“She didn’t say that, but I got the feeling that she didn’t want to be involved. She said the money must have belonged to the previous tenant, the old lady. She mentioned how those old folks who’d been through the war saved every penny. They were fearful that hard times would return.”

“Did you tell her the envelope had the Cavendish logo?” asked Lucy.

“She said maybe the old lady worked in the hotel, too. I left it at that. I didn’t tell her that it was the new logo, that they switched from green to gold about the time I started working in Paris.”

“I wonder what Papa did in Egypt,” mused Lucy as they reached the plaza in front of the cathedral, where there were also a few shops and a restaurant. “Maybe there’s a link to Adil and Malik and Les Amis du Roi.”

“Or their parents, maybe even their grandparents,” said Elizabeth as they paused to admire the cathedral before attempting the steps leading to the cathedral doors. “That picture was taken years ago.”

“But if the grandfather was involved with King Farouk,” Lucy said, speculating, “there might be some sort of personal tie. I mean, it must be important to Madame Seydoux, or Sylvie wouldn’t have made the enlargement for her. It has some significance.”

Together they gazed at the enormous building, with its elaborate carvings around the doors, its flying buttresses, and its mismatched spires, one plain and the other elaborately carved, reaching heavenward.

“I’m sick of Sylvie and her complicated life,” declared Elizabeth, referring to her guidebook. “The cathedral was built in the twelfth century. That’s the eleven hundreds. However did they do it without modern machinery?” She paused. “The stained glass is original. It was stored during World War II to protect it from the bombings.”

Lucy decided that Elizabeth had a point. Here she was, at one of the most famous cultural achievements in the world, and her mind was in the gutter, mired in a sordid tale of sex and murder. It was time to put that aside, she resolved, determined to stay focused on the moment.

She followed Elizabeth through the door, inhaling the familiar church scent of old stone and dust, and wandered through the aisles. The famous labyrinth on the floor was covered by chairs, but a sign stated that it was cleared once a month, so those interested in this ancient spiritual exercise could follow the twists and turns marked by the tiles, praying as they paced the same path pilgrims had followed for centuries.

Neither Lucy nor Elizabeth believed the tale about the Virgin’s camisole, which was supposedly preserved as a sacred relic in the church. “It would have had to be eleven hundred years old when the church was built,” said Elizabeth. “It’s hard to believe a poor woman’s shift would have been preserved for that long.”