Murder a la Mode

by Patricia Moyes

  “Not at all,” said Henry. “It’s all most interesting. Will Miss French be retiring soon, then?”

  There was a little pause, and then Goring said, “I am telling you this in the strictest confidence, Tibbett. Margery is a very sick woman. She doesn’t like to admit it, but she is. In fact, her doctors have ordered her to give up work within the next couple of months. As you can imagine, the question of her successor has been the biggest problem on my mind for some time. A magazine like ours stands or falls by its editor. Margery was the ideal. I don’t consider it practical to bring in anybody from outside, so the choice lay between Helen and Teresa. I haven’t attempted to conceal from you that I favoured Helen. In fact, from that point of view, her death is a great…” he hesitated, “…a great personal tragedy to me.”

  “I have been told,” said Henry, choosing his words carefully, “that she was involved in some sort of emotional entanglement with another member of the staff.”

  Goring’s face hardened. “That had nothing to do with it,” he said. “I was concerned only with Helen’s work.”

  “All the same, when you are contemplating giving somebody such an important job…”

  “Margery mentioned it to me,” said Goring. Clearly, the subject was distasteful to him. “She wished Teresa to be editor, of course, and…no, that is less than fair. She was right to bring to my attention anything which might conceivably disrupt the smooth running of the office. However, I think I convinced her that it was something which could be ironed out, if handled rightly. Alas, it seems that I was wrong. However…”

  At this point, the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a newcomer—a short, slim young man, who wore clothes that were just too well-cut, and hair that was just too long. He came hurrying across the restaurant with a strange, almost skipping step, crying in a high-pitched voice, “Godfrey, my dear! Whatever is all this? I’ve just…” He stopped abruptly when he saw Henry.

  “Hello, Nicholas,” said Goring. He sounded displeased.

  “My dear, I’ve just bought the Standard, and I’m shattered. Utterly shattered. I positively can’t believe—”

  “Inspector,” said Goring, with quiet emphasis, “may I introduce Mr. Knight? Nicholas, this is Chief Inspector Tibbett of Scotland Yard.”

  The young man sat down suddenly. He had turned even paler than before. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, yes. Delighted to meet you.”

  “Mr. Knight,” said Goring, “is one of our most brilliant young dress designers.”

  “I’ve heard all about you, Mr. Knight,” said Henry.

  “About…about me? You couldn’t… I mean…have you? Nice things, I hope,” he added, with a painfully nervous smile.

  “You were at Mr. Goring’s house last night, weren’t you?” said Henry.

  “Was I? I mean…yes, of course. Lovely, lovely party, Godfrey. Terrible to think that…well…I must go. Nose to the grindstone, you know. Goodbye, Inspector.”

  Knight jumped up and began to make his way back between the tables.

  “Mr. Knight,” said Henry loudly. Knight stopped with a jerk, and turned round reluctantly. “I’d like to have a chat with you some time. Perhaps you could come to the Style offices this afternoon?”

  The young man was as nervous as a rabbit. He glanced over his shoulder, as though fearful of being overheard, and then said, almost in a whisper, “No. Come to my salon. Terribly busy, you understand. This building. First floor. Anyone will tell you.” He disappeared gracefully between the velvet curtains at the back of the restaurant.

  “A most talented young man,” said Goring, when he had gone. “Don’t be put off by his…his somewhat fantastic manner. People in his business tend to adopt extravagant attitudes. He is, in fact, a very shrewd businessman, but he takes pains to conceal the fact.”

  Remembering Patrick Walsh’s remarks earlier in the day, Henry decided to make a stab in the dark, and said, “All the same, hasn’t he been involved in some sort of a scandal lately?”

  Goring looked sharply at Henry. “Knight?” he said. “Not that I know of. Certainly not.”

  “Oh, well,” said Henry, “I must have been confusing him with somebody else. I know very little about the fashion world, I’m afraid.”

  There was a silence. Henry waited, patiently, for Goring to make the next move. He felt convinced that the real purpose of the luncheon had not yet been touched upon. At length, Goring said, “The fashion world. And what a strange world it is, Inspector. You may have some surprises, before this case is over. We’re…well, we’re rather unusual people, I’m afraid.”

  It struck Henry, not for the first time, that nearly every member of Style’s staff had gone out of their way to emphasize what a curious crowd they all were. And yet, so far, apart from Patrick’s histrionics, he had found them to be very much like other people. Was it, he wondered, a sort of quirky, misguided conceit which made them imagine that they were so different from the ordinary run of mortals? Or did their apparent normality disguise deeper eccentricities? He supposed he would find out soon enough.

  Goring went on, “I always have particular difficulty in finding the right men for my staff. I don’t mean for the purely business side—I’m talking about the artistic angle. My art directors and photographers have to be very exceptional characters. First of all, they must have real talent and originality; then, they must be prepared to work in what is largely a woman’s world, under feminine leadership—but without ever losing their masculinity, which is a tremendously important force in our work. I refuse,” Goring added belligerently, “to employ homosexuals, however brilliant they may be. This is not a question of morals. It’s simply that there are few enough men on the creative side of the magazine, and each one must contribute one hundred percent masculinity, as a balancing factor against the predominantly female element. Do you follow me?”

  “In principle,” said Henry, cautiously.

  “Ideally,” Goring continued, “the men should be rocks of common sense in this ephemeral world, free from temperament and emotionally stable, as well as creatively adventurous. Unfortunately, paragons such as I have described are rare. I cannot pretend that all my male staff measure up to these standards.”

  Thinking of Patrick, Henry smiled and said, “I can appreciate your difficulties.”

  “The one man whom I always felt to be a perfect example of what I want was Michael Healy,” Goring went on. “It was his character as much as his talent which decided me to take him on when he left Woman’s Way. In doing so, I broke one of my most rigid rules, for he was already married to Teresa Manners—she was my assistant fashion editor then—and I had always been adamant that I would never employ two staff members married to each other. I am well aware that most people thought I had relaxed the rule because of my personal friendship with Teresa and Michael. This is not true. It was done purely on the basis of talent and character, and for some years I felt that my confidence had been entirely justified. Just recently, however, things have started to worry me, and to make me wonder whether I was wrong, after all.”

  Henry thought, “Now we’re getting down to it at last.” Goring paused and lit a cigar, while the waiter poured more coffee.

  “I am glad, in a way, Inspector,” he went on, “that you brought up the unfortunate episode of Helen and Michael, for I would have been loath to mention it, and yet I feel that it is my duty to warn you. Michael is not—has not been for some months—the balanced and sensible individual that he appears to be on the surface. His work, while even more brilliant than ever, is becoming steadily more outré, more frenetic. And his personality seems to be indulging in the same tendency to fantasy. A few years ago, an affair between Helen and Michael would have been unthinkable. Now, he seems to have lost all sense of responsibility. It may be that his marriage is going through a difficult phase. It may be merely his development as an artist. I don’t know. I can only tell you—and warn you—that these days he tends to do and say things which are…how shall I put
it?…divorced from reality.”

  “You mean,” said Henry bluntly, “that I shouldn’t believe a word he says.”

  “I certainly would not say that,” said Goring hastily. “I merely meant…treat his statements with caution. I really believe that he is capable of convincing himself that something is actually true, if it seems to him desirable or artistically satisfying. He will embroider a pyramid of fantasy onto a shred of fact. Please don’t think I’m accusing him of lying. I’m just advising you to be careful.”

  “You may be right,” said Henry. He was thinking of the discrepancy between Michael’s admissions and the doctor’s findings.

  Goring sat back and stirred his coffee. “Now Helen,” he said, “didn’t realize that this change was taking place in Michael. All she knew was that an old and steady friendship had suddenly and dazzlingly become a romantic love affair. I’m afraid it’s a matter of feminine psychology that no woman—not even Helen—would attribute such a metamorphosis to growing lack of mental balance. On the contrary, she decided that any change in Michael was the result of his love for her, instead of vice versa. When it became apparent that she was wrong, and that his professed devotion was as ephemeral as his other fancies, she was desperately upset. She was in despair. I blame myself now, when it is too late. I feel sure that if Michael had been sent away, and Helen given the editorship, her love of work and the challenge of the new job would have prevented her from…you see what I am leading up to, Inspector?”

  “You are trying to persuade me that Helen committed suicide,” said Henry.

  “I am giving you my considered opinion that she did,” said Goring. “No other explanation is feasible. She had no enemies. There was not a soul in the world who would want to kill her.”

  “Except possibly Michael Healy—or his wife.”

  “No, no. My dear Inspector, I never meant to imply any such thing. It’s out of the question.”

  “Even in Michael’s present state of mind?”

  “Out of the question,” said Goring again. He was obviously shocked and distressed at the suggestion. “I only mentioned all this because…”

  Once again, they were interrupted. Goring, who was sitting facing the restaurant, broke off suddenly and jumped to his feet. Henry turned to see a very lovely woman of about forty making her way across the room to their table. She was bareheaded, her long red hair trailing over the collar of a magnificent mink coat. Henry was immediately struck by the contrast between this woman and the girls from Style. Where the latter were conscientiously groomed, living tributes to their own journalistic advice, this creature was simply beautiful and rich, careless and probably something of a slattern. She wore her fur as if it were an old mackintosh; her hair looked uncombed and her purple lipstick clashed with her scarlet dress. Style would certainly have condemned as vulgar and ostentatious the simultaneous display of three ropes of pearls and two large diamond brooches. Worst of all, she wore no stockings, and the heels of her crocodile shoes were slightly scuffed. Nevertheless, she was wonderfully and vividly alive, and Henry was certain that he had seen her somewhere before.

  “Lorna,” said Goring, “what on earth are you doing here?”

  “Oh, darling, I had to come.” The woman’s voice was husky and exciting. “I heard…”

  “My dear,” said Goring, “this is Inspector Tibbett of Scotland Yard. Inspector, my wife.”

  While Henry murmured greetings, Goring said, “Well, you’d better sit down. Have you eaten?”

  “Of course not. I simply leapt into the car as soon as I heard.”

  “You shouldn’t have.” Goring sounded annoyed. “What am I going to do with you all day?”

  “You’re very ungracious, darling, I must say,” said Lorna Goring. “You’re surely not going to send me back to Surrey without any food, are you?” Without waiting for an answer to this rhetorical question, she turned to the waiter, who was hovering at her side, smiled brilliantly, and said, “I’ll have some smoked salmon and chicken suprème, Pierre, with some Chablis—you know the one I like.” Then, to Goring, she said, “Now darling, you must tell me all about it, every single tiny thing, and then I’ll be as good as gold and get out of your way. I’ll go along to the Lyric and see Madge. She has a matinée this afternoon.”

  At the mention of the theatre, Henry remembered. This was Lorna Vincent, the actress who had made such a resounding success about fifteen years before, had amassed a sizable fortune, and then had married and announced that she would retire and devote herself to domesticity. What was surprising was the fact that she had, in fact, done so. No more had been heard of Lorna Vincent, apart from the odd photograph in a gossip column. It simply had not occurred to Henry that Godfrey Goring was the man she had married. Her husband, as he recalled, had been described by the newspapers as “a businessman”; a colourless figure beside the flaming personality of Lorna Vincent.

  “Who was she?” Lorna went on, avidly. “One of the walking sticks?” She turned to Henry. “I always say the Style girls look exactly like walking sticks. Straight stocking seams, straight black suits, straight black hats, ramrod backbones, and lacquered hair. I can’t tell one from the other. If you see several of them walking down the street together, it’s like the parade of the wooden soldiers.”

  Henry, while he considered Lorna’s remarks unfair, was compelled to smile at the grain of truth they contained. Goring, however, looked furious.

  “Helen Pankhurst is dead,” he said, in an even, angry voice. “And there is no need to insult my staff.”

  “He’s terribly proud of his girls, aren’t you, darling?” said Lorna without malice. “Helen who? Do you mean the dark one with the big nose?”

  “Yes,” Goring replied shortly.

  “But what happened? It’s fearfully exciting. Was she murdered? The papers said—”

  “Lorna,” said Goring, “for God’s sake, eat your lunch and go to your matinée. Inspector Tibbett and I have to get back to work now. Are you going to stay in town tonight?”

  “It seems the sensible thing to do.”

  “Very well. I’ll see you at home this evening.”

  “I’ll come and pick you up at the office.”

  “No,” said Goring. “No outsiders are allowed. There is a police investigation going on.” He stood up, and then suddenly bent and kissed his wife. “Don’t be an idiot, darling. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  As they left the restaurant, Goring said quietly to Henry, “If my wife should come to the office this afternoon…visitors aren’t allowed, are they? Perhaps you could give your men instructions…”

  “If your wife wishes to come in, Mr. Goring, I’m sure that…”

  “No, no.” For once, Goring seemed at a loss for words. “I’d rather she…people might think…in fact, I’d rather she was not allowed in.”

  “Very well,” said Henry, “I’ll tell the sergeant.”

  They went back to the offices of Style.

  Henry re-established himself in his poky domain, and dialed the number of the editor’s office. Immediately, a crisp, efficient voice answered.

  “Miss French’s office. Good afternoon.”

  “Is this Miss Field?”

  “It is. Can I help you?”

  “This is Inspector Tibbett. I was hoping to have a word with you.”

  “Certainly, Inspector.”

  “Right away now?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m in the small office next to the fashion room,” said Henry.

  “Oh, yes?”

  There was a silence fraught with misunderstanding. Then Rachel Field said, “Well? What do you want to ask me?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do it over the phone, Miss Field. Can you come along here?”

  “Oh, no, I’m afraid not,” Rachel replied promptly. “Miss French isn’t in the office at the moment. I can’t possibly leave it.”

  “I can reassure you,” said Henry. “Police investigations have absolute prio
rity.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t…”

  “If you don’t believe me,” said Henry, “you can ask Mr. Goring.”

  Once again, Goring’s name worked its magic. “Oh, well… in that case…I’ll come along right away, Inspector.”

  Like most people encountering Rachel Field for the first time, Henry was both impressed and intimidated by her efficiency. She had not, in fact, brought her shorthand notebook with her, but as she sat facing Henry across the desk, her legs crossed primly and her hands folded in her lap, it was difficult to believe that she was not waiting respectfully to take a letter. She wore a neat, sensible suit made of navy blue flannel, complete with those “touches of white” so dear to the hearts of women’s magazines of more popular appeal than Style. Her shoes, too, were sensible and highly polished, her nails clipped short and painted in colourless varnish, and her hair set with more precision than fashion sense. One quality, and one only, she shared with Lorna Goring. Both existed within the periphery of Style, but on neither had that arbiter of elegance made the faintest impression.

  Rachel turned out to be an excellent and concise witness, as Henry had guessed she would. She described her return from Paris the previous day in company with Michael, Teresa, and Veronica, the late night working session, and Goring’s party.

  “Did you enjoy the party?” Henry asked suddenly. It had occurred to him that Rachel must have cut an incongruous figure among the splendours of Brompton Square.

  “It was very kind of Mr. Goring to invite me,” said Rachel primly. “In fact, I didn’t really want to go,” she added, in a burst of confidence, “but he insisted, so I couldn’t very well refuse.”