Death of a Milliner: Riley Rochester Investigates Book 9 (Riley ~Rochester Investigates)

by Wendy Soliman

  ‘We will be in touch if we need anything further from you, Miss Sharp.’ Riley took a final look around the dreary interior of the premises and handed her his card, wondering if he’d asked all the necessary questions. He missed Salter. His sergeant would have prompted him if there’d been any omissions. ‘Send word if anyone comes round asking for Mrs Faulkner. I would suggest that you keep the shop closed today as a mark of respect and then resume normal business tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Chief Inspector, and put a wreath on the door.’ She flashed a guilty smile. ‘Call me an opportunist, but it will likely create much-needed business. It’s an awful way to think, I know, but I also know it’s what Mrs F herself would have done.’

  Riley smiled at the practical young woman, hoping that fortune would favour her. ‘In that case, we will leave you to it.’ He raised his hat. ‘Good day to you.’

  He walked briskly with his detectives to the railway station to wait for the next train that would return them to central London. As he did so, Riley allowed himself a wry smile as his thoughts dwelt upon complacency. Standing on his terrace that morning, watching the dawn break and his dog tripping over his own clumsy legs he’d felt…well, complacent; satisfied with his lot in life.

  Now all he felt was fear. If he couldn’t find the killer, then suspicion would continue to hover over Maureen. Salter’s family didn’t deserve a stigma, and it would break a man of Jack’s moral fibre. From a selfish standpoint, Riley couldn’t cope without his trusty sergeant; a man whom he had come to lean on and who had also become a friend.

  Riley firmed his jaw, reminding himself that he had a personal incentive this time to chase down a callous murderer.

  Chapter Four

  Back at the Yard, Riley’s first task was to pen a telegram to Amelia, advising her that he would be staying in London that evening, as sometimes became necessary in his line of work. Telegrams purveyed vital information only, offering Riley a legitimate excuse to avoid mention of Maureen’s involvement in this particular case. She would worry unnecessarily, having taken a liking to the girl after meeting her at the exhibition that had offered her better opportunities.

  Amelia, Riley knew, would feel responsible for Maureen’s travails, having taken her up and persuaded others to follow her lead. Riley paused with pen in hand, wondering if jealousy could somehow be responsible for Maureen’s dilemma. Competition was rife—ladies took their headgear exceedingly seriously—and resentments were bound to run high when a relatively new apprentice breezed onto the scene, eclipsing longer-serving colleagues with daring, innovative designs that caught the eye.

  Riley had sold his and Amelia’s house in Eaton Square but maintained his former bachelor home in Sloane Street as his London residence. In his telegram he had asked Amelia to have his man Stout drive up to town. Stout was more than just an excellent valet, and Riley suspected that he would have need of his services as a clandestine detective who wasn’t answerable to Riley’s superiors before this case was over.

  Riley had Barton send the cable for him.

  ‘Another night alone in town, sir?’ Barton said, sniffing as he glanced at the name of its addressee.

  ‘Afraid so, Barton. Salter has greater need of my talents, such as they are.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there. He came in a while ago in a right old state and has been asking for you every ten minutes since then.’

  ‘I’ll see him momentarily. Has Madame Boise been found yet?’

  ‘She got here too a short time ago, with her driver. Arrived at her premises and was taken aback by all the police activity.’ Barton’s expression remained sceptical. ‘Her shock seemed genuine, according to the constable who had to restrain her when she tried to enter the premises, but I dare say you’ll be able to decide for yourself if she was play-acting.’

  ‘I shall do my very best.’

  ‘She’s been told about the victim but didn’t seem put out by anything other than the fact that the murder took place in her shop—if that ain’t enough. She was a lot more worried about having a copper stationed outside her premises for all the world to see.’ Barton sniffed, clearly unmoved by the lady’s protests. ‘Charming but devious, if you want my opinion.’

  ‘Your insights are usually on the money, Barton.’

  ‘Aye well, I’ve seen it all in my day. Anyway, I’ve put the lady and her driver in separate rooms. Not much point if they killed the woman; they will already have had time to concoct an alibi, but still…’

  ‘Thank you, Barton. I’ll see Jack and then talk to the lady.’

  Salter jumped up as soon as he saw Riley and followed him into his office. ‘What have you got, guv’nor?’ he asked, before Riley had a chance to remove his hat and coat.

  Riley indicated the chair in front of his desk and took his own behind it. He didn’t bother to ask Salter how he felt since one glance at him told its own story. His sergeant looked haggard, his face pale and drawn, and his hair was standing on end where he’d presumably repeatedly run his hands through it.

  ‘Were you aware that Madame Boise, or Meg Butler as she was before she reinvented herself, served her apprenticeship with Mrs Faulkner?’

  Salter’s bushy brows disappeared beneath his hairline. ‘No, I was not. And nor was Maureen, I don’t think. Well, she might have found out since she started working for Madame, but I don’t think she knew anything about it when she was with Mrs Faulkner.’

  Riley told Jack everything else they had learned.

  ‘Well, that would explain the animosity.’ Salter scowled. ‘I don’t like it that Maureen’s talent has resurrected old grudges.’

  ‘None of this is Maureen’s fault,’ Riley replied. ‘Anyway, Madame is here now and I am about to see what she has to say for herself.’

  Salter clenched his fists and Riley knew that he was frustrated to be excluded from the interview. Riley wished he could be there too. Salter’s threats often brought answers that Riley’s more politely couched questions failed to elicit.

  ‘How did you get on with your abduction?’ Riley asked.

  ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. It happened in broad daylight not far from Madame’s premises, just across the street from the chop house where the girls take their dinner.’

  Riley jerked upright. ‘Coincidence?’ he asked.

  ‘Not sure. Maureen tells me they ordinarily go in pairs. Madame doesn’t let them go all together. The young woman who was accosted, a Miss Monkton, is a shop girl from Finnigan’s, the leather goods emporium. She was with her friend when two men approached them and grabbed a hold of Miss Monkton. She screamed, the men looked at her, said they had the wrong person when they saw her face, pushed her to the ground and ran off.’

  ‘A lucky escape.’

  ‘She had a nasty fright and got away with a few cuts and bruises, so that’s what I thought.’ Salter ground his jaw until it made a loud clicking noise. ‘Until it dawned on me that Miss Monkton is the same height and has the same hair colour and is the same age as my Maureen.’

  ‘I’m intrigued.’

  ‘Aye, I thought that would get your attention. Miss Monkton and her friend were leaving the same chop house as Maureen uses, at about the same time. Maureen wasn’t there that evening. She’d stayed behind, they all had, to finish the order that kept them working until gone midnight.’

  ‘You think that Maureen was their intended victim?’

  ‘Don’t you, sir?’

  ‘If she was, it’s reasonable to suppose that Mrs Faulkner tried to have her abducted. It would explain her presence in the area. But why would she do such a thing?’ Riley scratched his ear. ‘What would she hope to gain from such a rash action? It’s common knowledge what you do for a living. Besides, no one can make her work for anyone against her will. We no longer live in the dark ages.’

  ‘She wouldn’t be the first person with a grudge we’ve come across in our line of work who’s acted irresponsibly.’

  ‘True enough.’
Riley took a moment to reflect. ‘Was Miss Monkton able to describe her attackers?’

  ‘She said the one who spoke had fair hair, piercing blue eyes and a mole on his chin.’

  ‘That was remarkably observant of her, given that she must have been scared half out of her wits.’

  ‘Aye well, she said he was a handsome man and wore a nice coat, which she thought was odd.’

  ‘Abductors have a duty to be scruffy individuals, of course. Anyway, what she’s told us might prove to be more useful than we know.’

  ‘Anything’s possible,’ Salter said morosely.

  Riley stood. ‘I’d best see what Madame has to say for herself.’

  ‘Damn it, I want to be there!’ Salter thumped his fist against the surface of Riley’s desk. ‘It’s all right,’ he added, grimacing. ‘I know I can’t be. But for the love of God, give me something else to do. I’ll go insane if you just leave me twiddling my thumbs.’

  Peterson tapped at the door, causing both men to look up.

  ‘What is it?’ Riley asked.

  ‘I interviewed Madame’s servants, sir, like you asked me to. She has a modest house in a nice neighbourhood and keeps just two female servants. Well, she’s also got her driver who looks after her horses and lives in the adjacent mews.’

  ‘He’s here now.’

  ‘I got the impression that there might be more to their relationship than that, but the servants didn’t want to tell tales out of school, so to speak, and I didn’t push them. Anyway, they expected Madame to be home for dinner last night, but she didn’t arrive or send a message.’

  ‘That didn’t concern them?’ Salter asked.

  ‘Apparently not. It seems she often stayed out and didn’t bother to let them know. They are accustomed to her ways.’

  ‘Where does she go?’ Riley asked.

  ‘They assumed she remained at her business premises, sir, since she keeps rooms there and stays over if they work late.’

  ‘Which they did the previous night,’ Riley said. ‘She left with the finished merchandise but obviously didn’t go home. What on earth…’ He stood up. ‘Enough speculation. I suppose I had better ask her directly. You’d best come with me, Peterson.’

  Peterson looked pleased. As the most junior of Riley’s detective constables he clearly hadn’t expected to be given that responsibility. ‘Certainly, sir.’

  ‘Hold tight, Jack.’ He tossed Mrs Faulkner’s address book at his sergeant. ‘See if you can find any names to interest us in there.’

  ‘Right,’ Salter said glumly, not relishing Peterson’s assumption of his role.

  ‘Take notes, Peterson,’ Riley said as they walked together towards the room where Madame awaited them, ‘but don’t hesitate to ask questions yourself if you think of anything that I’ve missed.’

  Peterson nodded eagerly.

  Riley opened the door to the interview room in which Madame had been confined and indicated to the constable standing guard that he could leave.

  ‘Madame Boise, I am Chief Inspector Rochester and this is Constable Peterson.’

  He took a chair across from the woman and took a moment to assess her appearance. She was dressed in a very smart green skirt and jacket that emphasised her narrow waist. Her matching hat was, as one would expect, creative. It sported black feathers to match the trim on her lapels and was held in place by a large pearl-headed pin. The lady was probably no more than thirty, with a creamy complexion and blonde hair neatly confined beneath her hat. If not classically beautiful, she was certainly striking. She possessed considerable poise and exuded confidence, looking out of place in the grim interview room with its high window and walls painted an institutional grey. But if she was cowed by her surroundings, she didn’t permit her displeasure to show.

  ‘Lord Riley,’ she said in a well-modulated voice. ‘I recall our meeting at Alexandra Palace when your niece modelled Maureen’s hat so exceptionally well. I wish we could have met again under more agreeable circumstances.’

  ‘You have been told that Mrs Jessie Faulkner was found dead, murdered, on your premises?’ Riley asked, his tone formal and business-like.

  ‘I have.’ She shook her head. ‘Mrs Faulkner and I were not on the best of terms, something which I am sure you have already been told. And before you ask, I am quite unable to account for her presence in my shop at that hour, or indeed at any time at all. She was not welcome, we had nothing to say to one another that had not already been said a dozen times, and we avoided each other as much as humanly possible. Of course, being engaged in the same profession, our paths inevitably crossed from time to time, and we attempted to behave with civility when that situation arose.’ She paused. ‘At least, I did.’

  ‘I understand you were not always at odds with one another.’

  ‘Indeed not. We were once good friends. Well, not friends precisely. She was my mentor and employer and I respected her skill as a milliner enormously. I learned a great deal from her, but did not share her limited vision.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Madame smiled. ‘She was born and brought up in Clapham and didn’t see a future for herself beyond its environs. I encouraged her to do so, made her realise that her talent was wasted where she was, and we planned to go into business together.’

  ‘But those plans changed. What happened?’

  Madame spread her hands. ‘There is nothing untoward about our disagreement. Jessie lost her nerve, that’s all. I saw no point in doing things by half. There are dozens of milliners in central London. In order to stand out from the crowd, one needs more than mere talent.’ She paused. ‘Have you seen Jessie’s premises?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Then you will understand what I mean by lack of vision. There is nothing about the location or the façade that tempts one to linger, much less step inside. Even so, a few guineas invested in sprucing it up would have enabled Jessie to increase her prices. First impressions are vital, and word would have spread.’ She flapped a gloved hand as she expressed surprisingly insightful commercial views for one so comparatively young. ‘It’s hardly a difficult conclusion to draw, but Jessie thought the name she had made for herself locally would be enough to encourage trade and that promoting herself would be vulgar. I disagreed.’

  ‘You argued.’

  Madame smiled and reached across the table that separated them to lay a well-manicured hand on Riley’s sleeve. The gesture disturbed Riley. It implied an intimacy that didn’t exist, and he moved his arm to dislodge her hand.

  ‘I told her I was leaving to set up in central London with or without her,’ Madame continued. ‘Jessie became enraged. And I mean enraged as in tearing at her hair, screaming and shouting. It was a frightening spectacle, and it was out of all proportion. I mean, if she had decided against our partnership, there was no reason why we needn’t have parted on friendly terms. But frankly it would have been difficult for me to forgive her after the names she called me. She had made her opinion of me plain, so that was that.’

  ‘Surely she couldn’t prevent you leaving?’ Peterson asked.

  ‘Absolutely not, Constable. I had served my apprenticeship and was free to do as I pleased, but Jessie didn’t see things that way. She could be remarkably selfish and narrowminded. Bitter, some might say.’

  ‘Did you ever meet her husband or know what became of him?’ Riley asked.

  Madame glanced off to the left. It was the first time that she hadn’t looked directly at Riley, attempting to play upon the imaginary connection between them. ‘No, Lord Riley, I did not. Jessie was pretty in her younger days. I have seen pictures, so I know it to be true. But various disappointments turned her expression permanently sour and she seldom smiled. I believe Ralph Faulkner tired of that sour face and departed to find more agreeable company. All this happened before I knew her—but frankly I can’t say that I blame him. A personable man of his ilk needs laughter, not persistent complaints.’

  ‘Personable?’ Riley pounced on t
he slip of the tongue. ‘You just told me that you are not acquainted with him.’

  ‘I am not.’ She appeared momentarily flustered but quickly recovered her poise. ‘I am simply repeating the gossip that circulated about him when I first went into my apprenticeship. I hear tell that he inherited a modest sum from his late father, who had invested wisely in stocks and shares. Jessie told me that she could secure some of that investment to help set us up in Bond Street. I had access to funding myself and could supply the rest.’

  ‘Where did your share come from?’

  Madame bridled. ‘Really, Lord Riley, is that pertinent to Jessie’s death?’

  Riley fixed her with a penetrating look, remaining implacably calm. ‘I shall not know until you tell me.’

  ‘Since you insist upon knowing, I am ashamed to admit that I sold a few designs for hats that were too exotic for Clapham’s clientele to a London rival,’ she replied, looking away.

  ‘After Mrs Faulkner encouraged your talent?’ Riley raised a brow in a gesture of disapproval.

  ‘I am not proud of what I did. I tried to persuade Jessie to try one or two of my new creations in our window in Clapham.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘God alone knew, it needed brightening up, but she was having none of it. It was infuriating. My talent was being stifled and I knew I would never get ahead if I couldn’t show what I could do in a competitive market. Anyway, Jessie would have got her reward if she’d held her nerve and gone into business with me. Someone had to take the risks, and it was never going to be her.’

  ‘Did Mrs Faulkner discover that you had gone to one of her rivals with your designs?’

  ‘Not as far as I am aware. She told me she intended to meet with her estranged husband and demand her share of his inheritance in return for, as she put it, keeping the lid on his secrets.’