny bite-sized desserts. “This is for whenever you get hungry. Why don’t you load up a plate now, and then follow me to hair.”

  I once went with my family to Crufts, the big London dog show. I remember walking down aisle after aisle of Afghan hounds, Pomeranians, golden retrievers, etc., just before they were getting ready to judge Best in Show. The scene before me now looked similar: long tables, bright lights, intense concentration, models lined up, each with their respective hairdresser blowing, teasing, and brushing oodles and oodles of hair. Ellie took me to a wisp of a lady who had just finished with a six-foot-tall blonde. Ellie introduced her as Brigitte.

  I stayed with Brigitte for an hour. My nerves, now that I was finally getting ready to walk my first show, expanded with anxiety as every second ticked past. I began to feel queasy. I longed to rip the curlers out of my hair, slip out of a side entrance and run into the fresh air. High heels, lace and accessories would be tossed by the wayside in my bid for freedom.

  Calm down, Axelle, I told myself as I took a deep breath. Slowly I took another, then turned to Ellie. Her hair was still pinned up and would remain so until her make-up was finished. I watched as she devoured a plate full of goodies without mov
ing one single hair out of place. Despite the late night and early morning (as well as the scarily hectic week ahead), she looked amazing.

  For me, on the other hand, everything proceeded in a blur of nerves and distraction. I was relieved when Brigitte leaned in to my ear and said, “Axelle, chèrie, the curlers have to stay in your hair for thirty minutes. I’m going to finish Ellie’s hair, so I’ll leave you here during that time, okay? Will you be all right?”

  “Absolutely,” I answered. Perfect, I thought. Now I could turn to the one thing that was certain to distract me from my impending fashion show debut: the letters. I needed to read them through again, fully awake and with fresh eyes, to truly understand their importance.

  I hung my new pea coat on my shoulders for extra warmth and popped my earphones in so that it looked like I was busy listening to music. Then I pulled the packet out of my shoulder bag and took another look at the ballet ticket. Slowly I turned it over in my hand before replacing it in its envelope. Last night, in the cafe with Sebastian, it hadn’t made sense, but reading the next letter again, I began to understand…

  Épaignes, 10th January, 1961

  Dear Hector,

  My patient brother, it has been so long…I’m not even sure if your address is the same. I hope, however, that this long silence on your part is not due to any unfortunate circumstances?

  I am writing because my daughter – your niece – Violette has asked to go to Paris. Actually, “asked” is something of an understatement. Declared is more like it. Apparently, the thought of staying on here and taking over the inn doesn’t appeal to her. I can’t say I blame her. Honestly, she is too clever and too beautiful for a place like this. Furthermore, having gone through what I did at her age, you know I’d be the last one to stand in her way…

  So I’m sending her to Paris with a bit of money I’ve been putting away for something like this (if truth be told, I think that in my heart of hearts I’d always thought this moment would come). I’m also sending her off with your address. Please, Hector, would you give her a helping hand? She’ll be alone and doesn’t know a soul…