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

by Margaret Addison

  ‘But I am right in thinking that, where you were standing, you would have been facing the curtains and the candelabra? You didn’t perhaps look up for a moment and see something?’

  ‘I told you. I saw nothing.’

  ‘It might have been something very small,’ persisted the inspector. ‘Perhaps someone standing rather close to the candles, or perhaps holding the curtain in their hands? They might have been pretending to admire the fabric.’

  ‘No. The first I was aware of anything was when I heard the woman scream.’

  ‘Did you see who screamed?’

  ‘No, I did not. And I am quite, quite sure, Inspector. You do not need to ask me again. My answer, it will not change. My head, it was turned towards Lady Celia all the time.’

  ‘What about after the scream? Did you by chance see anyone walk over to the corridor in, shall we say, a deliberate fashion?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. It is hard to tell. People were running all over the place. It was not possible to say where they were going.’

  ‘And what about before the scream? Let us say the time between Miss Beckett returning to the dressing room and the scream itself. Did you see anyone walk across the shop and disappear under the arch then?’

  ‘No.’

  There had been a slight hesitation before Madame Renard had given her monosyllabic answer. Rose had picked up on it immediately, and she felt certain the policemen had also. It had been another trap, set to see if the proprietor would answer truthfully. And it was a test that, without a doubt, she had failed.

  Rose walked out of the room with Madame Renard. It was possible that Inspector Deacon would have permitted her to remain and discuss the proprietor’s interview with them, drawing conclusions from the answers given. However, she felt little would be achieved by this, for she knew what they would be saying, as clearly as if she were in the room with them now.

  Madame Renard had not given a good account of herself. She had come across as highly strung and volatile. When the need arose she had shown herself capable of a violent temper. The police would consider her just the sort of person to pick up a convenient pair of scissors, which just happened to be lying close at hand, and stab Sylvia in a moment of anger. To make matters worse, she had made it very clear how much she had despised the murdered girl, particularly regarding the supposed relationship between Sylvia and her son. It was clear to the most casual observer, and Inspector Deacon was far from being that, that Madame Renard adored her son and would stop at nothing to protect him. And if that wasn’t enough in itself, she had appeared to lie about seeing her son go through the arch into the corridor. Or was it possible that she might not have seen him, deeply embroiled as she had been in discussions with Lady Celia? They might have thought no more of it, or at least given her the benefit of the doubt, had that slight hesitation not given her away.

  All this and more passed through Rose’s head. It would have been enough to engross her thoughts, but there was something else that was on her mind. An additional reason for not wanting to remain in the room at the back, huddled in its close confines with the policemen. She must have a word with Jacques Renard. It might well be her only opportunity. She surveyed the room. Madame Renard had resumed her seat on the sofa and, always the attentive son, Jacques was bent over his mother now ascertaining how she had fared and whether or not she required any further refreshment. While she awaited a suitable opening to draw the young man aside, Rose was provided with an opportunity to consider further something that had been worrying her throughout the interview. She thought how fortunate it was that the inspector had not picked up upon it. It seemed to her so very obvious a point, it was almost remiss of him not to have done so. Thinking about it now, she realised this matter had been troubling her for a while. Why, even Lady Celia had enquired about it during the very brief time she had spent in the shop earlier that day. If Rose remembered rightly, the proprietor had been moaning about the way Sylvia behaved towards her customers. She had made her complaints following Rose’s suggestion that the girl be the mannequin in Lavinia’s absence. Madame Renard had referred to the girl’s bad manners and said that she would scowl at the customers and frighten them away. It had been an exaggeration of course, but it had prompted Lady Celia to make the observation that if that was the case, she was surprised Madame Renard employed the girl. And hadn’t Rose herself often wondered that? Why had Madame Renard continued to employ Sylvia as a shop assistant when she found the girl so unsatisfactory and wanting?

  Rose would once have believed it was because the proprietor wished to keep an eye on the relationship developing between her son and Sylvia. But Jacques had effectively been removed from contact with Sylvia following his employment at Harridges. She recalled how Madame Renard had responded to Lady Celia. She remembered how the proprietor had appealed to her to reinforce her claim that Sylvia possessed some redeeming qualities. At the same time, Madame Renard had turned scarlet and fiddled with a button on her blouse. Why hadn’t it occurred to Rose before? It was all so obvious when one thought about it now. There really could only be one logical explanation, one that fitted all the pieces. Sylvia had had a hold over Madame Renard, the possible nature of which for the moment alluded her.

  It was with this thought foremost in her mind that she became aware that Jacques had left off his attentions to his mother and now seemed intent on drawing Rose aside.

  ‘How did it go? My mother’s interview, I mean?’ he said, speaking quietly.

  ‘I’m afraid it could have gone better. At first she appeared rather uncooperative and then … well, she as good as lost her temper with the inspector.’

  ‘Did she indeed?’ Jacques frowned. ‘We thought we could hear raised voices, Marcel and I.’

  ‘Jacques, quickly, I must ask you something,’ said Rose pulling at his arm. He could not fail to notice the urgency in her voice. ‘The sergeant will be coming out any moment now asking for you to go in and be interviewed. We haven’t much time, so please just answer my question. Don’t, whatever you do, become all indignant and say you won’t answer such a question. You’ll just be wasting time. And you needn’t bother asking me why I want to know.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Jacques, looking more than a little apprehensive. ‘I should tell you, however, that you are beginning to alarm me very much.’

  ‘That certainly isn’t my intention. Listen to me. Earlier this evening, just before the fashion show, your mother told me that she thought Sylvia was a thief. She accused Sylvia of having stolen from the shop. She didn’t say it to Sylvia’s face. She said it to me. She told me that Sylvia had stolen from the till and had also taken some items, silk stockings, I think your mother said. As you can imagine, she was very upset about it. I daresay a few more items had gone missing than those she told me about.’

  ‘I say, that’s pretty rum. Poor Mama. I’d have thought better of Sylvia than that. Well, it just goes to show … We needn’t say anything about this to the Inspector. I wouldn’t want him to think badly of the girl. I say,’ said Jacques, a sudden thought having struck him, ‘you’re not going to tell me that my mother tackled Sylvia about it this evening, are you?’ His face had gone quite ashen.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. For one thing, she wouldn’t have had the chance. But she did say that she would put a stop to Sylvia’s activities.’

  ‘Surely you don’t mean – ’

  ‘No, I don’t mean she killed her. As it happens, I think she changed her mind about Sylvia’s guilt.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think she decided that the thief was someone else entirely. Your mother said as much to me this evening.’

  ‘I take it she didn’t say whom she suspected?’

  ‘No, but I’ve got a pretty good idea.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I think it was you.’

  ‘Me? I say, Rose, that’s a bit rich. I – ’

  ‘Shush! Keep your voice down. I am not saying the thief is you, only that
I think your mother thinks it’s you. Something must have happened to make her think so. Cheer up. For what it’s worth, I don’t think it was you.’

  ‘Good. Because I mean to say, if I was going to steal from anyone it would be from Harridges, not from my own mother. For one thing they have a much better selection –’

  ‘Do be quiet and take this seriously,’ said Rose. ‘I want to know why your mother changed her mind about Sylvia being the thief and decided it was you instead. What happened to make her suspect you? Have you any ideas? I think it would have had to have been something you did today. Up until just before the fashion show, she still thought Sylvia was the thief. But she subsequently changed her mind. That’s to say after the murder, she definitely thought it was you. She must have thought things through during the fashion show.’

  ‘Today, you say?’ said Jacques, racking his brain. ‘Well, all I can think is that it must be connected with when she caught me going through the papers on her desk. I was looking for something of mine that I thought I might have left there by mistake. Now I come to think of it, she did accuse me of acting like a thief in the night. You know how my mother is one to overreact. I suppose it didn’t help matters that I refused to tell her what I was looking for.’

  ‘What were you looking for?’

  ‘Never you mind. It doesn’t matter now. I’ve found out what happened to it.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question, Jacques.’

  ‘No it doesn’t, does it? It’s funny,’ said Jacques, ‘at the time I thought she was more concerned with the idea that I had been rifling through her private correspondence than anything else. She didn’t mention anything about money. I suppose she must have kept some in the office?’

  Rose didn’t reply. She was suddenly thinking about something else entirely.

  Chapter Twenty

  The door opened and Inspector Deacon studied Jacques Renard with interest. It was unlikely that the young man himself was aware that he was being so closely scrutinised, the inspector having perfected the art of appearing nonchalant when in reality he was feeling nothing short of a pent up excitement. The line ‘the woman doth protest too much’ had sprung unbidden to his mind at Madame Renard’s fervent denial of an attachment between her son and the deceased. Sergeant Perkins, he noticed, seemed not to be so expert in the matter of concealing his own emotions. The inspector was therefore thankful that, for the most part, the young man would have his back to the sergeant, and that the inspector alone would be witness to Sergeant Perkins’ assortment of smirks and grimaces. Good heavens, the man had already stubbed his pencil on his notebook and snapped the lead.

  As Jacques Renard came into the room, the inspector was somewhat surprised to find Rose Simpson following in his wake. He had expected that she would accompany Mary Jennings, but not the proprietor’s son. Inspector Deacon took in the young man’s appearance. Dark-haired and bespectacled, there were the first tell-tale signs of a dark shadow around his mouth and cheeks that gave him something of a dishevelled look, at odds with his clothes, which were both good and fashionable in cut but somewhat creased. This, together with his hair, which stuck up in tufts, was the consequence of lounging so indifferently on the sofa. Yet the inspector noted that his eyes were bright and his shoes well-polished and tended to the view that, under normal circumstances, Jacques Renard would lean towards being well turned out.

  However, this was anything but a usual situation in which Jacques Renard found himself. Generally of a cheery and affable disposition, due in part to an inner confidence, it was now obvious that he was ill at ease. As if to illustrate the point, beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead and the skin above his upper lip was also moist and glistened in the electric light.

  Inspector Deacon began by asking the usual routine questions. When Monsieur Renard replied, his voice was something of a surprise to both policemen. Sergeant Perkins, in particular, had expected to hear heavily accented English fall from the man’s lips, similar to that which they had heard spoken by his mother. Instead they discovered his voice was more that of a man who had been to Oxford rather than that of a Parisian. Inspector Deacon, in full view of Jacques Renard as he was, hid his astonishment well. Sergeant Perkins, not hindered by the same constraints, sat for a moment or two with his mouth wide open. The inspector was reminded of some words of wisdom that a great aunt had once bestowed upon his younger self. Something along the lines of it being rude to stare, but if one really must, at least close one’s mouth to prevent the possibility of swallowing a fly.

  ‘I understand that this must be distressing for you, Monsieur Renard. The deceased was a particular friend of yours, I believe.’

  ‘Was she?’ Jacques Renard looked first surprised and then decidedly flustered. ‘Oh, I suppose she was in a way.’

  ‘I was led to believe that you and Miss Beckett were rather fond of each other.’

  ‘Well, I suppose we were after a fashion,’ Jacques said rallying. ‘I took her to the pictures once or twice, but we weren’t really courting. We made each other laugh, that’s all. I liked her because she spoke her mind and didn’t care a jot what people thought of her, even my mother. You don’t know how refreshing it is to find a girl like that.’

  ‘So the two of you had formed an attachment of sorts?’

  ‘Oh, nothing as grand as all that, Inspector. A little flirtation, that’s all it added up to. No great love affair. I wasn’t the least in love with Miss Beckett and she wasn’t the least in love with me. When she wasn’t putting on an act or sulking, she was a cheeky, fun sort of a girl to pass the time of day with. You needn’t read any more into it than that.’

  The inspector remained silent. Jacques fidgeted in his chair. He looked first at the ceiling, then at the floor, following which he decide to appeal to Rose.

  ‘You tell the inspector, how it was, Rose. I daresay he’ll listen to you.’

  ‘Miss Simpson is here on sufferance, Monsieur Renard,’ Inspector Deacon said sharply. ‘She will not be contributing to this interview, will you Miss Simpson?’ He bestowed on Rose a look which suggested that he was not to be tested on this issue. She returned his gaze with an affected look of innocence.

  ‘I say, I think that’s a bit harsh, Inspector. Much better to let Rose say a word or two. She’ll be able to confirm that I’m telling you the truth. I mean to say, it seems an awful shame you wasting your time on me when you’ve got a murderer to catch.’

  ‘How we choose to go about our enquiries is up to us, Monsieur Renard.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely, Inspector,’ Jacques said quickly. ‘You know best of course. I’m not trying to teach my grandmother to suck eggs.’

  ‘I’m glad we are agreed on that point. Now, if we may proceed, I – ’

  ‘Look here, Inspector, I think we may have started off on the wrong foot. It’s my fault, I know, and I’d like to put it right if I can. What say, we start again?’

  ‘All right, as you wish.’ The inspector concealed a sigh. Jacques Renard was beginning to try his patience. The fellow probably meant well, but in his experience they were often the type to prove the most infuriating to interview.

  ‘Well, there was a time when I had been rather fond of Miss Beckett, and she of me. It all came about more by chance than anything else. It sounds rather awful to say it now, but at the time we, that’s to say, she and I thought it would be frightfully funny to see how Mama reacted to her darling boy to all intents and purposes stepping out with one of her employees. And not her favourite employee either, but one that was quite happy to give her a bit of cheek. You’ve met my mother, Inspector. She holds me on something of a pedestal. Nothing is too good for her son, and certainly no woman. It really is frightfully draining to be worshiped in such a way. I could do no wrong. So I suppose I was tempted to put it to the test. Sylvia … Miss Beckett and I thought it would be a dreadful hoot to see how Mama reacted if she knew we’d gone to the pictures together. But then, as it happened, we found that we rubbed along
quite well.’

  ‘I see, so at the time of her death – ’

  ‘I had seen very little of Sylvia for some time. My mother had packed me off to Harridges on the pretext of learning the trade, although I think it had rather more to do with keeping me away from what she perceived as Miss Beckett’s clutches. Luckily for my mother and all her machinations, I found that I rather enjoyed it at Harridges. I still do, come to that. The people are a jolly decent crowd. We get up to no end of fun, I can tell you.’ Jacques bent forward and lowered his voice in a conspiratorial manner. ‘If I’m honest, I much prefer working in a grand department store like Harridges to working in a small boutique like this one. It’s rather nice not having my mother watch my every move, it gets a bit much for a chap. But you’d better not let my mother hear me say that. There would be all hell to pay.’

  ‘And Miss Beckett, how did she take the prospect of not seeing you so often?’

  ‘Rather well, Inspector. I thought she’d give me no end of grief. I’d been putting off telling her that I had … well … met another young lady as it happens. What Sylvia and I had …well, it was all only a bit of fun when all was said and done, as I’ve just been telling you. But I was dreadfully afraid that she might not see it quite like that. I thought she might have been bitterly disappointed that there had been a falling off of my affections, so to speak. I knew that she’d more than likely give me the rough end of her tongue and, to tell the truth, I’d rather worked myself up into a blue funk over the whole business.’

  ‘I see. But when you told Miss Beckett, you discovered that she wasn’t overly upset by the news?’

  ‘That’s right. It was yesterday as it happens, or should I say the day before yesterday, as it’s passed the witching hour?’ Jacques said, glancing at a rather splendid gold pocket watch, which Inspector Deacon could not help but think must have cost a pretty penny.

  ‘The day before the fashion event?’