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The resemblance was there for sure, but the chin and nose were a little different. Sabine frowned as she stared at her, wondering why she had done what she had. What made a woman – who up until then had seemed kind and brave enough to open a restaurant with the aid of the Germans in order to feed the locals cheaply – change overnight?
Antoine translated the rest of the article, and transcribed it for her into her notebook.
Sabine read over his shoulder, but when he got to the part about Marianne’s grandmother she read aloud as he wrote.
‘Blanchet’s attitude is refreshing – she is bringing the countryside to Paris, she says, by cooking the kind of food her grandmother used to make in Provence.
‘“When I was little, she ran a small farmer’s café restaurant in her village, and she served just one meal a day: lunch. As a customer, you almost never knew what you were going to get, it was part of the charm. People came because they enjoyed the surprise and the good food. No one was ever disappointed – not so that I ever knew anyway.”
‘One couldn’t for a moment imagine other nations, like the one across the pond with their “toad in the hole,” ever being so adventurous. It is a quintessentially French trait, this bold and brave approach to their love of good food. And now, just like her grandmother’s café in Luberon, there is no menu, just a long line of people who come to Madame Blanchet’s restaurant knowing that whatever she decides to make that day is likely to be wonderful.’
‘So her grandmother was a cook too. In Provence. Which means that perhaps she came from there,’ he said.
Sabine nodded. ‘It was on my mother’s birth certificate. La-something, she was born at an Abbey.’
‘So that explains the name, Luberon, at least,’ said Antoine.
‘Yes. So, we know at least that part is true – that she lived in Provence, and perhaps her grandmother really did have a restaurant, which explains the recipe book.’
She nodded.
Then he frowned. ‘You know what I do think is surprising is that she was called madame, even then. Was she married?’
Sabine blinked. ‘Actually, I asked Monsieur Géroux this myself. He said that it’s just tradition to call a cook madame, for some reason. Or at least that’s what Marianne had told him.’
‘What was your grandfather’s name? Wasn’t it on the birth certificate?’
Sabine stared at him. ‘Yes, actually.’ There had been a name there, but she hadn’t paused to commit it to memory. She did remember feeling relieved that it was a French name, and that her mother was conceived before the war. But she hadn’t thought about her grandfather in all of this, she’d been so consumed by Marianne, if she were honest.
‘What happened to her husband?’
‘I have no idea.’
Sabine could hear the phone ringing as she opened the door. She raced towards it only for it to cut out. She frowned, then put the phone back, only for it to ring again. What on earth? she thought, worried. She picked it up again, suddenly nervous.
She could hear heavy breathing down the line.
‘Hello?’ she asked, eyes wide.
‘Madame Dupris! Oh, Madame Dupris, at last.’
Sabine’s eyes widened in shock. ‘Monsieur Géroux?’
‘Yes. Oh yes. I am so glad you’re home, I have been calling – and calling.’
Sabine blinked. It wasn’t like him to be so… well, pushy.
‘Are you all right?’
‘No! Well, yes, oh yes, maybe for the first time in years.’
‘What, why – what’s happened?’
‘That note – the one you gave me. First, though, please tell me as I have to double check, to be sure – you found it there, at the restaurant?’
‘Yes – it was wedged right at the back of a drawer.’
There was a whining sound, like he was keening.
She flinched. ‘Oh, monsieur, I’m sorry.’
‘No, no, don’t be sorry. Oh, madame – it is proof, you see. Proof she never meant to kill my brother.’
