The Last Will And Testament Of Daphné Le Marche

Chapter 4 (#ulink_ef6fb0e7-a90b-5b7a-9b8d-3f3eea19805d)

Robert

Paris never looked more beautiful than in the autumn, Robert Le Marche decided as he drove under a golden canopy of magnificent beech trees.

Everyone always went on about spring in Paris, but autumn was sublime, with the leaves changing and people looking so chic in their coats and boots.

Robert parked his navy Bugatti on rue de Grenelle and jumped out as two attractive women walked towards him. Just as they passed, he pressed the key to lock the car, making them aware that the machine was his.

The women strolled by in deep conversation, ignoring Robert and his car, much to his chagrin. He had twisted his back getting out of the car gracefully and all for nothing, he thought, cursing the women but not the car that was as low to the ground as a snake on roller skates.

He pressed the security code next to the ornate iron gates and then pushed them open and walked inside, entering the private garden. He ignored the last flush of melon-coloured tea roses that stood proudly in their immaculate beds and an espaliered orange tree ran across the ancient brick wall, bearing the last of the fruit while orange and white poppies waved in the sun.

He could never understand his mother’s obsession with the colour orange. She was like Monet, always chasing the light, looking for that ‘dernières lueurs’.

He had stopped listening to her ramblings of the search when he was a boy, but Henri had always listened, even encouraging the pursuit, delivering hand-dyed tangerine silk woven with gold thread from Varanasi, amber beads from the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, even a jar of antique buttons in her favourite shades of apricot and candlelight peach from the Camden Markets.

Henri was always such a sycophant, he thought, as he put the key in the lock of the front door and pushed it open.

The marble foyer and wrought iron staircase met him and he sighed, as he looked upstairs. Why his mother wouldn’t get an elevator installed in the place he could never understand. She had the money, but she refused, claiming it was sacrilegious to install such modernity in such an old home.

Robert hadn’t argued with his mother because he would never win. He learned that years ago, but now, as he stood in the foyer of the four-storey family home, he felt nothing. He thought he would feel some sort of relief, even some satisfaction that she was gone, but there was only silence in his heart and in the house.

He walked up the stairs slowly, stopping at each level to catch his breath, and silently cursing his addiction to cigarettes.

Finally, he reached the top level and loosened his tie from his neck. He was once a handsome man, but a lifetime of sunbathing, smoking, drinking and eating rich food had ruined his fine features and had turned him into a doughy version of his former self.

He crossed the room, with its heavy, ornate furniture, and opened the drawer of the Louis XV desk. He pulled out a kidskin file and opened the gold lock with a small key that hung on his key ring.

He rifled through the papers inside and then, not seeing what he wanted, pulled them all out and spread them across the desk.

Birth certificates, the marriage certificate, deeds to the houses and other items that Daphné had deemed important were inside. Everything except the one thing he wanted.

He pulled out his phone, dialled a number and waited.

‘Edward Badger please, Robert Le Marche,’ he said, as he checked the papers again.

‘Edward speaking,’ came the crisp English accent.

‘Where is the will and the formula?’

‘Let me first offer my condolences on the loss of your mother,’ said Edward smoothly. ‘She was a remarkable woman.’

Robert had never liked him. He tried too hard to be Henri’s replacement.

‘Remarkable is one word,’ said Robert drily. ‘I’m at rue de Grenelle, the documents aren’t here.’

‘The formula is in the bank vault, and the will is in the office, as per your mother’s instructions before she passed.’

Robert felt his blood pressure rise. ‘She wrote her will three years ago,’ he said.

‘No, there was a codicil the night before she died,’ said Edward.

‘A what?’

‘A codicil is an amendment to a will,’ said Edward.

Patronising prick, thought Robert.

‘I know what a fucking codicil is,’ he snapped, walking around the top floor, staring unseeingly at the view across Paris. ‘When can I see it?’

‘We have some details to attend to, and then we will read the will. Madame Le Marche expressed very firmly that it should be after her funeral.’

Robert clutched the back of a gilt-edged chair.

‘I need to get things moving,’ he said, trying to control his voice.

‘Yes, I can understand that,’ said Edward and then he paused on the end of the phone. ‘We have to wait for Sibylla’s response,’ he said.

‘Sibylla? Henri’s child?’ asked Robert. He now circled the chair and sat on its overstuffed silk cushion.

‘Yes, she’s in the will,’ said Edward.

‘What did Daphné leave her?’ Robert ran through the list of chattels and houses. The château now used as a wedding venue, the house he was sitting in, the apartment in London where she died? Perhaps it was some art? Robert could accept some art going to the girl, she deserved that much, and a flush of guilt ran through his body, causing a cold sweat.

‘Why do we need to wait for her? If it’s an item, we can ship it over, can’t we?’ Robert’s voice betrayed him as his desperation rose.

‘That’s not going to work,’ said Edward. ‘Now if you will excuse me, I have more details to attend to, as I’m sure you do also, for the funeral will most likely be enormous.’

Robert sat in the chair, staring at the wall.

Sibylla Le Marche. He barely thought of Henri’s child nowadays. How old was she when he died? Nine or ten? He searched his memory for the girl who had played with Celeste while he and Matilde pointed blame at each other for Camille’s death.

She was more like her mother Elisabeth, he remembered, dark haired and quiet, in contrast to Celeste’s boisterous beauty.

Just thinking about the past gave him a headache and he decided he needed two things. A strong coffee and blowjob from one of the escorts he used for such purposes.

He dialled a number and waited. ‘Anika, it’s Robert, can I see you?’

‘Darling,’ she purred in her German accent, ‘I’m in Cannes.’ She laughed and he could hear the sound of laughter in the background.

‘Why are you in Cannes?’

‘I’m with a sheik I met at the festival, who offered me an obscene amount of cash to stay for a while. We’ve been all over the Mediterranean, and we’re just coming back into Cannes now.’

Her voice hushed to a whisper. ‘I can pay my apartment off with this trip,’ she said.

Robert wasn’t sure if he should congratulate her or call Interpol in case she went missing.