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

by Margaret Addison

  ‘Miss Jennings,’ said Inspector Deacon very slowly. ‘This is desperately important. Who did you see set the curtain alight and scream?’

  ‘I don’t want to get anyone into any trouble,’ Mary said rather fretfully. ‘They might not have set the curtain alight on purpose. It might have been an accident. It –’

  ‘Miss Jennings, please.’

  ‘Oh, all right. It was Mrs Milton’s guest. I don’t know her name.'

  ‘A guest of Mrs Milton’s?’ said Rose. ‘But Mrs Milton wasn’t there this evening.’

  ‘Are you quite sure, Miss Simpson? There were a lot of people. You may not have spotted her in the crowd.’

  ‘Quite sure, Inspector. We were looking out for Mrs Milton, you see. She likes to finger the fabric of the clothes and we didn’t want her pulling the model this way and that. We made a joke of it. She rather likes a tipple and we decided we’d ensure that her glass was kept topped up.’

  ‘I remember now,’ said Mary. ‘The woman, she handed me Mrs Milton’s invitation. She said that Mrs Milton couldn’t come and that she was attending in her place.’

  ‘But the guests of customers were only to be admitted if the customers were also present,’ said Rose.

  ‘I know. I shouldn’t really have let her in. But she had Mrs Milton’s invitation, and she was most insistent. Really, she was a most respectable looking woman. I didn’t think there’d be any harm if I let her in.’

  ‘Never mind.’ The inspector shrugged. ‘I daresay Mrs Milton will be able to tell us to whom she gave her invitation. If you could furnish my sergeant with her details before you go.’

  Rose opened the door for the two of them to leave, and almost collided with Madame Renard and Jacques. It transpired that, on reaching her son’s lodgings, the proprietor had suddenly realised that she had left behind some essential item necessary for her night’s sleep. Much to the annoyance of Jacques, and amid his loud protestations, the two of them had returned to Madame Renard’s flat. It had taken Madame Renard but a few moments to locate and procure the item she had in mind. Jacques Renard had already turned tail and was taking the stairs two at a time. Madame Renard was on his heels. As she looked on, something suddenly occurred to Rose, a piece of the jigsaw that might fit. It was ridiculous of course to try and test her theory now, but try as she might, she couldn’t let it go. Madame Renard was at the top of the steps. Rose ran up to her, her breath pounding in her ears. Somewhat startled, the proprietor half turned to face her employee.

  ‘Yes, Rose, what is it? Can it not wait until tomorrow? It is very late.’

  ‘Aubert,’ Rose said.‘Madame Aubert.’

  For a moment Madame Renard remained motionless. It was as if she had been turned to stone. The colour had drained from her face, replaced by a mask of an almost white, waxy substance. There was a wild look about her eyes and horror on her face. Rose, who had instinctively stretched out her hand to clutch the woman’s arm, found herself recoiling back into the shadows of the room. Time stood still. For a moment it seemed likely that Madame Renard would drop down in a faint. When it seemed almost a foregone conclusion, she rallied and, before Rose had the opportunity to say another word, the proprietor was stumbling back down the stairs in pursuit of her son.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Rose laid her head upon her pillow and tried to get some sleep. Her attempts so far had been rather half-hearted, for she had allowed her memories of the evening to play out in her mind. There was a part of her that wanted the night to end, to wake up and find that it had all been some awful dream. The amateur detective in her, however, would insist on clinging to her recollections of the interviews, playing them over and over in her mind lest she should forget something that would later prove a vital piece of information.

  The mattress on the floor which, for that night at least, constituted her bed was not conducive to sleep. For one thing the mattress itself was lumpy and missing a spring or two, and for another Rose found herself lying in a draught. She looked enviously towards her bed, on which lay the sleeping form of Mary. Mental exhaustion had overtaken the girl as soon as her head had touched the pillow and now Rose watched her as she enjoyed a sleep untroubled by insomnia.

  It had not seemed right to send Mary off to spend the night alone at her lodgings, with only the unsympathetic and disagreeable Mrs Daley for company. Far better that she should stay the night at the house that Rose occupied with her mother. It was a modest establishment, for the Simpsons had come down in the world following the return of Rose’s father from the Great War and his subsequent death, but it was preferable to Mrs Daley’s lodging house. If nothing else, Mrs Simpson had been on hand to fuss over them and insist that they partake of a little hot milk and bread and butter before retiring to bed. She had at once been affected by the girls’ sombre moods, sensing immediately that something dreadful had occurred, not least because of their very late return from the event. However, she had not pried or shown the least signs of being inquisitive, seeming to realise that it was not to be spoken of until later that morning once the girls’ had enjoyed a few hours’ sleep. Rose, however, had felt an obligation to give her a very brief account of the events of the evening. Mrs Simpson, her mouth set in a thin line, had raised her eyebrows but said very little. If the thought occurred to her that her daughter had developed quite a habit of becoming involved in murder investigations, she did not express it.

  It was no good, Rose could not fall asleep. Certainly not while everyone’s words were flying around in her consciousness, perching for a moment at the forefront of her mind before retreating and being replaced by another phrase uttered by a different person. If only she could switch off her mind as one did a wireless set. The fractured sentences seemed to be tearing and spinning around her head faster and faster, so that she became afraid that, if she did not listen to her thoughts more carefully, they would mingle and become integrated to such an extent that she would not remember whom had said what.

  There was only one obvious solution. She must get up and write it all down. Only then would her tired and exhausted mind, freed from the information it held, surrender to the sleep that deserted her. Quietly, so as not to wake Mary, Rose pulled her sensible wool flannel negligee over her cotton nightdress and crept downstairs. Opening the sitting room door, she was soon established at her mother’s writing desk. Taking up notepaper and pen, she proceeded to write a summary of each interview, paying particular attention to the facts gleaned and the theories put forward.

  The room was silent save for the ticking of the old clock on the mantelpiece and the scraping of the pen nib as Rose’s firm hand covered page after page in good clear script. Every now and then she paused as she tried to recollect a certain phrase or the expression on someone’s face as they had imparted a particular piece of information. Time marched on and still she wrote, emptying her mind with each stroke of the pen. Sometimes she paused a moment to look back through her notes in order to compare the details obtained from each interview to ascertain if a particular statement or impression could be verified. Slowly she found that a picture was beginning to emerge, not the one of which she was familiar, but a secondary one which had played out in the shadows and of which she had not been a participant. At first it was just the vaguest of outlines, but as she compared the narratives of what had actually been said or hinted at, the more vivid the picture became.

  There were various questions in her mind that required resolution. Only now did she find that one or two of the answers appeared as if of their own accord with each stroke of her pen. It was as if they had been summoned from her scribbled notes. She was fairly certain now that she knew the secret that Madame Renard had been so desperate to keep hidden. As time progressed, Rose also formed a view regarding the identity of the woman who had set fire to the curtain. It was an easy task to ascertain if she was indeed correct, and she drummed her fingers on the top of the desk, frustrated with impatient anticipation.

  Of all else, it was the ide
ntity of the murderer that was utmost in her thoughts and still eluded her. It was as if he hovered in the shadows waiting with bated breath to see if she would find some clue to unmask him. Why was it so very difficult to determine the murderer’s identity? The murder had occurred broadly within a half hour timeframe. Perhaps less, for if they were to be believed, both Jacques Renard and Marcel Girard had overheard Sylvia engaging with someone in her room, presumably only a handful of minutes at most prior to her death.

  A vision of Sylvia, emerging in the silver gown, sprung before her eyes. An ethereal figure that had hovered for a moment at the top of the steps commanding every eye. She remembered how the silk satin had shimmered and glistened in the light as the girl had descended the stairs before gliding effortlessly across the floor to be admired anew. Again she heard Jacques’ cry of surprise. So vivid was the recollection that for a moment, crouched over the desk in her mother’s little sitting room as she was, Rose was almost tempted to turn her head and look over her shoulder. For the fancy took her that if she were to do so, she might see again the look of astonishment on the young man’s face. She remembered his explanation for why he had been so affected by the spectacle of Sylvia in the gown, which had in part been corroborated by Marcel’s account. It was while she was pondering on this that she suddenly realised something she had previously overlooked. She had made a mistake because she had not remembered something quite correctly. As if to confirm that she was on the right track at last, various things that the murdered girl had said, to which she had paid little notice or attention at the time, came trickling into her mind. All along Sylvia had been providing her with little clues if only she had known it. Sylvia had not foreseen her own death, but various things she had hinted at and done would help identify her murderer.

  As dawn approached it was a tired and weary Rose who returned to her mattress on the floor. She must snatch a few hours’ sleep. Although a part of her did not want to rest at all. For she had information of the utmost importance to impart, if Inspector Deacon would but be prepared to listen to her reasoning. She had the answer within her grasp, having narrowed down the field considerably. For now she knew that the murderer could be only one of two people. She felt certain of it. Now all she had to do was to find out which one.

  They had caught two buses and were now walking swiftly along the pavement. The shops on either side of the road were already heaving with early morning shoppers and Mary, distracted by the hustle and bustle of it all, together with the appetising smells and splendour of the window displays, was stumbling to keep up with Rose’s quick strides.

  ‘I don’t understand why we had to set off so early, Rose,’ she grumbled in her quiet, unassuming way. ‘I feel as if I’ve hardly slept a wink. And I say, must you walk so fast? I’m having difficulty keeping up.’

  ‘I’ve told you, Mary. I need to see Inspector Deacon as soon as possible. He’s most probably at Lady Celia’s house by now. He was intending to interview her this morning, if you remember. But first there is something we need to do.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go shopping.’

  ‘Rose, how can you possibly suggest such a thing? I shouldn’t be able to bring myself to buy anything today given the circumstances, even if I had the money, which I don’t.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting that we buy anything. I’m wanting to test out a theory, that’s all. Tell me, Mary, do you think you would recognise the woman who set fire to the curtain if you happened to see her again?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure I would,’ said Mary. ‘She was very nicely turned out. Knew what clothes suited her, I’d say. She made quite an impression on me, I don’t mind telling you. She looked ever so respectable. That’s why I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw her hold that curtain over the flame.’

  ‘Here we are,’ said Rose, stopping outside a large boutique, the proportions of which put Madame Renard’s little shop to shame, to say nothing of the splendour of its window display with mannequins of the finest quality draped with clothes that far outshone those offered at Renard’s.

  ‘Thimbles!’ exclaimed Mary. ‘Whatever are we doing here, Rose?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ said Rose, opening the door and walking inside.

  Mary hesitated for a moment before following. She had only ventured inside the shop once before and had found the experience rather intimidating. For one thing, the assistants looked so immaculate and well groomed, and for another she had felt that her own modest attire had been heavily scrutinised and found wanting. The prospect of reliving the experience therefore was one she did not particularly relish. There again were the perfect shop assistants, their outfits seemingly freshly laundered and they themselves with not a hair out of place. Instinctively she patted her own rather mousey locks. She wished she hadn’t worn her drab little brown hat, with its rather tatty satin trimming, which did very little for her complexion. Oh, to be like Rose, who seemed quite oblivious to the rather disapproving glances their arrival had produced. For if the girls were aware that the shop assistants looked at them down their noses, and sneered behind their hands, then she gave no sign of it. Instead she strode resolutely on as if she had some purpose that exceeded all other considerations.

  Weaving their way between the occasional early morning shoppers and counters filled with an array of beautiful accessories, and warding off the advances made by the shop assistants to ascertain their business, they reached the far end of the boutique. The proprietor was standing there, her back to them. She was speaking in polite and interested tones to an obviously favoured customer. They stood and watched as if transfixed. Perhaps the proprietor could feel their eyes on the back of her neck, or perhaps the customer, standing at an angle to her, had alerted her to their presence. Whatever it was, after a moment or two the proprietor paused amid her conversation and turned around.

  Mary all but dropped her bag as her hand flew up to her mouth to stifle a scream. Her eyes large and bright looked imploringly at Rose, who answered her with a look of understanding. Her theory had been realised. Along with Mary, she stared at the woman who in turn was looking at them dumbfounded. Rose fancied there was a look of fear in her eyes. And so there should be. For she and Mary were staring at the very woman who had set Madame Renard’s curtain alight. The very same who had subsequently uttered a high pitched scream.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  ‘Celia, are you all right? There’s a constable standing outside your house. I had the most awful job persuading him to allow me to pass. I thought he was about to arrest me on the spot.’

  Lady Celia Goswell looked down at Bertram Thorpe, from her elevated positon on the grand staircase rising above him, with a renewed sense of adoration. She had so rarely seen him look anything other than composed. Now, though, he looked anything but calm and collected. He looked positively haggard as if he had been up all night, or spent a sleepless night tossing and turning in his bed. And it was obvious by his appearance that he had dressed hastily. His collar didn’t sit quite right and his hair appeared innocent of any pomade, sticking up this way and that in the most endearing of fashions, she thought. Although it was with a feeling of growing irritation that she noticed how he looked around the grand entrance hall of the Goswells’ London residence, with its deeply coved and coffered ceiling supported by fine columns and panelling of English alabaster. Granted, this was his first visit to the establishment and the hall often had the effect of taking a visitor’s breath away, modelled directly on ancient Roman buildings as it was. But did Bertram really have to stare about him quite so obviously with his mouth wipe open, quite agog with the splendour of it all?

  She stole a sideways glance at Beeswick, the butler, a faithful family retainer if ever there was one. Good. He was managing to keep a straight face and remain dignified. It was a pity that the new, young footman was unable to do so. Why, he was positively smirking, and making no effort at all to conceal the fact. Well, he would have nothing to smile about soon after she had spoken to the old
butler and demanded the footman’s dismissal. It would jolly well serve him right. Who did he think he was to pass judgement on how her guests conducted themselves?

  Her first thought was to allay Bertram’s fears. She took a deep breath and said in a high sing-song voice, which sounded false and artificial even to her own ears, purporting as it did a gaiety that she did not feel: ‘Oh, Bertram. How quick you were in coming here. I wasn’t expecting to see you for at least half an hour or so.’

  ‘You sounded so anxious and mysterious on the telephone. I knew at once that something must be the matter. And seeing that constable just now … well, it only confirms that I was right to be worried, doesn’t it? For goodness sake, Celia, tell me what’s happened.’

  With a wave of her hand, Celia dismissed both butler and footman from her presence. She was left alone at last with Bertram in the magnificent hall. All in a rush she ran down the last few stairs of the grand staircase, as eagerly to greet him as any child a favoured parent. She took his outstretched hands in her own. To see him look so anxiously at her, to notice the concerned look upon his face, it revealed to her as nothing else would have done his regard for her safety. Even so, to her annoyance he continued to look about him apprehensively, as if he felt that he did not belong there beside her in such grand a place.

  ‘It’s all right. Father’s at our country estate if that’s what’s worrying you. Really, Bertram, you’ll have to meet him one of these days.’

  ‘What’s worrying me,’ said Bertram, regaining his composure somewhat, ‘is why there is a policeman positioned outside your house and why you telephoned me to come over to see you at the crack of dawn.’

  ‘It’s hardly that, Bertie,’ said Celia, now resting her head upon his shoulder. How comforting it was to lean one’s head against such a tall and solid man. It was quite idiotic, of course, given the circumstances in which she found herself, but she could almost believe she had not a care in the world.