Murder at Renard's (Rose Simpson Mysteries Book 4) (2 page)

‘On how to wait in shops?’ said Sylvia dismissively. ‘I could tell them a thing or two about that.’

‘I’m sure you could. But it’s not just training in waiting on customers, no. We receive training on merchandise and selling techniques and we’re also taught how to do accounts. It’ll all come in jolly useful when I’m the proprietor here, you wait and see if it doesn’t.’

‘I doubt I’ll be here then,’ Sylvia said, giving him a knowing look. ‘You mark my words, I’ll be married and well provided for by the time you come into your inheritance. No working in shops for me then, I can tell you.’

‘If anyone will have you, Sylvia. Now, don’t look at me like that. You know I don’t mean anything by it.’

‘Don’t you?’ Sylvia asked sulkily.

‘Of course not. I was only ribbing. You know you’re my best girl.’

‘No, I’m not. I daresay I used to be, but I’m not now. I’ve hardly seen anything of you lately. Not since you went to work at Harridges. I’ve heard about what you all get up to on a Saturday evening. Drinks and dancing, that’s what. I suppose you’ve taken a shine to some girl at that fancy department store, one that’s received all that shop training that you’re so fond of.’

Jacques went red, but said nothing.

‘I’m right then, am I?’ Sylvia looked away for a moment. ‘I thought as much. That’ll explain why you’re not on at me any more to go to the pictures with you.’

‘It’s not – ’

‘You needn’t waste your breath making excuses, Jack Renard. I know your mother doesn’t approve of me walking out with you. Not that it matters now,’ Sylvia added haughtily. ‘I’ve got myself a proper young man, so I have. One that’s up in the world and has prospects.’

‘Have you indeed?’ said Jacques, not knowing quite what to think. He gave Sylvia a curious look. His first inclination was to think she was lying and just trying to make him jealous. But one could never tell with Sylvia. She was a girl who kept things close to her chest. And it did not escape his notice that her colour had risen. There was also something in the defiant way she had made her claim that made him wonder if she might not be having him on after all.

Sylvia was watching him closely, a smug look on her face. It was obvious that she found his confused reaction to her words amusing.

‘Well just you wait and see,’ she said beaming. ‘You’ll eat your words, see if you don’t, Jack Renard. I can do better than the likes of you and no mistake!’

Rose stood behind her glass counter feeling particularly restive, the afternoon seeming to drag horrendously as it always did when there were too few customers to while away the time, or she had a particular reason for wishing her working day to come to a close. In this instance her impatience was not due to her eagerness to embark on a visit to some ancestral home to attend a weekend house party as it had been on other occasions. Rather she had a desire that the day come to as hasty a close as possible so that tomorrow would dawn and bring with it the opportunity to see Lady Celia in the flesh.

Rose allowed her thoughts to drift back to the unsettling telephone call that she had had earlier that day with the various inhabitants of Sedgwick Court. Snatches of remembered conversation floated into her mind and she found that if she concentrated sufficiently, which was not difficult as there was little else to occupy her mind as the shop was at that very moment free of customers, she could play back the various conversations in her mind almost word for word. If she remembered correctly, the dialogues had gone something like this:

‘Hello. I say, is that Manning? It’s Miss Simpson here,’ Rose had said as soon as she had been connected to Sedgwick Court. In her eagerness she had not allowed the other person to speak first.

‘Hmm …’ said rather a dignified voice. ‘No, it isn’t Miss Simpson. It’s Torridge, the head-butler, miss.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see.’

Rose raised her eyebrows. It was all she could do not to exclaim the man’s name out loud in surprise. It was a few months since she had last seen the head-butler, and she had not expected him to still be employed in his position. Instead she had assumed that by now the old man would have given in to his old age and inevitable retirement, however reluctantly. A pension and a cottage on the Sedgwick estate awaited him, she knew.

‘I’m so sorry. I assumed you were Manning. How are you, Torridge?’

‘I can’t complain, miss.’

‘I was wondering if I might speak with Lady Lavinia? To tell you the truth,’ Rose admitted rather confidentially, ‘I’m rather surprised that she hasn’t contacted Madame Renard already to make arrangements to come in for her final fitting. For the clothes, you know. The gowns she will wear tomorrow night for the presentation of haute couture to Madame Renard’s private clientele.’

‘I’m afraid Lady Lavinia is unavailable, miss. She is rather under the weather and has retired to bed.’

‘Under the weather? Oh, no! How do you mean “under the weather”? Is she poorly, or has she been overdoing things a bit?’ Visons of Lavinia sipping one too many cocktails immediately sprung to Rose’s mind.

‘Lady Lavinia is quite unwell,’ retorted the old butler sounding shocked at any implied slur on his mistress’s character.

‘Yes. I’m sure she is,’ Rose said hurriedly. ‘What I meant to say … well, what I’m getting at, Torridge, is, will she be well enough to participate in the fashion show tomorrow do you think? I daresay it isn’t that important that she comes for a final fitting. Monsieur Girard has all her measurements and, from what I’ve seen, the gowns fit delightfully. But understandably Madame Renard is rather anxious. You see, it’s the first time that she – ’

‘I very much doubt that Lady Lavinia will be well enough to attend tomorrow’s event, miss,’ Torridge said gravely.  

‘What? But that’s impossible!’ exclaimed Rose. ‘Mayn’t I speak to Lady Lavinia? Only for a few minutes? I won’t keep her out of bed for long, I promise.’

‘I am afraid that is quite out of the question, miss. Lady Lavinia was most particular that she not be disturbed on any account.’

‘Oh.’

For a moment Rose was at a complete loss. With a dreadful sinking feeling forming in the pit of her stomach she began to wonder if Lavinia might be having second thoughts about coming to Madame Renard’s grand event. Perhaps the prospect of returning to the shop where she had once worked, or playing the part of a mannequin, had been too much for Lavinia. It was possible that it had all suddenly made her feel nervous, although it seemed unlikely given that Lavinia had a fondness for being looked at and admired. Rose felt that if only she could speak to the girl herself instead of going through the formidable Torridge, then she might ascertain what precisely was wrong.

‘Of course, her ladyship appreciates the predicament in which she has placed Madame Renard,’ Torridge was saying. ‘She has arranged for another young lady to model the gowns in her absence.’

‘Oh, has she?’ Rose said. ‘And when exactly did she intend to let us know?’ she added with feeling. ‘On the day of the event itself?’

Her words were met with a frosty silence followed by a discreet cough by Torridge at such impertinence.

‘Which young lady, Torridge?’ Rose asked more sweetly in an attempt to appease the old man.

‘Lady Celia Goswell, miss, second daughter of the Marquis of Perriford.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Rose pondered for a moment wondering how she might best go about enquiring whether Lady Celia resembled Lavinia in physique.

As if he could read her thoughts, the butler said: ‘Her ladyship asked me to inform you that Lady Celia will be calling at Madame Renard’s shop early tomorrow morning to ascertain what will be expected of her at the fashion occasion and for any alterations to be made to the outfits as required.’

‘I see. Very good, Torridge,’ said Rose, quite resolved to end the conversation, full in the belief that she had gleaned as much as she was going to obtain from the discreet old butler. How she wished that it was Manning, the young man being trained up to replace Torridge, who was on the other end of the telephone. She remembered that the under-butler had a tendency to be more forthcoming and certainly more approachable than his superior. She was just about to hang up the receiver when a sudden thought occurred to her.

‘I say, Torridge, Lord Belvedere hasn’t by any chance returned to Sedgwick, has he? I know he isn’t expected back until tomorrow but – ’

‘His lordship returned an hour ago, miss.’

‘Did he indeed?’ exclaimed Rose. ‘Oh, but that’s delightful. Would you ask him to come to the telephone please, Torridge? I should like to speak with him.’

‘But, Miss Simpson –’

‘I’m afraid I must insist, Torridge’ said Rose, feeling herself on surer ground. ‘You know full well he will want to speak with me.’

‘Very well, miss, if you say so …’

Rose heard the old butler tottering off, tut-tutting as he went. She was under no illusions that he approved of her or her relationship with his master. She sighed. How awkward everything would be when finally ... No, she wouldn’t think about that now. She had more immediate and pressing things to attend to at this moment. What was Lavinia playing at? And why did she have to be so awfully mysterious?

It seemed to Rose she had been kept waiting a very long time. She was certain that Torridge, however much he might personally disapprove of her, would carry out her instructions to the letter. But there was no escaping that the man was doddery and possibly forgetful. There was a chance that she may have been forgotten, hanging on the other end of the telephone as she was. She was in no doubt the butler had set off determined to summon one of the footman to deliver her message to the earl. But what if he had been waylaid by some unseen event in the servants’ hall and she had slipped from his memory?

Rose was just about to hang up the receiver, with a view to telephoning Sedgwick Court again later that morning, when she heard the sound of approaching feet and fancied that she even felt rather than just heard the receiver being physically picked up the other end, such was the enthusiastic and earnest manner in which the person appeared to undertake the task.

‘Rose, darling, is that you?’

‘Yes, darling, of course it is. I’ve had to wait an awfully long time. I think that butler of yours deliberately kept me waiting. Oh, Cedric, I don’t think he likes me very much. He’s dreadfully formidable, isn’t he?’

‘Whom, Torridge? Is he? I can’t say I’ve observed that he is. I can’t believe that he doesn’t like you, and as to being kept waiting on purpose, I was in the bath, don’t you know.’

‘Oh, were you? I’m awfully sorry to have summoned you from it –’

‘Think nothing of it. I can’t imagine anything better than –’

‘Darling, I’m awfully sorry to interrupt you when you are in full flow. You know full well there is nothing more that I would like to do than to stand here talking to you for ages and ages. But I’m in Madame Renard’s office at the moment, supposedly firming up arrangements with Lavinia for tomorrow’s fashion show. Do you remember that I told you about it?’ Rose paused a moment to turn and look guiltily behind her shoulder to make certain that her proprietor had not entered the room unobserved. ‘Your sister had graciously agreed to be the main mannequin. But I understand she’s ill and Torridge resolutely refuses to let me speak to her. He says she is very unwell and has taken to her bed and is not to be disturbed on any account. Do you know what’s going on?’

‘I say, is the fashion show tomorrow?’ Cedric sounded distinctly despondent to Rose’s ears, even from down the other end of the line. ‘That’s dashed bad luck. For some reason I had it in my head it was next week.’

‘Are you saying Lavinia really is ill?’ asked Rose concerned. ‘It occurred to me, rather uncharitably I must admit, that she might simply have changed her mind. It is the sort of thing she might do, isn’t it? I had hoped that if I had an opportunity to actually speak with her myself I might be able to persuade her to go through with it after all.’

‘I’m afraid that’s quite out of the question, Rose. She certainly won’t be well enough to appear at your fashion show if it’s tomorrow.’ There was a distinct pause. ‘I say, it isn’t possible to delay it by a week or so, is it?’

‘No, it isn’t. The invitations have gone out and Madame Renard will be beside herself if it doesn’t take place tomorrow. She’ll feel that she’d let her customers down. And besides, one or two of them can be rather catty. They might take some satisfaction if she couldn’t pull it off. It’s rather a coup for Madame, you know. And then of course there’s Marcel Girard.’ 

‘Marcel Girard?’

‘He’s the designer of the couture that will be displayed at the show and which Madame will be selling in her shop. I believe he’s an up and coming designer, or so I’m told. Madame Renard is awfully fortunate that he has agreed to supply her dress shop rather than a more fashionable boutique. I expect it’s something to do with him being a friend of her son’s.’

‘And Lavinia was to model these gowns of Girard’s?’

‘Yes. Not only was Madame to have the prestige of having the daughter of an earl model her gowns, but Lavinia has the most perfect figure for the current fashions, tall and slender and willowy with pale delicate features and an English rose complexion that Madame will keep going on and on about.’

‘If you say so.’ said Cedric. ‘But I say, Rose, I’m awfully sorry. I can say with absolute certainty that my sister won’t be well enough by tomorrow to play at being a model.’

‘Won’t she? Really?’ Rose was desperate. ‘Won’t you tell me what’s wrong with her?’

‘I’d love to, but unfortunately I have been sworn to secrecy on pain of death.’    

‘Oh, do be serious, Cedric.’

‘I’m sorry, darling, I am. I’ve promised Lavinia that I won’t breathe a word about what ails her, even to you.’

‘Oh, very well,’ said Rose, annoyed but fully aware that nothing would persuade Cedric to break his promise to his sister. ‘I won’t try and make you go against your word. But it’s left us in the most awful lurch, I can tell you.’

‘Can’t someone else model the gowns in Lavinia’s place?’

‘Well, Lavinia has arranged for someone else to do so,’ Rose admitted rather grudgingly.

‘There you are then,’ said Cedric, sounding relieved. ‘The show will go on, what. As a matter of interest, who has she asked to do the deed?’

‘Lady Celia Goswell.’

‘Oh, I say. I wouldn’t have thought … but one can never tell, can one?’

‘You know her?’

‘Oh, rather. At least I did. I haven’t seen her for a few years. I wouldn’t have said she and Lavinia were particular friends. I wonder what made my sister ask her.’

‘Never mind that,’ Rose said. ‘I want to know what you meant when you said “I wouldn’t have thought”. You sounded awfully surprised that Lavinia had arranged for Lady Celia Goswell to take her place. Don’t you think she’ll be suitable?’

‘I only meant by that that she and Lavinia aren’t by way of being friends. That’s not to say they dislike one another. They don’t have an awful lot in common, I would say.’

‘Are you certain that’s all you meant?’ Rose asked somewhat suspiciously.

‘Well, if you must know, darling, I was rather surprised to hear that she’d want to be a mannequin. Didn’t you say that the attributes that attracted Madame Renard to Lavinia were that she was tall and slender? Just the thing to carry off the current fashions?’

‘That, and that she’s an earl’s daughter. Madame Renard is something of a snob, I’m afraid. But if I’m right in supposing that you are hinting that her figure doesn’t resemble Lavinia’s, then the gowns that your sister was to wear won’t fit Lady Celia, let alone be particularly flattering to her form. Oh, dear, I don’t know what’s to be done. Monsieur Girard chose the dresses to be modelled with Lavinia in mind.’