Murder at Renard's (Rose Simpson Mysteries Book 4) Page 9

  ‘I suppose you’ll ask me to hang them up for you as well?’ began Rose, as soon as she was in the office. ‘Look here, Sylvia, I’m not your servant. I –’

  ‘No, don’t worry, I’ll do that,’ said Sylvia quickly, much to Rose’s surprise. ‘Just leave them in a heap on that chair, will you? I’ll sort them out in a minute.’

  ‘There seems to be an awful lot of them,’ said Rose, doing as she was bid before standing back to survey the pile of clothes. ‘Surely you’re not wearing all of these dresses in the fashion show? What’s the outfit wrapped up in brown paper? It’s awfully heavy. It’ll be terribly crumpled folded up like that. Shouldn’t one of us hang it up to get rid of any creases?’

  ‘No, don’t worry, I’ll do it myself in a minute,’ said Sylvia, almost snatching the parcel away from her. ‘As you’ve just pointed out yourself, you’re not my servant. And I expect Madame will want you out in the shop seeing to her customers. I didn’t realise there’d be so many people, did you? I caught a glimpse of them when we were out in the corridor just now.’

  ‘There are certainly more than we’d anticipated or provided chairs for,’ agreed Rose. ‘They have brought more guests with them than we thought they would. There are quite a lot of faces I don’t recognise, which should please Madame.’

  ‘Before you go, could you help me with my hair?’ asked Sylvia, glancing at her reflection in the looking glass, as Lady Celia had done a short time before. ‘It’s just this little hair comb. It’s awfully pretty, don’t you think? Rhinestones and pearls. I thought it would look lovely with my first outfit, really set it off, so to speak. But I’m having a bit of trouble fixing it. It won’t sit straight and keeps coming out. Would you have a go? See if you can do any better. Look, I’ll show you where I want it … oh … no!’

  ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

  Rose darted forward as Sylvia started to tug frantically at her hair, pulling at it this way and that, so that Rose was afraid that she might tear strands out, so frenzied were her actions.

  ‘It’s got caught on the lace collar of this dress. And I can’t disentangle it no matter how hard I try,’ wailed Sylvia. ‘The show’s about to start any minute now.’

  ‘Let me see. I’ll have a go at getting it … Sylvia, keep still, won’t you? If you keep wriggling about like a mad thing you’ll only make it worse.’

  ‘Ow! That hurt!’

  ‘Well, what do you expect if you keep moving about?’ cried Rose in exasperation. ‘No, it’s no use. It’s all twisted up in the lace. There’s nothing for it; we’ll have to cut it out.’

  ‘Not my hair!’

  ‘Definitely not Monsieur Girard’s lace,’ said Rose firmly. ‘There’s no need to look so worried, it’ll only be a strand or two. It won’t be noticeable.’

  ‘You wouldn’t say that if it was your hair,’ complained Sylvia grumpily.

  ‘There must be some dressmaking scissors here somewhere,’ said Rose, looking around. ‘Is there a pair in the storeroom? Although really we could do with a smaller and sharper pair of scissors.’

  ‘Like a pair of embroidery scissors? Elsie left hers in the storeroom. She uses them to cut the loose thread, so she was telling me. They’re ever so sharp.’ Sylvia giggled. ‘She’ll be that cross when she realises she left them here. She inherited them from her aunt and carries them around with her everywhere. She’s always going on about how valuable they are, being gold. But if you ask me, they’re only gold plated. Still, I have to admit they’re ever so pretty. In the shape of a bird, they are.’

  ‘You stay here and I’ll go and get them.’

  ‘Well, I’m hardly going anywhere, am I? Not with my hair all tangled up in my collar.’

  It took Rose only a moment or two to locate the scissors in the storeroom. She found them discarded on a wooden box, which had been upturned and put on its end, serving as a table of sorts. When she picked up the scissors and studied them more closely, she found that they were indeed gold in colour and were in the design of a bird, a stork or a heron perhaps, complete with fine tapered blades that formed the bird’s beak.

  ‘There,’ said Rose, straightening up and regarding Sylvia, who was at last free of the tangled comb. ‘All done, and I only had to cut a couple of strands of hair. You’d never notice.’

  ‘Ouch. You needn’t have been so rough,’ said Sylvia ungratefully, patting the back of her head protectively. ‘Well, I’m certainly not going to wear that thing now.’ She pointed with disgust at the offending comb. ‘And if any of Madame’s customers show any interest in buying any, I’ll discourage them, you just see if I don’t!”

  Having been unexpectedly delayed by Sylvia, Rose now turned her attention to the show and hurried out into the corridor, eager to be back in the shop before her absence was observed. Emerging from under the arch at the top of the steps, she took a moment or two to pause and take in the scene, making the most of her raised vantage point. The evening appeared in full throe with the women, having exhausted conversation, now milling around one display table or counter, before moving on to another. Every now and then they stopped to pick up a hat or silk scarf, holding it up to the light or trying it on and admiring their reflections in the conveniently placed mirrors that had been dotted around the room. The men had lost some of their reticence and shyness and now looked more at ease in their surroundings, although they still had a tendency to gather by the shop window, as if in readiness to make a hasty escape.

  ‘Rose, where have you been?’ Madame Renard appeared at her shoulder, a look of anxiety on her face. ‘Tell me nothing is wrong. The wretched girl, she has not had second thoughts? She is not trembling like a leaf refusing to come out? Pah! That would not be Sylvia at all.’

  ‘No, nothing like that. I was just helping her with her hair, that’s all.’

  As she was talking, Rose became aware of Monsieur Girard, who had positioned himself slightly behind the proprietor as if he were auditioning to play her shadow. She noticed that he was very pale and that all the time he was looking around nervously and rather furtively, as if he feared the reception his designs would receive. Rose sympathised with him, imagining that the men’s attitude towards his gowns would be lukewarm at best, particularly when they were made aware of the amount of money required to obtain such couture. For a moment she wished that the outfits looked more out of the ordinary to justify their inflated prices, for she imagined that few amongst Madame Renard’s clientele would fully appreciate the quality of the fabric, the expert cut of the cloth, and the extreme attention to detail that the designs entailed. It was a great pity, she thought, that the silver gown was not to be displayed that evening. Even the most disinterested and casual of observers, she felt sure, could not but marvel at the splendour of that garment and its overall effect. Unbidden, a vision of Sylvia as she had looked in the gown, fairylike and ethereal, appeared before her and suddenly she felt the girl’s distress at being prevented from wearing the gown as acutely as if the disappointment had been her own.

  Instinctively she looked beyond the stairs and into the crowded shop for Lady Celia, who in actual fact she discovered only a few feet away, standing behind the old mahogany counter that was to serve as the lectern in the evening’s entertainment. Rose thought that for all the world she looked as if she were hiding or else holding onto the counter for support, clutching at its top with hands that trembled. Notwithstanding their earlier conversation, it had not occurred to her that the fashion event would hold any real dread for Lady Celia. Yet here was the woman staring nervously around, an unnatural and rather sickly smile fixed on her face. And as Rose studied her more closely, inexplicably drawn to watching her as she was, she realised that the woman appeared to be searching the sea of faces in front of her, as if looking for a particular one amongst the crowd. Bertram Thorpe, Rose thought. The woman’s clearly agitated state suggested that a part of her wanted him to be there very much, and yet another part of her, anything but. I wonder why, pondered Rose. And at th
at very moment, as if to confirm the veracity of her thoughts, she witnessed the expression on Lady Celia’s face change to one of pure joy, which lit up her eyes as well as bringing a smile to her lips. The woman went as far as to raise her hand and wave. But barely a moment later and the smile had vanished as quickly as it had appeared, supplanted by a pained look of apprehension. Lady Celia appeared to be waiting with baited breath for something to happen.

  Rose followed the woman’s gaze to ascertain the object of her fascination, and was surprised, and not a little disappointed, to find that it fell upon a bespectacled man of such ordinary appearance that he bordered on nondescript. She could not find one distinguishing factor about him to particularly merit a second glance. A feeling clearly not shared by Lady Celia, who was staring at him so intently and with such unconcealed devotion that Rose thought it a wonder that no knowing glances were being exchanged between Madame Renard’s customers. The man himself appeared too busy surveying his surroundings to spot the woman worshipping him from afar behind her counter, who had so eagerly awaited his arrival with a heady mixture of trepidation and anticipation.

  By the time he spotted her, it was too late for Rose to gauge his reaction fully for, having received a nod from Madame Renard, Mary had shut the shop door and ushered the last of the stragglers, of which he was one, further into the room. While the young man looked around in vain for an unoccupied chair, Mary lit the great candelabra. The proprietor took a deep breath, drew herself up to her full height and cleared her throat. A hush immediately overcame the audience, stopping in mid-sentence those who had been engaged in conversation. The silence, as a sea of expectant faces stared at Madame Renard, was complete, punctuated only by the odd cough or the sound of a person fidgeting in their seat. Madame Renard stepped up to the counter, flanked on one side by Lady Celia and on the other by Monsieur Girard, for all the world as if she were a queen and they her attendants.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ began Madame Renard, as soon as she was confident that she had everyone’s full attention.

  The show had truly begun.

  Chapter Nine

  The fashion event was in full swing. Rose stood beside one of the display tables at the side of the room, her legs tired and throbbing. The fashion display was taking far longer than she had anticipated and she had been on her feet all day. Momentarily, she wondered whether there was any possibility that she could perch or lean against the table to relieve her aching limbs, without such action being noticeable, but dismissed the thought almost immediately as being absurd. Instead she looked longingly at the seats occupied by Madame Renard’s customers wishing that she too were a guest rather than an attendant. How wonderful it would be, not to be at the beck and call of all those who required further refreshment or details concerning one or other of the garments or accessories displayed.

  Despite her own physical discomfort, she was honest enough to admit that the event was going rather well. The initial disappointment expressed by the audience at being informed that Lady Lavinia Sedgwick would not be attending due to illness had quickly subsided following the introduction of Lady Celia, who had done more than a passable job of singing the praises of the garments on display and the skill of the designer. She had drawn to their attention one or two of the outfits that she claimed looked particularly fetching, providing examples of when just such a gown should be worn. The audience, Rose noticed, was appreciative of her no nonsense approach to fashion, and she spotted more than a few of the women jotting down notes as Lady Celia gave forth, issuing her various pearls of wisdom.

  However, it was Sylvia who had proved the greatest revelation. With a poise and style quite unlike her usual demeanour, she had appeared at the top of the steps, standing tall with her shoulders thrown back and her head straight, a curious and bewitching expression on her face. Almost effortlessly she had glided down the steps and paraded around the makeshift stage area; swishing, twirling, turning, first one way and then the other, holding out the fabric of the skirts so that the colour and intricacies of the design caught the light and were accentuated. She had then made her way to each cluster of chairs in turn and paused and chatted with the customers, answering their questions and allowing them to paw at the fabric of her garments as if she herself were on display. Even Madame Renard, Rose noticed, was impressed with the patient and tolerant manner in which Sylvia dealt with even the most annoying of customers. Rose supposed that it was due to the uniqueness of the situation and because, for one of the first times in Sylvia’s existence, the girl was finding herself to be the centre and focus of attention.

  ‘Who would have thought it?’ whispered Marcel Girard.

  It was all Rose could do not to jump out of her skin. Mesmerised by Sylvia’s performance on the one hand, while keeping an eye out to see if any member of the audience required her attention, she had not observed the designer making his way stealthily towards her.

  Marcel appeared amused and chuckled softly under his breath.

  ‘My apologies, Mademoiselle. I did not mean to alarm you. I wanted only to congratulate you on your suggestion. Miss Beckett, she is very good, is she not?’

  ‘She is, yes,’ replied Rose, having regained her composure.

  ‘She does not look like the same girl who stands gloomily in the shop behind her counter, glaring at the customers,’ continued the designer, his eyes half closed as he gazed at the subject of his reflections. ‘No, she looks quite different. Lady Lavinia, she has the elegance, the breeding, the beauty, yes, but little Miss Sylvia, she has something else, yes?’

  ‘There is certainly a naturalness about her performance,’ agreed Rose, ‘that I don’t think Lavinia would have had.’

  ‘A naturalness, certainly. Oui. But I think she has something more; an innocence, I think. And it is very alluring. Look at this audience, how it is drawn to her. They cannot take their eyes from her.’

  Rose was secretly of the opinion that this was most probably because there was little else for the audience to look at. True, there was Madame Renard to stare at, hovering anxiously at the make-do lectern, trying to gauge the audience’s reaction to each garment as it was displayed, wondering whether she would make any sales. Lady Celia, standing a little way from the proprietor, did not make much of a spectacle or compel a second glance. She instead looked awkward and uncomfortable in her new clothes, as if she found the material scratchy and irritating to her skin. She also looked a little bored, Rose thought, although every now and again she threw a glance at Sylvia. When she did so, her gaze was anything but indifferent. Her face expressed a mixture of emotions, and Rose found it hard to determine which sentiment was most dominant.

  ‘The audience, they have seen how she is in the shop, how she looks and behaves. And they compare it with how she is now … transformed.’ Marcel put his fingers to his lips and kissed them.

  Rose tried hard to hide her smile. She found the designer’s excitement touching, and reminded herself that this was the first time his work had been displayed. It was therefore inevitable that he was nervous and not a little relieved to find that his designs were receiving such gasps and murmurs of admiration, and that Sylvia was making a pretty good show at being a mannequin. While Rose thought that the designer’s opinion of the girl’s performance was a little exaggerated, she acknowledged that Sylvia had brought something to the role that Lavinia with her privileged upbringing could not have done. It was a sense of ordinariness, of being a real person, and showing what could be achieved by wearing good, well cut clothes. It was an understated quality, and yet Rose felt certain it would generate more sales amongst Madame Renard’s clientele than a more polished performance by Lavinia. The shop assistant had shown what good designs and clothes could do to improve a woman’s appearance and give her confidence. And the women in the audience, realising it was within their grasp, wanted to copy her example.

  Rose found that Marcel, in his general excitement and enthusiasm, was finding it difficult to keep his voice below a whisp
er. The audience, she was relieved to see, showed no signs of being distracted by their murmured conversation. Indeed, the customers appeared engrossed in watching Sylvia’s progress around the room or in sipping their wine. Some were even busily occupied with getting up from their seats to examine the items on display. But a few minutes later, as Sylvia emerged from the arch in a new outfit, those women standing and fiddling with accessories had returned to their seats and sat down, and it consequently became more obvious that she and the designer were engaged in conversation.

  ‘And here we have a very elegant ensemble,’ Madame Renard was saying. ‘An all silk chiffon frock with foundation slip, complete with the most exquisite silk Georgette and Valenciennes patterned lace collar …’

  Rose glanced quickly at the proprietor and was dismayed to find that she was looking at them intently, a frown creasing her forehead when she caught Rose’s eye. Having made her point, she turned her attention to Sylvia, who at that very moment was twirling around the room. Madame Renard extolled the virtues of the garment the girl was wearing, speaking in a slightly louder voice than before, as if to emphasise her point that there were to be no distractions.

  Rose turned to Marcel Girard to warn him that they had better stop talking, when she was arrested by the expression on his face, which indicated that such action would not be necessary. The colour had drained from his cheeks, and he now looked very pale indeed despite his olive complexion. Where moments before he had been chattering excitedly with gay abandonment, now he was silent, as if he would not permit a word to escape his lips. Rose was surprised to find the designer so affected by the reprimand, for it did not occur to her that they had done anything so very awful. Their voices, if they had carried at all, had caused a mild distraction at most, and it was more than likely that the proprietor would have forgotten the incident before the night was out. On closer inspection she became even more confused. The position that Marcel Girard had adopted, standing between a counter and a table, meant that he was facing neither Madame Renard nor the stage but instead staring out across the audience. It was doubtful therefore that he had witnessed the displeasure on the proprietor’s face.