Dandy Gilver and an Unsuitable Day for a Murder (5 page)

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Authors: Catriona McPherson

BOOK: Dandy Gilver and an Unsuitable Day for a Murder
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‘Forty-eight years since her ascension and she still can’t believe her luck,’ she said, in a murmur. I felt my eyes widen, but did not have time to pursue the hint, because Mary Aitken was crossing the shop floor towards us – the very shop floor from which I inferred she had been elevated to her current reign. She brought with her two groups of honoured guests. One group consisted of the Provost, red-faced, beaming, barrel-chested and in all his robes and chains, his good lady wife, equally red-faced, equally barrel-chested, in a costume and wearing a smile which put her husband’s ceremonial garments and expression effortlessly in the shade, and two youths who must be their sons – plain, round, tricked out in boys’ brigade uniforms for reasons best understood by their mama, and both with the same black hair as the Provost, flattened to their heads with such quantities of pomade that they appeared to be wearing little Bakelite skullcaps, with not a suggestion of individual strands of hair.
The other party were of quite a different order but were no less exemplars of their type; Lady Lawson and her three sons were very tall, very thin and had that worn, straggly look which comes either from avoiding any appearance of effort or from real hardship, gently being borne. I guessed that the Lawson specimens were probably impoverished rather than too grand to be seen trying; for why else would they be here if not for the buns?
There was a flurry of introductions and then a repetition of them all as Jack and Abigail arrived with yet more favoured guests. I nodded and smiled and was aware that all around us the haberdashery floor and the galleries above were filling with onlookers. The flag-wavers, the bearers of fifty-shilling tokens, were jostling for a view with much respectful whispering and smothered giggles, but it was with some surprise I realised that what they were jostling for a view
of
was us, standing there in the middle of the floor. There did not seem to be any dais or other indication that this spot was one where a drama was to be played, or so I thought until I saw, wound around a brass hook screwed into the edge of one of the old food-hall wheels, the tasselled end of a cord. Its other end was lost amongst the banners high above us. Balloons, I thought, or possibly confetti; someone would pull it and the jubilee would begin.
As I stood there, squinting up, our number was swelled by two more; not exalted customers these but a middle-aged man of military bearing with a purple and gold handkerchief sprouting out of his breast pocket and a middle-aged woman dressed in Aitkens’ black, most of her narrow bosom covered by a corsage which could have served as a table centrepiece for a large banquet. Mary Aitken welcomed these – they had to be the highest-ranking employees, surely – into the enclosure and introduced them around.
‘Mr Muir is the manager of the gentlemen’s side,’ she said, ‘and Miss Hutton for the ladies’.’
‘Where’s Mrs Lumsden?’ said Bella. Mary Aitken treated Lady Lawson to one of her smiles before turning to her sister-in-law.
‘The rest of our employees are watching from the upper gallery,’ she said.
‘Mrs Lumsden is in charge of Household,’ Bella began to explain to me, but was interrupted.
‘And what with curtains and upholstery being on the second and linens and housewares in the basement, I’m kept on my toes, eh?’ She was a tiny woman, almost completely spherical, with her gold and mauve ribbon wrapped around her head and tied under her chin in a bow. ‘Mrs, Mrs, Abigail dear, Jack son. Hello there, Netta.’ This to the Provost’s wife who at Mrs Lumsden’s entrance had brightened back into smiles (the Lawsons had had a dampening effect upon her, as I imagine they had meant to).
‘Mrs Lumsden is an institution at Aitkens’,’ said Mary tightly and the little woman, far from being offended at an apology being offered for her presence, chuckled and added more.
‘In with the bricks, I am,’ she said. ‘And not a thing they can do about it.’
‘Although they try,’ Bella murmured, with a glance at Mary. ‘They certainly do try. Too close to home by half, Mrs Gilver, if you know what I mean.’
I did. Mrs Lumsden was Mary’s road not taken, by the grace of God, and she shuddered to be reminded of what might have been.
‘And we are grateful for all your years of loyal service, Mrs Lumsden,’ Mary was saying now, looking as though she had bitten down on a bad tooth. ‘What would a department store be without its domestic wares? Nothing but a glorified draper’s, no matter what they say.’
‘Not today, Mary,’ said Bella. ‘Forget them for one day, can’t you?’
‘Mrs Ninian, dear,’ said Mrs Lumsden. ‘Don’t upset yourself.’ She dropped her voice and spoke to Bella. ‘It’s not true then? About the hatchet. Olive branch, I should say.’
‘What’s this? What?’ said Mary Aitken.
‘Nothing at all,’ said Mrs Lumsden, but Mary was not to be fobbed off.
‘What was that about an olive branch, Mrs Lumsden?’ she said. ‘I’m surprised at you, whispering that way.’ The Provost’s wife was shifting uneasily from foot to foot trying not to overhear and Lady Lawson was looking fixedly up at the galleries.
‘It’s nothing, Mrs Ninian,’ Mrs Lumsden said again, but the drilling stare was too much for her. ‘I thought – that is, I hoped – I mean, my girls upstairs were talking about an
entente cordiale
.’
‘What?’ said Bella Aitken.
‘You know, “them down by”. I thought they might even come along.’ Mrs Lumsden lowered her voice but jerked her head so theatrically that she attracted more attention than if she had spoken out loud. Lady Lawson and the Provost’s wife had heard something to overcome any polite scruples and were listening hard. ‘All very ecumenical, I was thinking.’
‘Mrs Lumsden,’ said Mary, ‘you should know better than to listen to those silly girls at your age.’
‘But they said they saw Mr Hepburn right here in the—’
‘Nonsense,’ said Mary. And then under her breath: ‘They wouldn’t dare gatecrash. They wouldn’t dare.’
‘I don’t know, Mary,’ said Bella. ‘They might think it was a “wheeze”. You know what they’re like when they—’
‘Jack!’ Mary swung round and skewered her son-in-law with a gimlet glare, then she softened it and spoke with a lightness and ease which fooled no one. ‘Just you slip out and tell Ferguson to fasten the front doors. We’ve enough of a crowd to be going on with.’
Jack Aitken disentangled his arm from his wife’s – she had been clinging on to him like a creeping vine – and set off for the front door at some speed. Abigail reached out her hand for some support to replace him but found nothing and took an unsteady step to the side.
‘Need to sit, Mother,’ she said vaguely.
‘Not now,’ Mary muttered through her teeth.
‘Glass of water . . .’
‘I’ll fetch it. And a chair,’ said Bella Aitken and strode off towards the back of the store. The Provost’s boys stood as stolidly unremarking as ever, but every other one of the guests was showing signs of strain. The Provost himself made a great business of checking and winding a turnip-like pocket watch. The Lawson offspring were beginning to roll their eyes and murmur to one another, making my hand itch. They all looked to be in their twenties and therefore far too old for such rudeness. Lady Lawson, one of the old school, responded to the rising awkwardness as an engine responds to a crank handle: she turned to the Provost’s lady and started talking about gardens. Mrs Provost, well-trained in the same game, took the baton and ran, describing some elaborate new scheme for a rockery at home. They had got as far as promising to swap some treasured specimens when Mary gave a sigh which could have blown the crust off a sandwich (as Nanny Palmer used to say).
‘This is getting ridiculous,’ she announced and looked upwards. The crowds hanging over the balconies with flags in hand were quieter now, waiting for something to happen, hoping that it would happen soon. Looking around, I saw that not only had neither Bella nor Jack reappeared but Abigail had gone too.
Mary Aitken raised her hand and gave a signal to someone out of view and somewhere off to the side, but not far enough off for me, an uncertain bugler began a fanfare. A cheer went up from the balconies and Mary beamed and then nodded to the Provost.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,’ he said, sounding like a ringmaster. ‘Welcome to Aitkens’ Emporium. I know you are all
aching
to begin this afternoon of celebration and I hope you have made
provision
for plenty fun. We’ve all seen the advertisements in the
Herald
telling
what’s in store
for us so without further ado I will render
the service
I offered.’ Mary Aitken, still beaming despite the puns, pointed to the end of the cord wound round the little brass cleat. The Provost unwound it and stood holding the end of the rope in one hand.
‘Without further ado,’ he repeated, ‘it gives me great pleasure to say: happy fiftieth birthday, Aitkens’, and many happy returns.’
A cheer rose, the Provost tugged on the rope and everyone looked up. There was a moment when all I could see was a kind of shimmering high above the web of banners and then came a sudden loud bang, almost an explosion.
‘What—?’ said Mary Aitken’s voice.
The shimmering became clearer; a shower of little golden flakes drifting down through the ribbons.
‘What was that noise?’ said Mrs Lumsden.
The crowds on the balconies were silenced for a moment, waiting to see what had made the sound, but then a murmur started up again and they reached out to snatch at the specks of gold, whirling down like a shower of snow. I caught one in my palm and saw that it was a little 50, stamped out of gilt foil. They were settling on our heads now and the Provost’s boys began to chase them, holding out their caps.
‘What made that noise?’ said Bella. She had returned and was standing holding a glass of water, staring upwards. ‘Where’s Abby?’
‘Perhaps when I released the . . .’ said the Provost. ‘Something up there . . .’
‘What went wrong?’ said Jack Aitken, reappearing. ‘Oh! They’ve scattered all right, then.’ He brushed one of the spangles from his shoulder and grinned at the Provost’s boys. ‘What was that banging noise? I thought for a moment the whole bag had come plummeting down in one! Where’s Abby gone to?’
I sniffed the air, wondering if I were imagining it. I squinted up through the ribbons. They were swaying and rippling now as people on the balconies tried to shake free pieces of gold foil caught there. The noise had come from the back corner, I thought, but surely the gold 50s in their bag must have been in the middle of the roof; they had settled evenly all around the floor. I sniffed again.
‘Mrs Aitken,’ I said, turning to Mary, ‘what
was
the trick to getting those spangles to fall?’
Mary Aitken was staring up, just as I had been. It was the manager, Mr Muir, who answered.
‘Drawstrings,’ he said. ‘Just muslin bags, slung over the highest beams and drawstrings at the bottom.’
‘So, nothing . . . automotive, then?’ I said. ‘Nothing like fireworks or anything?’ I sniffed again and, because they saw me, the others began to sniff too. I took one last look at where I was sure the noise had come from and then made for the staircase in the corner. Halfway there, though, I caught sight of the lift again, winking from behind its golden grille. That might be quicker and I was sure the bang had come from that corner of the building.
‘Who knows how to work this thing?’ I called back to the little gathering in the middle of the floor. ‘Mr Aitken?’ Jack simply stared at me.
‘There’s a boy who works it,’ Mary said, frowning at me.
‘Good Lord, Mary, needs must,’ said Bella. ‘Jack, help Mrs Gilver, won’t you?’
But Mary put her hand on his arm and gripped it tightly.
‘Find Abigail,’ she said. ‘Keep her out of the way while we see what’s happened.’
‘Can you make it go?’ I asked Bella, thinking that I could have been halfway up the stairs by now. She nodded, strode over the floor towards me, rattled open the door of the lift shaft and the door of the carriage itself and slammed both shut again behind us.
‘It came from the top, don’t you think?’ she said. ‘Above the galleries?’
‘I think so,’ I said.
‘Good,’ said Bella. ‘I’m no expert with this contraption but the attics are as far as it can go.’ She tugged hard on the rope and the lift groaned, slowly starting to rise. I would most definitely have been better on the stairs, I thought, listening to the creaks of the pulley winding.
‘It was a gun, wasn’t it?’ said Bella. Her voice was under commendable control.
‘Yes, I think so,’ I said again. ‘The noise and the smell of cordite together. I’m almost sure it must have been.’
The lift wheezed and slowed, then shuddered to a halt. Bella tugged the rope again, securing us up there, then she hauled back the carriage door and reached across the gap to the door of the lift shaft. It was solid up here, not the glittering concertina of the public floors, and when she had got it open I saw that
nothing
up here was the same. We were on a sort of landing or lobby of some kind open to the atrium at one side, but there were no polished railings; instead I saw a safety wall made of crude board painted brown and a ledge jutting in at the top so that no one could approach the edge and be seen by the customers below. It was curiously dark too, but then the ceiling was very low, the walls distempered a dull drab, the floor dark red linoleum of great age, worn to the weave from scrubbing. There was even a trace in the air of the strong floor soap used to scrub it; just a trace, and under it even fainter still there was gunpowder, catching the back of my throat and making me swallow, so that I tasted it too.

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