‘You’re quite right, Inspector. I intended to do just that. She was only in the room next door, after all. I went as far as to stand outside the door and raise my hand to knock. But I didn’t go in for the simple reason that I could hear that she already had someone in there with her.’
‘Did she indeed! Who was it?’ Inspector Deacon leaned forward in his seat. He had lost all pretence at casual indifference now.
‘I don’t know. I didn’t hear them speak. I wish to God that I had. It was Sylvia’s voice that I heard. It was obvious that she was talking to someone. I didn’t catch what she was saying but, from the tone of her voice, I remember thinking at the time that she sounded excited.’
‘Do you believe him, sir? That he didn’t go and see Miss Beckett, I mean?’ asked Sergeant Perkins as soon as the door had closed behind Jacques and Rose.
‘Well, we only have his word for it. He may have been lying about hearing her talking to someone else,’ said Inspector Deacon.
‘Yes, sir, that’s what I thought. It’s a bit convenient that. He might just have wanted to throw suspicion away from himself.’
‘You may well be right, Sergeant. On balance, however, I think I’m inclined to believe him.’ The inspector got up from his chair to stretch his legs. He proceeded to make a circuit of the chamber as best he could, given the cluttered nature of the room. ‘The fellow could just as easily have said that he wanted to tell his mother about the gown first. That would have been natural enough. There was no need for him to admit that he had been intending to go and see Miss Beckett.’
‘I’ll be interested to see what that designer fellow has to say about the gown,’ said Sergeant Perkins, closing his notebook. ‘I don’t mind telling you, sir, I didn’t take to that Monsieur Renard chap one bit. He’s a handsome devil and no mistake, but he’s a bit too full of himself, I’d say. One for the ladies, I’d wager. And that accent of his, it’s like they talk on the wireless. And him being a Frenchman too, it’s not natural!’
‘The policemen, they want to see me next?’ demanded Marcel Girard of Rose, as soon as she and Jacques appeared in the outer room.
‘Yes, but I’m afraid there’ll be a bit of a delay. Jacques is taking his mother to stay at his lodgings tonight. Naturally he doesn’t want her to stay here alone. If nothing else, it’s not convenient with the policemen using her flat to interview everyone. Madame Renard has just gone in to them now to gather together a few bits and pieces to take with her.’
‘This flat, it is very wretched, yes?’
‘It is very modest,’ said Rose, choosing her words with care. She did not much like the way the young man glanced around him with a look of very obvious disdain. ‘Monsieur Girard, there is something I should like to ask you.’
‘Oh? And what is it that the sleuth would like to know?’ said the designer looking at her quizzically. ‘Shall I guess, perhaps? Let me see. When you came upon Miss Beckett and myself in the storeroom, was it what you call a compromising position, in which you caught us? That is the question is it not, that is on the tip of your tongue?’
‘No. I daresay it might have been one of the questions that I would have put to you earlier if I’d had the opportunity. But, as it happens, I know the answer to that question now.’
‘Do you, indeed? How very intriguing. Well, what is this question that you have to ask me?’
‘I should like to know what startled you.’
‘What startled me?’
‘Yes. Something startled you during the fashion event.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘I think it involved a member of the audience,’ said Rose. ‘I think you saw someone sitting there whom you were not expecting to see.’
Marcel Girard visibly paled. He gave Rose what she could only describe as a penetrating look, as if he were trying to ascertain how much she knew as opposed to guesswork. He swallowed hard. For a moment he appeared in two minds as to whether or not to say anything. The slightly mocking, somewhat patronising, demeanour had forsaken him. If nothing else, he was clearly shaken.
Whether he would have remained silent or spoken and either confirmed her suspicions or fervently denied them, Rose was never to know. For, at the precise moment he appeared about to speak, the door to the other room opened and Madame Renard and her son emerged, the latter carrying a small leather suitcase which, although of good quality, had clearly seen better days.
‘Monsieur Girard if you could come this way please, sir,’ said Sergeant Perkins appearing in the doorway. ‘The inspector will see you now.’
Marcel stared at the sergeant a moment and then returned his gaze to Rose. Before she had sensed a feeling of hostility about him, as if he considered she was prying into matters that did not concern her. Now she felt his sense of apprehension as clearly as if it had been her own. Before there had been something rather defiant about him. She had expected him to refuse her offer to accompany him into the other room, to sneer even at the very suggestion. Now it did not surprise her when he grabbed her arm.
‘You will come with me, like you did the others, yes?’
‘All right,’ said Rose. ‘But a word of advice. You need to tell the truth. The policemen, they’ll want all the facts. If you give them the facts, you’ll have nothing to worry about.’ Unless of course you murdered Sylvia, said a voice inside Rose’s head, but she decided not to say that bit aloud.
Chapter Twenty-two
If Sergeant Perkins had been disappointed by the very Englishness of Monsieur Renard, then any similar reservations he may have had with regard to Monsieur Marcel Girard were quickly dispelled. To the sergeant, Marcel looked every inch the classic Frenchman. Although lacking Jacques’ physique, being a good few inches shorter and considerably below what was generally considered average height, he was slender and lean in build and immaculately turned out. His clothes, which were of a good quality and obviously made by a first-class tailor, fitted him well and became him to perfection. In appearance, he had very finely drawn features, with eyes that were a particularly delicate shade of grey and a rosebud mouth that was surprisingly sensual. This latter feature, coupled with the fact that Marcel Girard wore his hair a little long, which gave him something of a Bohemian air, made Sergeant Perkins consider him rather effeminate. This impression was not disbursed by the man’s apparent fondness for wearing what the sergeant later referred to as a woman’s perfume.
‘Monsieur Girard, please take a seat,’ said Inspector Deacon who, Rose noted, was eyeing the designer with some interest.
‘Before we begin, I’d be grateful if you’d tell me about this silver gown that I’ve heard so much about.’
‘I take it that you are referring to the gown designed by Jacques Renard?’ the designer said slyly. He was staring at the inspector a little warily. ‘You try to catch me out, I think? You want me to say I designed the dress and that Jacques Renard, he is talking nonsense?’
‘I’m not trying to set traps for you to fall into, if that’s what you’re afraid of,’ the inspector said a little brusquely. ‘You needn’t think I am. I’m merely trying to arrive at the truth. I was keen to see if your and Monsieur Renard’s accounts reconciled, that’s all.’
‘Jacques, he told you that he designed the dress, yes? Me, I do not deny it. I do not pretend it is my work.’
‘Except that you did. Madame Renard, she thought you designed the dress, didn’t she?’
‘Oui.’ Marcel Girard sounded exasperated. He threw his arms rather flamboyantly in the air as if to illustrate his frustration, the effect of which was to make Sergeant Perkins think him even more foreign than before. ‘I have explained it all to Jacques, why I did what I did. He is happy. I do not need to explain it to you. It doesn’t concern you.’
‘It does if it has anything to do with this investigation. Fortunately for you, Monsieur Renard has already given us a very full account on that score. Now, tell me, how well did you know the deceased?’
‘Not at all.’
Marcel Girard turned to glare at Rose, a fact that was not lost on Inspector Deacon. She wondered if the designer suspected her of having spoken of finding them in a compromising position. ‘Until today I did not know the girl other than being aware she was one of Madame Renard’s assistants. It was only when Lady Lavinia, she became ill, and sent that odious, monstrosity of a woman –’
‘I take it you are referring to Lady Celia?’
‘Yes, that woman. A mannequin, huh! Far better that I should wear the outfits than that she should. I would have looked better in them than her, I think.’
Rose heard a noise behind her which sounded very much like Sergeant Perkins trying to suppress a chuckle. She imagined his face bright red as he did his best to stuff his mouth with a handkerchief or his fist.
‘You laugh, yes. You think it funny, but it wasn’t,’ spat Monsieur Girard, his eyes flashing dangerously. ‘This event, I did it for Jacques. Do I want to show my designs in a little boutique like this when I have Thimbles snapping at my ankles, as you say? No, I did it for him. And that woman was not going to spoil it. But Miss Simpson, here. She had the good idea that Miss Beckett be the mannequin. Me, I would not have thought of it. But it was a brilliant choice. She looked magnificent. My designs, they made her look beautiful. And the audience, they knew what she looked like ordinarily in that drab little uniform of hers. They saw that when she wore my garments she could be transformed into something of loveliness.’
There was a brief silence as those present conjured up for themselves a vision of Sylvia being magically transformed from a Cinderella type creature clad in rags to the belle of the ball who had won the prince’s heart. Rose was secretly of the view that Marcel’s claims were grossly exaggerated. She wondered whether he was mixing up in his mind the effect the silver gown had produced with his own inferior designs. Something niggled at the back of Rose’s mind if only she could put a finger upon it. Something that Sylvia had said to her that night when she had talked about the silver gown … Yes, she remembered now … I think it’s just the sort of dress that would make a man fall in love with a woman, don’t you… or propose marriage … Sylvia had been speaking of Jacques Renard’s dress, not Marcel’s lesser ones.
‘Did she know? Sylvia, I mean, that Jacques had designed the silver gown? Did you tell her?’ asked Rose.
‘Miss Simpson –’ protested Inspector Deacon.
‘No, of course not. It was a secret. That girl, do you think I would tell her? Why, she could never have held her tongue. She would have been telling everyone. Little Miss Jennings and even Madame Renard herself. Non. Marcel Girard, he keeps it to himself.’
‘But when Lady Celia demanded that Sylvia didn’t wear the dress, what then?’ persisted Rose. ‘You needed to persuade her to go against Lady Celia’s and Madame Renard’s wishes and still wear the gown. I caught you trying to persuade her in the storeroom, didn’t I? That’s why you were both looking so guilty and Sylvia refused to tell me what you had been doing.’
‘Yes. You thought you had disturbed a romantic tryst. We did not disillusion you, I think.’
‘But whatever did you say to Sylvia to make her wear the dress?’
‘Miss Simpson, please,’ protested Inspector Deacon.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector. But I think it could be very important,’ implored Rose. ‘Sylvia fell in love with the silver gown and wanted to wear it. She knew it made her look marvellous. But she also knew that if she did wear it, it was more than possible that she’d lose her job. It was too great a risk for her to have taken just to satisfy her own vanity. Don’t you see? There must have been more to it than that.’
‘She was fond of Jacques, was she not?’ said Marcel, looking a little flustered. ‘I thought she decided to wear it because of him. He had been neglecting her a little and well, she wanted him to see her in the dress and come to his senses. That is what I thought at the time. I was certain of it.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Rose.
‘Because it took so very little persuasion,’ said Marcel. ‘I asked her to wear the dress and she said yes. Just like that. She did not hesitate, she did not argue. She did not sulk and make a face as I expected. She did not get me to promise to secure her a positon at Harridges if she lost her job because of it. Of course I told her I would speak to her employer, reason with the woman. But really, Madame Renard, she would not have listened to me. But Miss Beckett, she did not care. I was surprised, I remember that. I felt a little guilty, yes, at what I was asking her to do.’
‘Well, I think we’ve spent enough time on this subject,’ said Inspector Deacon wearily. ‘It may be we will never know why Miss Beckett went against her better judgement and wore the dress. I want to focus on the murder investigation. Likely as not, the dress has nothing at all to do with it.’
‘I think it has,’ said Rose.
‘Miss Simpson, if you please. If you interrupt one more time, or try to steer the questions as you have done, I shall have no alternative but to ask you to leave. Do you understand what I am saying?’
‘Perfectly, thank you,’ answered Rose rather primly. She looked at her hands clasped in her lap, her cheeks flushed.
‘Now, where to start, Monsieur Girard. I understand you were going backwards and forwards between the shop and the storeroom all evening?’
‘Yes, I was very nervous, you understand. A part of me, it wanted to see how the audience would receive my designs. Would they be bewitched, or would they be bored? Another part of me, it wanted to go and hide until it was all over. I was worried too, that Jacques he would not come. I made him promise that he would, but even so … I could not feel happy until I knew he was there. And he left it so very late to arrive. Oh, you cannot imagine how pleased I was to see him rattling the door. It disrupted the proceedings of course, but I didn’t care.’
‘Did you go over and speak to him when he arrived?’
‘No, I went back to the storeroom. I was afraid of giving myself away. He had arrived and that was all that mattered. I could now retreat to my sanctuary in the happy knowledge that he was there. I had only to wait.’
‘You didn’t come back out into the shop?’
‘No.’
‘Do you happen to know whether the storeroom door, the one that led out onto the next street, was locked?’
‘But of course it was. Madame Renard insisted it be kept locked at all times. All her stock, it was kept in the room. Anyway, I know it was locked because I locked it myself when I came back from having a last cigarette in the street. That was just before the event started.’
‘Did you unlock that door at any time to admit anyone else, anyone who came in that way rather than using the shop entrance?’
‘No, of course not. Why would I?’ He had a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘I did not admit the murderer, if that is what you are thinking. Yes, that would be easy for you, wouldn’t it? The murderer, he is some lunatic that no one knows and he was let in by the stupid foreigner.’
‘Now, now, Monsieur Girard, there is no need for that,’ said Inspector Deacon rather gruffly. ‘We should like to know, that’s all, whether it’s possible that someone could have come into the shop other than through the front door. You have just told us that you didn’t let anyone in through the storeroom door. You were also going backwards and forwards between the shop and storeroom all evening. It therefore seems unlikely that the murderer entered by that way.’
‘I could have told you that, Inspector.’
‘Perhaps you can tell me if you can think of anyone who may have wished to do Miss Beckett any harm?’
‘No. I can think of no one. Why would any person wish to kill a shop girl? I can think of no reason.’
‘It is possible that they may have mistaken her for Lady Celia,’ volunteered Sergeant Perkins from his corner. ‘They were wearing similar dresses and had almost identical colouring.’
‘Ah, now that I can imagine,’ said Marcel excitedly. ‘She is an awful woman, that one. I can un
derstand quite a few people wishing to do her in, as you say.’
‘Monsieur Renard told us that he came to see you in the storeroom after Miss Beckett had appeared in the silver gown.’
‘Yes, he did. I was expecting him, Inspector. He wanted an explanation for what I had done. I handed him a glass of wine and told him that I knew he would never show his work himself, so I had done it for him. He has such talent, it is hard to put it into words. Me, I may be a little successful. My father, I think he will display my designs in his department store in Paris. But Jacques, he is an exceptional designer. He has the vision. I think he could become a very famous designer like Jeanne Lanvin or Jean Patou. His name could be on the lips of the best dressed women in the world if only he believed in his own ability. Why, he puts my designs to shame.’ Marcel leaned towards Inspector Deacon and lowered his voice. ‘It is his mother, you know, that is the problem. He is afraid of disappointing her. Everything she has done, it is for him. She has built up this little shop from nothing to leave to him. But Jacques, a shop proprietor? Non. His talents, they would be wasted. She dreams of the House of Renard. And Jacques, he could create that for her with his designs.’
‘So, it was a friendly conversation that the two of you had?’
‘But of course. Once I had explained everything, Jacques, he laughed, he joked, he was very happy.’
‘What happened when he left you? Did you stay in the storeroom?’
‘No, of course not. There was no need. Jacques, he said he wanted to see Miss Beckett in the dress. He had not had the opportunity to look at the gown closely. And of course, I thought he was fond of the girl …’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I would have gone out into the shop and spoken to Madame Renard, told her what a clever and talented son she had. But Jacques, he had told me about that awful woman –’
‘Lady Celia?’
‘Yes. He told me how she made a scene, how she went almost mad with anger. She is a hateful, spiteful woman, I think. Poor little Miss Beckett, she did not often have the opportunity to wear nice clothes. That awful woman, she wears the very best clothes all the time and still she looks –’
Murder at Renard's (Rose Simpson Mysteries Book 4) Page 23