Murder at Renard's (Rose Simpson Mysteries Book 4) (3 page)

‘Well, as I say, I haven’t seen Celia for a few years or so. She was at that difficult age, neither girl nor woman, if you know what I mean. I daresay she’s changed a lot since then. No doubt she’s the image of Lavinia now and all that. Really, darling, I don’t think you need worry.’

‘Needn’t I?’ said Rose, feeling none too sure.

‘Of course not. My sister wouldn’t have put her forward if she had any doubts as to her suitability.’

‘Wouldn’t she?’ Rose was not so certain. As she similarly thought later when standing before Madame Renard, it seemed to her highly unlikely that Lavinia would suggest anyone who would outdo her in terms of figure and beauty.

‘I’m afraid, darling, I must go, estate duties call and all that. Now, when may I speak to you next? I daresay tomorrow night is out of the question isn’t it, because you’ll be busy with your fashion show?’

‘Yes, and Saturday we’ll be busy clearing up and then opening the shop for an hour or two to hopefully take one or two more orders for the couture.’

‘I tell you what, I’ll motor down on Sunday and take you out for luncheon and you can tell me all about how it went. Honestly, darling, I’m sure you’re worrying about nothing.’

When Rose at last hung up the receiver she felt a little more relieved although she still felt somewhat apprehensive as to what the morrow would bring. She was not to know then that Lady Celia’s physique was to prove the least of her worries. Had she and Madame Renard but had an inkling of the tragic events that were to unfold, they would gladly and with little regret have cancelled all plans associated with the holding of the fashion show, even if it had resulted in a few spiteful and catty remarks made by some of their more objectionable clientele.

Rose arrived at the shop before opening time to find Madame Renard already there and, from the amount of screwed up pieces of paper on the counter before her and in the overflowing wastepaper basket at her feet, apparently fully immersed in the task at hand. As Rose approached she saw that the proprietor was poring over a sheet of paper, on which she had made a number of crude sketches, many of which had subsequently been scribbled out or written on or drawn over.

‘Ah. There you are, Rose. I cannot recall how we intended to stage this event, the exact positioning of the chairs and where we put the refreshments. Did we decide that we would serve the guests drinks at their seats or that they should be handed a glass before they sit down? I cannot remember. All these things, they have gone from my head. I am too anxious, you understand? Until I have laid eyes on Lady Celia, I can think of nothing else.’

‘If you remember, Madame –’

‘
Ma foi
, look at the time, it flies. We shall be opening in half an hour. I must clear away this mess at once.’ Madame Renard put a hand to her forehead. ‘I look around this shop and I think it is too small and cluttered to hold a fashion event. What was I thinking? We are not a grand department store like Harridges.’

Rose looked around the shop which indeed was full of merchandise. Every available surface was bedecked and festooned with every imaginable accessory to a woman’s attire, arranged in artful displays designed to attract and tempt each shopper to stop and admire the goods on show or, better still, to pick them up and handle them. Madame Renard was very much of the view that once a customer had picked up a scarf and draped it around her shoulders to admire the effect in one of the many looking glasses located conveniently around the shop, a purchase would be forthcoming. The proprietor’s philosophy, similar to that of the department and chain stores, was that goods should be out on display rather than hidden away. Handkerchiefs and scarves were not shut up in boxes or mahogany drawers to be produced only on request as happened in the provincial shops. The majority of Madame Renard’s wares were both visible and touchable and most definitely formed part of her shop’s décor and allure.  

‘Don’t fret, Madame. There is room,’ Rose said soothingly. ‘Don’t you remember that Monsieur Girard measured out the area and made suggestions as to the layout? The chairs are to be arranged in little clusters around the room and everyone will be seated. At the top of the steps Lady Celia will pause and twirl so that everyone can admire her outfit. She will then come down the steps, walk into the centre of the room like this.’ Rose gave a quick demonstration, swirling this way and that as if she were wearing some magnificent gown rather than her usual rather drab shop assistant’s attire of blouse and skirt. ‘She will then go to each group of chairs like this,’ Rose paused before an imaginary cluster of customers, ‘and stop for a moment or so to enable the cut and fabric of her outfit to be admired.’

‘I suppose one or two of the ladies might even rise to feel the fabric. You know what Mrs Milton is like. I do hope she will show some restraint and not try and pull Lady Celia this way and that.’ Madame Renard shuddered at the thought. ‘That would never do.’

‘She will be hindered from doing so because she will be holding a glass,’ Rose reassured her. ‘And you know how she likes a tipple. The girls and I will ensure that her glass is kept topped up.’

‘But all these tables, these counters, where are they to go if Lady Celia is to parade around the room? Surely she will knock into things or be obscured from sight?’

‘We’ll positon them around the very edges of the room and in between the clusters of chairs keeping the middle of the room clear. Don’t you remember? Monsieur Girard showed you a sketch. And,’ Rose went over to one of the many occasional tables, ‘we will be changing the displays on the tables so that the only accessories on show will be ones that complement the outfits in the exhibition.’

‘Yes … I think I see,’ said Madame Renard, although she sounded rather hesitant.

‘At the end of the event, or if there happens to be a lengthy break in the proceedings, Sylvia and Mary will also be encouraging customers to look at the accessories and will be making suggestions as to which will go best with which outfit.’

‘
Bon,’
said Madame Renard, although she still looked worried.

Almost wearily the proprietor gathered up the pieces of spoiled paper and put them in the wastepaper basket. Picking up the basket in a somewhat distracted manner she went to the steps which, while being small in number made up for it in breadth, running almost the full width of the back of the shop as they did. That evening they were to form the makeshift stage from which Lady Celia would descend in all her finery. Their normal, everyday function was to lead up to a large arch, which opened out onto a narrow corridor which itself ran the full width of the back of the shop. Off the corridor were a few rooms huddled together, jostling for space, the most significant of which were Madame Renard’s office and the storeroom. During the fashion event it was intended that the proprietor’s office would take on the mantle of a dressing room where Lady Celia would change and emerge in her various outfits.

‘Four stairs,’ said Madame Renard despondently, turning back. ‘Is it high enough, do you think, for a stage?’ She did not wait for a reply but instead retreated to her office, visions of models descending grand staircases in her head, very much aware that four stairs looked rather meagre in comparison.

Rose was minded to follow the proprietor into her office to enquire when Monsieur Girard would be joining them. On reflection, she thought better of it. From the raised voices that she had heard coming from Madame Renard’s office the previous day she was aware that the designer had not taken the news well when he had been informed that he would have a new mannequin to clothe. His mood had worsened when Madame Renard had admitted rather hesitatingly to being ignorant of Lady Celia’s figure. Consequently the amount of alterations and adjustments that would be required to be made to the chosen gowns to ensure that they fitted Lady Celia as adequately as they had done Lavinia, remained unknown.

The sudden opening of the door to the street brought Rose to her senses, preventing her from following her employer into her sanctuary. Instead she turned around and found herself facing the very man who had been in her thoughts.

Monsieur Girard, a small shadow of a man, stood before her, his eyes large with dark shadows beneath them as if he had slept badly. One delicate hand toyed with the end of his moustache, the other was clasped to his chest as if he were preparing himself for some fearful ordeal. It seemed to Rose that he did not see her at first, so preoccupied was he in scouring the room for someone else as if he imagined them to be lurking behind the mahogany counters or plaster mannequins. Satisfying himself that they were indeed alone he said at last:

‘Is she here yet, the mademoiselle?’

‘Lady Celia? No, not yet.’

At the sound of the young man’s voice Madame Renard rushed from her office and appeared at the top of the stairs, as agitated as the designer.

‘Marcel,’ she wailed, waving a sheet from the society pages. ‘Marcel!’

‘She’s here now, Rose. In the office with Madame. Mr Girard’s with them. There’s been ever such a to-do.’

These were the words that greeted Rose when she returned to the shop an hour or so later that morning after undertaking an errand for Madame Renard. She looked at Mary, the meek little shop assistant who had delivered such news and noticed that the girl’s usually rather expressionless and vacant face was now flushed with excitement, her eyes shining.

‘Lavinia’s friend is here?’ It was on the tip of Rose’s tongue to enquire as to the woman’s appearance, but she thought better of it. She already feared the worst, believing as she did that the proprietor’s earlier outburst had been the result of discovering an unflattering picture of Lady Celia in the society pages. Besides she thought it unlikely that Mary could contain herself from giving a vivid description whether or not she received any encouragement to do so.

‘She’s large and stout, not a patch on Lady Lavinia as regards looks.’

‘Shush, Mary. She might hear you.’

‘I’m only saying what’s true, Rose,’ protested Mary, but she lowered her voice a shade nevertheless before continuing. ‘Mr Girard, he doesn’t want her to wear any of his gowns. Says she hasn’t the figure for it. Most particular he is about it. Not that what he’s saying isn’t right, because it is, but fancy saying as much to her face.’

‘He never did!’ Rose looked appalled. An unwelcome vision sprung up before her of Monsieur Girard giving forth as to the inadequacies of Lady Celia’s figure and the lady in question, outraged by such insults, marching out of the shop and slamming the door behind her.

‘He did as well,’ exclaimed Mary, enjoying herself having now got into her stride. Her obvious enthusiasm, Rose noticed with dismay, had attracted the attention of the other shop assistant, Sylvia, who made her way over to them, a smug look on her face.

‘He threatened to take all his dresses away, so he did,’ continued Mary, in her element. ‘Or at least cut them to shreds so they couldn’t be worn. Madame Renard is beside herself, what with the fashion event being tonight. ‘

‘I’m sure she is,’ said Rose.

‘I don’t know what she was thinking, a fashion event indeed!’ exclaimed Sylvia, smiling rather unpleasantly. ‘We’re not one of those posh department stores where famous Parisian fashion designers decide to show their London collections. Renard’s is just a little backstreet dress shop selling factory made garments. Haute couture indeed! Mr Girard isn’t a proper designer either, even if he is French. He’s just a friend of Jack’s who thought he’d have a bit of a dabble at designing clothes.’

‘That’s very unfair,’ admonished Rose. ‘Monsieur Girard has remarkable talent. That silver evening gown for instance, it’s quite exquisite.’  

‘It is, I’ll give you that,’ admitted Sylvia rather grudgingly. ‘But I don’t think so much of some of his other outfits. They don’t look much better than the factory made garments if you ask me. I can’t see Madame’s customers paying the fancy prices he’ll be demanding for them, I can tell you that now.’

‘That’s why it is to be an exclusive event by invitation only. Madame has only invited a select few of her most affluent customers, as you well know.’

Sylvia sniffed and looked unimpressed.

‘How has Lady Celia taken it?’ Rose asked turning to Mary. ‘Monsieur Girard’s rudeness I mean about her wearing his gowns.’

‘Lady Celia?’ enquired Sylvia, looking curious. ‘Who’s she?’

‘Lavinia’s friend of course, the lady we’ve just been speaking of. It’s Lady Celia Goswell, didn’t you know?’

‘No, we didn’t know her name. Madame doesn’t tell us anything, Rose, you know that,’ said Mary. ‘Lady Celia Goswell? I don’t think I’ve heard of her, have you, Sylvia?’

‘No, I don’t think … Wait a bit. Isn’t she one of the Marquis of Perriford’s daughters?’ said Sylvia. ‘Now I come to think of it, I think she is. You don’t see many photographs of her in the press and now I see why.’

‘Don’t be so unkind,’ said Rose. ‘And don’t let Madame hear you say that. It’s important that this fashion event is a success for all our sakes. For one thing we owe it to Madame and for another, who knows where it might lead?’

‘To the House of Renard
and a move to Oxford Street, I don’t think!’ retorted Sylvia, but Rose noticed that the girl looked less smug now and more thoughtful. Really, she didn’t know why Madame Renard kept her on. Sylvia wasn’t above being rude to customers although Rose admitted that, when she chose to be, Sylvia could be quite charming.

‘Well, that’s the funny thing. To answer your question, Rose,’ said Mary. ‘Lady Celia seems to think it’s all a great hoot.’

‘Gosh, does she? Well, I suppose that’s something. Should I go in to see them, do you think?’

‘Yes, Madame asked most particular that you go to her office as soon as you arrived back, and here we’ve been keeping you talking.’ Mary touched Rose’s arm. ‘You will tell us what happens, won’t you? It’s better than being at the pictures!’

Rather reluctantly and with a growing feeling of trepidation, Rose made her way to Madame Renard’s office and knocked on the door. It was immediately flung open by the proprietor herself, as if she had been awaiting her arrival.  

‘Rose. At last. I thought you had got lost. It was the smallest of errands that I sent you on, was it not?’ Madame Renard ushered her into the room and quickly closed the door behind her as if she thought the girl might make a bid to escape. She moved aside. ‘Lady Celia, may I introduce Miss Simpson? She is a particular friend of Lady Lavinia’s. Miss Simpson, this is Lady Celia.’

‘How do you do?’ said Rose.

Now that the proprietor had moved away to the edge of the room Rose had a clear view of the other occupants. Monsieur Girard was seated behind Madame Renard’s Edwardian satinwood desk. He looked so engrossed in his own thoughts with his head bent and his hands covering his face so completely that Rose wondered whether he was even aware of her presence. Lady Celia was seated in the chair opposite and had turned slightly away from the desk so that she might view the newcomer more easily. She beckoned with her hand for Rose to come forward. The gesture was made so exactly as if she were signalling to a servant to pour coffee or lay supper that Rose’s initial inclination was to remain standing where she was. An imploring look from Madame Renard however resulted in her feeling compelled to comply with the command no matter how humiliating she felt it to be.