LITMIR.BIZ

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no sense. ‘They’re in French. Aren’t they?’

      ‘Ah! Yes,’ he admitted, shaking his head. ‘I apologize. I would be happy to go through them with you. Or if you prefer, you may have your English lawyer approve them. I can arrange to have them translated—’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Grace interrupted, ‘but I’m not entirely certain I understand. Would you mind explaining everything to me again? Slowly?’

      ‘Yes, of course. Maybe I’m not being very clear. You see, according to the terms of the will, you’re to have the entire proceeds, minus the transaction fees, of the purchase price of Madame d’Orsey’s property holdings. We’re planning to accept bids from several different leading estate agents and then, with your permission of course, we’ll be able to market it. In addition, a portfolio of stocks also comes into your possession. However, they are being managed elsewhere.’

      Grace’s mouth was open but she was unable to close it. ‘I’ve inherited stocks and a … an apartment? In Paris?’

      ‘Well,’ Monsieur Tissot paused, ‘not quite. The will specifies that you are to receive the proceeds of the sale of the property. It’s my understanding that Madame d’Orsey wanted you to have the funds, rather than the property itself. It was always her intention to provide you with a lump sum for your personal use.’

      ‘A lump sum? For my use?’ It was unnerving to imagine a stranger planning her future in such detail; even a benevolent stranger.

      ‘Yes, and quite a considerable one at that.’

      ‘But surely she didn’t intend for the money to go to me, directly?’

      ‘On the contrary, that’s precisely what she intended. My understanding was that she wanted you to have financial independence. Le droit de choisir was how she put it. The right to choose.’

      Grace felt light headed; her hands were tingling with pins and needles. ‘But not for me, personally. What I mean to say is, am I not inheriting this by default, as it were?’

      ‘Default?’ He frowned.

      ‘Yes, I mean, surely this was originally meant for someone else, wasn’t it?’

      ‘Madame, you are the named recipient in the will.’

      ‘Are you sure?’

      Monsieur Tissot’s frown deepened.

      Grace tried to swallow but her mouth felt dry, as if her tongue was made of felt. Financial independence. A lump sum. ‘May I trouble you, Monsieur Tissot, for a glass of water, please?’

      ‘Of course.’ He went to the door and said something to the secretary.

      A moment later, he handed her a glass. ‘Are you quite all right? Your cheeks are white. Perhaps you should lie down, Madame Munroe.’

      Grace took a sip. ‘I’m a little tired, that’s all. I’m not used to travelling by myself and this, this has come as something of a shock to me.’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘Did …?’ She stopped; started again. ‘I’m sorry, did you know her? Madame d’Orsey?’ She tried to sound casual.

      ‘I drew up the will with her. But that was all. She was quite a strong personality. It’s a shame that she died so young.’ His face shadowed with concern. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like some time alone? I would be more than happy to leave the room.’

      ‘No, thank you. I feel better now.’ She put the glass down, forced herself to look him 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

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