A Fatal Freedom (23 page)

‘We progress most satisfactorily with our business,’ Madame Rose said. ‘I have to compose supplies of my preparations for many clients. Every day more come.’ She beckoned Ursula closer. ‘Allow me to examine your complexion again.’

Ursula willingly advanced towards her. ‘Both Mrs Bruton and I notice an improvement, Madame.’

The beautician nodded, ‘Indeed, it is so. The skin, it is not so dry, particularly here and here,’ she gently touched Ursula’s cheeks and forehead. And the good Madame Bruton, she sends friends to me, which she would not do without satisfaction in my products. And other clients also do this. So it is necessary for many jars to be filled. Now, we will commence. I give you names of ingredients it is necessary we shall order and you write down, yes?’

‘Of course, Madame. I have a notebook and pencil.’ Ursula held these up.

‘That is good. So, we commence.’ Madame Rose reached up to tap the first glass jar. ‘Beeswax.’

Ursula had no difficulty with writing this down but soon she was lost on the spelling of chemicals she had no knowledge of. Madame Rose then placed each jar on the stainless steel counter so Ursula could read the label and copy it down while Madame gave her the quantity that should be ordered.

As she named the contents of each jar, the beautician lovingly caressed it. Her absorption in the task was total. Ursula felt she was visualising the part each ingredient played in the various preparations she had created, how it nurtured or cleansed a woman’s skin. She seemed to live for her mission – that of assisting her fellow females to realise their true beauty, while using products containing ingredients that rarely sounded as though they could help in such an enterprise. Petroleum jelly, for instance, was surely an unlikely aid to perfect skin. Yet, Ursula thought, she and Mrs Bruton had noticed a genuine improvement in their complexions after using Madame Rose’s concoctions.

Did true beauty lie in looks? Madame Rose could not be called beautiful by normal standards; her skin was smooth and without imperfections, her eyes were clear, but her mouth was thin and her nose slightly hooked, her chin was too small and her cheekbones too prominent. Yet she had a sense of style that overrode such drawbacks. With her blonde hair arranged into a chignon secured with a carved jade comb and wearing pendant jade earrings, she had an aura that deceived you into classing her as dazzlingly attractive.

No, Ursula chided herself, writing down another ingredient, ‘deceived’ was the wrong word. Madame Rose practiced no deception, she was indeed attractive. Surely, though, it was her character as much as her complexion that made her so?

The last jar was tapped and as Ursula finished writing she looked over the list she had made. ‘How often, Madame, do you need to order these ingredients?’

‘How could I know more would be needed so soon? We must order larger quantities.’ This was said with a note of satisfaction.

‘Can you purchase them all in London?’

‘Many I am accustomed to using come from the continent and beyond. In Vienna they are easy to obtain, the railway brings them. Here they have to come by boat and I am told delays are common. Many forms to fill! But the count is so good to organise all. We make good partners: I create and diagnose, he administrates.’ She frowned anxiously. ‘I hope Miss Ferguson is not too ill, she is also necessary to the business; she greets clients, assists with preparations, fills jars, maintains my laboratory.’

Ursula wondered if the count considered the girl as essential to
Maison Rose
as Madame seemed to.

‘Shall I type this list out? With maybe two copies?’

‘Type?’

‘Surely you have a typewriter?’ As she spoke, Ursula realised she had not seen one in the office.

Madame Rose looked puzzled.

‘All your bills to clients, letters, you write them by hand?’

‘But of course! Miss Ferguson writes a very clear hand, as do I and the count, though he only writes letters to his dear friends, inviting them to the salon.’

‘If the count talks to Mrs Bruton, she will tell him how useful a typewriter is; there is no danger of misunderstanding numbers – dates, for instance, or amounts of ingredients or money. And names and addresses are clearly printed.’ Madame Rose looked unconvinced. ‘Carbon papers mean copies are made at the same time as the original. I could type out a list of the ingredients we have dealt with this morning with perhaps five or six copies, which could make the next order much easier to record.’ Ursula paused but the beautician seemed absorbed in checking the condition of more jars. ‘And typing is so much quicker than handwriting.’ At that Madame Rose looked up.

‘You mean Miss Ferguson would not take so long to produce bills and letters of appointment?’

Ursula nodded. ‘Exactly. Would you like me to talk to the count?’

‘Did I hear my name?’

‘Ah, Julius,’ Madame Rose turned thankfully to her partner. ‘Miss Grandison has idea, she will tell you. I go to meet client.’ She made a dignified but rapid exit.

The count greeted Ursula briefly then demanded to know what was the idea that Madame had mentioned. Once again Ursula sensed how thin was his pleasant veneer.

‘A typewriter?’ He looked at her quizzically. ‘What is the cost of such a machine?’

She told him the price of the one Mrs Bruton had bought.

The count waved a dismissive hand, ‘Perhaps Miss Ferguson cannot use such a machine. First we need to discover that.’

Ursula remembered her battles with learning the keys and the time it had taken her to produce pristine results when she had first been faced with a typewriter in New York. Perhaps it would be better not to press the matter. She handed over the list of ingredients needed by Madame Rose. The count looked at it with a sigh.

‘It will need to be copied neatly, Miss Grandison, if we are to rely on receiving the correct items in the correct quantities.’

Ursula took back the list without comment.

By the end of the morning she had carefully composed an order for Madame’s requirements and made a start on sorting out the accounts stuffed so carelessly in the armoire. As she arranged the papers she had worked on in neat piles, the count entered.

‘So, Miss Grandison, the work goes well,
hein
? And now you are finished for the morning, yes?’

She nodded. ‘I shall come again as agreed on Tuesday morning. I hope there will be no need to disturb these?’ She indicated the table with its carefully arranged sets of papers.

‘I shall study your work, see what methods you are using, but on Tuesday all shall be as it is now. Tomorrow it is Saturday, do you work for my friend Mrs Bruton?’

‘No, Count, not until Monday.’

He gave a little nod of dismissal and Ursula left, wondering if there was the possibility of working at
Maison Rose
on a Saturday morning or two. That would certainly help swell the winter coat fund. Just as she was about to close the front door, she remembered her umbrella and hurried back to collect it from the office. As she opened the door she heard the count speaking German to someone. Her schoolgirl knowledge of the language was enough for her to understand some of what he was saying, ‘Not tomorrow. Tomorrow I go to Chat-ham …’ The last two words were pronounced carefully and sounded English but made little sense.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Count,’ Ursula said, a little flustered. ‘I forgot my umbrella.’

‘You do not have courtesy to knock on the door?’ he said coldly, ‘I am holding confidential telephone conversation.’

Ursula picked up her brolly from the corner of the office, apologised again and slipped out of the room.

Outside the rain seemed to have disappeared and a watery sun was shining through ragged clouds. Delighted at not having to use her umbrella, Ursula hurried off to Rachel Fentiman’s. Her feelings on visiting Alice Peters in prison were mixed. She welcomed the possibility of seeing the girl; worries about her condition had plagued her ever since she had heard of her incarceration. But she could not visualise Alice opening up to her.

Thomas Jackman listened to the rain falling outside his front room window, feeling as depressed as the weather. He was trying to sort out all the details of the Peters case as he knew them so far. It was a frustrating business. It seemed that everywhere he turned he was being obstructed. He was not allowed to speak to Alice Peters in Holloway prison. He was not allowed to interview the staff of the Peters household. His old colleague, Inspector Drummond, refused to consider any evidence but the most obvious. To Jackman, Joshua Peters and his odd valet, Albert, had to have been involved in some mysterious, if not illegal, activity. But what?

For the first time since he’d left the police force, Thomas missed having colleagues to discuss a case with. He needed someone to bounce ideas around with, and preferably someone who understood the issues involved and someone used to the criminal mind. When he’d taken on the investigation, he had never imagined it would prove so difficult to solve. Every time he thought about Alice Peters locked in her cell, he knew despair. She was so lovely, so innocent, and in such danger.

Three days ago, when he had followed the valet, Albert, to Shepherd’s Market, he’d thought that at last he was about to achieve a breakthrough in the case.

Everything about the man had suggested he was up to no good. His shiftiness at the docks, the way he had snatched the money Thomas had offered him, then hurried off. Following him, Thomas had been certain that the man would not be hiring a cab. And so it had proved. Without actually breaking into a run, the man was incredibly speedy on his feet. Thomas considered he himself was pretty fast but he found it difficult to keep up with the valet without betraying his presence. It did not seem, though, to have occurred to Albert that he might be being followed. Nor that he might spend money on some form of transport between the docks and Shepherd’s Market, a distance of several miles.

Once the valet had disappeared into the public house, Thomas had taken a brief look inside and seen him accost some toff with a fine head of prematurely white hair. Though the way Albert was received did not appear to be warm – there was no grasping of hands, no smile of welcome – the curt nod the toff gave indicated that the valet had been expected. The saloon bar was small and Thomas saw no way of escaping notice if he entered. So he waited round a corner where he had a good view of the entrance. Eventually the toff had emerged with Albert almost hanging on his sleeve. Thomas watched as the valet had been brushed off with what must have been hard words, judging by the way he turned almost puce with anger, and the man had strode off in the direction of Berkeley Square.

Thomas decided to follow him; he already knew where Albert lived.

Merging unobtrusively into a group of people moving in the same direction, Thomas to his great surprise saw Rachel Fentiman and Ursula Grandison handing out some pamphlet or other from a hessian bag labelled ‘Votes for Women’. Any other time he would have welcomed the chance of conversation but not now. Moving easily through the end-of-day crowds, he slipped out of the market into Curzon Street without attracting their attention.

The tall, aristocratic-looking man was an easy target to follow up the steps that led into stately Berkeley Square, its central green sward generously lined with trees. He crossed the square and walked up the short Hill Street, at the top turning left into Davies Street. As Thomas rounded the corner, he saw his quarry enter an imposing mansion. He allowed time for the front door to be properly closed, then walked past, giving an unobtrusive but comprehensive look at the brass plate that announced here was the
Maison Rose
.

Thomas continued walking towards Bond Street but felt for the jar of beauty cream in his trouser pocket. Its label had carried the words:
Maison Rose
. He stood still for a moment, then hurried back to Shepherd’s Market. Ursula and Rachel might well have some information on such a product. But the home-going crowds had dissipated and there was no sign of the two girls.

Back home and stting at his desk, Thomas sighed, turned his notebook back to the page where he’d written down the details of that day and, once again, read through the notes he’d made, though his memory was excellent and he hardly needed to remind himself of the unanswered questions he’d identified.

He reached for the jar of cream he’d placed on his desk and turned it around in his hand automatically as he recalled his activities during the past three days. The interviews he’d wangled with Millie and Albert had brought no clues as to what that couple of sharpsters Joshua Peters and his valet had been up to. He would not, though, trust either of them to clean a baby’s bottom without making off with the napkin. So he’d decided to look into the background of the Peters and Roberts import/export business. Whatever was going on, it was more than like something that had led to Peters’ death. Thomas saw in his mind’s eye the deep desk drawer, empty apart from a gun and that dratted jar.

He had spent two days looking into Peters and Roberts Ltd. Searches into Company House had required the disentangling of a cat’s cradle of connected companies with no accounts lodged in recent years for any of them. Action was being taken against most and it looked as though the directors, both Joshua Peters, had he still been alive, and his partner Martin Roberts, were about to end up in court. ‘About to be bottled, they are,’ Thomas was told after he’d chatted up a clerk he’d once had dealings with while he was in the police force.

‘You mean arrested?’

The man sucked his teeth. ‘Well let’s just say they’re unlikely to remain in business.’

Chats with ex-colleagues in the dockland area identified a feeling that the operating company was deemed to be dodgy but nothing had occurred so far to bring them into real trouble, nor had anyone seemed able to explain exactly what ‘dodgy’ might mean. ‘We’re keeping an eye out,’ was a phrase used more than once.

Abandoning this aspect of his investigation, Thomas had turned his attention to the
Maison Rose
. This enterprise seemed above board. He had made contact with a sergeant in the Saville Row police station whom he’d worked with in the past. ‘Foreign gent has taken a lease on the first and second floors,’ said George Parker. ‘Lives on the second, as does his so-called partner, Madame Rose.’