Murder at Renard's (Rose Simpson Mysteries Book 4) (17 page)

There was a faint but audible groan from Sergeant Perkins.

‘Yes, I know, Sergeant, a boring and laborious task which might quite well prove fruitless, but necessary all the same,’ said his superior.

‘I know that we have all but dismissed the idea, but I suppose there is no possibility that it was an accident, the fire I mean?’ Rose asked.

‘None whatsoever, I’m afraid. We haven’t left that possibility to chance either. Our men have tested it. There is no way, given where the candelabra was positioned, that the curtains could have caught alight other than that one of the drapes was deliberately held over the flame of at least one of the candles. But cheer up, Perkins.’ The inspector paused to grin at his sergeant. ‘We’ll need to interview the customers and their guests anyway about the murder, unless we happen to stumble on the culprit before, that is. It’s just possible that one of them may have noticed someone going into, or coming out of, the dressing room at around about the time Miss Beckett was killed.’

‘It’s unfortunate that so many people congregated in the corridor while they were waiting for Mary to unlock the storeroom door, the one that backed onto the street,’ said Rose. ‘It would have been easy enough for the murderer to choose his moment to slip out of the dressing room unobserved and join the queue.’

‘Our murderer was rather fortunate that no one chose to go into the dressing room to see if that room had a door backing out onto the street,’ said the inspector.

‘Yes, he was. I suppose that was in part due to Madame Renard’s quick thinking. She acted almost immediately when the fire broke out. I think it may have come as a welcome relief. By that I mean it was a means of getting herself away from Lady Celia and her anger. When Madame Renard asked Mary to get the key from the kitchen, she deliberately spoke very loudly so that her voice could be heard over the din. I suppose that she hoped it would bring some calm to the proceedings. But it did mean that everyone was more interested in following Mary around than looking for an alternative exit. Why, one or two of our more impatient customers even followed her into the kitchen in search of the key, would you believe?’    

‘That girl, Miss Simpson, she has been in with the policemen a very long time,’ said Marcel Girard, eyeing the door to the next room suspiciously.

‘Well, that inspector fellow’s a friend of hers, isn’t he?’ said Jacques, half sitting, half reclining, languidly on the settee. All of a sudden he was feeling tired and lethargic.

He was beginning to find his friend’s endless pacing of the room irritating in the extreme. For one thing, to watch him was boringly repetitive. Due to the modest dimensions of the room, the designer was compelled to repeatedly walk around the room’s perimeter, which meant that he trod on the same bit of well-worn rug again and again. At first Jacques had found this oddly mesmerising, predicting which precise bit of carpet his friend’s foot would tread on each time he passed. Now though he found it merely tedious. His annoyance and frustration came out in his words.  

‘What did you expect, Marcel? She’s probably telling that police inspector this very minute about all our little weaknesses and defects, everything we have ever done wrong, reciting verbatim every word that we’ve ever spoken against poor Sylvia. I am surprised your ears aren’t burning, Mama, given all the times you’ve called Sylvia insolent and lazy.’

‘Jacques!’ exclaimed his mother clearly horrified. ‘How can you say such awful things and at a time like this? To be so cruel, so heartless, to treat this like a game put on for your entertainment when that poor, dear girl is lying dead, I do not know where.’

‘In the mortuary, I imagine, and I’m doing no such thing, Mother,’ said Jacques, nevertheless righting himself so that he was sitting up straight and now all but perched on the very edge of the sofa. He passed a hand over his eyes so that his expression was partially hidden, although his voice took on a serious note. ‘I suppose it’s because I don’t know what else to say or do, or how best to answer Marcel’s damn fool of a question. They don’t tell you, do they, how utterly boring and unbearable this waiting around to be interviewed is?’ He threw a glance at his mother who looked no less appalled than before. His voice softened, although a look of anguish appeared on his face. ‘Do you not think I feel Sylvia’s death as deeply as any of you? Perhaps more so.’

‘I do not know what to believe,’ said Madame Renard miserably. She stared at her hands and played with a ring on the middle finger of her right hand. The bangles on her arm jingled albeit rather more sedately than was their custom. ‘It is all so unreal. It is like a bad dream. I keep expecting to wake up any moment, but I know that I won’t. What will this all look like tomorrow in the daylight, I wonder? Will I find Sylvia’s blood on the floor? And this waiting, yes, it is almost the worst part of it all.’

‘Well, I shouldn’t worry, Madame,’ said Marcel from his position in the corner of the room. He had been watching the exchange between mother and son with some interest. ‘The policemen, they will want to speak to you next, yes? It is your shop and Miss Beckett, she was your employee.’

If the designer had intended that his words should provide the proprietor with some comfort, then he was to be disappointed. Madame Renard went pale and visibly shuddered. Her arms, bedecked in their bangles, clattered noisily against the sofa’s armrest, while her fingernails tapped the polished wood restlessly. Her eyes, almost impossibly large, looked frightened, reminding Marcel of a rabbit caught in the headlights of a motor car. Dark smudges had appeared under her eyes like badly applied make up, contrasting starkly with her deathly pallor. He found himself moved by the woman’s wretched state and, looking across at his friend, saw that her son looked equally concerned. Jacques felt a stab of compassion for his mother which, not surprisingly, exceeded his friend’s feelings. It was not only that she was his mother, but that he alone knew how much Renard’s
meant to her; it was as much her child as he was himself, and he felt her suffering as keenly as if it had been his own.

For now at least Renard’s had become soiled and tainted. It was impossible for any one of them not to feel that. A sense of evil permeated the shop as strongly as the smell of smoke from the ruined drape. It was not hard to imagine that his mother had recoiled, if only temporarily, from her once cherished establishment.  He stretched out a hand and clasped one of her hands in his. He was surprised how very cold it was; he might have been touching the hand of a ghost.

As it happened Madame Renard was thinking about a ghost of sorts. She was wondering if she would ever be able to rid her mind of the dreadful image of the dead girl that had greeted her so forcefully when she had peered into the room and looked beyond Rose’s kneeling form. She had lingered awkwardly in the doorway, too afraid to go any further into the room and yet reluctant to leave, for appearance’s sake if nothing else. Even in a highly agitated state faced with the worst catastrophe that could be imagined, Madame Renard had been conscious that it would not be considered the done thing at all for a proprietor to leave her shop assistant to deal with a dead body, even a shop assistant with as much experience of murder as Rose Simpson. It was upon such thoughts that Madame Renard became vaguely aware that her son was talking to her and, as she listened carefully, the words floated towards her as if they were coming from a long way away. 

‘You must request that Rose be there with you, when you are interviewed,’ Jacques was saying. ‘I would accompany you myself, only they wouldn’t allow it. The inspector will want to interview us separately. They won’t want our answers to be influenced by what others say.’

He might well have added that the police would be hoping to find contradictions in their statements that they could use to their advantage, to trip up the guilty party, making them slip and stumble into a confession. He thought these things, but refrained from saying them out loud.

‘And Rose?’ mumbled his mother, through lips that barely moved.

‘They must have asked her all the questions they intend to by now. She’ll have told them everything she knows.’

‘And she is one of them, is she not?’ said Marcel with something akin to distaste.

‘She is one of
us
,’ corrected Jacques firmly. ‘You said so yourself. And it was you who insisted that she should investigate on our behalf, or have you forgotten that?’

‘No, of course not;’ said the designer defensively. ‘But I am wondering now whether we can trust her.’

‘Trust her to do what?’ asked Jacques. He sounded irritated, as if he had had enough of it all.

‘To portray us in a good light. To not tell them anything that we rather she didn’t.’

‘I think it’s rather late for all that, don’t you?’ said Jacques rather wearily. ‘Knowing Rose as I do, she will try to be as fair to us as possible. She won’t say things just for the sake of it. But I should warn you that she will approach this case with the object of discovering the truth.’

‘The truth,’ said Marcel, ‘is perhaps what we do not want.’

Before Jacques had an opportunity to ask precisely what his friend meant, Mary, who all the while had remained wretched and silent where she sat, drawn up to the old wooden table, chose that very moment to speak.

‘Will she tell them everything, do you think? Everything that we have told her even if it’s not relevant, even …’ she paused, ‘… if it’s quite awful?’

It was like a feeling of
déjà vu
. They all experienced it.
Mary had been so quiet and withdrawn that they had again all but forgotten her existence. Her entry now into the conversation had the effect of rousing them all from their lethargy. Madame Renard in particular, who had all but slumped back in her seat, as if retreating from the world around her, now looked up not a little perplexed. As it happened, it was fortuitous that they should at that moment have become awakened and alert. For only seconds later the door, which obscured the policemen from their sight, opened and Rose Simpson came out.

Rose Simpson’s interview could not be said to have ended well. She did not think so and neither did Inspector Deacon, or even young Sergeant Perkins come to that. True, it had started promisingly enough, even if the inspector appeared slightly more formal towards her than she would have liked, or was strictly necessary, given their past association. As the interview had unfolded, she felt that they had reverted to their usual positons albeit rather grudgingly on the inspector’s part. He had started to include her in a review of the case, had shared his thoughts and had considered her opinions. They might have been back at Dareswick Hall with all its grandeur and finery, instead of Madame Renard’s pokey and suffocating little flat. Instead of sipping lukewarm tea made by herself on a stove in an area that resembled more a cupboard than a kitchen, hot tea and biscuits might have been brought in to them by an attentive footman. It was these memories, she realised thinking back on it that had perhaps lulled her into a false sense of security, her thoughts dwelling too much in the past than in the present.

Certainly she had not expected him to have spoken as he had done at the conclusion of the interview, a cold edge to his voice and his face unbearably solemn, as if suddenly encased by a mask.

‘Now, I want you to promise me something, Miss Simpson,’ he had said.

‘Oh? And what is that?’ Immediately she had been on her guard, reluctant to promise him anything until she knew what it was that he asked of her. 

‘I want you to promise me that you will go home now, the very moment this interview is finished. I don’t want you to harbour any notions that you will undertake an investigation of your own into this murder. I don’t want you to start asking all sorts of questions of goodness knows who. I don’t want – ’

‘You can’t possibility ask me to promise you all that,’ protested Rose.

‘I don’t see why not, Miss Simpson,’ said Inspector Deacon rather curtly. A frown had appeared on his forehead distorting his rather handsome features. It suddenly occurred to Rose that he had scowled at her rather a lot during the course of the interview. ‘It makes perfect sense that the investigation of a murder should be left to the police to carry out. It is our job to gather the evidence and to see that the guilty person is brought to justice. We are the experts in the matter and we can do without having to – ’

‘To do what exactly?’ demanded Rose. ‘Why, you sound just like Inspector Bramwell! You’ll be patting me on top of my head next and telling me to go off and be a good girl or some such thing equally frightful.’

Rose heard a noise behind her which sounded very much like Sergeant Perkins desperately trying not to laugh. The thought of the sergeant doubled up with suppressed laughter brought a smile to her lips. She stole a glance at the inspector to determine his reaction to the turn of events. To his credit, she thought he was doing his upmost to conceal a smile himself. Certainly he coloured as she stared at him.

‘If I do sound like Inspector Bramwell, well, then all well and good. Perhaps, Miss Simpson, it is no bad thing,’ said Inspector Deacon. ‘I know that in the past I have been rather indulgent in allowing you to help us with our investigations, encouraged you even, but now it is quite different, don’t you see that?’

‘To be perfectly honest, no I don’t,’ said Rose.

‘Then I shall set it out for you very clearly. You have earned something of a reputation for being a bit of an amateur sleuth. I won’t say it isn’t justified, because of course it is. Your help has been invaluable to us in the past.’

‘Well, then I don’t understand – ’

‘If you would only let me finish than I will explain,’ snapped the inspector.

Admonished, Rose sat back in her chair and stared at the floor. Inappropriate though it was, given the circumstances, she had an overwhelming desire to laugh. The only thing that restrained her from doing so was being awfully afraid it would not be well received. She wished she could turn around and see how the sergeant was taking it all. Surely witnesses and suspects weren’t usually spoken to like this. Instead she could only but imagine what the sergeant must be thinking.

‘It is for that very reason that I ask you not to involve yourself in this case,’ Inspector Deacon was saying, cutting through her meditations. His voice had lost its cold edge. Now, if anything, it held a quiet sincerity, which encouraged Rose to look up. All of a sudden she no longer felt a wish to laugh.

‘The suspects in this case are your friends and colleagues. They will be fully acquainted with your successes. Don’t you see what that means? The murderer will perceive you as an undoubtable threat. A threat that might require being dealt with. I not only want you to promise me that you won’t try and investigate, I want you to say as much to the people outside this room. I’m sure that you can think of something to say. Perhaps that the murder is too close to home and you would feel uncomfortable investigating it. Yes … something along those lines, I think.’

‘I am afraid, Inspector, that is quite out of the question,’ said Rose.  

‘Oh, do be reasonable, Rose,’ Inspector Deacon said, beginning to lose his temper. ‘Why must you insist on being so difficult? Don’t you see that what I am saying is only for your own good? It’s for your safety. Surely you see that? And for our convenience, I hasten to add. I do not wish to find myself investigating another murder.’ His expression softened, and traces of the Inspector Deacon she knew appeared. ‘Look here. I daresay you feel a moral obligation to investigate Miss Beckett’s murder, what with her being a work colleague of yours.’

‘Yes, I do. But I’m afraid it’s not just that,’ said Rose quickly. ‘They’ve all asked me, you see, to investigate Sylvia’s murder, I mean. And I said I would. And really, I can’t go back on my word, even if I wanted to, which I don’t. So it’s no good asking me to tell them that I have changed my mind, because I simply won’t.’ She hurriedly pushed back her chair, making a scraping noise on the floor as she did so, and got to her feet. Quickly she made for the door before she lost her nerve, or the inspector tried to appeal further to her better judgment. ‘And even if they hadn’t asked me, I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself. How could I possibly justify it to myself? How could I in all conscience investigate the murders of people I don’t know in grand houses, and yet not investigate the murder of someone I have known for a number of years in a place I consider to be almost my second home?’

The inspector looked as if he was taking a moment or two to consider his response. Aware that she had the stage but that the time afforded her would be brief, she ploughed on, desperately trying to avoid looking at Sergeant Perkins. How she wished he wouldn’t sit there with his mouth wide open. It really was rather unbecoming for a sergeant. 

‘And if it’s my safety you’re concerned about,’ she said, pressing her advantage, ‘well, it would make much more sense, wouldn’t it, if we combined our knowledge and worked together? We’d probably solve this case much more quickly and I’d spend less time being in danger.’  

Anxious looks greeted her return to the sitting room-cum-dining room. Rose gave a nod and a brief smile of encouragement, but received very little for her efforts. Every person seemed to turn away from her, as if she carried the stench of death about her. She had expected them to crowd around her and ask numerous questions. What was the inspector like? Did he have a particular suspect in mind? How long would they be expected to wait in this room? Surely, given the hour, the rest of the interviews could wait until morning? But instead there was an uneasy silence, like the quiet before a storm. 

‘The inspector would like to speak with you in a few minutes,’ she said, bending over the seated figure of Madame Renard. The proprietor looked up at her apprehensively, almost as if she expected some sort of a trap.

Rose had spoken softly. Jacques, perhaps realising that she wished to have a few quiet words with his mother, relinquished his seat on the sofa with a backwards glance and joined Marcel Girard at the window. It seemed a futile action for neither man was able to see out into the street; the curtains had been pulled hastily across some time earlier to shut out the night’s sky. Instead of giving the room a cosy feel, as might have been expected, the shutting out of the world beyond the window sought only to add to the feeling of isolation and confinement.

‘He’ll want you to tell him everything,’ said Rose, seating herself on the sofa beside her employer. ‘He will want to know the sort of relationship you had with Sylvia, whether you were on friendly terms and all that.’

‘The girl was my employee,’ the proprietor said rather coldly. ‘Of course we were on friendly terms. Yes, I know what you are going to say, that the girl could be difficult and rude. Do you not think I know that? But the police, they do not need to know this. It is most unfair to the poor girl, this speaking ill of the dead. And there is no point to it, no point at all. It had nothing to do with her death.’

‘Very likely, but even so you will need to tell them what she was like. They will want to know her character and whether she had any enemies or anyone who might have wished to do her harm. You see, anything we tell them, no matter how irrelevant or unimportant we might think it, may prove frightfully valuable in helping them to build up a picture of her. You do see that, don’t you?’

‘If you say so.’ Madame Renard sounded distinctly uninterested. She went as far as moving an inch or so closer to her end of the sofa. ‘But I do not know why you say this only to me. What about Mary? She was Sylvia’s particular friend. If anyone knew the girl’s character, it is she.’

‘And the inspector will be asking her too. He will want you to run through the events of the evening as you perceived them,’ continued Rose. ‘And he’ll want you to tell him if you saw anything suspicious.’

‘How could I?’ snapped Madame Renard. ‘My hands, they were too full. I did not have the time to see anything suspicious.’

‘Well, you may have seen something and not realised it was significant.’

Madame Renard’s only response was to sniff, as if something distasteful had been placed under her nose.

‘The police will be asking the same questions of everyone,’ continued Rose. ‘Please, you mustn’t withhold any information.’

Madame Renard gave her such a look as to infer that she had nothing to suppress even if she had been so minded.

Rose paused a moment before proceeding. She had been thinking about how best to moot what was on the tip of her tongue to ask. She had known that it would not be an easy matter, but it was further hindered by Madame Renard’s current mood, which appeared to be neither very accommodating nor particularly agreeable. She was unlikely to suffer Rose putting questions or suggestions to her, particularly if she considered them of a distasteful nature. And of course what Rose had to say was unpalatable and, in the grand scheme of things, likely to have little relevance to the murder. But ask it she must. If nothing else it had been troubling her ever since Madame Renard had first mentioned it earlier that evening.

‘You will need to tell the inspector what you told me just before the fashion show. Do you remember what you said? You will need to tell him that you suspected Sylvia of being a thief.’

Madame Renard’s jaw dropped and her eyes bulged. For a moment she gaped helplessly at Rose like a fish out of water, stranded and defenceless, unsure what to say or do next. She clasped her hands together in her lap and looked down at them almost as if she were surprised that they were there. Rose meanwhile waited, almost with bated breath. She had anticipated that her employer would show some resistance to the suggestion that she volunteer information on Sylvia’s criminal activities to the police. What she had not expected, however, was that Madame Renard should react in this exaggerated fashion. It betokened a woman driven more by fear than by a natural reluctance to divulge something unpleasant about the deceased.

While Rose waited for Madame Renard to voice her objection at the very least, her mind returned to the conversation that had been alluded to. What had been said exactly? It was difficult to recollect anything but Madame Renard’s righteous indignation at the fact that one of her employees was a thief. She had decided, indeed spoken with absolute certainty, that Sylvia must be the thief. But she had not mentioned being in possession of any proof, only having an unwavering feeling of the fact. What was it she had said exactly? Rose knew it had made her feel uneasy at the time. Of course, if it hadn’t been for the fashion event she would have pressed her further, demanded that her employer tell her how she was so sure and what she intended to do …

‘You said you would put a stop to her activities,’ Rose said, the words flooding back suddenly into her mind. She remembered the determined and resolute way that Madame Renard had spoken. An awful thought crossed her mind unbidden. It remained there only briefly, but nevertheless she felt compelled to give it voice. ‘“See if I don’t!” That is what you said. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But … please, tell me you didn’t. …no, I …’

She broke off from what she was saying and stared at her employer, unable to bring herself to proceed with such an accusation. How she wished that she had not felt compelled to articulate her thoughts. However, it had the desired effect. Something of the horror of what she felt must have shown itself on her face. For it seemed to provide the necessary impetus the proprietor needed to throw off her indifference and take a hold of herself.