Murder at Renard's (Rose Simpson Mysteries Book 4) (11 page)

‘You weren’t to know,’ said Rose soothingly. ‘And we all say things we regret. Sylvia could be very unkind at times.’

‘Yes, she could,’ agreed Mary. ‘Sometimes she could be hateful. But that someone hated her so much they did more than just wish she was dead, they actually killed her.’

‘Shush,’ said Rose. ‘Try not to think about it, Mary. It’ll only upset you even more than you are already.’

‘Can I tell you something, Rose? It’s been eating away at me, and I know I can trust you. I didn’t like her. I didn’t like her one little bit. She thought I was her friend, but I wasn’t. I pretended that I was, but I wasn’t. I was always a little scared of her. I wanted her gone, but not like this. I hoped she’d get a better job and leave Renard’s. Or perhaps get married. But sometimes, Rose I prayed that something … something awful would happen to her.’

‘Whatever do you mean, Mary?’ Rose gave the girl a sharp look and removed her arm from her shoulders.

‘An accident, perhaps. I thought, if only she could fall down some stairs or be run over by an omnibus.’

‘Mary!’

‘I know, it’s awful, isn’t it, that I could have had such thoughts? But I couldn’t help it, I tell you.’ Mary bent her head towards Rose and whispered: ‘Sometimes I even thought about killing her myself. I thought about the different ways I might do it. But I didn’t think I’d have the nerve to go through with it. Don’t look at me like that, Rose. I didn’t do it, I swear I didn’t. Because in the end I didn’t need to; because someone else did it for me.’ She laughed, and to Rose, who looked at her appalled, she sounded a little insane.  

Madame Renard, herself distraught, looked across at her two employees. Mary, she thought, looked especially distressed, as well she might, Sylvia being her particular friend. Like the two girls, the proprietor was sitting on one of the chairs vacated by the audience, although her instinct was to get up and pace the floor, her bangles jangling on her arms in a comforting manner, as she wrung her hands to express her agitation. The presence of her son, however, sitting beside her, holding one of her hands absentmindedly in his while he stared at the floor, was enough to restrain her from rising from her seat. It would have been futile anyway, she reasoned, for there was nowhere to go other than walk back and forward in this one room. Even had she been permitted to leave the shop, she could not have done so, for it was as much a part of her as her son.

No, that wasn’t quite true, of course. Nothing was as dear to her as her own beloved Jacques. Everything she had done, she had done for him. And what hadn’t she done? She could not bring herself to dwell too long on the measures that she had taken to protect him, the steps she had put in place so that he would never know. She stared around the shop, her own dear shop that she had built up from nothing to be his inheritance. It had taken every ounce of her strength and determination, and she had suffered setback after setback, but in the end she had succeeded and made it what it was. It was difficult to look about her now and not feel a sense of repulsion because of what had taken place tonight. Yet she knew that she must overcome the urge to retch and recoil from it. This shop was her sanctuary after all, her little kingdom, even if it was now contaminated and tainted by the girl’s death. In time, she hoped she would feel nothing, or very little, but how long would it take until she reached that feeling? Would she ever be able to bring herself to sit at her desk, in her office, in the very knowledge that it was there that Sylvia had met her violent death? She shuddered. She must not think of it; if necessary she could change the layout of the shop and place her office somewhere else. Perhaps that would be for the best anyway, regardless of her personal feelings. It would be far better for business if her customers could not visualise the crime every time they entered her shop. How awful would it be to catch them whispering and pointing to the door of her office and hear them saying: ‘That’s where it happened!’

The proprietor stifled a sob, whether for Sylvia’s plight or for her own potentially ruined business, she could not say. She looked instead out of the corner of her eye, beneath heavily blackened eyelashes, at her son. She wondered how he was taking Sylvia’s death. She could not deceive herself. She was distinctly worried about him. It was not helped by it being so difficult to ascertain how fond of Sylvia he had been. There had been a time when she had been sure he loved her, but that was some time ago. His mouth, she noticed, was set in a grim straight line, and he was very quiet, which was not at all like him. In fact he had barely uttered a word on being informed of Sylvia’s death. Instead he had pushed past herself and Rose, in the rudest of fashions, to check the girl’s pulse as if he doubted their word or did not think them capable of undertaking such a task themselves. One look at the girl’s face, however, had been enough to tell him she was dead. How unfortunate that he had now averted his gaze and she could not see his eyes. She wondered whether they were moist with unshed tears. Perhaps more importantly, she wondered if he was afraid.

She looked up and saw Marcel Girard doing what she longed to do, pacing the room in an absentminded, dejected fashion, every now and then coming back to lean a hand on the back of Jacques’ chair and bending down, as if to enquire how he was, but saying nothing. Perhaps the designer thought he would be intruding on his friend’s grief. Madame Renard stared at him and tried to ascertain his emotions from the expression on his face. But his visage was strangely blank, devoid of any tangible sentiment, his feelings hidden.

She closed her eyes and her thoughts floated back unbidden to the moment when they had first discovered Sylvia’s body spread-eagled on the floor. She remembered how initially she had not comprehended what she was seeing, and for one blissful moment even wondered whether the figure was merely sleeping and not dead. She remembered too the horror she had felt on believing it to be Lady Celia lying murdered on her floor, and the momentary relief she had experienced on discovering that it was the shop assistant’s body she was staring at. She had made a mistake, such an awful mistake, and she blushed now from the memory, although surely it was impossible for anyone to guess her thoughts.

Thinking of the body made her think of Rose, in particular, the way she had admonished Jacques for pushing past them, telling him in vain that he must not touch anything until the police had arrived … Rose! How very stupid of her not to have thought of it before. Madame Renard chided herself for her own stupidity. Why hadn’t it occurred to her? This was not the first time that the girl had experienced violent death. Why, to her knowledge, Rose had been involved in at least three murder investigations and, unless the bits of gossip she had gleaned were untrue, had played a pivotal role in solving each case. Madame Renard sat up in her seat. For a moment she did not know whether to be relieved or afraid. She must decide what to do.

However, before the proprietor had the opportunity to do anything, the uniformed constable, who all this time had been present, standing discreetly at the very edge of the room, leapt forward from his position by the window and opened the shop door. Out of the darkness emerged two men. Madame Renard assumed from their appearance, and by the deferential way the constable spoke to the older of the two in particular, that these were the gentlemen from Scotland Yard. As if to confirm the accuracy of her reasoning, she saw Rose jump up from her seat so hurriedly that she almost overturned her chair. The girl ran forward, her arms outstretched, as if she meant to embrace the older of the policemen. Perhaps at the last minute she thought better of it, for suddenly she stopped and hesitated. She remained where she was, hovering rather awkwardly. Her face, however, had erupted into a smile and her eyes were shining.

‘Detective Inspector Deacon,’ Rose cried. ‘I’m so glad it’s you.’

It had been only a few months since Rose had last seen Inspector Deacon, and yet the thought struck her most forcibly that he had aged considerably in that time. Dark-haired and tall, he was still a rather handsome man, but his face was paler than she remembered, and there were lines at the corner of his eyes and etched out on his forehead that had not been there before. It was to be expected, she told herself, after what had happened. For she knew for a fact that the inspector had been shot during the course of investigating a burglary. It had been feared that his wounds would prove fatal, but he had pulled through and undergone a lengthy period of recuperation. It stood to reason, therefore, that he had only recently returned to his duties. Was it surprising then if he was not fully recovered and was finding his work tiring?

‘Miss Simpson,’ said Inspector Deacon, his face brightening. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you again, although I would have wished that it might have been under more agreeable circumstances.’

‘Yes, indeed, Inspector,’ said Rose, rallying, ‘but I’m awfully glad you’re here. And I’m frightfully pleased to see that you’ve fully recovered from … from your injuries.’ She wanted to add that it had been an awful shock to hear what had happened to him. However, she bit her tongue. It didn’t seem fair somehow to rake up the past.

It was only when the two policemen ventured further into the room, the constable closing the door behind them, shutting out the night sky, that she became aware of the extent of the inspector’s injuries. She saw at once that he was holding a cane. With a sickening feeling, but nevertheless fascinated, she found that she could not tear her eyes away from the stick. Appalled by herself as much as anything, she watched as the inspector all but shuffled further into the room, using the cane for support. He walked with a pronounced limp. She remembered that Sergeant Lane had said as much during the incident at Sedgwick Court, and yet she found it difficult to reconcile the image of the limping man before her with the picture of the upright policeman she knew. She stood staring at the cane stupidly before she could recollect herself. When she did come to her senses, she saw that the inspector was eyeing her curiously. For a moment he held her gaze. She wondered what emotions her look conveyed. She wondered at the look in his eyes which she could not quite fathom; she hoped vehemently that it was not disgust. Before she could analyse it further, he had dropped his gaze and passed a hand over his forehead, for a moment concealing the expression on his face. Rose, ashamed, her cheeks crimson, fought in vain for something to say.

‘Alas, not quite fully recovered, Miss Simpson,’ Inspector Deacon said finally. He spoke quietly so that she had to take a step forward to hear him. ‘I am told that this limp is here to stay, I’m afraid. But I must be thankful for small mercies. Had one of the bullets been a fraction lower I should have been in the mortuary, so I can’t complain.’

He smiled at her, but she saw what she took to be hurt in his eyes. She cursed herself for having stared so very obviously at both his stick and the way he had walked.

‘Well, I’m so very pleased that you’re all right,’ Rose said hurriedly. ‘It was the most frightful shock when Sergeant Lane told us what had happened.’

As soon as Rose said the words, she thought them a dreadful understatement. For a moment she was back there at Sedgwick Court hearing the news of Inspector Deacon’s shooting for the first time. Like now, it had had come in the wake of a murder, and she recalled it had made her feel suddenly lightheaded. She remembered that she had slumped to the ground and that when she had regained her senses, Sergeant Lane’s face had been peering over her, full of concern. His voice, as he said her name, had sounded anxious. She recollected it all so completely that the incident might have occurred yesterday rather than a few months ago. She prayed heartily that the sergeant had disclosed none of this to the inspector. 

‘Thank you for your best wishes,’ the inspector was saying, seemingly unaware that her thoughts had returned to the past. ‘And those of Lord Belvedere, of course. Lane was as good as to pass them on. I can tell you they were very much appreciated.’

‘I’m so glad. And I’m so glad you’re all right,’ Rose said. She realised that she was repeating herself and stared at the floor, awkwardly. She didn’t know what else to say.

‘And now I see you have got yourself involved in another murder inquiry. Dear me, Miss Simpson, this will never do. You do seem rather to attract them, murders, I mean.’

Rose knew that the inspector was trying to lighten the atmosphere and make her feel better, not just about his injury and her own reaction to it, but also about what had happened at Renard’s
that evening to necessitate his arrival. It didn’t work. With a jolt she was recalled to the present. If anything, the policeman’s words seemed to have had the opposite effect to his intention. If anything she felt worse. The previous murder inquiries in which she had been associated had involved the violent deaths of people with whom she had been little acquainted. They had occurred at stately homes and grand mansions, and been as far removed from her everyday existence as was possible. This time, she realised, it was different. The incident had happened so much nearer to home. The dead girl was someone she had known for a number of years. The murder had occurred at the very place where she worked, where she came almost every day; a place she considered her second home, almost as if it were an extension of her mother’s house.     

Perhaps something of what she was feeling showed itself on her face, for she was aware that the inspector was staring at her with a look of concern. He made as if to lean forward and take her hand, and then apparently thought better of it.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Simpson. Forgive me, I was being flippant. I had no right to jest.’ He looked embarrassed and not a little annoyed with himself. ‘I can only imagine how awful this must be for you, and I feel for you terribly.’

‘Where is Sergeant Lane?’ said Rose, trying to regain her composure. ‘Why isn’t he here with you?’ There was something so entirely comforting about the sergeant, she thought. His presence would restore the situation to normality. Somehow she and Inspector Deacon had got off on the wrong foot, and try as they might, they couldn’t do anything about it. Instead, the two of them appeared to be walking on eggshells, afraid of saying anything to offend or hurt the other. She couldn’t try to understand it. How she wished that they could go back to the easy familiarity that they had previously enjoyed.

‘He’s employed on another case with Inspector Bramwell,’ answered the inspector. ‘I don’t doubt that we’ll be working together again before long. As soon as the present case they are engaged in is closed, I imagine. In the meantime, may I introduce you to Sergeant Perkins? He’ll be working with me on this investigation.’

The sergeant moved forward and grinned at her. He was considerably younger than the inspector’s usual associate, and there was an eagerness about him that Rose found almost endearing. But all at once, she missed Sergeant Lane dreadfully. Of all the murder investigations in which she had found herself embroiled, he had been the one constant factor, besides Cedric, of course. And neither of them were here with her now. She was comforted in the knowledge that should she choose to telephone Cedric, neither hell nor high water would keep him from her side. It was a comforting feeling and gave her renewed hope that everything would come out all right in the end. She visibly brightened and Inspector Deacon was encouraged to go on.

‘I understand you made the acquaintance of Inspector Bramwell at Sedgwick Court,’ the inspector said. ‘That was a very sorry business, I must say. What happened at the earl’s residence, I mean. Lord Belvedere must have found it most upsetting.’

‘Yes … yes, it was.’

‘Now, what was I saying? Yes, you made quite an impression on Inspector Bramwell, so I believe. Not an easy thing to do by any means, but he was quite taken with you, so I’ve heard.’

‘Well, he didn’t take to me at first,’ said Rose, remembering that her first encounter with the policeman had been far from promising. ‘Actually, he was rather against me at the beginning. Sergeant Lane told me that the inspector didn’t hold with amateur sleuths,’ she blushed. ‘Not that I am one, of course.’

Inspector Deacon gave her what she could only describe as rather a strange look. She had never consciously thought of herself as an amateur detective, no matter how many times Cedric and Lavinia had referred to her sleuthing skills and abilities. Even so, she was a little taken aback, and not a little hurt that the inspector remained silent. She would have expected him of all people to say that she had proved useful in helping to solve the murder investigations that they had shared. After all, if one were to listen to Cedric, anyone would have been forgiven for thinking she had solved the cases singlehandedly.

If she was disappointed by the inspector’s failure to endorse or appreciate her detective skills and contribution, then she was more than compensated by Sergeant Perkin’s reaction.

‘Ah! So you’re
that
Miss Simpson, are you?’ the young sergeant exclaimed, looking at Rose with renewed interest. Until then, she realised, he had looked a little bored, no doubt impatient to proceed with the investigation proper. ‘I knew I recognised the name from somewhere. Couldn’t quite place it. I’ve heard all about you, so I have, Miss Simpson. From Sergeant Lane, of course. You and your achievements. You’ve made quite a name for yourself and no mistake.’ He bent forward and spoke in a conspiratorial manner, although he neglected to lower his voice. ‘Holds you in very high esteem, Sergeant Lane does. Very useful he says you’ve been. Why, he says, if it hadn’t been for you, one or two of the cases might never have been solved, least not so quickly anyhow. Well I never! He’ll be that disappointed to have missed you, I can tell you. And I don’t envy him where he is, stuck on a case with old Bramwell.’  

In his excitement, the sergeant’s voice had risen and one or two of the others in the room had looked up and were now staring in their direction. In particular, Marcel Girard and Jacques Renard appeared to be looking at them rather quizzically. As if aware that the policemen were drawing attention to themselves, without having first addressed those present or made any reference to the current murder inquiry, Inspector Deacon hurriedly intervened.

‘That’ll do, Sergeant. I don’t doubt that you’ll have a chance to reminisce with Miss Simpson before this murder investigation is out, but right now we’ve better things to do.’ He took a step or two forward and surveyed the shop.

Rose wondered whether the inspector was conscious that he now stood with his back to her so that he appeared to be addressing everyone in the room apart from herself. Perhaps he considered her complicit in distracting his sergeant from the task in hand although, in all honesty, she did not feel that she had given him any encouragement. If anything, to be praised so gushingly by a stranger had embarrassed her, not least because it had contrasted so sharply with the inspector’s apparent indifference.

‘If I might have your attention, please,’ Inspector Deacon began in a clear voice. ‘Firstly, I should like to introduce myself and my sergeant.’ He had an air of authority about him which commanded attention. Marcel Girard and Jacques Renard had been engaged in a hurried, whispered conversation, the former every now and again gesturing with his hand for added emphasis, reminiscent of Madame Renard. The latter had said little and looked miserable. Their conversation had stopped abruptly, however, as soon as the inspector had begun speaking, and they now stared at him with a mixture of wariness and confusion and fear. The expression on Madame Renard’s face, Rose thought, was one of hopelessness. She also looked scared.

Only Mary seemed unaffected by the arrival of the policemen from Scotland Yard. Unlike the others, she had not turned in her chair to face them, but continued instead to look into the far distance, as if something there held her attention, or at the very least was of more importance to her than the officers of the law. Rose was brought up sharp. With dismay she realised the girl was staring at the closed door of the office, behind which still lay the lifeless body of Sylvia, waiting to be viewed dispassionately by the representatives from Scotland Yard, before being taken away to the mortuary, and from there to its final resting place.

It suddenly occurred to Rose that she would never see Sylvia again. Never again would the girl flounce into the room giving herself airs and graces. She would never giggle again with Mary behind the counter, to be admonished with a frown from Madame Renard. Rose would never have the opportunity to look on as Sylvia alternated between being overly polite to those customers she favoured and objectionably rude to those she disliked. She would never flirt with Jacques Renard when his mother’s back was turned. And she would never glide so effortlessly around the room showing off Marcel Girard’s designs to an enraptured audience. For the first time that evening, Rose fully took in what had happened. To her surprise, considering she had never particularly liked the girl, she realised that she would miss Sylvia Beckett. The shop would be a different place without her.  

‘I fully understand that what has happened must have come as a very great shock to you all,’ continued Inspector Deacon, ‘and you have my deepest sympathy. I am aware also that it is rather late.’

The inspector paused to glance at his wristwatch as if to familiarise himself with the precise time, and one or two of those present did likewise including Rose. Much to her surprise she discovered it was a little before half past eleven. It seemed to her that it had been hours and hours ago that they had discovered Sylvia’s body and yet conversely also only minutes, so vivid was the image in her mind as if it had been drawn there in indelible ink.