‘Yes, she is.’ Marcel turned and looked at his friend. ‘I’m sorry, I am irritable, I know. I am anxious about this evening’s event that is all.’
‘Of course, old chap. I understand,’ Jacques said more heartily than he felt. ‘I shouldn’t have just arrived as I did with no warning. It was damned inconsiderate of me. I should have known you’d be busy getting ready. I’ll leave you to your ablutions.’
The young man got up hurriedly to go, anxious to be away. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. If he didn’t know better, he’d think that his friend had formed an attachment to Sylvia. Of course, such a thought was absurd …
‘Jacques …’
‘Yes, what is it?’ Jacques spoke more abruptly than he had intended, although all of a sudden he didn’t feel minded to be civil.
‘Tonight, you are coming to see the fashion event, yes?’
‘I promised Mother that I’d be there. I might well miss the start of it as I have one or two things to do,’ Jacques said nonchalantly, ‘but I’ll be there to see most of it.’
‘Yes, you must be. Promise me, Jacques, if nothing else you’ll be there for the finale.’
‘How grand you make it sound, Marcel!’ said Jacques, trying to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Yes, I’ll be there if only to see those designs of yours that you have been so damned secretive about showing me.’
‘We are ready, are we not?’ asked Madame Renard anxiously, looking around her shop. With the counters and occasional tables pushed back, the small groups of chairs dotted here and there, and the heavy, velvet drapes which covered the shop windows so effectively, it was as if she had been transported to another place entirely; a nightclub perhaps that was awaiting the band to arrive and the dancing to begin.
‘Yes, I think so,’ said Rose, adjusting a collection of silver plated compacts displayed in a basket on one of the counters. ‘Mary has the list and will tick each name off as the customers arrive. We’ve set out enough chairs to accommodate every customer as well as one guest each. It’s possible, of course, that one or two might bring more than one friend or relative with them, but others won’t bring anyone, so hopefully it will even itself out one way or the other.’
‘And the refreshments?’
‘I’ve laid out the glasses in the scullery on top of the cook’s table and put the bottles of wine and lemonade in the sink which I’ve filled with water to keep them cold. I’ll pour out the drinks just before everyone arrives and carry them through on a tray.’
‘Kitchenette, not scullery, please, Rose,’ corrected Madame Renard. ‘It sounds so much better, don’t you think? I’ve read it’s what they call those little kitchens that people have in flats where they get their own meals. Apparently they are so designed to make the utmost use of very small spaces.’
‘Ours is certainly very small,’ agreed Rose. Privately she thought that, however minute the kitchenettes to which the proprietor referred, they were doubtless much better equipped than their sad example with its chipped sink and cracked black-and-white check linoleum floor.
‘I take it Sylvia is in the dressing room changing into her first frock? Good. Monsieur Girard will be here any moment. And Lady Celia, of course, and she will want to use my office after Sylvia so that she can change into her dress. I do hope it is ready and she will like the alterations.’
Madame Renard paused a moment wondering what was to be done if the dress did not meet that lady’s very exacting requirements. She sighed and contemplated the tables instead, heavily laden as they were with every possible accessory to a woman’s outfit. With satisfaction she acknowledged that they made rich and splendid displays that gleamed and glistened in the electric light and drew the eye. She imagined the light from the candles being reflected in their many polished and mirrored surfaces when the candelabra was lit. The atmosphere would be truly magical then, she thought, offset by the gentle clink of glasses as her guests sipped their wine …
‘Rose,’ a thought had suddenly occurred to her and she hastily took the girl’s arm and drew her aside. It was such a quick and furtive movement that even Mary, engrossed as she was in giving the chairs one final polish with a feather duster, looked up in surprise.
‘Sylvia will be kept occupied displaying the gowns, yes? You … you must keep an eye on the tables. The displays, they are so tantalising that one or two of our guests may be tempted to … but, no … not our customers …’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Rose, ‘I don’t quite understand what you are saying, Madame. Surely you don’t think one or two of your customers might be tempted to take a piece of jewellery or suchlike from the displays without paying for it?’
‘It is possible …’ said the proprietor, not meeting her gaze.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Rose said firmly. ‘It is only your favoured customers that are being invited to tonight’s event after all, the ones that pay their bills on time and spend a great deal.’
‘No, you are right. It is not my customers that cause me anguish,’ admitted Madame Renard, ‘It is not they that make me want to keep my wares under lock and key.’
‘Who then?’ persisted Rose, her curiosity aroused. For one ludicrous moment she wondered whether the proprietor harboured suspicions against Monsieur Girard, who had only recently taken to frequenting the shop.
At that very moment, a figure appeared at the top of the stairs. Both women looked up and a guilty glow crept over Madame Renard’s visage, as if she feared she might have been overheard.
‘Surely you can’t suspect Sylvia of such a thing,’ began Rose in a hurried whisper.
‘Why not?’ demanded Madame Renard. ‘Someone has been helping themselves to the till. And items are going missing. The other day a pair of silk stockings. Of course, I am not accusing you, Rose. I know you are completely trustworthy, and that girl over there,’ she indicated Mary by tilting her head in the other shop assistant’s direction, ‘she would never do such a thing. Why, the girl wouldn’t say boo to a goose, you know she wouldn’t.’
‘So you think –’
‘But of course. What else can I think? Who else could it be? There is no other explanation.’ Madame Renard drew herself up to her full height and thrust out her chest indignantly. ‘Sylvia is a thief. I know it here.’ She thumped her heart. ‘And what is more, I shall put a stop to her activities, see if I don’t!’
Chapter Eight
At just after seven o’clock that evening the first customers had begun to arrive. Lined up expectantly and excitedly at the street door until they were let in and greeted by an effusive, and particularly well dressed Madame Renard. The heavy drapes at the windows had given the occasion added mystery. More than a few of those queuing had craned their necks while waiting outside to catch a glimpse of the lighted interior as the door was opened and those in the line before them were admitted. The decision to permit only a few at a time had been Marcel Girard’s idea to heighten the anticipation amongst the customers and to encourage them to feel they were privileged in being invited to attend such an exclusive event. Once inside the shop, they had been required to give up their invitations. These the proprietor had handed at once to Mary, positioned a little way from the door, whose task it was to cross off the names on the list of invitees, making a note if they had happened to bring with them a guest or two. It had soon become apparent that the number of guests was considerably more than had been anticipated or planned for, and the proprietor had endured a frantic and worrying quarter of an hour or so wondering whether there would be sufficient chairs. In the end, however, the matter had resolved itself quite satisfactorily. This was primarily due to the action taken by the men, many of whom appeared to have accompanied their wives under some duress. They appeared to prefer either to roam the room or stop and stand rather awkwardly and conspicuously at the edges rather than to avail themselves of the seats.
Rose had been kept busy going to and fro from kitchenette to shop bringing trays of wine and l
emonade which the customers and guests had helped themselves to quite readily. She had weaved her way between the counters, tables and chairs; encouraging each person present to partake of refreshment, feeling all the while like one of the Lyons Corner House nippies. Some of the women had seen fit to find a chair at once, and stare fixedly forward waiting for the fashion event to begin. Others, on spotting one or two women of their acquaintance, had stopped to stand and gossip in small groups, while the men, initially self-conscious, had looked at each other in mutual commiseration, before striking up conversations to talk about more masculine pursuits.
Returning with yet another empty tray to the kitchen area, Rose realised that it had not occurred to her before how very noisy and busy the event was likely to be. The constant din was draining, verging on unbearable, and she was tempted to take sanctuary by the old Belfast sink where the noise from the shop was diminished to become only a gentle hum. She splashed her face with water. For a moment, she stood checking the number of bottles in the sink and took a deep breath. The cold water had refreshed her and brought her to her senses. It would do no good to have such thoughts of deserting. Madame Renard was depending on her and there was much work to be done. Not least of which was to ensure that Sylvia, who lingered in the storeroom, was dressed in the first garment to be displayed. There was also the matter of ensuring that Lady Celia, currently ensconced in the office-cum-dressing room, was suitably happy with her own rather inferior version of the silver gown. Now that she came to think of it, Rose was rather surprised that the lady in question had not yet seen fit to make an appearance in the shop.
With a growing feeling of trepidation, Rose abandoned her tray on the cook’s table and made her way to the office. She tapped tentatively on the door, but did not wait for a reply, before opening it and going in. She found Lady Celia standing in front of a full length looking glass, which had been brought in from the shop for the occasion, gazing at her reflection critically. The woman did not turn around on Rose’s entrance, but inclined her head slightly in front of the mirror to acknowledge her arrival.
‘Is it that time already? Goodness, doesn’t time fly?’ exclaimed Lady Celia, still staring into the depths of the mirror. ‘I say, it does sound rather noisy out there.’ The sudden, anxious note in her voice was not lost on Rose. ‘I thought this was going to be a relatively small affair.’ The marquis’s daughter clutched at the edge of the mirror as if for reassurance. ‘I think I may have made a mistake. Tell me honestly, Miss Simpson, how do you find this dress on me? Do you think it suits me?’
‘I do,’ said Rose truthfully, privately considering it a vast improvement on the outfit she was to have worn, with its fussy, symmetrical pattern of bows. In addition given the time constraints, she thought Elsie, under Monsieur Girard’s guidance, had done a splendid effort in producing a gown that was more suiting to Lady Celia’s fuller figure.
‘It looks nothing at all like the dress that girl wore. There’s hardly any lace on the bodice. And where are the glass beads? And,’ Lady Celia half turned and stood at an angle, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the back of the dress, ‘the shoulders are all wrong. They’re made out of material, not strings of beads.’
‘But surely Monsieur Girard explained when you came for your fitting –’
‘That it wouldn’t look exactly like the dress that girl was wearing, yes, of course, I understood that. But I didn’t think they’d finished altering it. I thought they just wanted to check how it fitted. It’s so simple, so plain. Where is the diamanté?’
‘I’m afraid there wasn’t sufficient time –’ began Rose.
‘No, I suppose you’re right. Oh, never mind,’ Lady Celia said wearily, turning around to face Rose for the first time. She sounded suddenly as if she were distinctly bored with the subject, or else that her thoughts were preoccupied with other matters. ‘Clothes really aren’t my thing. I’ve made the most awful mistake. I shouldn’t be here. If it wasn’t for Bertie –’
‘Bertie?’
‘Bertram Thorpe.’ Lady Celia fiddled with the material of her dress. ‘I suppose one might say he’s my young man. Is he here yet, do you know? I asked him to come.’ Her face clouded over suddenly, as if an unpleasant thought had just struck her. ‘I say, Madame Renard will let him in, won’t she?’
‘Yes, of course, if he says he’s your guest. I can go and check with Mary now, if you like. She’s making a note of everyone as they arrive.’
‘No, don’t trouble yourself. I expect he’ll leave it until the very last moment to turn up.’ Lady Celia bent towards Rose and lowered her voice as if about to divulge a secret. ‘To tell you the truth, he didn’t want to come. He won’t be the only man here, will he? He’ll be so dreadfully embarrassed if he is.’
‘No, a few of the women have brought their husbands with them.’
Lady Celia’s eyes drifted back to the looking glass, as if it held an irresistible fascination for her. ‘This dress, it made the other girl look magical. It doesn’t do anything for me at all, does it?’
‘It makes you look very elegant,’ said Rose, choosing her words carefully.
‘But not beautiful, not like it did the other girl. It made her look like a princess. We all thought so, didn’t we? Even Madame Renard said so.’ She looked down at the floor. ‘Bertie won’t come, you know. He’ll want to please me, of course he will, but at the very last minute he’ll decide not to come. He’ll make some excuse and I’ll pretend to believe him, but he’ll know that I see through him. He’ll feel he’s let me down and it will make him miserable. And then I’ll feel upset. And it will all be for nothing. Because, I won’t really know, will I? Even if he does come. Oh, if only I could leave things well alone. If only I wasn’t so … so suspicious.’
‘Suspicious?’
‘No, I don’t mean that exactly. Oh … I don’t know what I mean. Only, I know I’ve made a dreadful mistake. I shouldn’t be here. No good will come of it. If only I hadn’t … And the awful thing is, it’s too late to do anything about it.’
Lady Celia’s face clouded over and she looked so unhappy that Rose was inclined to feel sorry for her, until she remembered the woman’s spitefulness in demanding that Sylvia not wear the silver gown. The very same gown the woman was now deriding despite poor Elsie’s very best efforts in getting it finished in time. All the same, Rose felt sufficiently moved by the woman’s very obvious distress to offer some hope and encouragement.
‘Let me go and check with Mary now. There’s still time before the show starts. Mr Thorpe may well be here, and then you’ll be worrying for nothing.’
‘No, don’t do that.’ Lady Celia spoke the words quickly. She put out her hand and gripped Rose’s arm surprisingly tightly, as if she feared the girl might disobey her request. The girl winced with pain.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s only I’d just rather not know.’ Lady Celia put her other hand to her head, as if she had a headache. When she next spoke, her words were uttered so quietly that Rose had to lean forward to hear her. ‘I should never have asked him to come here. I’m afraid, you see. I don’t really want to know if he’s arrived or not because I have only just realised how much better it would be if he decided not to come after all.’
Before Rose could ask exactly what she meant by her words, Lady Celia had gathered up the skirt of her gown, cast one last, anguished look at her reflection in the mirror, and sailed out of the room, a fleeting vision in grey.
Rose made her way next door to the storeroom where Sylvia was pacing the floor in an agitated fashion, smoking a cigarette.
‘Rose! Thank goodness. You’ve been ages.’ Sylvia stubbed out her cigarette quickly on a saucer masquerading as a makeshift ashtray. ‘Do tell me that dreadful woman’s out of Madame’s office by now? Really, I don’t know why she had to change in there, while I had to make do with this awful storeroom. Why couldn’t she have changed into her frock in here, I’d like to know? It’s me who needs the dressing room
most. I’m the mannequin after all, not her.’
‘Oh, do be quiet, Sylvia. You should consider yourself lucky to be in here instead of out there, rushed off your feet attending to everyone. I’ve already had a broken glass to deal with and spilt wine to mop up. Honestly, I feel as if I were a waitress.’
‘Well, that will all be behind you soon, won’t it?’ said Sylvia slyly. ‘When you’re a countess, I mean.’ She laughed. ‘Now, where’s Marcel? Don’t tell me Madame’s parading him in front of everyone on her arm? That would be just like her.’
‘Monsieur Girard went out into the street for one last smoke. Although I expect he’ll be back in the shop by now. I must say I didn’t expect him to be so nervous. Talking of cigarettes, whatever where you thinking, Sylvia, smoking one in here? The smell will linger like anything. And if Madame finds out what you’ve done –’
‘She won’t unless you tell her. If she says anything to me about it, I’ll say it was Marcel. She won’t reprimand him. He can’t do a thing wrong in her eyes.’
Rose gave the girl a look, but said nothing. This was not the time to utter a suitable retort, but she still found it difficult to bite her tongue.
‘Grab those outfits, will you, Rose, and help me carry them into Madame’s office,’ said Sylvia, idly pointing to some garments hanging up on wooden coat hangers around the room and others draped on chairs. ‘I’m not going to have much time between costume changes to come backwards and forwards between the storeroom and office.’
It soon became apparent that Sylvia’s idea of Rose lending a hand was for Rose to carry all the garments herself, while Sylvia hurried out into the corridor to take up residence in Madame Renard’s office. She walked quickly, almost as if she feared Lady Celia would return to claim the room for her own if it were to remain empty for a minute longer. Rose was sorely tempted to leave the outfits where they were. However, the show was scheduled to commence in a few minutes, so she bit her tongue and followed Sylvia out, almost staggering under the weight of the clothes.
Murder at Renard's (Rose Simpson Mysteries Book 4) Page 8