Lindsay gave him an admiring look.

“Word perfect, Rowland. And do you buy that story?”

“I quite like it. It’s familiar. There’s a touch of Little Nell, a whiff of La Dame aux Camélias and La Bohème…”

“But do you buy it, Rowland?”

“No. I suspect the Spain/Balenciaga link is a red herring. I think it’s invention from beginning to end.”

“It diverts all the attention to Maria Cazarès, I agree. And it leaves unanswered a whole lot of other questions—if Lazare is not French, for instance, and he’s never managed to sound pure French, then where is he from? Corsica? A former French colony like Algeria? Could he be Portuguese, or Spanish? All those have been suggested, but if any of it is true, why not admit it? What has he got to hide? He’s hinted in the past that his family might have had links with Corsica, and that he had a poor upbringing. In which case, how did he acquire the fortune that he needed to set Cazarès up as a couture house? Answer: no one knows.”

“But you think you’ve found some clue?”

“I think I’ve found more than a clue, Rowland.”

“You do?” Rowland was now looking at her closely. “Well, it must be something major. You look different, you know. There’s a strange glow about you.”

“I expect it’s the firelight,” Lindsay said hastily. “And then, I am excited. I suspected I was right all weekend.”

“You kept very quiet about it.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t want to interfere. There was a crisis—you and Gini and Max had work to do. I wasn’t sure if you’d still be interested.”

“I am still interested,” he said. “Very interested. So, are you going to explain?”

“Yes, I will.” Lindsay wrenched her eyes back to the file. Rowland moved his chair a little closer. Firelight flickered against the paneled walls.

“Your researchers did a good job, Rowland,” she said slowly. “There are clippings in this file that I’ve never seen. I didn’t begin working in fashion until 1978, and it was 1984 before I first attended the Paris collections. So I was especially interested in the coverage here of Cazarès’s early shows—the clothes that first made her name, the clothes that began the legend. Going through the pictures of that early work, I came across this. It stopped me in my tracks. It’s an evening dress by Maria Cazarès, from her very first collection in 1976. As photographed for American Harper’s Bazaar.”

She drew out the clipping she referred to, which was in full color and from the original magazine. Rowland leaned across to inspect it.

“No one else could have made that dress, Rowland,” Lindsay went on. “Not Lacroix now, not even Saint Laurent in the past. It could only be a Cazarès. You can read her signature in every detail. This dress is part of her St. Petersburg collection—that’s how it’s remembered now. Look at the cut and fullness of the skirt—isn’t it the most wonderful color? That rich, dark, seaweedy green. Look at the detailing on the hem—that narrow band of black silk velvet. Look at the gold and green brocade of the sleeves, and the shape of the over-jacket. You see how its curves are emphasized by the fur trimming? Look at the way the bodice and armholes are tailored, so the shoulders seem narrowed—”