Authors: Karen Swan
Flora resisted the urge to roll her eyes. He clearly wasn’t a professional – dealer, agent . . .
‘Well, I was never going to go to those numbers. Two point three was my limit. You must have really wanted it,’ she said, reaching the registration desk and handing over her paddle
with a smile.
‘Two point
three
?’ Grey Suit echoed, his bombast deflated, realizing that his braggadocio in making such an aggressive counter-strike had cost him an unnecessary
£150,000. If he had only waited one more bid, not felt so emasculated by being almost outbid by – heaven forefend – a younger woman.
Ouch. Flora winced as she saw him process the hit. ‘As I said, though, it’s a superb work. You’ll make money on it,’ she smiled, turning to leave.
‘Eventually.’
She left Grey Suit gawping after her, counting the cost of his pride, as she pushed through the doors and went to get her bags. The place was only getting busier as people squeezed past her into
the already crammed space – collectors, gallerists, restorers, agents, back-office personnel, even the bar staff: the Bacon triptych was coming up next and the real action of the night was
about to commence; the starting bid alone was a princely £12.5 million.
She was just handing over her ticket when Angus came rushing up. ‘Thank God I caught you,’ he panted, his face alive with delight.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked patiently, an eyebrow arched and knowing something dramatic must have happened for him to be standing here with her. Bidding had just started on the
Bacon and he’d flown in from New York especially to witness it.
He shook his head. ‘Something more important’s come up.’
‘What could possibly be more important than Bacon?’ she smiled. He was so easy to tease.
‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to cancel your breakfast meeting and anything else you’ve got booked for the rest of the week. We need to be in Paris, first thing in the
morning.’
‘Why?’
He turned the phone towards her so that she could see the message on the screen. ‘This.’
Paris
They were on the Rue de Rivoli by quarter to ten and settled in the salon of the Vermeil family’s palatial Haussmann town house nine minutes after that. Angus paced by
the windows, checking his emails for something to do, as Flora took a mental inventory of the impressive artworks hanging on the walls.
She was admiring a Canaletto when the tall panelled door was opened and Madame Vermeil walked in. Flora rose to her feet, grateful for the tiny weights sewn into the hem of her navy Valentino
dress which pulled out creases and kept her looking fresh, even after a dawn start and three-hour journey. She hoped, though, as she took in Madame Vermeil’s classic quilted Chanel
ballerinas, that the Rockstud flats weren’t too much.
Angus strode towards their hostess with his worn-in smile, hand outstretched to clasp hers and press it to his lips. ‘Lilian, you look rapturously well.’
Madame Vermeil’s greeting in return was every bit as warm. The private-client sphere of fine art fostered close relationships which, if handled well, stretched over generations with the
grander families. Flora could tell from Angus’s greeting alone that this was one such bond. On the train over he had handed her a file briefing her on the family’s background –
Swiss ancestry, fortune made in telecoms, big charity players, even bigger political contacts. Jacques Vermeil, her husband, was an eminent cardiologist.
‘Allow me to introduce my new associate, Flora Sykes. I stole her away from Saatchi to head up our European operations.’
‘Sykes,’ Madame Vermeil murmured thoughtfully, swinging her gaze onto Flora’s still form.
‘Indeed. You may know Flora’s father – Hugh Sykes, former chairman of LAPADA and before that—’
‘Chief auctioneer at Christie’s,’ Madame Vermeil finished for him. ‘But of course. I was in the room when he sold the
Sunflowers
for – twenty-five million
pounds, was it?’
‘Twenty-four point seven five, yes,’ Flora nodded. She knew the number by heart even though she hadn’t even been born then. The story of her father roaring up the drive in his
E-Type, gravel spraying the lupins, before bounding into the house and straight down to the cellar where he grabbed the bottle of Puligny-Montrachet and drank it in the rose garden with her mother
and the gardener, was so ingrained, both she and Freddie felt they had been there themselves.
‘The atmosphere in the room that day, I have never forgotten it. People literally could not breathe,’ said Madame Vermeil, her hands clasping her throat, ‘as the numbers they
went up and up and up. There had never been anything like it before that.’
‘I know,’ Flora smiled. ‘My mother says my father’s feet didn’t touch the ground for a month afterwards.’
Madame Vermeil regarded her closely. Though surely in her late fifties, she was a tall, undernourished woman with prominent bone structure and short, coiffed ash-blonde hair, her grey-blue eyes
quick as darting fishes. She had the BCBG Parisian look down pat too – narrow navy trousers that finished just above defined ankles, a dove-grey matt satin blouse and a thread of pearls
resting at the base of her throat. ‘So then, you have joined the family business. Art is in your blood.’
‘Yes, I think it was pretty much considered a foregone conclusion the day I used a Limoges dinner service to have a tea party with my dolls. Besides, I’m not sure my father would
ever have spoken to me again if I’d gone into law.’
‘That was something you considered?’
‘For a while.’
Madame Vermeil looked across at Angus. ‘Brains as well as beauty – you chose wisely, Angus.’
‘Don’t think I don’t know it,’ he laughed. ‘I’ve barely had to pay for a lunch in the last three months – the phone’s ringing off the hook with
people wanting to take
us
out, I wonder why.’
Madame Vermeil laughed lightly and the sound was like sunlight bouncing off crystal. ‘Flora, please call me Lilian. Come, you must sit,’ she said, placing a small yellowed envelope
on a side table and moving towards the ice-blue velvet sofa, her Chanel flats silent on the corn-yellow silk rug.
Flora and Angus sat together on the opposite sofa, abundant blooms of fondant-pink peonies frothing from urns beside them and the honeyed morning light spilling through the floor-to-ceiling
windows, draping over the furniture like bolts of liquid silk.
‘You must forgive me for not being here to greet you. I was in discussion with Monsieur Travers, our notary. You can imagine, this has all been a great surprise to us. It is not every day
that you learn you have a property that has been completely forgotten,
non
?’
‘Indeed,’ Angus agreed warmly. ‘I was at the Bacon sale last night when I received your text and everything else faded into insignificance. In fact, I still don’t know
what it sold for.’ He looked at Flora quizzically.
‘Twenty-seven million,’ she replied.
Angus gave a laugh and a shrug as he turned back to his client. ‘Who knew? Who cares? The possibility for what may be discovered in
your
home is far more exciting.’
Madame Vermeil nodded. ‘Well, you are the only person who knows, outside of the family. We would not want there to be any publicity concerning it, not least because Jacques’ mother
has not taken the news with the same delight. In fact, she is positively displeased.’ She looked across at Flora. ‘Angus has told you the details of what has happened?’
‘Yes. I’ve never heard of such a thing. It really hasn’t been opened in seventy-three years?’
Madame Vermeil shrugged. ‘We knew nothing of it until we received the letter. Our notary Monsieur Travers, who has been forced to come back early from his holiday to deal with this, has
been obliged to confirm that he has the deeds to the property, but there is seemingly a codicil on my father-in-law’s will which insisted it should not be disclosed until after both his
and
Jacques’ mother’s deaths. Well, my father-in-law died during the war, of course, when Jacques was just a small boy, but his mother is alive and living in Antibes.’
‘So technically speaking, you aren’t supposed to know about it yet?’ Angus murmured.
‘Exactly so. This is why Magda is so upset about it. She feels it has contravened François – her husband’s – final wishes.’
‘So your mother-in-law knew about the property?’ Angus asked.
Lilian paused, making a tiny clicking sound with her tongue on the roof of her mouth. ‘Yes. I believe she did. Unfortunately, she is quite insistent that
we
are not to visit the
apartment.’
Flora bit her lip thoughtfully, wondering why Madame Vermeil’s parents-in-law wanted the house to remain hidden until after their deaths. What were they going to find in there?
Madame Vermeil reached out to the small envelope on the side table and opened it, pulling out a large, old key. ‘Monsieur Travers just gave me this.’ She held it up for Angus to
take. ‘I’m afraid you will have to go without me. My mother-in-law may be very old, but she is still a strong woman.’ A smile came into her cool eyes. ‘Even now, I would not
dare to defy her.’
Angus stared at the key before taking it. ‘Forgive me for pressing, Lilian, but if your father-in-law’s will stipulated the apartment should remain a secret until after his and your
mother-in-law’s deaths, but your mother-in-law is still alive, surely the wishes of the codicil still stand? I just want to establish that we are following due process, you understand. If we
should find anything of value inside the property, we would not want there to be any sort of accusation that you came to it unlawfully.’
Madame Vermeil smiled. ‘I appreciate your diligence, Angus, but Monsieur Travers has assured me that the law is on our side. Our hand has been forced. The property was broken into and a
letter forwarded on to us, informing us of its existence. The bonds of the codicil are worthless now that we know about it. Besides, there are practicalities to consider and we must be realistic.
My dear mother-in-law celebrates her centenary next year. One has to presume this would have been revealed to us anyway in the next few years, at the very most.’ She arched an eyebrow ever so
slightly, suggesting it probably would be – she wished it to be – sooner than that and Flora deduced that the relationship between the two women was not a close one.
‘Do you mind my asking – who sent you the letter?’ Flora asked, leaning forwards slightly, fascinated. As a child, she had devoured all of Agatha Christie’s novels and if
Angus had a bent for melodrama, she had a similar leaning for mysteries.
‘The people who broke in,’ Madame Vermeil replied, throwing her hands out in the air in equal surprise.
‘And they sent you a letter?’ Flora couldn’t disguise her astonishment. ‘They broke in and sent you a
letter
?’
Madame Vermeil nodded again. ‘I know.
Incroyable, non?
’
Flora couldn’t stop her mouth from hanging open. ‘Well, what did it say? “Did you know you own this apartment?”’
Madame Vermeil laughed. ‘Pretty much, yes.’
Angus looked rather more pained. ‘Has anything been stolen, do you know? If these people were rooting around . . .’
There was a pause and the previous moment’s levity dissipated. ‘This we do not know and may never know,’ Madame Vermeil replied more solemnly. ‘We have no idea what is in
there – if anything. How could we? It has remained hidden from us for all these years.’
Angus groaned. ‘It would be too awful for it to have lain untouched all that time, only to be looted of its most important treasures a week before you’re enlightened about it.’
He raked a hand through his hair but Flora could see her boss already attaching himself to this dramatic irony.
Madame Vermeil stretched her back elegantly in her own particular way. ‘If it is any consolation, I myself do not believe there can be anything of much value in there. My father-in-law was
an astute man. He had to be, to build a fortune like this.’ She indicated the lavish room with a flick of her eyes. ‘Art was his entire world. He would not have left any great treasure
locked up and hidden from view, mouldering in the dark.’
Beside Flora, Angus wilted at the logic, though the smile remained on his face. Was this just going to be a rifle through some upmarket bric-a-brac?
‘Oh dear, Angus, I do hope I have not raised your hopes too much in summoning you over from London,’ Madame Vermeil continued, her knowing eyes on her agent.
‘Not in the least. We are eager to assist in any way we can,’ he replied smoothly, smacking his palms lightly on his thighs. ‘We’ll simply inventory what we find,
if
we find anything, and then come back to you on the next steps – be it packing and redelivery, or valuing for a sale should you wish.’
‘I do hope the apartment is not empty.’ Madame Vermeil laughed suddenly, clapping her hands together and resting her chin on her fingertips. ‘Wouldn’t that just be too
awful? All our hopes denied.’
It was rather harder for Angus to smile through that prospect. On the train over he’d been like a child on Christmas Eve, wondering what treasures they might find inside this hidden
apartment of such a grand family. Flora had seen the business accounts in April. She well knew he’d overstretched himself with the new Tribeca space for the company’s New York
headquarters; the business overdraft now more than £200,000. He needed this project to deliver on its promise of a long-lost haul and the commission that would come from dealing with it.
‘Me too, Lilian. Me too.’
Madame Vermeil lent them her driver to shuttle them over to the apartment. It was in the Montparnasse district in the 14th arrondissement, and the roads were blessedly
free-flowing in the mid-morning sun, many of the capital’s families having already fled the city’s intense summer heat for the breezier climes of the Midi and Alpes-Maritimes
regions.
Flora checked her make-up in her Chanel compact as they sped across the Place de la Concorde towards the river.
‘I still can’t believe the apartment stood untouched for all that time,’ she said, eyes alert to the slight pinch in her cheeks that came from last night’s late dinner
date. (Nice but . . . well, nice.) ‘You’d think
someone
would have noticed that no one ever went in or out of it.’