The Mystery of the Clockwork Sparrow (7 page)

She had awoken early, surprised to find a prickle of excitement in the pit of her stomach before she remembered that today was the day that Sinclair’s would open its doors for the first time. She had decided to walk to the store along the river, and through the park, where already a couple of nursemaids were taking out babies for the morning air in enormous black perambulators, and a footman accompanied an absurd little lapdog on its pre-breakfast trot.

‘Good morning, miss,’ the footman said, doffing his hat politely.

‘Good morning,’ Sophie replied, and walked on.

The park smelled sweet with rain, the fountains were playing and the flowerbeds were full of wind-blown crocuses and daffodils. She was wearing her spring hat and her favourite blouse with the mother-of-pearl buttons, and she was almost looking forward to the day ahead of her – or at least, to seeing Lil and Billy. The thought gave her a sudden tingle of cheerfulness. Not so long ago, she had thought she would never be able to feel cheerful again.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice the newsboys or hear the headlines they were calling, but simply drifted onwards, carried by the morning’s current towards Sinclair’s.

By half past eight, a large crowd had gathered on the steps outside. Whether they were waiting for the store to open or whether they were curious about the robbery was unclear, but there were certainly plenty of newspapermen amongst them. Children darted through the crowd, trying to peep into the windows; men smoked pipes to pass the time; soberly dressed ladies stood still, their gloved hands clasped. Many of those that waited were reading the morning newspaper. Indeed, the boy who sold papers on the corner had had such a profitable morning’s trade that, as he yelled out the headlines, he inwardly blessed Mr Edward Sinclair – yes, and the burglars too, whoever they might be – and thought with satisfaction of the meat pie he would be able to take home for dinner.

As time passed, conversations began to strike up amongst the waiting crowd. Some had heard that Mr Sinclair was in a raging fury and had cancelled the grand opening entirely. Others said that the police had forbidden him to open the store as the whole place was under investigation. Still others said, with confidence, that the store was going to open exactly as planned – it would take more than the likes of a few petty criminals to stop Mr Sinclair in his tracks. They had heard the great man himself would be appearing on the steps at nine o’clock to make a formal address. The crowd settled in for the wait. Ladies of fashion found themselves chattering enthusiastically to one another about the latest Paris styles; an elderly gentleman handed round a bag of mint humbugs; and a young man turned shyly to talk to a girl with roses in her hat about the novel she was reading to pass the time.

As the hour of nine approached, the crowd became larger and ever more restless, drawing closer to the great doors. Whispers ran through the throng: once or twice, someone thought they saw one of the silk curtains twitch, or felt sure they glimpsed a figure moving somewhere inside, but then all was still and silent once more. The church bells chimed nine, and the crowd rumbled with anticipation – but all remained quiet. There was no sign of Mr Sinclair, and it began to seem certain that the shop would not open at all that day. But just as they had all but given up hope, as if on the signal of some invisible conductor’s baton, the curtains in all of the store windows rose with a single movement, revealing the most marvellous window displays any of them had ever seen.

A gasp went through them, like a jolt of electricity. Children ran forwards, gaping at the great mounds of confectionery, the brightly coloured wonderland of toy soldiers and Noah’s ark animals and dolls. The ladies pressed closer, sighing in delight at the exquisite frocks, the ravishing hats, the impossibly elegant shoes. But there was no time to stare any longer, for now the great doors themselves were swinging open, each one held back by a handsome doorman wearing a blue and gold uniform.

There was one moment of breathless anticipation, and then the crowd surged forward. Young newspapermen, keen to be the first with the scoop, elbowed their way to the front. Eager shoppers forced their way through the crowd and the young lady with the book was almost pushed over in the crush. Feeling rather daring, the man who had spoken to her moved closer and took her arm. Together they went forward, and in a moment, found themselves standing inside Sinclair’s department store.

As they swept past the doormen into an immense marble entrance hall, the first thing they noticed was the delicious smell, like bonbons on Christmas morning. The next was a magnificent fountain in which white-marble mermaids basked in a sea-green pool. The silvery tinkling of the water mingled with the tick of an enormous golden clock that stood against the wall. Some of the crowd paused to admire the clock and the fountain, whilst others made at once for the sweeping marble staircase. Still others came to a halt before a row of doors, each painted dark blue with a pattern of silver stars, and a lamp in the shape of a crescent moon suspended above it. Each door was manned by a young lift operator in the same blue and gold uniform who bowed and asked: ‘Which floor, sir?’ or ‘Which floor, madam?’ But most of the crowd pushed forward through the Entrance Hall and flooded into the maze of rooms and passages that opened up beyond.

Through one archway was a rose-coloured room, in which elegant shop girls offered scent in pretty bottles. A display of coloured parasols dripped down from the ceiling, like a waterfall of exotic hothouse flowers. Whole walls were covered from the floor to ceiling with sparkling mirrors, stretching the room on forever into the distance until at last it seemed to bend around a corner and disappear. In another direction lay the Confectionery Department, papered in violet silk and powdery with the scent of sugar and cocoa. Girls in frilled white aprons stood behind glass counters laden with pyramids of Turkish Delight sprinkled with a snowstorm of icing sugar, and chocolates scattered with crystallised flower petals. Another archway led into the sunshine of the Flower Department, decorated in the pale greens of early spring and filled with a rainbow of blooms. Real blossoming trees reached up leafy boughs towards a glass roof, through which it was possible to glimpse snatches of blue sky.

There were no floorwalkers to hurry them. In fact, customers were encouraged to linger: soft armchairs were placed in corners, so they could take a moment to rest whenever they wished. There was so much to discover. A pianist in a white waistcoat played a grand piano on the fourth-floor landing, the melody drifting down the stairs as the eager crowds ventured upwards towards Ladies’ Fashions and Gentlemen’s Outfitting. The China Department, on the sixth floor, was papered entirely in blue and white: stepping inside felt like entering the landscape of a willow-pattern plate. The concierge – whom, rumour had it, could get you anything from tickets to the latest West End show to a steamship passage to New York – sat behind a desk swathed in fringed velvet curtains like a master magician, a red rose in his buttonhole. Everywhere uniformed porters and doormen bowed and smiled, and swung doors open.

There was only one door that remained firmly shut: the door to the Exhibition Hall. Here, a large sign read:
Closed to the Public
.

But the burglary was the last thing on any of the customers’ minds now – for they were, of course, customers already, having been quite unable to resist the allure of a perfect cone of sugared almonds, a bunch of yellow roses, a pair of butter-soft kid gloves, a delicious new scent that smelled like bluebells. Now, they were beginning to grow weary, but almost as if by magic, they stumbled upon places to revive themselves. In the fifth floor Marble Court Restaurant, courteous waiters ushered customers to tables gleaming with silverware. Following a spiral staircase, gentlemen found themselves standing in a wood-panelled smoking room furnished with leather armchairs, and already thick with a fug of cigar-smoke. Tea and cakes were being served on dainty white and gold plates in the Ladies’ Lounge, and the journalists found their way to the private Press Club Room, fully equipped with typewriters and telephones and intended specifically for their own use.

Glancing through the door of this Press Club Room, Miss Atwood, Mr Sinclair’s private secretary, was rather astonished. More than anyone, she felt she had understood the scope and ambition of Mr Sinclair’s plans for the store, but all the same, she had not expected the sense of palpable excitement that buzzed around her. Every journalist in London seemed to be here. To one side, a young fellow was enthusiastically barking something down a telephone receiver; to the other, two more were clattering on typewriters; and in one corner, she saw the editor of the
Express
smoking a cigar at the centre of a noisy group. If anyone had thought that the burglary would damage the sensation of the store’s opening, they couldn’t have been more wrong.

‘It’s very busy, sir,’ she reported, slipping away to Sinclair’s secluded penthouse apartments situated high on the eighth floor, far from the crowds. ‘Busier than we could ever have expected,’ she added, hovering at his elbow and nervously twitching the silk necktie she always wore.

Mr Sinclair was seated at his enormous mahogany desk. He nodded briefly. ‘Good,’ was all he said, his eyes fixed on the morning’s letters.

Miss Atwood felt she knew her employer better than most people, but even she was baffled by the calm expression on Mr Sinclair’s face. Surely today of all days he might have been expected to show some feeling – anger at the theft of his jewels, perhaps, concern about young Mr Jones’s condition, anxiety about the store’s opening, even excitement at the sensational success of the first morning. But not a ripple of emotion betrayed him. Instead, his routine had proceeded exactly as it did every other day. The assistant from the store’s barber shop had given him his scalp rub and hot-towel wrap; his valet had delivered his freshly laundered cream-silk shirts; he had carefully selected an orchid
boutonnière
from the selection offered by the store florist; and he had sipped his customary weak China tea quite coolly whilst discussing the lunch menu with the restaurant manager. Now, he was sitting at his desk, looking through the day’s correspondence, his black pug, Lucky, squirming on his knee. He hadn’t even been down to see the crowds surging into the store.

‘Everything seems to be running extremely well, sir,’ she added uncertainly, smoothing out yet more invisible creases in her necktie.

‘Yes, Cooper has everything in hand.’

Miss Atwood did her best not to look nettled by this remark. There was a certain rivalry between herself and Mr Cooper. As store manager, technically Cooper was her superior, but as private secretary, Miss Atwood had more opportunities to ingratiate herself with Mr Sinclair. She had been sure that last night’s incident would constitute a black mark for Mr Cooper, but it seemed this was not so. She swiftly changed the subject away from her rival. ‘The gentleman from Scotland Yard has arrived, sir. We’re making sure he has everything he needs.’

Mr Sinclair still did not look up, but he nodded. ‘Send McDermott up to me as soon as he gets here,’ he said. ‘And I want all the papers today. See to it that I don’t miss an edition.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Miss Atwood.

‘Oh, and, Miss Atwood,’ he said. ‘Take Lucky out for her morning air, would you? My little girl does need her outings.’

With a resigned expression that did not entirely conceal her distaste, Miss Atwood accepted the pug’s lead and chivvied her towards the door.

‘And come straight back up when you’re done. I want to dictate an advertisement for tomorrow’s
Post
.’

Looking harried, the secretary hurried from the room, leaving Sinclair to lean back in his chair, light a cigar, and then turn back to his letters.

‘I
say! What a terrific lot of people!’ exclaimed Lil as she came galloping towards the staff entrance, rather late to prepare for the first dress parade, she knew, but not in the least concerned about it. ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’

A few of the staff were standing in a solemn, whispering huddle on the steps.

‘You haven’t heard, then?’

‘You’ll never believe it!’

The shock of the robbery had broken up all the usual store hierarchies, so it was a strange group that stood mixed up together on the steps: a delivery driver, a salesgirl, one or two porters, a kitchen maid.

‘Whatever is the world coming to?’

‘It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is.’

‘What is?’ demanded Lil, completely forgetting that she was supposed to be getting ready for the dress show. ‘Whatever has happened?
Do
tell me.’

Billy detached himself from the circle and came over to her. ‘Didn’t you hear? There was a big robbery. Here, at the shop. Last night. Thieves broke in and most of the stuff in the exhibition has been taken.’

‘Golly!’ exclaimed Lil, her eyes round with surprise.

Billy gave her a very solemn look. ‘And the robbers – they
shot
Bert. You know, Bert Jones from Ladies’ Fashions? He’s been taken to the hospital. They aren’t sure if he’ll pull through.’

Lil’s mouth dropped open in amazement.

‘It’s true. Right over there, in the yard, it happened. Edith’s already been taken home in hysterics.’

‘But whatever was Bert doing here at night? And what about the nightwatchman?’

‘The nightwatchman’s all right, just a bump to the head. They knocked him out. Poor fellow didn’t even get a look at them.’

‘Have they caught who did it?’

Billy shook his head. ‘There’s a policeman here now. Scotland Yard,’ he added, in awestruck tones. ‘He’s upstairs with Cooper.’

‘
Golly
,’ said Lil again, shaking her head in astonishment. ‘But the store’s opened just as planned? I say! Where’s everyone else? Where’s Sophie?’