Murder at Renard's (Rose Simpson Mysteries Book 4) Read online

  ‘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 inspe
ctor’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.

  ‘But as I am sure you will appreciate,’ the inspector was saying, ‘it is imperative that we get to work as soon as possible. I’m afraid that will mean that we will need to interview each and every one of you this evening.’ A collective groan was heard. Madame Renard looked close to tears. ‘I can tell you, though,’ added Inspector Deacon quickly, ‘that as soon as you have been interviewed, you will be free to leave. All I ask is that you give the constable here your details before you go. We will no doubt wish to interview you again tomorrow.’

  ‘I say,’ protested Jacques. ‘It is awfully late, Inspector. My mother’s quite done in. It’s been the most frightful shock for her, what with it happening in her shop, and Sylvia being her employee and all. Couldn’t your questions wait until morning? I’m sure that I speak for us all when I say that what we all need is a good night’s sleep. I don’t think you’ll get much sense out of us otherwise.’

  ‘That may very well be so, sir,’ replied the inspector rather gravely. ‘Monsieur Renard, isn’t it?’ Jacques nodded. ‘But it’s just possible that one or two of you may have some vital piece of information or may remember something that you may well have forgotten in the morning. We need to interview you all while everything is still fresh in your minds.’

  Jacques grimaced, but did not attempt to protest further. He did, however, look distinctly put out. Marcel Girard likewise began to fidget in his seat and bite his beautifully manicured fingernails.

  ‘I say,’ said Inspector Deacon, turning slightly so that he could whisper in Rose’s ear, ‘that girl over there, is she all right? She looks as if she might faint any minute. And what’s she staring at? I don’t think she’s heard a word I’ve said.’

  ‘Mary Jennings,’ answered Rose. ‘She’s another shop assistant. She and Sylvia were good friends. She’s not bearing up well under the shock, I’m afraid. I was trying to comfort her and make sure she was all right when you arrived. I really don’t think she’s in a fit state to be interviewed tonight.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but we’ll have to speak to her all the same,’ said the inspector grimly. ‘Even if the poor girl’s gone to pieces. We’ll be gentle with her though, I promise. She looks a timid little thing.’

  Rose’s mind drifted back to Mary’s earlier worrying and disjointed ramblings. The girl had sounded upset and confused. She had spoken of wishing Sylvia harm, of praying that something awful would happen to her even. Rose felt the colour drain from her face. Hadn’t she also talked about killing Sylvia? Hadn’t she said that it was something that she had considered doing? She hadn’t meant it, of course, Rose was certain of that, but even so, it wouldn’t do for Mary to say such things to the policemen. She was such an innocent that she might. And they wouldn’t understand. The police would be bound to take what the girl said at face value, and that would never do. They didn’t know Mary as she did, didn’t know that even if she were minded to contemplate such a hideous act in theory, she would not have had the necessary courage or wherewithal or wickedness to put it into practice. Besides, she was essentially kind and good, at least Rose had always considered her to be so. And what was it Madame Renard had said about the girl? Yes … that was it … that she wouldn’t
say boo to a goose.

  Rose gave a sigh. She put a hand up to her eyes and rubbed them. What was she thinking? Perhaps she was going half mad herself with all that had happened. That was one of the unfortunate indirect consequences of murder. It made you think irrational thoughts and suspect everyone, even people you had known for years and years and knew full well could never be capable of such a thing. And this case was different from the other murder investigations in which she had been involved. She knew the potential suspects, in some cases very well. She must take a deep, hard breath, and when she did so, she’d realise that Mary was no more a murderer than she was herself. Mary hadn’t really wanted the girl dead. She was delirious with grief that was all.

  It was rather disconcerting to find that Inspector Deacon had been watching her closely throughout her musings. Much to her annoyance she felt her cheeks colour under his impenetrable gaze.

  ‘I do hope, Miss Simpson, that you are not contemplating trying to protect someone you think innocent,’ the inspector said very quietly. ‘I had hoped you’d have learnt your lesson after what happened last time. You know as well as I do that it won’t do any good. It’ll only muddy the waters. The truth will out in the end, you know full well it will.’

  ‘I was thinking no such thing,’ said Rose indignantly, while simultaneously wondering whether that was exactly what she had been doing even if she hadn’t put it into words as such.

  ‘And yet I cannot forget that when last we met you went as far as to suggest a possible alibi to someone you wished to shield.’ Rose looked about to protest. ‘No, forgive me, I believe you went further than that. Do correct me if I am wrong, but I think you went so far as to suggest that that person lie to the police.’