Alice-Miranda in Paris 7 (24 page)

Before Alice-Miranda could ask him anything else, they were both distracted by the blare of a news bulletin on the TV mounted to the wall. There was grainy footage of a man wearing a beret and carrying something. Then there was a picture of the designer Christian Fontaine.

‘That’s Christian Fontaine. We sang at his show. He was robbed of some very expensive fabric a week or so ago,’ the child said. ‘We saw him outside his studio with the police.’

The footage changed back to the grainy CCTV shot of the man.

Fabien stared. He stood up and walked closer to the television. ‘No! It can’t be!’

‘What? What’s the matter?’ Alice-Miranda looked at the boy, then back at the screen.

The shot zoomed in.

Fabien gasped. ‘That man is my uncle.’

‘But how can you tell?’ asked Alice-Miranda.

Fabien held up his hand. ‘My uncle lost his middle finger in an accident when he was a boy. And I would know that hand anywhere. But how . . .’ The boy’s face drained of colour. ‘He is a thief?’ Fabien took a few moments to digest the news.

‘Are you sure it’s him?’ asked Alice-Miranda.

‘Uncle Claude told Mama that there would be a van arriving to pick up some stock from the basement. He told her that it was very important – he must be getting rid of the fabric.’

‘You don’t think your mother knows about this, do you?’ said Alice-Miranda.

‘No,’ Fabien shook his head firmly.

‘And where is your uncle now?’ Alice-Miranda asked.

‘He’s upstairs doing some business.’

‘We could call your mother,’ Alice-Miranda suggested.

There was a telephone on a corner table. Fabien picked up the receiver to dial and then stopped.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Alice-Miranda.

‘I . . . I don’t know what the number is,’ he said, frowning. ‘I’ve never called it before.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Alice-Miranda patted the young lad on the shoulder. ‘We’ll find another way to contact her.’

‘We have to go there. Now, before Uncle Claude comes back.’ Fabien turned and walked towards the door.

‘But you can’t miss the show!’ said Alice-Miranda. She looked Fabien up and down. ‘I have an idea.’

Millie and Jacinta returned from the toilet to the green room.

Miss Grimm and Mrs Winterbottom had gone off in search of the morning tea the group was promised before the parade, and Mr Trout and Mr Lipp had disappeared to do the sound check.

The children were sitting in pairs and small groups, some talking, others playing cards and games they’d been smart enough to bring in their daypacks. The girls joined Sep, Lucas and Sloane, who were watching the television in the corner.

‘Have you seen Alice-Miranda?’ Millie asked.

‘No, I thought she was with you,’ Sloane replied.

‘She was,’ said Millie. ‘Perhaps she went upstairs to see her mother and aunt. Hey, that’s Christian Fontaine, the guy we were supposed to sing for at Versailles.’

The others looked up and saw a flash of the parade in the Hall of Mirrors and then the footage changed to the CCTV images.

‘I wonder if that’s the guy who stole that expensive llama fabric,’ Millie said. There was something about the man on the screen that niggled at Millie but she wasn’t sure what.

Miss Grimm and Mrs Winterbottom returned empty-handed from their morning tea expedition and neither of them was happy about it.

‘Children, apparently you’re needed for a final, final rehearsal. They’ve had to move some things around at the last minute and Mr Trout’s a little anxious,’ announced Miss Grimm. Several more rows of chairs had been brought in and it looked like the children’s performance space had been depleted.

‘Anxious? That’s being rather kind, dear,’ Deidre Winterbottom whispered to her friend. ‘Apoplectic is more like it.’

The children followed Miss Grimm and Mrs Winterbottom along the hallway towards the salon. Jacinta and Millie were last, with Jacinta hobbling on her crutches. Sep and Lucas were just ahead with Sloane.

‘Psst,’ a voice called.

Millie spun around and saw Alice-Miranda poking her head out of a doorway. Sep heard it too.

‘What are you doing?’ Millie asked.

‘Come here,’ Alice-Miranda whispered urgently. Sep tapped Lucas on the shoulder and he and Sloane stopped and turned around too.

‘What are you doing, Alice-Miranda?’ Sloane called.

Sep clamped his hand over his sister’s big mouth. ‘Shh, come on.’ He directed Sloane, Lucas, Millie and Jacinta to fall behind the rest of the group. Fortunately Mrs Winterbottom had been distracted by an awful smell, which Figgy and Rufus were each claiming as their own.

‘You lads are utterly disgusting,’ Mrs Winterbottom crowed. ‘I’m so glad the professor and I don’t have to board with you lot any more.’

Alice-Miranda’s friends piled into the room, which was a smaller version of the one they’d just come from.

‘What are we doing in here?’ said Sloane impatiently. ‘You know they’ll be looking for us in a minute.’

Sep noticed the lad standing in the corner. ‘Fabien? What are you doing here?’

‘He’s Dux,’ Alice-Miranda answered on the boy’s behalf. ‘Dux LaBelle.’

‘What?’ the group looked at each other.

Alice-Miranda and Fabien explained their suspicions about Claude as quickly as they could.

‘We have to call the police,’ said Sloane.

‘There’s no time. Uncle Claude said that there was a van coming this morning to collect a whole lot of old fabric from the basement storeroom.’

‘Is it really that big a deal?’ Sloane said. ‘I mean, it’s just some fabric.’

Jacinta shot her friend an indignant look. ‘It’s not just
some
fabric, Sloane. It’s the world’s most expensive cloth and he stole it.’

‘You don’t know that for sure,’ Sloane said. ‘It might be a coincidence.’

‘I don’t think so. There’s something I haven’t told you. My mother has a new job and she’s here writing stories for Fashion Week,’ Jacinta began.

‘See, I told you your mother might get a job one day,’ Sloane gloated.

Jacinta ignored her. ‘She went to visit Dux LaBelle’s showroom earlier in the week and she met a man called Gilbert, but I think he’s the same person that you’re calling Claude.’

‘How do you know that?’ Alice-Miranda asked.

Jacinta glanced up at Fabien. ‘Well, you said that your Uncle Claude is missing a finger and Mummy said that this man Gilbert was too. It would be a pretty strange coincidence to have two people connected to Dux who have missing fingers.’

Fabien’s jaw dropped. He’d once heard his uncle answer the phone and say that his name was Gilbert. When he’d asked him about it, Claude had said that if it was good enough for Fabien to have an alias then why shouldn’t he have one too. He said that it was part of the game of being in fashion – like theatre. It was all a show. Fabien had thought it was a little strange at the time but so were a lot of things about his life.

‘It’s him for sure,’ Fabien confirmed. He told the children what he knew about his uncle’s other name.

‘But why was your mother writing a story about Dux?’ Lucas asked.

‘Well, he’s such a mystery – I mean,
you’re
such a mystery, Fabien. Mummy thought she could get the scoop and then she would really make a name for herself as a writer. But when she started to investigate, Mummy and I found an old photograph in a magazine with your uncle and Monsieur Fontaine. So she was trying to find out about the connection.’

‘And did she?’ Millie asked.

‘I’m not sure. I haven’t seen her again.’

Fabien was growing impatient. ‘Please, we have to do something.’

Suddenly the door flew open and Mr Plumpton appeared.

‘What are you lot doing in here? Mr Lipp’s up there having a fit because half the choir is missing. Come along now.’

Alice-Miranda stepped forward and looked at the teacher beseechingly. ‘Mr Plumpton, we need your help. You see . . .’ And she explained the situation once more.

‘Oh my, but what about the show?’ exclaimed Mr Plumpton. ‘People will be expecting to see you, Dux – Fabien – whatever your name is.’

‘I’ve got an idea, sir.’ Alice-Miranda pulled on his shirtsleeve. The teacher leaned down and she whispered in Mr Plumpton’s ear.

‘Do you think he could pull it off?’ The teacher gave her a dubious look.

‘I’m sure he’d love it,’ she said. ‘He’s about the same size.’

‘What? Who?’ Millie asked.

‘I’ve got a limousine at the back door,’ said Fabien. ‘Come on.’

Jacinta looked at her swaddled foot and pulled a face. ‘I’ll just slow you all down. I’ll stay and explain everything to Miss Grimm and the professor.’

‘All right. You, you, you and you,’ said Mr Plumpton, pointing at Jacinta, Sloane, Millie and Lucas, ‘head to the rehearsal and don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. And I’ll be back in a minute. Give me that.’ He pointed at the mask in Fabien’s hand. ‘And the cape too. Hurry up, lad.’

Fabien handed them both over to the Science teacher, who raced out of the room.

‘Don’t go without me,’ Josiah Plumpton called back.

Sybilla Bouchard didn’t want to believe what Fabien had told her about the photograph she’d found on his drawing board. Thankfully he hadn’t recognised the young woman in the picture with the flowing red hair. But that had been such a long time ago. And how could she possibly ask Claude without stirring up painful old memories? She waited until Claude and Fabien left for the show, then went to her brother’s room. But there was nothing. Then she remembered the basement. Claude was always back and forth down there, although she didn’t much care to visit it herself. What secrets could it hold? He’d never told her that she couldn’t go down there; he just saved her the bother by bringing up the things she required.

Sybilla realised that she would have to leave the house – in the daylight – if only to walk the few steps to the black door that led into the subterranean rooms. She opened the front door and checked left and right before closing it behind her and scurrying down the stairs to the level below. The door was locked but she knew her brother left a key out for the delivery man who came and went at odd times of the day and night. She felt around for it behind the loose grate and opened the lock. He was predictable – their father had used a similar hiding place for keys when they were children. The room was dark but didn’t smell damp as she expected it might.

Sybilla closed the door behind her and felt about for a light switch. A single bulb cast a dull glow over the room. She had never seen so much fabric. There were shelves lining the room stacked high with coloured silks and cashmeres, acetate linings and just about any other cloth you could imagine. It was certainly more than they would need for years to come. She knew that her brother was keen to expand the business but this was outrageous. Sybilla poked about for a few minutes, wondering how they could afford to have so much stock – and such beautiful quality. Her heart beat like a drum inside her chest.

There were several doors leading off the main room. She opened one and found another room with yet more fabric. She tried another room. This one was empty except for an old timber blanket box with a large padlock. Sybilla jangled the latch and looked around for something she could use to break it open. Her eyes came to rest on an old iron doorstop. Sybilla struggled to pick it up and then slammed it down as hard as she could on the padlock. It sprung open and she dropped the doorstop back onto the floor with a loud thud.

Sybilla had no idea what sort of Pandora’s box she was about to open. She prised up the lid and stared. Surely her eyes were deceiving her. The box was full of photographs and sketches. Her hand dug deeper until she pulled out a bundle of letters that made her cry out loud. The bundle was tied neatly together with a ribbon, and she recognised her own handwriting on the top envelope.

Sybilla’s legs collapsed underneath her. The fistful of letters she was holding spewed from her hands and scattered across the floor.

Her mind was numb. How could her brother have done this to her – and to his nephew too?

Fat tears formed in the corners of her eyes, then ran in rivers down her cheeks. She was sobbing so loudly she didn’t hear the door unlatch.