TO APPROACH ALAN ABOUT GETTING THROUGH THE MASK of plaster was no easy undertaking. First, Cherry had to persuade Lisette to share her secret with Alan. For how could they expect Alan to come secretly to the chateau and do something so drastic as remove a section of wall unless they gave him an extremely good reason? It took Lisette all weekend to decide to say reluctantly, “All right, Cherry, you may tell him. But make him understand it’s secret.”
Then Cherry and Lisette had strong misgivings about destroying school property. What right had they to deface Mrs. Harrison’s house? None. In fact, the house was also partly the property of the Riverton Bank, which held a mortgage.
“But if we find Pierre’s cupboard and the formula,” Lisette argued shakily, “maybe we can earn something toward the mortgage installment. Besides, Mrs. Harrison as owner of the chateau has rights in the formula which is hidden in the chateau. You see? So let’s go ahead.”
Cherry knew she had no right to deface that wall, but she tried to ease her conscience with this thought, “After all, it’s just nine unused inches or so inside a closet—our work won’t even show.”
“So all you have to do,” Lisette said finally, “is to persuade Dr. Alan to remove the plaster for us.”
“All!” Cherry groaned.
When next she saw Dr. Alan, she put the proposition to him. Or rather, she approached the proposal sideways, holding her breath.
“I was wondering if you’d be willing to do a lady a favor.”
“Why, sure,” said Alan. “You name it, the Wilcoxes do it.”
Cherry did not risk naming the request without cushioning Alan against the shock.
“We—ell. Remember when we had the two injured men to take care of? You offered to lift them or turn them for me. Remember?”
“That’s right. I said I’d do the heavy work.”
“Yes! Heavy work!”
Alan grinned. “I catch on. What’s the heavy work you want me to do?”
Cherry gulped, tried to say “Knock out a wall,” and lost her nerve.
“What’s the matter? Is it such an awful chore?”
“Yes. It’s so awful you’ll probably never consent.”
“Try me.”
“Would you—ah—take a little plastering out of the infirmary closet?”
“How much is a little plastering? Did Mrs. Harrison say okay? What’s it all about?”
Cherry, of course, gave honest answers.
Alan was dumfounded.
“Well, I’ll be darned! And poor Alicia Harrison hasn’t any idea that you’re planning to tear her house down.”
“Oh, not the entire house. But seriously, this perfume thing has real possibilities. Aren’t you curious about what we may find after all these years?”
“Yes, I am,” Alan said. “Like opening old King Tutankhamen’s tomb, hmm? We may find buried scent bottles and the mummified body of old Pierre.”
“Don’t! That’s horrifying!”
“All I’m saying is the Egyptians buried old King Tut in the shadow of the Sphinx with flacons of perfume, perfume, hear? And when archaeologists dug up the tomb three thousand years later, those flacons still gave forth a fragrance. Yes, sir, there’s still a chance for old Pierre’s sweet smelling stuff.”
“I shouldn’t have expected a man to take perfume seriously,” Cherry said, half indignant. “But you don’t have to laugh at Lisette and me. Perfume is an immense industry—”
“Relax. I know it.”
“—and besides, Doctor, scents are added to medicines so they’ll smell and taste pleasant enough to swallow.”
Alan was able to tell her something more interesting than that. Doctors were originally priests, in ancient times, and they used incense in temples and fragrant healing oils for the sick. In China and India, too, odorous woods and grasses were used and enjoyed. Perfume could be traced back to the very beginning of civilization.
“Besides, just think,” Alan said, “of what a lot the Bible says about frankincense and myrrh, and I think aloes. Not to mention honey and fragrant spices like cinnamon.”
“And balm of Gilead.”
Cherry felt relieved to hear Alan consider seriously the eternal romance of perfume. He could tease all he wanted, but when the question was put, he agreed to do the chore. One thing troubled Dr. Alan—what Mrs. Harrison would say, if she ever found out.
“Looks as if we’re going to tear out a piece of a wall on the basis of nothing more than a hollow sound…. All right, Cherry, all right! I said I’ll be there tomorrow night.”
Cherry asked him to arrive at five minutes past eight, because beginning at eight o’clock, the school was putting on an amateur theatrical in the gymnasium, which was in a building at a good distance from the chateau. All the students and staff planned to attend, even the telephone calls would be routed over there. The chateau would be deserted, except for the nurse who presumably would be taking care of Lisette’s sudden and convenient symptoms.
Alan was as good as his word. He arrived exactly at eight-o-five, kit in hand and a gleam in his eye. The kit contained less medical tools than (apparently) burglar’s tools, or so Lisette remarked as Dr. Alan unpacked a small chisel and saw on Cherry’s empty table. Lisette was rather awed at having not only her good friend, Cherry, to help her but also another young grownup.
“You’re both very, very kind to do this for me,” Lisette said.
“I’m doing it for Cherry,” Alan announced. Then he gave Lisette’s flying hair a tug. “Glad to help you out, youngster. Just remember who’s your friend at court.”
“We’d better stop fooling around and get to work!” Cherry warned them. “The coast is clear, but let’s not dawdle.”
Another reason they had decided on this evening was because Mrs. Harrison was going out to a friend’s house for a dinner party. She had left before eight, stately and resplendent in evening attire, and was not expected back before twelve, since the friends lived at some distance.
“I hope she has such a wonderful time that she stays longer,” Lisette said. They all rolled up their sleeves and took off their wrist watches. “Now can we start?”
The two girls led Alan to the closet and propped up flashlights to work by. They showed him the section of plaster wall which they wanted him to remove. He gave a low whistle and clapped his forehead.
“It’s solid plaster! Do you realize how long it will take?”
“It’s now or never,” Lisette wailed.
Cherry, huddled in the walk-in closet with the other two, reached out to the supply table for a hammer and chisel. Elbowing her way between Alan and Lisette, she said, “Excuse me,” and started chipping away at the offending wall.
“Not that way,” Alan said. “Too slow.” He showed her how.
“Oh! What are we going to answer,” Lisette demanded, “if anyone comes back from the gym and knocks and asks what’s the noise and why is the infirmary door locked?”
“As the nurse in charge, I’ll go to the door and cope. Somehow.”
“Lisette, relax! You have a nurse and a doctor here,” said Alan. “Cherry, my beautiful, you’re chipping powdered plaster into my hair.”
“Sorry. Unavoidable. Ker-choo!”
“That’s what you’re doing to me, Alan, lower down,” Lisette said in a muffled voice.
They worked in a scrambled, hasty fashion, in a cloud of white dust, as fast as six hands would go. From time to time Alan took a sounding to see how they were progressing. In places it was so hard that it took Alan’s sharp surgical steel knife to penetrate it and force an opening wedge. Lisette sniffed repeatedly, as if she hoped the cupboard—if it were hidden there—might give off its old perfume. When Cherry’s chisel struck wood, the three of them gave a muted cheer. But they cheered too soon. Alan’s chisel, up high as he stood on a chair, and Lisette’s chisel down low as she knelt, also struck wood, but only here and there.
For a few minutes they were stymied. Surely the wood was not the medicine cabinet itself. It covered too large a space and was not a solid, unbroken area of wood.
Alan said, with his ear against the gap torn out of the plaster, “The sound of it—That doesn’t echo the way an outside wall would. Too thin. That’s lathing under this plaster!”
They hacked away furiously at the remaining plaster. As they dug deeper, wood lathing became visible in places. Cherry hastily swept up the big chunks of plaster and wiped up some of the powdered plaster. She and Alan and Lisette still had to remove the lathing. The lathing came out awkwardly but without real trouble. Alan trundled pieces of it out of the closet and Cherry trained her flashlight on the newly opened end of the closet. Under the flashlight’s beam shone diamond-shaped panes of rose, purple, green, and amber.
“We’ve found the missing window!”
Alan popped in to see. “Hey, look!” he exclaimed.
“The cupboard!” Lisette jumped up and down in her excitement. “The cupboard—it is, isn’t it?”
In a sizable wall niche, directly under the diamond-shaped window, was a built in cupboard with a door. Its top was rounded, and it was made entirely of painted wood. In its door was an old brass keyhole.
“The doll’s key!” Lisette sputtered. “The doll’s in the same drawer, Cherry, isn’t she?”
“Hush! Someone’s knocking on the infirmary door!” Cherry exclaimed.
The three of them stood as if frozen. The rapping was light but insistent. Cherry glanced in panic at her watch lying on a shelf—ten o’clock, it read. Maybe a student was knocking. She pushed back her black curls, shakily unlocked the door, and prayed.
If Pierre’s ghost had stood there waiting to enter, it would not have given Cherry a nastier turn than the sight of a golden-haired lady in a long sapphire velvet gown. Mrs. Harrison still wore her long gloves and wrap; she must have just come home—early.
“Why is the infirmary door locked? And what is that odd, dusty smell?”
The headmistress walked in—Cherry had no way of stopping her. At her back was the closet, wide open and telltale, with the two other conspirators hiding inside it. Cherry endeavored to keep Mrs. Harrison’s back toward the closet.
“Won’t you sit down? Here, Mrs. Harrison?”
“No, thank you. Why, everything seems to be covered with a fine white powder.” The headmistress eyed Cherry’s hair. “What is going on in here, Cherry?”
Then the headmistress turned around. She saw the mess and destruction, and gave a little shriek. Alan chose this moment to step out of the closet.
“Alan Wilcox! You? Not on a medical call? What are you doing here at such a late hour?” Mrs. Harrison was distressed. “Where is your judgment, Alan? And your manners?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Harrison—we can explain—”
Lisette eased herself out of the closet, an elf whose hair and face were covered with chalky blotches. It would have been funny had not Mrs. Harrison been so upset—so very angry.
“Never mind explanations! How can any of you explain destroying a house—a house which doesn’t belong to you! Lisette, of all ungrateful children—”
“Please believe me, we’re doing it for a good reason—to help you, too—”
Cherry could not think of any reasonable explanation with Mrs. Harrison speaking scornful, stinging words. Her scorn hurt less than her distress; Alicia Harrison actually looked as if she might cry. Cherry suddenly realized the enormity of what she had done.
“Please, please, listen to our reasons,” Lisette begged. The girl stepped forward and produced the old journal. “Mrs. Harrison, this is the diary of my great grandfather, Pierre Gauthier. Would you be kind enough to look at this page? And perhaps this one?”
Mrs. Harrison accepted the journal and read, frowning a little. “The handwriting’s difficult—Lisette, please translate these two words.”
“A concealed cupboard,” Lisette read, while Alan and Cherry looked at each other. “May I tell you the entire story, please, please?”
Mrs. Harrison sighed and sat down in a subdued way. Her anger had evaporated. While Lisette recounted the story of the lost perfume, Cherry noticed that the headmistress listened as if deeply moved. Once she broke in to say:
“Yes, yes, I remember how my own grandmother used to bring the fragrance of the garden into our house. Practically every woman knew how to keep herself and her household dainty, with materials from her garden. We all learned how to make sachets for our linen closets and dressers.”
Alan and Cherry were glad to see her so interested and sympathetic to the general subject of perfume. Mrs. Harrison smiled reminiscently and promised to show Lisette and Cherry how to mix dried rose petals with sugar and spices to make a lasting potpourri. Lisette tactfully drew the headmistress’s attention back to the great grandfather’s lasting scent, and in parti cular to his formula.
“What about his formula? Was it for a poor old man’s hobby that you three young idiots tore out a wall?”
“But the formula is so much more than an old man’s hobby,” Lisette insisted. “Mrs. Harrison, we can’t stop now! I don’t know just how to say it, to make you see—”
“You mean, I suppose, that you are so deeply involved you must finish what you’ve started? Ordinarily I would say that’s a good, conscientious attitude. But, Lisette, what makes you think Pierre Gauthier’s perfume formula is any good?”
“No one ever believed in Great grandfather’s formula, but I do!”
“How do you know—not merely believe sentimentally and blindly, but know—that the formula actually creates a fine perfume?”
Lisette looked stricken. Cherry tried to come to her rescue.
“Pierre Gauthier’s garden flowers are wonderfully fragrant, Mrs. Harrison. The special roses and the silver lace—”
“The perfume may not resemble the flowers at all,” Mrs. Harrison pointed out. “Even if your great-grandfather Pierre used those flowers in making his perfume, a chemical change during the process could alter the flowers’ fragrance entirely. Isn’t that correct, Dr. Alan?”
“Yes, that’s right, Mrs. Harrison. Odor depends on invisible molecules and their organic structure. If you crush a rose petal, you change the structure and possibly the fragrance.”
“There, you see! Lisette, you are dreaming.”
Alan cleared his throat. “Well, it’s a funny thing about odors, Mrs. Harrison. Odor,” he said, “defies chemical explanation. Chemistry plus something unknown make a scent what it is. Chemistry and mathematics together cannot analyze, for instance, a violet. So you see, Mrs. Harrison, there’s a fifty fifty chance for any reasonably skilled perfume formula.”
Lisette looked as if she could hug him. Cherry beamed at him. Mrs. Harrison leaned back in her chair, saying she was open to reason.
“Just give me a chance to prove it is a lovely scent,” Lisette cried.
“Since you have gone this far in the search, I will not stop you now. I myself would be very happy if the formula could be found and if it worked out well.”
Still, she was dubious. She looked so worried, so tired in her splendid dress, that Cherry realized what a burden they were putting on her, had been putting on her, all along.
“Mrs. Harrison?” Cherry ventured. “We—we thought you knew or guessed what we were up to.”
The lady smiled. “I knew Lisette was prowling, and I thought you were, too, Cherry, but I trusted you.” They felt immensely grateful to her for that. “So I didn’t pay much attention. I’ve had school finances so much on my mind, as you know—”
Lisette boldly said, “The perfume formula might earn something for the school. If we find it.” Her glance strayed to the open closet.
“My dear Lisette, I hope your dream comes true, and you are sweet to think of the school. We would have to discuss anything of that sort. But there is a time limit on your dream. Yes, go ahead with whatever you have found. I’m interested, in spite of my better judgment.”
“It’s Pierre Gauthier’s cupboard in there!” Lisette told her.
Mrs. Harrison nodded and it struck Cherry that the headmistress accepted all these extraordinary facts without much explanation.
In order to open the cupboard, Lisette went to the bureau drawer and took out the doll. She was busy extracting the key from the doll’s little handbag when Mrs. Harrison noticed and exclaimed:
“Where did you find that doll? I haven’t seen a doll like that one in years!”
Lisette handed her the little wooden manikin, explaining that it had resided behind the stuck drawer. Then she presented the doll’s key to Alan. They all crowded behind the young man, focusing their flashlights, while he tried the key in the cupboard’s keyhole.
It fit! Alan turned the key, and with a creak the cupboard door swung open. A strong odor of decaying, cloyingly sweet chemicals floated out to them.
On the cupboard’s shelves stood the remains of Pierre’s miniature laboratory. Cherry could identify old fashioned scales and measuring spoons and stirring rods. More important, she saw old, empty bottles and jars whose labels of perfume ingredients were still dimly legible. Finding those labels provided them with valuable information.
“Where is the formula?” Lisette mumbled in her ear.
“I thought you already had the formula,” Mrs. Harrison said in some exasperation.
“Part of it is in the journal,” Lisette said lamely. “I thought—from one passage in the journal—that Great-grandfather might have left the complete formula here in the cupboard somewhere.”
This was a serious lack. Cherry had seen the fragment of the formula in the journal and understood it to a degree with the aid of Lisette’s perfume textbook from the library. Though the journal mentioned the Provence, China, and fawn roses and the silver spray, it gave no clue to the all-important thing—which flower was the key to the perfume.
Cherry hastily figured. First, the journal hinted strongly at the existence of further notes. A second thing: from her own nursing training, Cherry knew that any scientist experimenting in a laboratory records his findings in a laboratory book of some sort. Such a record book naturally belongs with the lab equipment; it was not likely that Pierre carried his working notes around in his pocket.
These two facts made Cherry suspect that further notes must have existed, and might still exist. If they were not actually in the cupboard, might they not be near it? Would these notes be written on scraps of paper, or would they be written as systematically as the diary? In fact, Cherry wondered, mightn’t the notes be written in a largish, leather-bound notebook similar to the personal journal?
“Hmm! But that’s too big to fit into the cupboard! In that case—”
“What’s too big, Cherry?”
She was too busy to answer them. Cherry ran her hand along the newly revealed wall. She was probing for a hidden drawer or ledge or even a wall safe which might hold a second journal. But she found nothing. She walked slowly through the long, narrow supply closet with its shallow shelves of linens and nursing equipment, and trained her flashlight’s beam up, down, and around. On the closet ceiling the square outline of a trap door caught her attention.
“Alan! Would you bring a chair, please? Let’s try that trap door.” She held the light steady so the others could see.
“There’s nothing up there, Cherry,” said Mrs. Harrison. She explained that in these flat-roofed Victorian houses there were no attics, only a few feet of air space or at most a very low, unfinished garret in which a person could only crouch. These few feet served only for ventilation and insulation.
Cherry said politely, “If you don’t object, it might not hurt to have a look, anyhow.”
For there was a chance that old Pierre, jealous of his perfume secrets, feeling alone in a not too understanding household, might have kept his formula notes in a safe hiding place. A bureau drawer or a wall cupboard could be invaded, but an inconspicuous ceiling trap door was fairly safe.
Alan brought the chair and, as he was the tallest, climbed up and pushed until the trap door moved. Lisette handed him a wooden ruler with which to prop the trap door open. Alan reached up and felt around with both hands.
“Nothing up here but cobwebs and dust—can’t see a thing. Wait, I think I touched something.”
“Want a flashlight?” Cherry asked.
“Never mind, I have it, whatever it is.”
Covered with dust, hardly recognizable, it was a crumbling, largish, flat, leather-bound notebook which Alan handed down. Cherry and Lisette wiped it off with dampened paper towels. Mrs. Harrison murmured that she was glad Pierre Gauthier had not relegated the charming little doll to the ceiling trap door and all that dust, but Cherry scarcely heard. She and Lisette could hardly believe their luck and relief at finding a second notebook. Its pages bore Pierre’s spidery, Spencerian handwriting, as did his personal journal, but these pages were filled with formulas and directions.
“In French,” Alan remarked, reading over their shoulders. He had washed, and was drying, his hands. “Will you look at that! Grammes, litres, and what’s this mean? Ajouter ensuite 500 centimétres cubes d’eau—”
“I can interpret it,” Lisette insisted. “After all, when I found Pierre’s personal journal in Papa’s old trunk, I figured it out with the French dictionary. I’ll figure out this second journal with the perfume textbook.”
Curiously enough, Mrs. Harrison was not paying any attention to their discovery. She was holding and touching the doll. She did not look up even when Lisette, excitedly leafing through the pages of the formulary, exclaimed:
“I think this is it! I think this is the key information!” She translated haltingly, “‘The base is silver lace, yet my creation is a rosy odor, for which I depend chiefly on my Provence rose!’”
Mrs. Harrison walked to the doorway and paused, still holding the old doll. “I think, for reasons of my own, I shall keep this little creature,” she said.
Tears stood in her eyes, Cherry saw, just before Mrs. Harrison turned away and left. She thought she saw tears in Lisette’s young eyes as well.