Murder at Renard's (Rose Simpson Mysteries Book 4) (7 page)

‘I thought I might have left something on your desk by mistake. The other day. You weren’t here. I came in here to write a note for Marcel. I didn’t think you’d mind, only I think I may have forgotten something. That’s to say I may have put it down and not picked it up again.’

‘And what is this thing of such significance that you put down on my desk and will not say what it is? Why so mysterious? It is important, yes? You sneak in here like a thief in the night. You scatter my papers this way and that –’

‘I did nothing of the sort. And as to my … it was nothing.’

‘
Non
.
I do not believe that, Jacques. It was something and it was important, and you did not want me to find it. Why so secretive? What have you to hide, eh? You are in trouble,
oui
? You have got into a scrape, as they say? Out with it, my boy …’ She paused and waited, clicking her fingers impatiently, her bangles jangling, but Jacques was silence.

‘Ah,’ she said at last, ‘you say nothing, but you do not contradict me. I am right, am I not?’

‘No, you’re not as it happens,’ replied Jacques rather sulkily. He searched his pocket for cigarettes. ‘But it will do no good my telling you. You won’t believe me, you never do. I could tell you until I’m blue in the face, but you’d never listen.’ He looked away, his forehead furrowed and a sour look appearing for a moment on his face. ‘You never take anything I say or do seriously. You do not take me as seriously as … as Marcel.’

‘Marcel? Why do you choose him? But he is a good boy, yes. He makes his mother proud. Now, of course, if I thought you were telling me the truth,’ retorted his mother. ‘But no, you are lying … no … don’t try and deny it, a mother always knows when her child is lying. I feel it here,’ she paused to put her hand dramatically to her breast. ‘You are trying to pull the wool over my eyes as they say, are you not?’

Jacques raised his eyebrows, but had the good sense not to protest. Instead he kept quiet, and there followed another uncomfortable silence.

‘Ah, I thought as much. But what a fool I’ve been!’ Madame Renard said suddenly, snapping her fingers in her enlightenment. ‘There is no missing paper. You did not leave it on my desk.
Non
. For the simple reason that it does not exist. It is a figment of your imagination conjured up to explain why you are here.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was not rifling through your papers,’ Jacques said hotly.

‘No, you were not. I know that now. You came here to see that … that
girl
.’ Madame Renard spat out the last word with some distaste.

‘I take it by that you mean Sylvia?’ Her son sighed and a look of weariness came over him.

‘Of course I mean Sylvia. Who else could I mean? Unless of course you have developed a sudden passion for … Mary.’

‘And so what if I came to see Sylvia? There’s no crime against it, is there, Mother?’ asked Jacques, having regained his composure.

‘Huh! No crime as you say, except that it makes you lie to your mother and be sneaky.’

‘I don’t know why you’ve taken against her so. There’s nothing wrong with Sylvia. I admit she gives herself airs and graces sometimes and can be a little rude to one or two of your customers, but I don’t doubt that they deserve it.’ Jacques laughed as his mother looked about to explode. ‘But underneath it all she has a heart of gold, you know she does.’    

‘She has nothing of the sort! She has no heart at all, that one. She is a scheming little minx.’

‘I say, that’s rather hard,’ Jacques said more seriously.

‘Is it? I do not think so.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with Sylvia, as well you know.’

‘I disagree.’

‘Well, if that’s how you feel about the girl, I’m surprised you employ her. Why haven’t you given her her marching orders long before now?’

‘You think I have not thought about it?’ Madame Renard’s eyes had lost their angry glint and her son fancied that she had turned rather pale.

‘Why do you keep her on?’ pried Jacques, interested by his mother’s reaction.

Madame Renard appeared to tremble, certainly her bangles jangled in a hesitant and disjointed fashion.

‘Mother, is anything wrong?’ Jacques looked at his mother with concern.

‘Wrong? No, why should there be?’ With an effort Madame Renard rallied. ‘I do not like the way the girl sets her cap at you. She wants you very much, I think. She wants to be proprietor of this shop when I am gone. I see it in her eyes, the way she looks around and surveys the shop as if it were her own, the way she speaks to customers …
Non
. You can do much better than her.’

‘Oh, is that all?’ Jacques looked distinctly bored, as if he had endured a similar lecture on numerous other occasions. ‘I suppose that’s why you sent me off to work at Harridges, to find a suitable bride amongst the staff. Well, I never, and here was I thinking that you sent me there to learn my trade.’ He laughed, attempting to lighten the atmosphere. ‘I say,’ he added, changing the subject, ‘do you mind awfully if I come to see the show tonight? I’d like to see the designs that Marcel’s come up with?’

‘But of course you must come.’

Madame Renard smiled affectionately and rather indulgently at him. Jacques returned her smile and left, whistling happily to himself in the knowledge that he had indeed pulled the wool over his mother’s eyes. However, had he but seen her face as soon as his back was turned, he might have changed his mind and been under the misapprehension that Madame Renard had seen through his charade. But, as it happened, it was something else entirely that caused the look of anguish on his mother’s face. The proprietor had worries enough of her own.

Rose took a step back to survey the results of her industry. Even to her own, overcritical eye, she had to admit that the shop had been transformed. The floor had been swept and polished to within an inch of its life. Not too polished, she hoped, for it would never do for one of the customers to slip and fall. She had visions suddenly of Sylvia tripping over the hem of one of her fine gowns and careering down the steps to land in an undignified heap at Lady Celia’s feet. Rose tore her mind away from such musings and focused instead only on what was solid and tangible before her eyes.

The small clusters of chairs, which she had been afraid would appear rather a motley collection having been borrowed or purchased from various sources, looked reassuringly similar and coordinated now that large white satin bows had been tied to the backs of each. The chairs were arranged in a horseshoe fashion around the shop and were intermingled with a number of tables on which were artfully displayed numerous accessories for the gowns that were about to be modelled. These ranged from neckwear consisting of delicate lace triangles to hand painted scarfs. Also on display were: hats decorated with trimmings of fur, ribbon or satin, rhinestone and paste dress clips; soft calf leather handbags in black or brown sugar, delicate mesh and enamel evening bags; and fine crocheted or leather gloves in grey or tan or pastel hues. Costume jewellery was also on show boasting rich coloured enamel or vivid paste gem stones. Glass and mahogany counters jostled for space between the tables or else were positioned far back against the walls overladen and brimming with yet more accessories and wares. The overall effect was one of opulence, and not for the first time did Rose wonder if Madame Renard’s purchase of stock had been somewhat excessive.

The proprietor herself wandered into the shop as the arrangements were nearing completion and clapped her hands in delight.

‘
Ma foi!
’ exclaimed Madame Renard. ‘But you excel yourselves, Miss Simpson, Miss Jennings,’ she said, giving an appreciative glance which encompassed both Rose and Mary. ‘The glass, the mahogany, the very wood on this floor, I do not think I have ever seen it gleam so. It sparkles and shines like crystal. We have the electric lights, yes, that light up the room, but I have something else to add even more elegance. You wait, yes?’

She did not remain long enough for either one of them to answer, but darted from the room with surprising swiftness, leaving Rose and Mary to exchange bewildered glances. They had followed Monsieur Girard’s plans to the letter. As far as both were concerned, all that was left to be done was to hang the great velvet curtains at the shop windows, which would add an air of exclusivity and warmth to the shop and prevent the general public from glancing in when the interior of the shop was lit up like a beacon in the night’s sky. ‘We do not want to look like a lighted fish bowl,’ Madame Renard had said, ‘for every Tom, Dick and Harry to look in and stare at us as if we are giving them some sort of spectacle. No, this event, it is by invitation only. It is for my particular friends and customers, that is all.’

Madame Renard returned from her office staggering somewhat under the weight of a tall, floor-standing silver candelabra, decorated with crystal glass. It appeared to be a good six feet in height, with nine arms; on each had been inserted a large cream candle. 

‘We will try it out, yes? It will look very grand will it not?’

‘It looks very splendid indeed,’ agreed Rose. ‘But I am wondering whether we have the space to do it justice. Where are you proposing that it go, Madame?’

‘Jacques, dear boy, has borrowed it from Harridges. I was thinking it should go by the counter over there behind which Lady Celia and I will be standing when we introduce the gowns. But I am wondering now,’ said the proprietor putting her head on one side, ‘whether the candles will cast a shadow on our faces. It will be very off putting for our audience, I think, if the flames splutter, or if one or two of the candles go out. Perhaps on second thoughts it would be better if it were to go by the window.’

‘But the curtains,’ protested Rose. ‘We shall have to keep an eye on the candles to ensure that they don’t set fire to the velvet. Madame, I really do not think there is the room … and Mary and I will be kept very busy with all –’

‘We will manage very well,’ Madame Renard. She sounded annoyed. ‘You have already said that we have not the space for someone to play the harp. If we are not to have music then we must have candles to create the ambience. The exhibition, it must be magical.’

‘Yes, but perhaps we should not place the candelabra so near the door,’ Rose said cautiously but quickly, in case her employer saw fit to object before she had made her point. ‘Every time the door is opened to let in a customer it is likely to let in a gust of wind.’

‘It must go there, there is nowhere else for it to go,’ said Madame Renard firmly. ‘But, yes, we do not want to set fire to the shop. We will not light the candles until everyone has arrived and the fashion show has started. Mary, if we have any latecomers you will have to be especially careful when opening the door.’ 

Mary nodded, and Rose could see clearly that the girl was thinking that it was yet one more thing to add to her list of things to do or to remember.

‘Right, girls,’ continued Madame Renard, ‘hang the curtains and then we are ready, are we not? Wait, where is Sylvia? Surely she is not still being fitted for the dresses?’ A frown appeared on her face. That one, she is so lazy. Get her for me please, Rose. She can hang the curtains.’

Anticipating the girl’s protests, Rose made her way reluctantly to the storeroom where she supposed Sylvia was lurking out of the way until all the heavy and boring work had been done. It had been the only refuge available to Sylvia, Madame Renard having been in occupation of the office until recently.

Afterwards Rose realised she had approached the door too quietly. How much better it would have been to have in some way given advance notice of her imminent arrival. At the time, however, she had only wanted to hurriedly give the message, which she had known would be ill received, and be gone. The appeal of a cup of tea before the evening’s proceedings had further enticed her to quicken her steps, so that she had opened the storeroom door all in a hurry and come upon not just Sylvia, as she had expected, but another also, before she had chance to take breath.

They had immediately pulled away from each other. It was as if they had been caught in some compromising position, although in truth Rose had had little opportunity to glimpse what they had been doing. Afterwards, she had difficulty determining in her mind whether she had seen them locked in a tight embrace or talking excitedly and earnestly in a conspiratorial way. When she did recall the event later, she was certain only that they had been huddled together in some capacity, their heads bent towards each other. She remembered too that they had spoken in whispers. On her entrance, both had looked up guiltily, Sylvia blushing a fetching shade of crimson, while her companion had turned pale. At once they had torn themselves apart so that they stood too far away from each other, which acted only to accentuate their previous closeness.

‘Sylvia … Monsieur Girard … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt … I … I’ve a message from Madame. She would like you to hang up the velvet curtains over the windows, Sylvia,’

Rose had fled from the doorway and gone into the room next door, which served as a kitchen or scullery of sorts, although in reality it was equipped with little more than an old Belfast sink, a copper kettle standing on three Bakelite legs, and a cook’s table with a porcelain-enamelled top and cutlery drawer. Thankful for some occupation, she began to fill the kettle from the sink. Somewhat to her surprise, she found that she was shaking. Looking up she was disappointed to discover that Sylvia had followed her out of the room and was now hovering awkwardly at the entrance to the kitchen.     

‘It’s not what you think,’ began Sylvia rather sulkily. ‘You didn’t see what you thought you saw.’ She put a finger to her mouth and began to chew at the corner of her nail in an agitated fashion.

‘And what do I think I saw?’ asked Rose warily. She averted her gaze and passed a hand wearily over her forehead.

‘That you disturbed some sort of a romantic tryst,’ said Sylvia. She screwed up her face with a look of distaste. ‘I daresay it may have looked like that, but it wasn’t.’

‘Well, what was it then?’ Rose held up a hand. ‘No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. It’s none of my business what you do. But I wouldn’t let Madame catch you, if I were you. She wouldn’t take too kindly to you using her storeroom to embark on some clandestine affair with her designer while Mary and I are doing all the work getting ready for tonight’s event.’

‘I don’t know what you take me for, Rose,’ Sylvia said irritably. ‘I can do better than the likes of Marcel Girard, I have you know. I expect a gentleman to show me a good time and treat me proper. A storeroom for goodness sake!’ She arched an eyebrow and added slyly, ‘You’re not the only one who can do well for herself. There’s many a man who’d like to take me out, I can tell you. And, an earl he might be, your Cedric, but I don’t see no announcement in the newspaper concerning your engagement.’

Rose blushed and looked at the floor. She felt a surge of anger well up inside her. How gratifying it would be to slap the girl’s face.

‘Let you down, has he?’ Sylvia gave her a sickly smile. ‘Never you mind. Now come and help me with them curtains, they’re too heavy for one person to hang, even if Madame does say different.’

‘I say, Marcel, thank you for being such a good sport,’ said Jacques, collapsing rather unceremoniously into a convenient armchair at his friend’s lodgings.

Marcel Girard, in rolled up shirt sleeves and with a towel draped carelessly around his neck like a makeshift scarf, grunted rather irritably over his shoulder as he attacked his face with a razor. He was not in the best of moods having been obliged to answer the front door himself in a dressing gown, his landlady being otherwise engaged. Accordingly he did not feel inclined to engage in idle chatter when he had more pressing needs to attend to. The fashion event was due to start in less than an hour and he wanted to view the shop layout, to ensure that his instructions had been carried out to the letter, to say nothing of inspecting his gowns and reassuring himself with regard to Sylvia’s appearance. He had a strong suspicion that the girl might try and overdo it with the rouge; that sort always did in his experience. Still, her deportment had been rather good earlier, when they had practiced how she should walk to show off the gowns. She had held herself surprising well he thought, chin up, head straight and with a sufficiently graceful walk such that had she happened to be balancing a book on her head at the time it would not have fallen off.  

‘A good sport?’ Marcel queried without turning to look at his friend, his eyes screwed up in concentration as he scraped the blade across his cheek.

‘Yes, I mean choosing Mama’s humble little establishment to show your designs. It was awfully good of you. I mean to say, didn’t you tell me that Thimbles
were interested in exhibiting your work at one time?’

‘Did I say that? Well, yes … yes, I suppose they were,’ said Marcel, pausing in his shaving for a moment. He stared at his reflection in the little hand mirror, which he had propped up in front of him on a convenient ledge above the sink. ‘But I thought your mother’s boutique –’  

‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, she’s most grateful, as am I,’ said Jacques quickly. ‘All I’m saying is that it was jolly decent of you. You could have done a lot better for yourself than Mother’s little shop.’

‘Could I? I wonder.’ The designer turned to survey his friend for the first time. ‘I’m really not that good, Jacques. No, do not try to contradict me. I tell only you this. My designs, they are robust, I think you would say, yes. The outfits I sketch they produce garments that are well cut and well proportioned. But that is all. My dresses do not take one’s breath away. They are simple.’

‘You’re too modest, Marcel, it’s not like you at all,’ Jacques said, chuckling. ‘And it’s certainly not what I’ve heard, about your frocks, I mean. You should hear Mother on the subject of your evening gowns.’

‘You should hear what Miss Beckett says about my designs. I overheard her saying that she thought they weren’t much better than factory made garments.’

‘Pah! Ha-ha, did Sylvia say that?’ said Jacques, his face quite red and his body doubled up in laughter. ‘You shouldn’t take any notice of what that girl says. Although I bet she changed her tune a bit when she found out she was to be your mannequin?’

‘She did, yes,’ conceded Marcel rather grudgingly. ‘But that girl, I think she tells the truth.’

‘She does nothing of the sort,’ retorted Jacques. ‘Why, she was probably jealous, that’s all. She likes to be the centre of attention. I daresay she felt her nose had been out of joint when Mother started mooning over your gowns.’

‘And yet she is, how do you say … your best girl?’

‘She’s nothing of the sort. I daresay she thinks she is. She’d certainly like to be. Although, if you’d heard her talk yesterday, you’d have discovered that she thinks she’s too good for me. Told me she could do much better than the likes of me, would you believe? Cheeky little minx, I’ve a good mind –’ 

‘Perhaps she can.’

‘Oh, I say, that’s a bit harsh.’

Jacques sat up in his chair and stared at his friend. It seemed to him that their conversation, which moments before had been light and easy, had suddenly taken another turn and become rather serious and cold. There was an awkward silence as they met each other’s eye. At length Marcel turned away to address his face.