Murder at Renard's (Rose Simpson Mysteries Book 4) (14 page)

‘You were telling me about Madame Renard,’ prompted the inspector.

‘Yes, I was. Well, she came to England over twenty years ago, bringing her child with her. She had been widowed when her son was only a few months old. From what she’s told me, it was her intention from the very start to set up her own dress shop.’ Rose sighed. ‘I don’t think her husband left her very well provided for, and from what I gathered, although she didn’t say as much, she had to scrimp and save and do without to build up her business.’

‘Very admirable.’

‘Yes, isn’t it? It can’t have been easy for her, what with having Jacques to look after and no maid to speak of. That’s one of the reasons I feel so awful about what’s happened. It’s the first fashion parade she’s held and now it looks as if her life’s work is falling down around her ears. I only hope that she hasn’t lost many customers. They can be jolly fickle, you know.’ Rose passed her hand over her hair. ‘Oh, just listen to me! I sound so dreadfully heartless and callous, don’t I? When one thinks of poor Sylvia everything else pales into insignificance.’

‘Doesn’t it just,’ agreed the inspector. ‘But it is only natural to think such things. You’ll have all sorts of strange and irrational thoughts. It’s the shock, you know. You knew the deceased, and you knew her well. She was part of your everyday existence. And you found her body as well, didn’t you? You mustn’t forget that.’   

‘Yes, it was awful. Although sadly I’m rather used to murder. Only this … it was so unexpected. Even now I can’t quite get my head around it. I can’t quite believe she’s dead, you see. I keep expecting her to walk in here any moment and glare at us as she would at an objectionable customer.’

‘That is only to be expected. It takes a while for a thing like this to sink in.’

’You’re being awfully kind,’ Rose said softly.

Inspector Deacon coughed and looked taken aback. Rose went crimson. There was an awkward pause. She found herself speaking hurriedly to break the uncomfortable silence and hide her own embarrassment, hardly giving a thought to what she said or its significance.

‘To make matters worse, we didn’t think it was her at first,’ Rose said, putting a hand to her forehead and rubbing it. It was a relief to blot out the inspector’s face. ‘We thought it was Lady Celia.’  

‘Oh?’

Inspector Deacon’s head shot up. Rose imagined that Sergeant Perkins was equally interested by this fact. Certainly she sensed, although of course she could not see the expression on the sergeant’s face having her back to him as she did, that a look passed between the two policemen.

Now that she had uttered the words out loud, she saw the significance of what she had said. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

‘We were looking for Lady Celia. Madame Renard had not noticed her leave and we thought she might still be in the shop and unaware of the fire. So you see, when we opened the office door we were expecting to see her and not Sylvia.’

‘When did you notice your mistake?’

‘Not until I bent over the body and felt for a pulse.’

‘Did they look alike, then, Lady Celia and Miss Beckett?’

Despite everything, Rose was tempted to laugh.

‘Oh, not at all but for their colouring. Other than that, Sylvia was as thin as a rake and Lady Celia is … well, rather plump.’

‘I see. But in that case I don’t quite understand how you didn’t recognise it was Miss Beckett at once, if physically they looked so very different as you say.’

‘They were wearing the same dress. That’s to say, they were both wearing evening dresses made out of the same material, a silver silk satin. Lady Celia’s was a very inferior version having been put together at the last minute. It didn’t have all the fine attention to detail and embellishments of Sylvia’s dress. But it was only when I was bent over her body and noticed the strings of silver and glass beads, that I realised I wasn’t looking at Lady Celia’s dress, I was looking at Sylvia’s.’

‘Miss Beckett was killed from behind,’ mused the inspector. ‘It’s just possible that the murderer never saw the girl’s face. One would have thought that he would have caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, but suppose he didn’t …’

‘And Sylvia was only wearing that dress in the shop for a few minutes,’ Rose said excitedly. ‘She wasn’t supposed to be wearing it at all tonight.’

‘So it’s just possible that the murderer didn’t see her in the dress at all,’ said Inspector Deacon.

‘Whereas Lady Celia wore her version of the dress all evening. And for most of the time the back of her dress was hidden from the audience, because she was standing facing them. She was behind the lectern.’

‘Let me get this straight in my mind,’ said Inspector Deacon. ‘The back of Lady Celia’s dress didn’t have any strings of silver and glass beads on it?’ Rose nodded and he continued. ‘But if the murderer was one of Madame Renard’s customers, or a guest of theirs come to that, they might not have been aware of that fact.’

‘And they would have been in a hurry, wouldn’t they?’ volunteered Sergeant Perkins suddenly from his seat behind Rose, making her start. ‘They would have wanted to get the business over and done with as quickly as possible. They wouldn’t have wanted to stay in the dressing room for any longer than was absolutely necessary in case they were caught in there with the body.’

‘So what we are saying,’ said the inspector slowly, ‘is that Miss Beckett may not have been the intended victim.’

‘No,’ agreed Rose, ‘it might have been Lady Celia. And if we’re right, it’s just possible that the murderer doesn’t know he’s made a mistake. He might still believe that the body he left to be discovered is that of Lady Celia.’

‘And unfortunately for Miss Beckett,’ said the inspector, ‘he killed her by mistake.’

‘Do you really think it could have happened that way, sir?’ asked Sergeant Perkins. He had given up all pretence of being an unseen scribe and was now standing beside the inspector, his fingers drumming on the desk top in a mixture of impatience and excitement. 

‘I don’t know, but we certainly can’t rule it out.’ Inspector Deacon looked quizzically at Rose. ‘Where is Lady Celia now, do you know?’

‘No. I’m afraid not. After the shock of finding Sylvia’s body … well, we all rather forgot about her,’ admitted Rose. ‘I daresay she left with the others when the fire broke out. There was rather a panic. Everyone was trying to get out of the shop as quickly as possible. It was all rather silly because the fire didn’t really catch hold. It was soon put out. Some of the men beat it out, you see, and there really was not much damage done.’

‘Perkins, I want you to telephone Lady Celia’s residence without delay. Use the telephone in Madame Renard’s office downstairs. You needn’t frighten her ladyship. Speak to her butler and see if she’s there. Get him to check that she’s safe and well. Then I want you to put a call through to the station. Arrange for a uniformed officer to go to the house, will you? He’s to satisfy himself that everything’s all right. And he’s to stay on duty outside the house until I tell him to do otherwise, is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir’, said the sergeant, his eyes bulging with eagerness. ‘Do you really think the young lady may be in danger, sir?’

‘I honestly couldn’t say, but I’m not taking any chances. It’s possible that the murderer has realised his mistake. If he has, he may try again. Now, what’s the time?’ The inspector paused to glance at his wristwatch. ‘If it wasn’t so damned late, and I didn’t already have a room full of people to interview next door, we’d go and interview her tonight. Instead it’ll have to wait until the morning when we’ve snatched a few hours’ sleep.’

The inspector rubbed his eyes and looked back at the notes on the desk before him. It was going to be a very long night for them both. After a moment’s reflection he said:

‘Of course, it’s only one line of inquiry. There’s nothing to say Miss Beckett wasn’t the intended victim. We mustn’t lose sight of that.’

‘But if she wasn’t, if Lady Celia was the intended victim, then the murderer might not be one of the people in the room next door,’ said Rose eagerly.

Perhaps she was clutching at straws. She had assumed, perhaps wrongly as it might well turn out, that one of the people in the room next door must be the murderer. It had seemed too far-fetched to believe that some stranger had decided to murder Sylvia in Madame Renard’s dress shop. Not only to select such a strange location for the murder, but to choose a time when the shop would be full to bursting with people so that there was an array of potential witnesses, made no sense at all. It would have been far easier, she thought, to have killed Sylvia on her way to or from work on an isolated stretch of road. Yet if the murderer had intended to kill Lady Celia, then the whole thing made much more sense. Lady Celia, she assumed, was either usually chaperoned or at the very least more often than not in the company of others. A mean feat indeed to make an attempt on her life under those circumstances. Far easier to try and do away with her in the shop. Although it couldn’t be forgotten that the murderer had taken a considerable risk. He could easily have been spotted going to and from the dressing room. Or someone might have decided to go into the dressing room while he was doing the deed itself. Rose shivered. It didn’t bear thinking about. But it still begged the question, who knew Lady Celia would be there? Most of the audience had been expecting to see Lavinia. Lady Celia’s presence had come to many of them as a complete surprise.

In which case, wasn’t it more likely that Sylvia was the intended victim after all? They had all known that she would be there, even if everybody had assumed that she would be donning the mantle of shop assistant rather than that of mannequin. When one came to think of it, it really had been most fortunate for the murderer that she had taken on the role of model, for it had meant that at various times during the course of the evening she had been alone. If she had been attending to the customers and guests, then she would hardly have had a moment to herself. 

The more she thought about it, turning each scenario over and over in her head, the more she did not know what to think. It seemed to Rose that the whole thing might be argued either way. When all was said and done, the murderer had seized the opportunity on finding Sylvia alone in the dressing room and also taken a very great risk. How very fortunate it had been for the murderer that the curtain had caught fire when it had done and everyone had therefore been distracted and preoccupied either with putting it out or with fleeing the scene. It had been complete chaos with people going this way and that, and the murderer had taken full advantage of the situation for his own awful purposes. Of course, there was always the possibility that it had not been a coincidence, that the murder and the fire were somehow connected. And if that was so, then was it not logical to assume that the person who had committed the murder had also set fire to the curtains? It was not conclusive of course, but worthy of consideration all the same …               

If Lady Celia turned out to be the intended victim, then it was unlikely that the murderer would prove to be one of them. It would be a relief to know that none of those she held dear were guilty of Sylvia’s murder, and yet somehow it would seem more tragic still if the girl had been killed needlessly in mistake for another. And Lady Celia at that. It was wrong to feel like that, of course. She didn’t really know Lady Celia. For all she knew, she might be very pleasant. And when all was said and done, murder was murder, and it was awful whoever was dead. But still … 

‘While we’re waiting for Perkins to come back,’ said the inspector breaking in on her thoughts, ‘I’d like you to carry on giving me chapter and verse on the people next door. I’ll take my own notes. We’ll come to Miss Beckett’s character in a moment if we may. First, what can you tell me about … eh,’ he paused to consult his notes, ’Ah, yes … Miss Jennings? She’s a frightened little creature if ever I saw one. Is it her natural way, or do you think she has something to hide?’

‘Well, as I said just now, Mary was working in the shop before I started,’ began Rose, wondering how she was going to answer the inspector’s second question. ‘She’s a very pleasant sort of a girl, if frightfully timid. She’s always afraid of doing the wrong thing, if that makes any sense. Sylvia always used to say she was afraid of her own shadow and Madame says that she wouldn’t say boo to a goose. They were right. She is painfully shy and lacking in self-confidence, but very diligent and kind all the same. Too placid and easily led perhaps. If I’m honest, I rather thought Sylvia sometimes took advantage of her good nature.’

‘Oh?’ 

‘Oh, it was nothing really. It’s only a feeling I had,’ said Rose quickly, fearing that, despite her best intentions, she had said too much.

She heard again the words Mary had spoken a few hours before the fashion show, how she had described Sylvia as being horrible and hateful. She was reminded also of how badly the girl seemed to have taken Sylvia’s death, turning in on herself and keeping the others at a distance. It probably meant nothing. It was so easy to read too much into everything, to think everyone a suspect and guilty of something. But what then of the awful things she had said? The confession she’d made …

‘Miss Simpson. Miss Simpson? Are you all right?’

Inspector Deacon spoke urgently and leaned forward, a concerned look upon his face. Too late Rose realised he had been watching her closely. She wondered if he had an inkling as to what she’d been thinking, whether her thoughts were blazoned across her own face as clearly as if they had been written there. She blushed under such scrutiny and saw his expression harden, as if he were aware that she was consciously trying to keep something from him.

‘I’m sorry, I was just thinking how upset poor Mary is by what has happened. Why, you commented on it yourself,’ said Rose, rallying a little. ‘I told you that she and Sylvia were by way of being friends. It’s been the most awful shock to her.’

‘If that’s all it is,’ said the inspector gravely. ‘Please don’t keep anything from me this time, Miss Simpson. It’ll all come out in the end, you know it will. Much better to tell me all now.’

Rose took a deep breath. She wasn’t quite sure what to say, how to put it into words. The inspector’s manner had returned to brusque and she felt less minded to confide in him or speak aloud her fears. Really, his behaviour was very contrary. One moment he was the Inspector Deacon of old, the man she liked immensely. And next moment he was cold, as if they were strangers who had never met before. It was hard to believe that in the recent past he had respected her contributions to his investigations, encouraged them even.

‘This Miss Jennings, she didn’t by any chance happen to say anything to you, anything incriminating, that is? Or anything that might throw some light on to this matter?’

‘No … that’s to say, yes,’ began Rose reluctantly, before hurrying on so very fast with her words that she barely had time to think. ‘But it’s only because she was so upset by it all. I don’t think she knew what she was saying, or at least she didn’t mean anything by it. People behave like that sometimes, don’t they? When they’ve had a shock?’

‘Some do and some don’t,’ said the inspector dryly. ‘And if you please, it is up to us police to determine, rather than for you to decide, what has any bearing on this case. What did Miss Jennings say exactly that worries you so? Something to the detriment of Miss Beckett, I’ll wager?’

‘She said Sylvia was horrible and hateful and that people like her didn’t deserve any luck. ‘

‘My, my, that doesn’t sound very friendly, does it? When did she say this?’

‘A couple of hours before the fashion event. I think she was rather put out that Sylvia would be modelling Monsieur Girard’s designs. It meant much more work for the two of us, you see, and Sylvia didn’t help matters. She would insist on showing off about it.’

‘Is that all? It doesn’t sound overly incriminating. It sounds to me as if her nose was put out of joint and she understandably was feeling a little bitter about it.’

‘Well, Mary said a little bit more than that,’ admitted Rose. ‘She wished that Sylvia would leave Renard’s.’ Rose played with the fabric of her skirt before adding rather hesitantly, ‘Mary said that, when Sylvia was being particularly hateful, she sometimes wished that something awful might happen to her.’

‘Did she indeed?’

‘Yes, but of course she didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just one of those things that one says, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes … no. Well, I suppose it isn’t something one would normally say about someone. I daresay you think it sounds frightfully bad. A point against Mary, you might say. But in Mary’s case it’s different. It’s so hard to explain how she is, to put it into words.’

‘Why don’t you try? You’d be surprised how very many strange things a policeman hears and is asked to believe.’

‘She said it out of frustration, because there was nothing else she could do. She wouldn’t have had the nerve to say anything to Sylvia. That’s why she said what she said to me. Once it was said it was over and done with. And I could tell that she regretted it immediately, that she had said what she did, I mean. Don’t you see? She was very upset by it all. She never meant to say such a thing. She had shocked herself as much as she had shocked me. From then on, she wouldn’t have said or done anything to Sylvia, at least not this evening when everything was still so fresh in her mind. She’d have been too embarrassed by it all. Why, she’d have gone out of her way to be nice to Sylvia. You do see that, don’t you?’ Rose was aware that she had been verbose and that a pleading note had crept into her voice, which she didn’t much like.

‘I don’t think much of your reasoning,’ said Inspector Deacon, looking rather sceptical. ‘And if what you say about her character is true, then it seems to me that she’s just the sort of girl to fly off the handle and pick up a conveniently placed pair of scissors and stab someone with them. Yes, just the sort to do that, I’d say, and then regret it like anything afterwards.’

‘Well, I don’t think she did it,’ said Rose stubbornly. ‘She hasn’t got it in her to do something like that.’

‘There we might have to disagree. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?’

Of course, now was the time to confess that Mary had said much more than that. The girl’s words, spoken so carelessly, floated up into Rose’s mind. She had admitted that she had thought about killing her friend, had even gone so far as to contemplate the different ways she might do it. Rose could say as much to the inspector. But what would he think then? He already thought her view of Mary was rose tinted. He did not know Mary as she did. He wasn’t to know that Mary was incapable of doing anything so frightful. Or was she? Might the inspector be right after all? Was it not possible that Mary, on the spur of the moment and if sufficiently provoked, picked up the little golden scissors and thrust them at Sylvia’s neck? The poor girl would hardly have been aware of what she was doing. Certainty she wouldn’t have meant to hurt her friend, Rose was sure of it, would stake her life on it if necessary. Mary would only have wanted to put a stop to Sylvia saying something particularly hateful and spiteful …

At last, she was aware of the inspector’s eyes upon her, as if he were monitoring her every blink of the eye and change of expression. The very intensity of his look was willing her to speak, begging her to utter the truth. In this little room, with only the two of them present, she found his expression oddly hypnotic, as if she could tell him everything. Worse than that perhaps, as if she could tell him nothing but the absolute truth, wrenched from her though it might be. Before she could even think what she was saying, or the impact her words might have, she said miserably: