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

‘Well, well, well. So you’re the famous Miss Simpson, are you?’ said Lady Celia in a voice that sounded surprisingly young and light given the woman’s appearance. ‘I have to admit I’ve been rather dying to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you. A shop girl who has made rather an impression on young Cedric and a bit of an amateur sleuth as well, so I’ve been told. Well, well, well.’

Lady Celia rose in order that she might scrutinise her more closely, which gave Rose the opportunity to do likewise. Lady Celia, she found, was rather older than she had anticipated. She would have put the woman closer to thirty than twenty, and while tall like Lavinia, her build was so completely opposite as to make the idea that she should take Lavinia’s place and wear the clothes that had been made to her friend’s measurements seem quite ludicrous. What had Lavinia been thinking? Had Lavinia even given the matter any thought, she wondered?

Tall and heavy as she was, Lady Celia still cut an impressive figure, although some of this was surely due to the good cut of her jacket and skirt which emphasised her height rather than her girth. Her face was heavily and rather badly made up, while her hair was expertly coiffured. To Rose, she seemed a woman of contradictions.

‘How do you do, Lady Celia?’ Rose said again, at a loss as to what else to say.

‘I do very well as it happens.’ Lady Celia gave Rose a particularly appraising look. ‘I have to say you’re not what I imagined. I thought you’d be prettier. No, there’s no need to take umbrage. It’s a compliment, you know. You obviously have something about you other than looks to have attracted young Cedric. He’s rather a catch particularly for someone like you, not that I have to tell
you
that.’ 

There was an uncomfortable silence with Rose unsure how to respond and Madame Renard obviously of the view that this matter did not concern her. Having been duly scrutinised, Lady Celia appeared to have dismissed Rose from her thoughts for the woman’s attention turned back to the unfortunate Marcel Girard, sitting across the desk from her still holding his head in his hands. She regarded him with an impatient and somewhat contemptuous stare.

‘Really, this will not do, all this posturing,’ Lady Celia snapped at the designer. ‘I am not what you expected, I quite see that. You thought I’d look like Lavinia, all skin and bones, with a small waist and narrow hips. But how many women really look like that? Isn’t that why you designers incorporate puff sleeves or butterfly sleeves, or whatever they’re called, to create the illusion of slenderness? I mean to say, isn’t that what you do?’ She gave Monsieur Girard a particularly withering look, which was completely lost on him as he did not look up from the desk.

‘Really, Madame Renard I can’t imagine what all the fuss is about,’ Lady Celia said, turning her attention to the proprietor. ‘All these advertisements you see in magazines, why, they are quite unrealistic. There is a reason why they use drawings rather than photographs. The women they picture are always about three times as tall and thin as any woman I’ve ever come across. Except perhaps for Lavinia, but then she is rather waif like. But how many of your customers resemble her, I’d like to know.’ She laughed rather dismissively. ‘Not very many, I’d imagine, whereas I would hazard a guess that quite a few of them resemble me in profile, do they not?’

‘Of course, what you say, it is true,’ said Madame Renard, rallying a little. ‘And had the fashion event been next week, there would have been no issue, I think.’ She gave a quick glance at the designer as if she feared that he might contradict her. ‘But it is not. It is tonight and the gowns, they have been made to fit Lady Lavinia.’

‘Well, she’s not here, is she?’ snapped Lady Celia. ‘And I am. Surely you can alter them? Let out a seam here, move a button there?’

‘
Ce n’est pas pratique
,’ cried Monsieur Girard, jumping up from his seat. ‘The gowns, they are cut to the model’s precise measurements. There are not the big seams with the great surplus of material that you imagine. We cannot let them out, as you say. And you cannot move a button from here,’ he paused to point one hand flamboyantly to his left, ‘to there.’ He pointed to his right in an equally showy manner. ‘It will not work. It will change how the garment looks, how the material hangs, the way it folds over the body, how it drapes.’

‘Will it?’ asked Lady Celia in a rather disinterested voice. ‘I’m afraid that I don’t know much about that sort of thing.’

‘That, mademoiselle, is evident,’ replied the designer. A lesser woman than Lady Celia might have recoiled from the look he gave her, but the woman in question did not flinch or even appear to notice. Certainly she did not fidget in her seat or look the least bit uncomfortable.

‘The fact of the matter is, Lady Celia,’ said Rose entering the conversation at last, ‘the clothes that were made for Lady Lavinia will not fit you, and there is no time to make new ones to your measurements. We will have to find another model.’

‘But –’ wailed the proprietor.

‘Madame Renard will of course desire your presence at the fashion event. Perhaps you could launch the event and endorse one or two of the outfits that you consider particularly becoming?’

‘Becoming on someone else? And what, pray, am I to wear?’ demanded Lady Celia. ‘Surely you are not suggesting I wear one of my own gowns?’ She turned and gave the designer a sweet smile, ‘I fear they will overshadow your designs, monsieur. You see, my clothes come straight from the Paris fashion houses. Haute couture at its very best.’

‘No, of course not,’ said Rose quickly before Monsieur Girard could reply. ‘I was going to –’

‘You are surely not suggesting that Lady Celia wear one of our factory made garments?’ cried Madame Renard.

‘No, that’s to say I was wondering whether Lady Celia might consider wearing one of the semi-made tailored outfits that you are introducing to the shop, Madame.’

‘Goodness, whatever are semi-made outfits?’ enquired Lady Celia.

‘But of course!’ exclaimed the proprietor. ‘Lady Celia, they are expertly cut garments from manufacturers who tailor only the very finest retail outfits. These garments they have the same great attention to detail and workmanship that you would find with couture dresses, is that not so?’

Madame Renard had paused to glance at Monsieur Girard for confirmation, but it was Rose who answered: ‘Oh, yes.’ The designer himself looked inclined to disagree, but said nothing.

‘All the difficult stitching, pleating and tucking is skilfully done by the manufacturer,’ the proprietor went on. ‘The dresses, they are virtually complete. The only seams that are left undone are those which will allow us to make your personal adjustments to ensure a precise fit.
Enfin!
A way out of our dilemma.’

‘I hope you’re not expecting me to wear something made out of one of those awful cheap materials like rayon,’ complained Lady Celia.

‘
Non
. Not at all,’ Madame Renard said quickly. ‘These garments, they are made from only the very finest materials like silk flat crepe.’

‘And my gowns, the ones that I have designed, who is to wear them?’ demanded Monsieur Girard. ‘Is this to be a fashion event only of the factory made and semi-made garments? Perhaps I should go to another boutique who will appreciate my gowns.’

‘No, please, monsieur, do not do that,’ cried Madame Renard in a voice that threatened any moment to become shrill. ‘Oh, Rose, who can we get to model monsieur’s gowns? Oh, if only you were a little more slender you could do the job very well yourself. If only –’

‘Sylvia,’ said Rose. ‘Sylvia can be your mannequin, Monsieur Girard.’

‘Sylvia?’ Madame Renard looked taken aback as if she had been struck by lightning. ‘Sylvia? That girl? Are you out of your mind, Rose?’

‘Sylvia? Who’s she?’ demanded Lady Celia sharply, obviously intrigued by the proprietor’s reaction. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘Sylvia Beckett,’ began Madame Renard, making a face and looking for all the world as if she had just eaten something rather unpleasant.

‘Sylvia Beckett?’ enquired Lady Celia raising her eyebrows. ‘Sylvia Beckett?’ She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Don’t tell me she is one of your shop assistants? Not one of the girls out there, surely.’

‘
Oui
. Really, Rose
. Quelle idée
.
How can you suggest such a thing?’ said the proprietor recovering her composure. ‘The girl, she walks like a cart horse. And her manners. She will be scowling at the customers and frightening them away.’

‘If that’s the case,’ said Lady Celia rather coldly, ‘I’m rather surprised that you employ her. Although I have to admit that she does sound rather intriguing.’

Madame Renard turned scarlet and fiddled with a button on her blouse. ‘It is true the girl has a few flaws. But she can be quite charming and attentive when she chooses, quite an addition to the shop.’ She appealed to Rose. ‘Is that not so, Miss Simpson?’

‘Yes, indeed, Madame,’ answered Rose, not wholly of that opinion herself. ‘But I suggested Sylvia because of her physique not her disposition. She is as tall as Lavinia and thinner if anything so Lavinia’s clothes should certainly fit her or require only very minor adjustment.’

‘
C’est possible
.
Oui
. What you say, it may be correct,’ said Madame Renard somewhat grudgingly, not sounding at all enthusiastic about the prospect. 

‘Sylvia?’ Monsieur Girard said. It was the first time he had uttered a word regarding the proposal, and all eyes turned to him with interest. He looked up and stared at the wall as if he were looking into the distance and could picture the girl standing there before him swathed in one of his gowns. ‘Sylvia.’ He said the name again slowly to himself in a voice barely above a whisper, as if he were trying it out to see how it sounded on his tongue. ‘
Oui
. Yes. She has not the poise or temperament of Lady Lavinia, but the figure … yes … she has the silhouette.’

‘Oh? I should like to see this girl,’ Lady Celia said, clenching her hands together. ‘You say she is in the shop now?’

‘Yes. Miss Simpson will point her out to you if you like,’ Madame Renard said. ‘But I would rather you did not say anything to her about becoming the mannequin until I have spoken to her. She is a foolish girl, that one. It will go to her head, I think, if we are not careful.’

The two younger women ventured out into the shop with Rose wondering how she might discreetly point out Sylvia. To her relief both shop assistants were busy attending to customers and so their arrival went relatively unnoticed. Lady Celia walked immediately to one of the tables of accessories and picked up a hat which she pretended to study.   

‘I take it Sylvia is not that washed out looking girl over there?’

‘No, that is Mary.’

‘Ah, so she’s the other one, is she? Pretty, yes. But rather a common little thing I would have said.’ Lady Celia put down the hat and stopped all pretence at studying it. ‘What, no word from you, Miss Simpson? Not even a frown and yet I can tell from your silence that you don’t think much of me. I can’t say I blame you. I daresay I come across as rather unkind. I don’t mean to be, I assure you. I’m afraid I have a tendency to say the first thing that comes into my head. It is a great affliction.’

‘Indeed?’

‘I can see you don’t believe me. You think I am making fun of you and your fellow shop assistants.’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘As it happens, no, I’m not,’ Lady Celia said, suddenly becoming serious. She gave Sylvia another glance and laughed. ‘Why, I don’t know what Madame Renard is making all the fuss about. The girl seems to be behaving quite charmingly to that customer. Really, I don’t see how she could be more attentive if she tried.’

‘Have you seen enough?’ asked Rose. ‘We had better go back to Madame’s office so that you can be measured for your semi-made outfit. They will need to do the final seams. And Madame will want to speak with Sylvia. She will need to try on all Lavinia’s outfits. It’s likely to take quite a time. We’ll be short staffed. I’ll be needed back in the shop to serve.’

‘Rose … May I call you Rose? Let us not get off on the wrong foot. I daresay I have been rather unkind.’ Lady Celia made an attempt at smiling sweetly. Instinctively Rose took a step backward.

‘Oh, dear, what am I thinking?’ sighed Lady Celia. ‘I am going about this all the wrong way, aren’t I? Have I made rather a mess at apologising? Really, I am not good at this sort of thing at all.’

No you’re not, thought Rose, but she thought better than to say it out loud. Really, Lady Celia was the most objectionable of people. She longed to ask her the question that was on the tip of her tongue. Why are you here? For it was obvious even to the most casual of observers that Lady Celia was not at all interested in clothes let alone modelling them. So why had she volunteered to do so?

‘How do you think I look in this, Rose?’ asked Sylvia, admiring her reflection in a full length mirror. ‘Don’t you think it suits me very well?’

Sylvia was dressed in a black silk chiffon dress trimmed with a delicate Venise pattern collar. She swished this way and that to get the full effect, much to the annoyance of both Elsie, the seamstress undertaking the alterations to the garments, and Monsieur Girard, who was overseeing the proceedings.

‘Mademoiselle, will you kindly keep still,’ cried the designer throwing his arms up in the air for the umpteenth time. ‘Do you want to be pricked by the pin? We have not the time for you to admire yourself in the glass. You look very fine, yes. But you will only wear these dresses tonight if Elsie can alter the gowns in time. You, mademoiselle, are not helping matters. The event, it is this evening, not next week. Elsie, she still has the seams to sew up on the semi-made gown for Lady Celia.’

Elsie, her mouth full of pins, made a rather strange humming sound to show that she concurred with what the designer was saying. For additional emphasis she yanked on the gown and grazed Sylvia’s leg with a pin.

‘Ow!’ squealed Sylvia. ‘You hateful girl. You did that on purpose.’

‘She did not,’ said Rose quickly. ‘But do try and keep still and see sense. If nothing else we need you back in the shop as soon as possible. There are still customers to be served and a lot to do before tonight’s event. You can’t expect Mary and me to do it all ourselves, you know.’

‘I don’t see why Madame can’t help you. It’s her event and her shop after all.’

‘Madame has a headache. I suggested that she go home for an hour or two to rest. No, don’t look at me like that, Sylvia, it’s for the best. It’s her nerves. She’s very anxious and worried about tonight. She’s afraid it won’t be a success.’

Sylvia sniffed, but remained still so that Elsie could pin her.

‘Where’s the marquis’s daughter, I’d like to know?’ she said after a while.

‘If you’re referring to Lady Celia, she’s meeting a friend for lunch and then doing some shopping,’ said Rose. ‘She’ll be back in a couple of hours to try on her outfit. So do be helpful and allow poor Elsie enough time to sew the seams.’

‘Yes. It would be just awful, wouldn’t it, if poor Lady Celia had to wait.’

‘Really, Sylvia, I don’t know what’s got into you. Why are you being like this? Usually if a customer has a title you are all over them like a rash in the hope you might get a tip.’

‘I am not!’ protested Sylvia. ‘You take that back. If you must know, I just don’t like her, that’s all,’ she added sulkily, turning her gaze away from her reflection.

‘I suppose you’ve taken against her because she’s a friend of Lavinia’s?’ said Rose, aware that Sylvia had resented Lavinia when she had worked in the shop.

‘All this playing at being a shop girl or playing at being a mannequin, it’s enough to make an honest hardworking girl like me feel sick. Not for the likes of them the long hours and low pay,’ moaned Sylvia. ‘They think they’re so above us, don’t they, with all their money and titles and fine things? Still, I’m not sure why I’m saying all this to you. You’ll be one of them soon, won’t you?’

Rose felt herself blush and, much to her annoyance, she saw Sylvia smile.

‘Well,’ said Rose hurriedly. ‘I doubt whether Lady Celia’s that fond of you. But please, Sylvia, will you stop your complaining?’ Rose sighed and tried a different approach. ‘Oh, do cheer up, do. You should be pleased that Lady Celia hasn’t your figure. You are getting to wear Monsieur’s gorgeous gowns after all, and after tonight I doubt whether you will ever lay eyes on the lady again.’

Later Rose was to remember those very words spoken so casually and in haste, words designed to lift Sylvia’s spirits and make her more accommodating. They were to prove true, but in such an awfully appalling way that had she had any inkling of the tragedy to come she would never have uttered them. They would have remained unsaid, instead of floating in the air in Madame Renard’s little box room of an office already distinctly overcrowded with its disgruntled sales assistant, its anxious designer and the harassed seamstress pulling her hair out with it all.   

‘Darling, have you been waiting long?’

Lady Celia Goswell, not waiting for an answer to her question, arrived at the table in the Lyons Corner House in something of a rush. She deposited somewhat clumsily onto its surface a number of packages done up in brown paper and string which fought for space with the cutlery. A number of other parcels slipped from her grasp and rolled onto a convenient chair, while others still had toppled onto the floor. Evidence, if evidence was needed, of a successful shopping excursion. Lady Celia herself, seemingly oblivious or uncaring of the fate of her various purchases, sunk her large frame thankfully into a vacant chair, and in her enthusiasm and eagerness to do so, managed to upset the sugar bowl. Her companion, who was already well established at the table, had a look of weary resignation as he put aside the newspaper he had been reading and rose from his seat. He gave her a look which indicated that such an occurrence was not unusual, and set to retrieving the wayward packages and summoning the waitress to address the sugar bowl.

‘Oh, it’s so noisy and crowded in here, everyone jostling around and in an awful hurry. It’s hard to make oneself heard or make any progress across the room. Downstairs is worse. I can’t for the life of me think why you didn’t choose somewhere else for us to have lunch.’

‘You know very well why, my dear,’ answered Bertram Thorpe, her companion. ‘The prices here meet my pocket.’ He regarded her with a touch of annoyance. ‘And I say, did you have to be so late? You know full well that I have only an hour for lunch and I’ve been waiting for you nearly twenty minutes. I was about to order on your behalf.’

‘Well, you may as well have done. Now what shall I have? I daresay the cold consommé followed by the stewed lamb will do me very well. And then, if we have time I’ll have the pear tart … although perhaps I’ll abstain from having a pudding just this once. I want to fit into my dress. It took ages to be measured for it and really I don’t know why they bothered, it was such a frightful thing. Now,’ she regarded Bertram fondly, ‘don’t go on so, darling. I have so much to tell you. And it won’t be the end of the world if you do go back a little bit late, will it? You do work for your uncle after all. Tell him I wanted to talk to you about changing my will or setting up a charitable trust or some such thing. That’s what solicitors do, isn’t it?’

‘Amongst other things, yes,’ Bertram said returning to his chair, the packages now in some sort of order. ‘I’m not so very sure that the law is the life for me, you know, Celia,’ he said, having regained some of his usual humour, ‘I’m not certain that I’m cut out for it.’

‘Well, after we’re married you won’t have to work at all, will you? Not if you don’t want to.’

There followed an awkward silence which both parties were eager to break, but neither knew how, both being at a loss as to what to say. Celia cursed herself for having spoken of marriage, a subject which Bertram regrettably rarely mentioned. In the end it was Bertram who broke the silence by summoning the waitress. She weaved her way between the tables until she stood before them in her neat black, maid like uniform with its well laundered white collar, cuffs and apron. She tilted her head to take their order, which gave Celia the opportunity to study her cap which she noticed matched the apron and cuffs so perfectly. It was offset by thick black ribbon threaded through it. While Bertram gave their order Celia sat back in her chair and idly and with little interest regarded the orchestra. Her thoughts drifted back to the
ground floor of the establishment with its large Food Hall and, as a means of occupying herself until the silence was broken, she set her mind to trying to recall the various delicacies that had been on display there. If she remembered correctly, they had included amongst other things hams, cakes, pastries, bespoke chocolates, fruit from the Empire, wines, cheeses and flowers.

‘Celia –’

‘I know, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have –’