Murder at Renard's (Rose Simpson Mysteries Book 4) (13 page)

Madame Renard gave her son a sharp look. ‘But of course,’ she agreed. ‘It is what they are paid for. It is nonsense to ask Rose to do anything of the sort. The girl, she is not qualified or trained to do such a thing.’

‘But you said this girl is a sleuth,’ objected Marcel. It seemed to Rose that they spoke of her as if she were not present. ‘If that is so, then she must investigate Sylvia’s death.’ The designer turned to address the proprietor. ‘Surely you agree, Madame?’

‘You are seemingly present whenever a murder is committed in a great house, is that not so, Rose?’ admitted Madame Renard, rather grudgingly.

‘Yes, she is,’ said Jacques. ‘And I happened to catch what that sergeant fellow was saying just now when the inspector was glaring at him so ferociously, for speaking out of turn. He was speaking very highly of Miss Simpson, he was.’ He turned and smiled at Rose, and this time his words held some sincerity. ‘It seems you have gained yourself a bit of a reputation with the police, Rose. That sergeant chappie spoke of you in the most glowing of terms.’

‘If what you say is true, then that is even more reason to ask Miss Simpson to investigate Sylvia’s death,’ persisted Marcel, his face suddenly becoming animated. ‘We can sit here and wait for the police,’ he paused to stare at Madame Renard before continuing, ‘who will decide in their wisdom that it must be one of us. You or I, Madame, because we are foreigners.’ 

He was prevented from continuing what he was saying by a string of protests from the others, who spoke in quick succession along the following lines:

‘What?’ exclaimed Madame Renard, ‘but that is ridiculous! It is obvious to anyone that the murderer came in here pretending to be one of my customers. Or perhaps he was one of their guests. Yes … now, that I consider, I think that is more likely. The murderer, this wicked man, he seizes the opportunity to do away with poor Sylvia. Her death, it is most sad and tragic, but it has nothing to do with any one of us.’

‘Look here, Marcel, you’re talking a lot of old rot,’ protested Jacques. ‘I happen to have a better opinion of our British police force than you do. And even if, as you claim, they’ll be looking to fix this crime on a foreigner, which is a ridiculous thought in the extreme, well, why not include me in your equation? I’m as much of a Frenchman as you are.’

‘Yes, in so much as you were born in France and have a French name,’ said the designer disparagingly. ‘But you have lived most of your life in this country. Your manners, the way you think, and the way you talk; it is like an Englishman, is it not?’

‘I don’t think you need have any concerns on that score,’ Rose said quickly, before Jacques had a chance to respond. ‘Inspector Deacon is not a bit like that. He’ll want to make a proper arrest. Those who are innocent have nothing to fear.’

‘Are we all innocent?’ asked Mary. She spoke very quietly, almost as if she were talking to herself.

The others turned and stared at her, clearly unnerved by the girl’s words. Rose wondered whether they were thinking what she herself was beginning to fear; that the murderer might very likely be one of them, in fact, in all probability was. For it seemed to her highly unlikely, no matter how desirable the notion might be, that the murderer was a stranger who had taken advantage of Madame Renard’s fashion event to undertake his ghastly deed.

Jacques Renard was the first to recover his composure and break the silence.

‘Of course we’re all innocent. It’s a nonsense to suggest that we aren’t. And on reflection, I think Marcel’s idea may be a good one.’ He rose from his chair and began pacing the room as if to emphasise his point. ‘We should ask Rose to investigate Sylvia’s murder for us. And I don’t know about any of you, but I for one don’t want to sit around here feeling I’m doing nothing, waiting for the police to interview each and every one of us one at a time. They’ll draw their own conclusions and we won’t know what they’re thinking. We’ll have no idea where their line of enquiry or the evidence is taking them. They’ll keep us all in the dark and I don’t think I could bear it, the waiting I mean. Not knowing what is happening or who they suspect.’

‘You feel that, yes?’ enquired Madame Renard of her son. Rose thought that, although the proprietor still looked anxious, she detected a glimmer of hope in the woman’s eyes. Certainly, she seemed to relax a little, her breathing becoming more regular. She even went so far as to permit the shadow of a smile to cross her lips.   

‘Yes, I do, Mother, most sincerely.’

‘Then it is settled? It makes sense, does it not?’ argued Marcel. ‘We have in our midst a girl who can investigate and, what is more, she is one of us.’ He turned to address his next words exclusively to the proprietor. ‘She will be mindful of our reputations and she will protect Renard’s
name for you, Madame. And besides, we owe it to Miss Beckett, you and I. She was in your employ and killed in your shop. And she was my mannequin and died while parading my designs. The game, it is afoot, as you English say, and Rose is our Holmes.’

‘What say you, Rose? Will you investigate Sylvia’s murder for us?’

The words had been uttered by Jacques, but it was as if he had spoken for them all, become their nominated representative so to speak. They all turned to look at her, and she noticed as she gazed at their expectant, upturned faces, that the expressions revealed to the world on their faces were mixed, although she had difficulty in deciphering or determining any individual emotion. For instance, she did not know if it was fear or hope that showed itself so visibly on Marcel’s face. Likewise, she felt uneasily that Jacques was as much daring her to investigate Sylvia’s death as wishing that she do so. Madame Renard seemed to look both eager and apprehensive at the same time if that were possible. And Mary, what was the expression on her face? She had been the first to suggest that Rose take an active role in the proceedings, and yet now she looked unsure of herself, as if she might have made a mistake.

Of only one thing was Rose certain. They all held their breath, as if as one, while they awaited her answer. And in response she found that the words sprung from her own lips before she had time to consider them.

‘Yes, of course I’ll investigate Sylvia’s death,’ said Rose.

The question arose as to where the interviews should take place. It would have suited Inspector Deacon’s intentions very well to have used one of the backrooms for this purpose. However, the kitchenette was far too small and conversely the storeroom, while considerable in size, was filled fit to bursting with stock and packaging as to prove quite useless. The office-cum-dressing room would have sufficed had it not been the very room where the murder had occurred. For although the gathering and documentation of evidence had now been concluded and the body safely removed to the mortuary, the inspector surmised that the room was unlikely to be conducive to the holding of interviews. The temptation was too great, he reasoned, to permit one’s eyes to glance at the very spot where it could be imagined the body had lain, and then it would be all too easy to allow one’s mind to drift off and visualise the awful deed being done. With all these preoccupations, his questions would fall on deaf ears. And there would be some reluctance in voicing anything distasteful regarding the deceased’s character, for the girl’s presence would still be felt in that little, claustrophobic room, almost as if she were still lying on the floor beneath their feet. No, no one would feel comfortable speaking ill of the dead. It was never easy at the best of times or in the most accommodating of locations, but made that much worse if one could imagine that the murdered girl was there in spirit, if not in body, overhearing every word uttered against her character. 

It was therefore decided, in the end, to use Madame Renard’s flat for the purpose, it being so conveniently located close to the shop, and yet also discreetly removed from it as to be another dwelling. Sergeant Perkins, who did not normally consider himself to be of a particularly nervous disposition, breathed a sigh of relief. For he had found himself momentarily rattled and unsettled on emerging through the arch after viewing the body. The reason for this was ludicrous in the extreme, his rational self knew very well, but still he could not rid himself of the troubling impression that the dead girl was physically in the room before him, lurking in the shadows. The explanation was a simple one. He had chanced to catch a glimpse through the space where the ruined drape had hung of a wax mannequin that formed part of the window display. A shaft of light from the room had happened to fall upon the glass eyes, which had looked as dead and expressionless as those of a fish. The fur eyelashes and painted lips had only added to the notion that he was looking at some oversized grotesque doll. In all it reminded him uncomfortably of the body he had only moments before left in the dressing room, which looked no more human than did its wax equivalent.

Borrowing the keys from the proprietor, inspector and sergeant made their way to Madame Renard’s flat. It was situated above Renard’s at the top of a long flight of stairs, boasting its own front door at the foot of the stairs, which opened out directly onto the street. The flat itself consisted of little more than two rooms, the largest of which, square in design, appeared to be used both for meals and as a sitting room. There was little furniture in the room, the sofa looked tired and in need of upholstering, and the small jade green dresser that hugged the wall looked inexpensive and flimsy. The furniture was completed by two wooden chairs, painted to match the colour of the dresser, and a plain, round oak table, covered with a white cotton tablecloth edged with lace.

Both walls and ceiling were painted in distempered cream and further examination revealed that the rug, which covered the walnut spirit stained floor, was threadbare in places. Sergeant Perkins was unable to stop himself from emitting a gasp of surprise. For the flat, with its stark and meagre decoration, was at such complete variance with the opulent surroundings and overstuffed and overladen counters and tables in the shop downstairs as to be staggering. That the shop’s proprietor and the occupier of this little, wretched flat could be one and the same person seemed beyond belief. He turned to his superior to determine his reaction. But if the inspector was of the same opinion, he kept it to himself, for he gave no sign of it. Rather he showed an impatience to know what was beyond the sitting-cum-dining room, and hurried on.

This square room opened out directly onto a rectangle room of disappointing proportions purporting to be a bedroom, although the divan bed was disguised as a sofa by way of a piped cover with box pleat frills which fitted snugly over the mattress and bedclothes. Further camouflage of its night-time use was provided by a number of brightly covered cushions, arranged as a sofa back. The room was also furnished with a small writing table and two bookcases so that in appearance it resembled more keenly a study than a bedroom. Compared with the sitting room, this room appeared cluttered despite the scarcity of furniture. On further scrutiny, this was due not only to the room’s smaller dimensions, but also to the fact that one side of the room had been partitioned off and given over to a combined kitchen and bathroom area, curtained off from the main room by drapes of dark red imitation linen, strangely reminiscent of the dark velvet drapes in the shop downstairs.

‘This will do well enough for our interview room,’ said Inspector Deacon, looking around the room with something akin to satisfaction. ‘We’ll use the chair there that’s drawn up to the writing desk and we can bring up a couple of the chairs from downstairs. The others can sit on the settee and the chairs in the other room while they’re waiting to be interviewed.’

‘It seems a mean little flat, doesn’t it?’ ventured the sergeant. ‘It reminds me of the flat my sister shares with another girl. They earn their own living, they do. Call themselves bachelor girls. But it doesn’t seem quite the thing for our Madame Renard, does it? I mean to say, she seems to have every sort of accessory downstairs, and it’s cluttered as anything there, but this flat has no knick knacks of any description that I can see. And next to no furniture. What there is is pretty cheap and awful looking. And the walls! Don’t know that I’ve ever seen anything look so drab, my own lodgings put it to shame. I’d have had her down as having a great deal of pink and flowers on the walls and about the place, rose chintzes and pink lampshades and the like, but not a bit of it.’

‘I would imagine,’ said the inspector, ‘that the better part of her income has been spent on furnishing and stocking her shop. Not much left over to lavish on this place, I’d say. Right, go and bring up the chairs, will you, Perkins. We’d better start interviewing everyone, otherwise we’ll still be at it at dawn. Tell the others to give us a moment or two and then they can come up.’

‘Yes, sir. Who do you want to start with? I expect Miss Simpson could tell us a thing or two, don’t you? Tell us the lay of the land so to speak, and all the suspects’ various peculiarities if she so chose.’

Inspector Deacon raised an eyebrow and gave him a sardonic look, but said nothing.

Sergeant Perkins hurried out. Really that Inspector Deacon was a strange fellow. He couldn’t make the man out at all. He could have sworn that Lane had told him that the inspector had a soft spot for the Simpson girl on account of how helpful she’d been with his inquiries. Thought a great deal of her, Lane had said, even if the inspector didn’t quite know it himself. And the girl had an earl of all people for a young man; well I never, and she just being a shop girl. You’d have thought that old Deacon would have been as pleased as punch to have her here, but if looks could kill. Why, when he’d mentioned just now about her being something of a sleuth, well, that hadn’t gone down at all well. He’d have to watch his step in future, and no mistake.

The others had been glad enough to leave the shop behind, with its sad associations with death, and decamp to Madame Renard’s flat, cramped though it was. The proprietor had appeared relieved to be home, and had sunk back into the settee as if its very familiarity provided comfort. Mary had perched on the other end of the settee looking conspicuous, while Marcel had chosen one of the jade green chairs, placed his elbows on the table and buried his head in his hands, presumably resigned to a long and arduous night. Only Jacques had paced the room as if he felt hemmed in by his surroundings.

Rose, eager to have something with which to occupy herself, had gone in search of the kettle. Realising that there was no separate kitchen as such, she had tentatively knocked on the door of the other room and been admitted by an inquisitive Sergeant Perkins. Inspector Deacon, on hearing her voice, had looked up briefly before returning to study his notes. Feeling vaguely admonished, Rose had retreated behind the curtains where, somewhat to her surprise she found a bath covered by a polished lid, which presumably doubled as a work surface for the preparation of food. Beside it was a small enamelled hand basin, and above the sink on one side was a shelf on which was placed a tiny gas griller. Directly above the sink was a small window, and above that a meat safe.   

This was the first time that Rose had ever set foot in her employer’s flat, and the rudimentary layout and décor, not to mention the limited occupation of just two main rooms, surprised her. It was now apparent that her employer lived more frugally than she had thought. She discovered that this revelation made her admire Madame Renard even more than she had done previously. The fashion parade had ended disastrously and tragically in respect of both Sylvia’s death and also the fire, which had sent the customers fleeing, mostly before they had placed an order or arranged a fitting. Awareness of the proprietor’s individual sacrifice made the situation seem even more poignant. It also gave Rose additional resolve, if indeed she had needed any, to solve the case. Not only did she believe she had a responsibility to Sylvia to determine the identity of her murderer and see that he be brought to justice, but now she felt she also had the same responsibility to her employer in order to restore Renard’s ruined reputation.

Whatever Inspector Deacon’s various misgivings, he had complied with his sergeant’s suggestion and summoned Rose to be interviewed first. Rose had taken a deep breath as she left the square room, aware that the eyes of the others were upon her, and also that she held in her hands their hopes for a quick and easy resolution to the catastrophe that had befallen them. As she walked, she felt she carried their anxieties about her like a heavy, cumbersome bag.

It seemed remarkable now to think that the fashion event was supposed to have been a joyous occasion, signalling a new direction for Renard’s
as it extended its horizon; the move from ready-to-wear clothes to couture. It was to have played a part in launching a new designer on the London world. But instead it had all come to nothing. Worse than that, it had resulted in a girl’s death and more than likely had destroyed Madame Renard’s very livelihood. Only time would tell whether Sylvia’s death would affect the long term fortunes of Renard’s. Once news of the murder was out, it was hard not to imagine that at least some of Madame Renard’s most favoured customers would be tempted to abandon her establishment and take their custom elsewhere. And what of Marcel Girard and his fledgling design career? Sylvia had been killed wearing one of his gowns. Who would want to own such a creation, magical though it was, knowing that just such a dress had been a girl’s shroud?

Rose entered the rectangle room and noticed at once that the Inspector had shifted the writing desk from its position against the wall. Now it stood in the middle of the room and he himself was seated at the desk as if it was his own. One of the chairs from downstairs had been drawn up directly opposite him and he gestured that she sit on this as he rose from his chair. As Rose seated herself in the empty chair and the inspector resumed his seat, she realised that the desk created a physical barrier between them, the roles of interviewer and interviewee being clearly established. So close was her chair to the desk, that if she were minded to lean forward she might possibly be able to make out the scribbled words on the paper, which the inspector had been perusing as she entered the room. She sat back resolutely in her chair and waited for him to begin. Familiar with the interview process, she was aware that behind her at a little distance sat Sergeant Perkins, his pencil poised to take down her every word.

‘Right, Miss Simpson, now, where to begin?’ Inspector Deacon smiled at her and Rose noticed that this time his smile reached his eyes. ‘We have a great deal of ground to cover and not much time in which to do it, if any of us is to get any sleep tonight.’

‘I shall be as helpful and concise as I can be,’ said Rose rather primly.

‘Glad to hear it. Now, perhaps you’ll be as good as to tell me something of the people next door and the deceased of course. We’ll need to find out everything we can about her character, if we are to find out who killed her.’

‘Very well,’ Rose said, but even so she hesitated. She had never much enjoyed this part of the interview process. It had always made her feel as if she were being asked to speak out of turn somehow. In this particular instance it felt worse. She was being asked to be disloyal to those she had worked with and known for years, to take apart their characters and highlight their foibles and peculiarities.

‘I appreciate that this is very difficult for you, they being friends of yours so to speak. But it is necessary that we find out all we can about the people involved with this tragedy,’ Inspector Deacon said, looking at her keenly. She was relieved that he acknowledged her divided loyalties.

‘Well, there’s Madame Renard of course,’ said Rose, rallying a little. ‘As you know she’s the shop’s proprietor and my employer. I’ve worked for her for a number of years, as has Mary and as had Sylvia, come to that. They were both working in the shop before me, but only by a few months or so.’