‘The first thing to tell you is that my friend in the UV imaging department of the Museu da República has confirmed the two names on the back of the soapstone tile. He’s still working on the date and the inscription, but the names are definitely “Izabela Aires Cabral” and “Laurent Brouilly". Of course, thanks to the letters, we both now know irrefutably who Bel’s amour in Paris was. He went on to become a very well-known sculptor back in France. Here.’ Floriano pulled some pages out of his plastic wallet and handed them to me. ‘These are some of his works.’

I looked at the grainy images of Laurent Brouilly’s sculptures. They were mostly simple human shapes, similar to the one I’d seen in the garden of A Casa das Orquídeas. And a large number of men clad in old-fashioned soldiers’ uniforms.

‘He made his name as a sculptor during the Second World War, in which he also fought as part of the Resistance,’ Floriano clarified. ‘His page on Wikipedia says he was honoured for bravery. Definitely a very interesting man. Here, this is a photograph of him. You might notice that he was certainly not unattractive,’ he added.

I studied Laurent’s handsome face. With his strong features, chiselled jaw and razor-sharp cheekbones, he looked distinctly Gallic.

‘And here are Gustavo and Izabela on their wedding day.’

I stared at the photograph, bypassing Izabela to look at Gustavo first. The contrast with Laurent could not have been more marked. His insubstantial physique, coupled with his small and pointed features, made me understand why Bel and Maria Elisa had likened him to a ferret. But I could see there was kindness in his eyes.

Then I glanced at Izabela, her features so like my own. And was about to put the photo down, when I noticed the necklace she was wearing.

‘Oh my God!’

‘What?’

‘Look.’ I indicated what Floriano should concentrate on in the photograph, my fingers instinctively clasping the moonstone around my own neck.

He studied both the picture and me carefully. ‘Yes, Maia. It seems they are one and the same.’

‘That was the reason Yara gave me the letters. She said she recognised the necklace.’

‘So now you finally believe you are related to the Aires Cabrals?’ He smiled at me.

‘Yes, I do,’ I said, genuinely convinced for the first time. ‘It’s irrefutable proof,’ I agreed.

‘You must be happy.’

‘I am, but . . .’ I put the pages down and sighed. Floriano lit a cigarette and stared at me.

‘What is it?’

‘She left the man she loved in France to marry Gustavo Aires Cabral, whom she didn’t. It’s very sad.’

‘You are a romantic, Maia?’

‘No, but if you’d read the letters Izabela wrote to her maid about her love for Laurent Brouilly, you couldn’t help but be moved by the story.’

‘Well, I hope you’ll allow me to do that very soon.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Although, perhaps Izabela’s feelings for Laurent were just a crush and nothing more.’