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

  ‘I did, you know I did,’ admitted Rose. ‘And I’ve regretted my actions ever since. But whatever you may think of my motives at the time, I meant well.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it for one moment.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  She could hardly bring herself to look him in the eye. She remembered now how she had felt at the time, how she knew that she had let him down and most probably herself. Certainly she had gone down in his estimations and she remembered that it had mattered awfully to her what he thought of her.

  ‘No, I don’t doubt it. But you must promise me one thing, Rose, to tell me everything this time. Don’t hold anything back.’

  ‘I promise,’ Rose said, aware of nothing else for a moment other than that he had called her by her Christian name.

  The sound of renewed whimpering brought her back to her senses. Mary was crying softly to herself again. She did indeed look a pathetic sight. Rose’s heart went out to her. In all conscience Rose knew she ought to disclose to the inspector what the girl had said, that it was her duty to do so; and yet looking at Mary, the pitiful way that she mopped at her eyes with her tear sodden handkerchief, her plain little face blurred and distorted from crying, she could not bring herself to do so. For the time being at least, she knew that she would not say a word.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘She’s very young,’ muttered Sergeant Perkins.

  They had entered the makeshift dressing room to view the body. The inspector was of the opinion that the sergeant sounded very young himself, and not a little scared. He supposed it was the effect of coming face to face with violent death. Certainly any sign of the young man’s usual cheeriness had deserted him, and he held back near the door, as if afraid or reluctant to go any further into the room. The detective inspector thought the better of him because of it.

  ‘Isn’t she?’ said Inspector Deacon, staring with compassion at the prostrate figure on the floor, which had once been Sylvia and now looked anything but a living, breathing woman. He took in his surroundings, with its full length looking glass which commanded a central position at the back of the room, the desk that usually stood there having been consigned to one side. It had been pushed up to the wall near the door, so that it was the first thing that greeted a person as they entered. It had apparently been employed during the fashion parade as a table or sideboard, as on its surface were littered the remnants of accessories and suchlike used to add the finishing touches to the garments worn by the model. There was also a selection of cosmetics, and a hairbrush and comb. The latter two items looked strangely out of place amongst the finery because of their very ordinariness. They both sat at an angle where they had been hastily put down and discarded, to be picked up and used again and again between costume changes as required. Now of course they were surplus to requirements, and because of it they looked forlorn. Never again would they be picked up and used by their owner. The inspector wondered if the murdered girl had had any inkling that she was brushing and combing her hair for the very last time.

  With these thoughts at the forefront of his mind, the inspector slowly knelt beside the body.

  ‘All right to turn her over?’

  Sergeant Perkins nodded. ‘Yes, sir, our chaps have done their stuff with dusting for fingerprints and the like and they’ve taken that many photographs you wouldn’t believe.’

  ‘Good. I’ll be careful not to dislodge the scissors. It’s awful somehow to imagine that such a very pretty pair should have been the murder weapon. They look harmless enough, don’t they? More like a decoration than a tool of death. What’s the design supposed to be, a bird of some sort?’

  ‘A stork, sir. My mother’s got a pair just like them, although they’re made from brass, not gold like these are. And I’d hazard a guess these are solid gold, not the usual gold plate. But the doctor doesn’t think that’s what killed her though, sir, the scissors, I mean.’

  ‘Oh? You don’t say. What did then?’ Ah, hello? No need to answer that, Sergeant, I think I can guess. Looks as if the girl hit the side of her head on something when she fell or was pushed. Now … let me see. Yes … here we are, there’s blood on the top of this chair back. She must have fallen forward at a slight angle and caught the edge of the chair. How does old Hodges say it happened? I know he likes to play it out in his mind. Never knew a fellow quite like him who could visualise a murder so exactly.’

  ‘Well, sir, just as you said. His theory is that the girl was struck from behind with the scissors. They’re wedged in her neck as you see. She wouldn’t have died instantly, if at all, if it had just been for the scissors.’

  ‘Wouldn’t she, by Jove?’

  ‘No, sir. It’s a damned nasty business, that’s what it is, sir. Doctor Hodges, he says she’d have been conscious after being stabbed and may even have had time to crawl out of the room and get help if it hadn’t been her misfortune to go and get that bump on her forehead. That’s what actually killed her. The blessing is that after that, her death would have been very quick.’

  ‘So, if what you’re saying is correct, after the deceased was struck with the scissors she was either pushed or happened to topple forwards of her own accord and hit her head on the back of that chair back, the one that’s been drawn up to the mirror.’ The inspector stared at the offending article of furniture.

  ‘It would all have happened very quickly, so the doctor says,’ said the sergeant. ‘She’d hardly have known anything about it, if at all.’

  ‘Well. I suppose we should be thankful for small mercies.’

  ‘She might not even have been aware she’d been stabbed with the scissors before she hit her head and died.’

  ‘By the same logic,’ said the inspector, ‘one could argue that she might not even have known the identity of her assailant, unless she happened to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror of course. She was struck from behind, wasn’t she? So in all probability she was looking at herself in the mirror.’

  Inspector Deacon wrinkled his brow, bowed his head slightly as if in prayer, and passed a hand over his forehead. He then stared into the depths of the mirror, as if he imagined he might catch the murderer’s reflection in the glass looking back at him.

  ‘You have a point there, sir,’ agreed the sergeant. ‘The young lady might have been too engrossed in powdering her face or hooking her frock to have noticed the murderer come into the room if he had happened to sneak in, ever so quick like.’

  ‘Of course, she could just as easily have been in the middle of having a conversation with him and then was unwise enough to turn her back on him for a moment and he took his chance. She might not have realised that she was in any danger. She might have trusted the fellow.’

  ‘We keep saying ‘he’, sir, but Doctor Hodges says the murder could just as easily have been done by a woman, especially if she happened to catch the girl off guard.’

  ‘Does he, indeed? It stands to reason, I suppose. No great force was required. And the girl would probably have felt perfectly safe with a woman. She wouldn’t have anticipated such an attack.’

  ‘She was a pretty little thing, wasn’t she, sir?’ Sergeant Perkins sounded close to tears.

  ‘She was,’ said the inspector gently. ‘It oughtn’t to matter, but it does somehow. It makes it seem all the more tragic. Such a needless waste of a life. It doesn’t seem right that such a death should befall a girl like her, that’s what you’re thinking, aren’t you, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s a crying shame, that’s what it is.’ The young man hung his head.

  ‘Well, the best thing we can do is to channel those feelings of yours constructively, Sergeant. Find out who murdered the girl and see that he is brought to justice. That’s all we can do for the girl now.’

  ‘You know that man? He is a friend of yours, I think?’ demanded Marcel, as soon as the two policemen were safely ensconced in the office-cum-dressing room, the door shut tightly behind them. He gave Rose a sharp sideways glance, before pe
ering quickly around the shop, as if to ascertain the precise whereabouts of the lone constable. With a flick of his head, he satisfied himself that the man in question had removed himself back to his favourite position by the street door. He was therefore out of earshot.

  With the exception of Mary, who remained both emotionally distant and physically apart, the others were huddled together on the vacated chairs, forming their own individual little cluster as the various groups of customers had done before them. Had the chairs not been positioned at odd angles, with some facing the street door while others overlooked the back of the shop with its makeshift lectern and stage, it might almost have been supposed that they were expecting the fashion show to be reprised. It was a sobering thought, however, that the only persons who would be emerging from the corridor and descending the stairs in the immediate future would be the two policemen. And instead of parading gowns they would be returning from viewing the body of a brutally murdered woman.

  ‘Yes … No … that’s to say we are acquainted,’ said Rose, wondering how best to describe her relationship with Inspector Deacon and whether she could describe him as a friend.

  ‘You seemed awfully pleased to see him though,’ remarked Jacques, taking up the thread of the conversation. She noticed he was looking at her with renewed interest and she visibly coloured under such close scrutiny.

  ‘But of course!’ exclaimed Madame Renard. ‘You have met him before. How stupid of me not to think it might be a possibility. Ha! How many inspectors are there at Scotland Yard who investigate these murders?’

  ‘A great many I would have thought,’ said Jacques drily. His mother chose to ignore him and carried on with her train of thought.

  ‘The other murders you have been a part of, he was present, was he not, this young man?’ She stared disapprovingly at Rose, as if the girl, in knowing the detective, had somehow brought about the death on her premises.

  ‘Yes … that’s to say, he was not present at all the investigations –’

  ‘All of the investigations? But what are you saying? How many murders have you been involved with?’ Marcel cried, looking at Rose incredulously.

  ‘I’d quite forgotten with all the excitement,’ said Jacques, butting in quickly, a slightly bitter edge to his voice. ‘Our Miss Simpson is something of an amateur sleuth, aren’t you, Rose?’

  ‘Well –’ began Rose, but he did not let her finish.

  ‘Let me see, there was that little business at Ashgrove last summer, followed closely on its heels by that incident at Daresmore Hall … that’s what that great house was called, wasn’t it?’ said Jacques, counting off each location on his fingers in a slow, laboured fashion with the aim of achieving maximum effect. ‘And then of course, who could forget the murder that happened a couple of months or so ago at that most grandiose of establishments, Sedgwick Court? Dear old Lavinia’s place, if I’m not mistaken?’

  ‘Dareswick Hall,’ corrected Rose. Mortified she stared at Jacques. She could feel herself trembling slightly from the shock of it all. It was so unlike him to speak to her in such a hurtful, spiteful way. His tone had frightened her, the way he had spoken the words with such hostility, almost as if he were spitting them out. She wondered if he was overcome with grief, or was it something else. Did he feel, as his mother seemed inclined to believe, that in some way she, Rose, was responsible for bringing death to Renard’s? Embarrassed, she stared at Jacques stupidly, tempted to say something, yet at a loss as to exactly what.

  ‘You’re more at home investigating murders that happen amongst the highest classes, aren’t you, Rose?’ continued Jacques in the same vein. ‘Aristocrats and all that. Didn’t I even hear mention of a foreign count being present in your last case? Not just our British aristocracy, huh? But you’ve come down a bit in the world, haven’t you? To be embroiled in a murder that’s happened here in a dress shop of all places. Not a stately home or butler in sight. Still, I have it on the good authority of Mama that we are a very good class of people.’

  ‘Jacques!’ cried his mother, horrified. All through this tirade, Rose had noticed Madame Renard staring at her son anxiously, opening and shutting her mouth as if about to protest but thinking better of it. Or perhaps she could not believe her ears.

  It occurred to Rose that both she and his mother were trying to ascertain what lay behind the man’s sullen façade. At a loss she made do with looking at him reproachfully, as if he had behaved like a disobedient child. Perhaps it was this, or his mother’s exclamation, that returned him to reason. Certainly he must have been aware of the intensity of each woman’s gaze as they regarded him earnestly. Or conceivably he acknowledged the strangeness of his own behaviour and caught himself up. Whatever it was, he hurriedly mumbled an apology and returned to stare forlornly at the floor.

  ‘Are you going to find out who the murderer is, Rose? Are you going to find out who killed Sylvia?’

  The voice, quiet and unassuming as it was, nevertheless seemed to fill the room. The bluntness of the question and the urgency with which the words were spoken made them all turn around as one to determine the identity of the questioner. Rose realised then that Mary had been all but forgotten, sitting apart from the rest as she had been. It had probably not occurred to any one of them that she had given their conversation much heed, even less that she intended to contribute to their discussion. In addition she had managed somehow to creep up to them unobtrusively and unobserved, so that her sudden appearance standing beside them as she now was, made them all start and catch their breath quickly.

  Initially met with silence as she was, Mary repeated her question. Her voice now had a strange quality to it, being both dispassionate and innocent in equal measure.

  ‘For goodness sake, Mary,’ exclaimed Madame Renard, being the first of them to recover her wits. ‘Must you creep up on us like that, like … like a thief in the night? My nerves, they are already on edge, they –’

  ‘Are you going to find out who did it?’ Mary persisted, cutting through the proprietor’s words with never a glance at her employer. It was almost as if she were unaware that she had spoken, so fixed was her gaze upon Rose. This, together with the way Mary’s voice had risen as she had repeated her question for the second time, had an unsettling effect on her audience. Jacques stared at her open mouthed, Madame Renard put a hand to her chest, which rose and fell more rapidly than was natural, and Marcel looked distinctly ill at ease. Rose, to whom the question had been addressed, felt obliged to give an answer, inadequate though it might be. She opened her mouth to speak, but was saved from the necessity of so doing by the proprietor’s son jumping out of his seat in an agitated manner.

  ‘I say,’ said Jacques, ‘isn’t it best to leave that sort of thing to the police?’

  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.