The Debutante (14 page)

‘I have to admit, it’s not draping very well.’

‘You need industrial-strength bin liners. The kind builders use.’

‘Hmm.’ She nodded. ‘I think you’re right.’

He turned to Cate. ‘We like to live our research around here. Last year was “The Fashionable Farewell: The Tradition of Mourning through the Ages”. Everyone without exception wore head-to-toe black all year. But enough. Did you say you wanted coffee?’

‘No. No thank you.’

He gave Sam a nod.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, taking her leave.

He settled back behind the desk, cocking his head to one side. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

‘I’m sorry …’ Cate stumbled, desperately trying to place him, ‘I can’t quite recall…’

‘It doesn’t matter. It was years ago. Your end-of-term show. Your aunt introduced us.’

‘Oh. I apologise. I have the most shocking memory.’

‘Well —’ he looked at her through the thick glasses —‘you seemed a bit the worse for wear that night.’

Cate felt her cheeks reddening. ‘I hope I wasn’t rude.’

‘Not at all. You were just … well, celebrating. It was an extraordinary show. I’ll never forget the piece with the babies and the bed sheet.’

‘Medea.’

‘Yes! That’s it! Very dramatic stuff.’

Cate had forgotten that painting, deliberately. The blood-soaked bed sheet, the limp child. That was the year her father died. She’d struggled with her work; struggled with herself.

She stared at the floor. ‘It didn’t sell.’

Theo laced his fingers together, pressing them to his lips thoughtfully. ‘It was very powerful.’

‘It was ugly.’

‘But art isn’t just about beauty. It’s about truth. And I for one don’t believe the two are always related.’

She focused on the madonnas behind him, the bright, garish colours of their robes; the gentle inclination of their long-suffering heads.

‘What are you doing now?’ he asked, leaning forward. ‘I hope you’ll be exhibiting again soon.’

‘I’m doing some … some more traditional pieces. Reproductions.’

‘Really?’ He sounded surprised.

‘Commissions.’

‘Oh. Yes, well …’ he conceded. ‘What I loved about your work was the sheer scale and audacity of it. Like a modern-day female Caravaggio. So —’ he settled back — ‘what can I help you with?’

Opening her bag, she took out the shoebox and pushed it across to him. ‘I wonder if you could tell me anything about these?’

He opened the box and examined the shoes. ‘Yes, Pinet of Bond Street, I’d say from about 1929-33. A very expensive shoe shop, even in those days.’ He turned them over. ‘Hardly been worn. Evening wear, obviously. But the evening must’ve been cut short. And they’re broken.’

‘Really?’ Cate leaned forward.

‘Just here.’ Theodore showed her where one of the straps was severed. ‘They wouldn’t have stayed on for long. Where did you find them?’

‘I was in Devon recently. They come from an old house. Actually …’ she hesitated, ‘I think they belonged to Lady Irene Avondale.’

He sat up, eyes gleaming. ‘You mean Irene Blythe? As in the Blythe sisters?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah! I have a special fondness for the Beautiful Blythe Sisters! Who doesn’t? But sadly the answer is no,’ he said firmly, putting the lid back on.

‘What do you mean, no?’

‘No, they couldn’t have possibly belonged to her.’

‘But how can you be so sure?’

‘I like to collect things.’ He gestured to the wall behind him. ‘You may be admiring my collection of tacky madonnas right now. Or not. Be that as it may, one of my earliest passions was collecting shoe lasts.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Lasts. They are the exact moulds of feet, carved out of wood that are kept at bespoke shoemakers. A customer has them made once and then they’re stored until that person dies. Each pair of shoes is custom-made to fit their feet exactly. As a result of my own personal passion, we launched a show about five or six years ago called “If the Shoes Fits” on the history of bespoke shoemaking. And as chance would have it, several lasts belonging to Irene Blythe were purchased by the museum at great expense. One set from Foster & Son in Jermyn Street and another from Ferragamo himself. Lady Avondale was afflicted with that crippling condition that made her right at home in the upper classes — long, very narrow feet and fallen arches. She would never have purchased a pair of ready-made shoes no matter how expensive. She wouldn’t have lasted two seconds in them. Besides —’ he pushed the box back to her — ‘they’re the wrong size. Long narrow boats, that’s what her feet were like. Really most extraordinary.’

‘Oh.’

‘What you have there, my dear, is a lovely pair of vintage shoes possibly worth fifty pounds in today’s market. Oh, and quite a nice box.’

‘I see.’

‘Would you like to see the lasts?’ he asked eagerly. ‘They’re stored just a few rooms down. The craftsmanship is incredible!’

‘Ah, no. That’s not necessary.’ She put the box back into her bag.

‘You seem disappointed.’

‘I … I just thought…’ She stopped herself. ‘It doesn’t really matter.’

He leaned back, folding his hands in front of him. ‘Certain people are enigmas. They have a glamour that captures the imagination. The Blythe sisters are like that. They were the living embodiment of the spirit of a romantic, highly charged time between the wars. You’re not the first person to have fallen under their spell.’

‘No,’ she sighed, ‘I suppose not.’

He stood up. The interview was over.

‘I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful. But listen, do drop me a line if you are exhibiting again in London. And if you want to see anything, any of the shows, let me know and I’ll be happy to arrange some tickets for you.’

‘Thank you. That’s so kind.’

He opened the door.

Cate had a thought. ‘What about her sister?’

‘Baby?’

‘Yes. Could the shoes have belonged to her?’

He frowned, wrinkling his nose. ‘Baby Blythe went missing in … I can’t recall … it was shortly after the war
began.’ He shrugged. ‘I mean, I can’t say for certain. After all, no one knows what became of her. Anything’s possible and yet it’s unlikely’

Sam was hovering again, waiting to guide her back through to the main gallery.

‘It’s addictive, isn’t it?’ he laughed, patting her on the shoulder.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Once you’ve caught the collecting bug, it’s a hard habit to shake — isn’t that right, Sam?’

Sam nodded. ‘Every piece tells a story.’

‘Unfortunately,’ he added, ‘only once in a blue moon do we discover what the real story is.’

‘Yes, yes, I guess you’re right,’ Cate said.

Trailing after Sam through the corridors her heart sank. Once again the larger, unsolvable problems of her own life loomed like dark shadows on the periphery of her consciousness, bringing with them a familiar feeling of dread.

Before she realised it, they were back in the main fashion gallery; long rows of dimly lit display cases arcing round. Suddenly Sam stopped.

Cate looked up.

They were standing in front of a simple bias-cut halterneck evening gown of smooth, pale pink satin. It was form-fitting, sensuous, almost flesh-coloured. Its owner must’ve been slight; the waist was diminutive and yet the bust generously cut.

Cate turned to Sam. Her eyes were sparkling.

‘This is an original Vionnet,’ Sam whispered. ‘From Paris.’

‘Yes … ?’

‘It belonged to Baby Blythe!’

Cate looked at it again. The proportions were stunning; at once tiny and voluptuous.

‘The thing is,’ Sam continued, ‘it’s never been officially confirmed. There’s a scandal around that dress. It came to us from a very unexpected source.’ She took Cate’s arm, pulling her closer. ‘Rumour has it we received a bequest from the Rothermere estate. Lord Rothermere was most famously one of Chamberlain’s chief advisers during the lead-up to the Second World War. But he was also an avid hunter; used to fox-hunt with the Prince of Wales and owned an entire estate in Melton Mowbray for that purpose alone. The bequest was meant to be riding habits and military uniforms. Fancied himself as quite the Dapper Dan. But hidden in one of the trunks, tucked into a silk pillowcase, was this dress! Apparently is still smelled of perfume — Worth, Je Reviens. And’ — she leaned in — ‘it was torn — in the back!’

‘Really?’

‘There was a note with it. “Paid in full.” Signed, “B”. Lord Rothermere was married and very moral and uptight. And believe me, no oil painting. God only knows how it got ripped. The repair department had a devil of a time fixing it; that’s why it’s positioned that way.’ She
pointed to the angle at which the dress was displayed. ‘I’m sure if the family knew it was in that old trunk, we would’ve never received it in a thousand years. But I suspect he kept it hidden, some little trophy from his past. Of course, no one can prove a thing. And the note got filed away somewhere, lost in a sea of bureaucracy. But it’s a beautiful example of Madame Vionnet’s tailoring. It must’ve cost a fortune at the time.’

Cate stared at it. ‘She was really very tiny, wasn’t she?’

Sam nodded.

‘How big do you think her feet were?’

‘Oh, I don’t know … small … Maybe four, four and a half?’

Cate smiled to herself. There was a slim chance still.

‘When I heard you mention her I thought you might be interested,’ Sam said.

‘Yes, I’m interested in anything to do with the Blythe sisters. Thank you for showing it to me.’

‘My pleasure. Have you tried looking in the National Portrait Gallery? You never know. They have the most amazing collection of famous faces in there. We use their archive all the time.’

‘That’s a good idea.’ Cate made a mental note.

Sam sighed, turning back to the mannequin. ‘But why? That’s the thing that gets me.’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Why would anyone that beautiful, that sought-after, end up shagging some bald old man? I just don’t get it.’

Cate’s eyes were trained on the perfect satin folds of the exquisite dress.

‘Not everything we do makes sense,’ she said at last.

Cate walked out into the close, hot air, on to the crowded pavement of Exhibition Road and headed towards the bus stop. If the shoes belonged to Baby Blythe, then everything, all the other objects were likely to be hers as well. The key, the bracelet, the photograph … could these be missing clues to the mystery of her disappearance? Perhaps she was the only person alive able to piece the puzzle together. And she thought again of the dress, the note; the tear which could never completely be repaired. Her mind buzzed with questions and possibilities. Who gave her the bracelet? Why was it hidden? Was the sailor a lover?

A bus pulled over. She climbed up to the top deck, taking a seat next to the window.

Looking out across the neat little garden square opposite, she admired the creamy Georgian terraced houses and the Brompton Oratory. At once imperious and lopsided, its walls were pitted and scarred from bombs during the Second World War. It was amazing how much the war still influenced London, its very fabric still marked, the wounds as fresh as if they’d happened last night. And she wondered if Baby Blythe had ever walked these streets — perhaps
visiting someone in the square or attending a wedding at the church. Cate felt an eerie sense of their lives intertwining, overlapping one another across the decades.

Someone was staring up at her from the pavement. A man; tall, thin, with glasses, frowning intently at her.

A man … with glasses … like the one who delivered the envelope.

Turning away, she shielded her face with her hand, her mind racing.

Had he been following her? Was it just a coincidence or had he been sent, hired to report on her whereabouts? He was still staring, she was sure of it.

The bus pulled away from the stop, lurching into traffic. Automatically she turned and looked back. A fresh swarm of foreign students crowded around the bus stop. She couldn’t see him. Maybe she was being ridiculous; the product of an overstimulated imagination. And yet she couldn’t be sure.

Her heart thumped. Suddenly London was no longer the safe haven she had imagined; at each turning, on every street corner, a sinister stranger might appear.