Barbara Cleverly (18 page)

She shepherded the party into the back premises, the assistants with armfuls of dresses, the customers eager.

This little flurry gave Joe a chance to study Mademoiselle Pitiot. Early forties, fashionably bobbed black hair, obvious and attractive French accent. She was tall and slender but would, Joe thought, never have been reckoned beautiful even in her prime. Her skin was sallow, her eyes dark brown, her nose large, but her smile was wide and friendly. Her manner towards her customers was deferential but behind it there lay a humorous conspiracy which embraced Joe.

She turned to him. ‘May I show you something, sir?’

‘I’m looking for Mademoiselle Pitiot, the proprietress,’ he said, offering his card. ‘I am Commander Joseph Sandilands of Scotland Yard and I would like to talk with her for a while.’

‘Marie-Jeanne Pitiot,’ she said extending a hand. ‘How do you do? You are welcome, Commander. But, please, come through to my office.’

She called to an assistant for tea to be brought and led him to a small room, closing the door behind them. Sweeping lengths of fabric and piles of catalogues from two chairs, she offered him a seat and settled down opposite him on the other side of a crowded work table.

‘This is about Alice?’ she asked. ‘And her poor brother who was shot last year? I was with her at Annandale when the news arrived. A dreadful affair! If there’s anything I can do to help I’d be delighted to do so. I can’t think of anything I haven’t already done or said but perhaps Scotland Yard has come up with something?’

‘You speak excellent English, mademoiselle,’ Joe said.

‘Of course! There was a time and not so long ago when I did not but then I met Alice Conyers and we struck a bargain. When she took me into her employ

I take it you know the circumstances of this?’

Joe nodded and she continued, ‘

Alice spoke only school French and I had very little English. On the boat out to India I taught her French and she taught me English. We still continue our lessons whenever we meet.’

‘Do you meet frequently? Do you still see much of Alice?’

‘Yes. We have remained good friends. She never treated me as an employee. She’s a very generous-minded girl, Alice, and she often says that she owes her life to me. Quite untrue, of course. But after the Beaune crash it fell to me to nurse her and I was glad to do so. To see her coming through that was a wonderful experience for me but if she owes me anything at all from that time it is nothing to what I owe her for having established me here and helping me to set up La Belle Epoque. I owe all this,’ she made a wide gesture, ‘to Alice. It’s no secret! She gave me money to set up the business and still takes an interest.’

‘A financial interest?’

‘No. I’m happy to say that the business has long been independent of any support and is flourishing. The only help she continues to give is her valued advice. And I repay Alice with – with what? – with friendship, loyalty and discretion. And in the enclosed and backbiting world of Simla, that is not to be sneezed at, Commander!’

‘What do you value about Mrs Sharpe’s advice?’ Joe asked. This woman was probably closer to Alice Conyers-Sharpe than any other person including her husband and he was anxious to learn more of her without appearing to force confidences.

Marie-Jeanne replied without hesitation. ‘She is very clever. She looks on business with a fresh eye, a modern eye. So many centuries of hidebound traditional masculine ways of doing business do not impress her. She dares to tear up the rule book. She does not have to meet – would not be allowed to meet other businessmen on their territory in their smoke-wreathed, gin-sodden clubs and deal with them on their terms. She makes the terms. She changes the patterns. She sees where the opportunities arise and she seizes them. ICTC was largely an export firm when she took it over – tea, cotton, indigo, rice – and it still operates as an exporter but she saw, coming fresh from England, that India was longing for the luxuries it had denied itself during the war and she set about importing them. Champagne, whisky, tinned caviar, chiffon dresses from Paris, pianolas from New York – she brings them in and they sell. And her skill is in guessing exactly what people will be wanting next.’

‘This is a surprising ability, isn’t it, for one so young and inexperienced? You met her yourself when she was still in the egg, so to speak. You have witnessed the transition from untried girl to shrewd businesswoman. Was this a surprising metamorphosis?’

‘In a way it was not.’ Marie-Jeanne thought for a moment, looking at him consideringly. ‘I’ll tell you something about Alice! The first surprising thing (of many) I ever noticed about her

’

At this moment the door opened and a tea tray was carried in and placed between them. Marie-Jeanne poured out cups for both of them and went on, ‘It was her silk underwear that made me realize I was dealing with a complex young girl!’ She smiled affectionately.

‘Silk underwear?’ said Joe in surprise.

‘Yes. I was a nurse, you know, working in the hospital in Beaune and I was assigned to Alice when she was carried in on a stretcher as her personal nurse. Not a usual procedure but as she was the only survivor you can imagine that she was very precious. We would have been much blamed if we had allowed her to die. I was to watch her every moment. The best surgeons in France were summoned to her bedside but I was the one who had the initial task of caring for her as she came straight from the scene of the accident.

‘My first task was to strip away her torn and bloodstained garments so that we could ascertain the full extent of her injuries. I remember she was wearing a dark grey woollen dress suitable for mourning. It was very plain, very English,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Of good quality but remarkably ugly and unfashionable. It was one of several similar outfits in her trunk all chosen as suitable for a well-bred English girl travelling to India. Figure my surprise, Commander, when under that drab outer layer there was revealed an emerald green silk camisole and matching knickers with a Paris label! She had stopped off with her companion Miss Benson, sadly killed in the crash, for two or three days in Paris and had dared to kit herself out with the latest in lingerie! I think that this was the first sign of her secret revolt against her narrow, restricted background. On the surface she was neat and decorous but the underpinnings bore witness to the yearnings of a young girl for romance, luxury and fashion. It made me like her a lot!’

Joe smiled. He remembered his older sister, Lydia, years ago swearing him to secrecy in the matter of a clandestine, peach-coloured, mysteriously engineered garment she had called ‘camiknickers’ which he had agreed to hide in his sweater drawer against the prying eyes of the housekeeper.

‘The first sign of revolt?’ he pursued.

‘Many were to follow! She was eager for life, for new experiences. She learned so quickly, talked to anyone regardless of class or sex, charmed them, heard their advice and weighed it. Alice was like a sponge absorbing everything at great speed.’

‘An energetic and formidable lady?’ said Joe.

‘Oh, yes. And not only energetic in her business activities – you have probably heard that she gives much of her time to good works.’

‘Yes, she herself has told me of her connections with the hospital. Determined and hard-working – but tell me, is there a lighter side to Mrs Sharpe’s estimable life? Does she ever have fun?’

‘All the time!’ Marie-Jeanne laughed. ‘She loves music, especially jazz

she has started a girls’ dance group, she is a member of the Spiritualist Society and the Dramatic Society and at weekends she — ’

Joe interrupted. ‘The Spiritualist Society, did you say?’ His question was tinged with disapproval. In London spiritualists were all the rage, many of the old music hall performers with all their old skills intact had found an alternative way of making money by fleecing the gullible who were often in those postwar days desperate for news and contact with their departed loved ones. In Joe’s experience blackmail and extortion could follow close behind spiritualist sessions.

‘It’s quite harmless, Commander,’ she said, picking up his disapproval. ‘Simla no longer witnesses the glory days of Madame Blavatski but we have our own resident medium, a Mrs Freemantle, who is well thought of.’

Joe made a note of this name and Marie-Jeanne went on, apparently ready to dispel any idea that there might be something shady going on in Simla. ‘All the best people go to her seances, you know. Alice is in no way regarded as being out of the ordinary because she takes an interest. And Mrs Freemantle is very talented – I, myself, am not a believer but I have to admit that what she does is skilfully done and does no harm. At best it comforts people and at worst it’s a harmless game.’

Joe made a mental note to take this up with Carter. To him, the mention of spiritualism had been a warning signal. He changed the subject, not wishing to alert Marie-Jeanne to his deepening interest.

‘So, we have a clever, hard-working and successful lady with a well-rounded personality? But there is, it seems to me, one discordant note in all this

her marriage to Reggie Sharpe? Was that, in your opinion, a clever move?’ asked Joe.

Marie-Jeanne’s tender expression froze into cold disapproval. ‘At the time she convinced me – she convinced herself – that it was the right, the sensible, thing to do.’ She paused for a moment. ‘But I infer from your question that you do not consider it a clever move?’

‘Not my place to judge.’

‘Too late!’ she said. ‘I think that you have met Reggie and that you have judged him – as we all have.’

‘And how is that?’

‘As a drunken, self-important, self-indulgent man who could never be the husband Alice deserves!’ She made no attempt to hide her anger and scorn.

‘You judge him despicable – do you also consider him dangerous?’

‘To whom?’

Joe remained silent and looked at her steadily.

‘Yes, I do,’ she went on. ‘I consider him a threat to anyone who would attempt to thwart him and that includes his wife.’

‘And Alice is courting danger when she attempts to curb his excesses?’

‘Alice is riding a tiger! Reggie is not the toothless old donkey she has persuaded herself that he is!’

Her concern, her distress, was so evident Joe found himself responding to it. ‘It may be a consolation, Mademoiselle Pitiot,’ he said, ‘to hear that only yesterday Alice herself voiced just such suspicions to me and they are being investigated. Nevertheless, her friends would do well to look out for her. I really believe she feels in danger of her life. Please, mademoiselle, seek my help if you think there is anything untoward going on.’

‘Thank you, Commander. I will do that.’

She began to stir and look towards the door to the showroom where fresh noises had broken out and was obviously eager to return to the sales floor. Joe rose and began to take his leave. He thanked her for her hospitality and made for the door, turning with his hand on the knob to say, ‘I almost forgot to ask and please forgive such a bodeful question – I assure you it is purely routine – but where were you exactly between the hours of twelve and five on Monday?’

For a moment she was taken aback and then said slowly, ‘You mean when the Russian opera singer was killed? I was, now let me think

Shall I get my day book? No, I think I can remember. I was having tiffin at the Grand Hotel with a glove manufacturer from Bombay until two o’clock – no, later than two – but you won’t be able to check that with him because he’s since gone on to Calcutta, and after that I went back to my warehouse to look over the latest arrivals with two of my staff. Let me think

It was Sumitra and Renée. We must have been there until nearly five o’clock and then I came back to the shop to close down. Do you want me to call my assistants, Commander?’

Joe shook his head. ‘Later perhaps, not for the moment, mademoiselle.’

He took his leave and bowed his way out of the shop, emerging into the sunshine with a sigh of relief. Standing for a moment to get his bearings, he decided to walk the hundred yards or so to the Grand Hotel to check Mademoiselle Pitiot’s story. He remembered what Carter had said – when it came to shooting, the women of Simla were crack shots and though he had never come across a less likely markswoman than the so correct Mademoiselle Pitiot, Joe was methodical. The murder had occurred at two forty-five exactly so if she had indeed been lunching at the Grand there was no way she could have been five miles away in an inaccessible spot drawing a bead on Korsovsky.

On entering the Grand he was smoothly intercepted by the maître d’hôtel, still at this early hour in shirt-sleeves, busy and not pleased to be interrupted. Joe produced his warrant card which gained him the attention he required and asked to see the reservations for Monday. The maître d’hôtel indicated a large leather-bound book open on a stand by the double doors to the restaurant. Turning back two pages he murmured, ‘Monday

Not a busy day. By no means a full dining room.’

Joe looked down the short list. At 1 p.m. table number ten had been booked for Mademoiselle Pitiot and guest. ‘This guest of Mademoiselle Pitiot – a gentleman?’

The maître d’hôtel did not welcome questions. ‘A gentleman, yes. A Frenchman, Monsieur Carneau. He is a regular guest of the hotel. Mademoiselle Pitiot always entertains her business associates here.’

‘You know her well, Mademoiselle Pitiot?’

‘She also is a regular guest of the hotel, sir. I should say she lunches here two or three times a month.’

‘And what time did they leave?’

‘Somewhere between half-past two and three o’clock, sir.’ And, coldly, ‘Do you require to hear the menu they chose? I could have the waiter sent for

’

Joe left with expressions of gratitude and made for the police station to check developments with Charlie Carter. As he strolled along looking with fascination at the shop windows he came to an abrupt halt before the display in a jeweller’s shop.

It was the rope of pearls that caught his eye. Amongst the riot of glittering pieces, emerald rings, sapphire necklaces, diamond clips, the rope stood out for its simplicity. It was draped around the swanlike neck of a black velvet mannequin and gleamed with the discreet allure of finely matched, high quality pearls. It was an exact likeness of the one he had seen around the neck of Madame Flora.