Murder a la Mode

by Patricia Moyes

  “I understand that afterwards Mr. Knight drove you home in his car?”

  “Yes. He was going in my direction.”

  “Where do you live, Miss Field?”

  “I have a flat just off Holland Road.”

  Henry raised his eyebrows slightly. “Mr. Knight lives here, in Earl Street,” he said. “To go to Holland Road must have taken him in absolutely the wrong direction.”

  “He was dropping Mr. Barry in Kensington in any case,” said Rachel shortly.

  “I see,” said Henry. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk about your suitcase.”

  “My suitcase? What about it? I’d like to have it back, if I may.”

  “You left it in Miss Pankhurst’s office last night, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t have Miss French’s room cluttered up.”

  “What was in the case, Miss Field?”

  Rachel looked surprised. “Don’t you know?” she said. “I should have thought you’d have searched it by now. There were just my things from Paris—clothes and so on.” She looked steadily at Henry. “I wasn’t smuggling, Inspector, I assure you. We have no time for shopping sprees when the Collections are on.”

  “I’m sure you don’t,” said Henry. “So there was nothing in the case except your personal possessions.”

  Rachel looked a little embarrassed. “I did bring a bottle of perfume back as a present for a friend,” she said.

  Henry smiled. “That’s reasonable enough,” he said. “Now, can you think of any reason why someone should want to ransack your case?”

  Rachel gave a little gasp. “Ransack? What do you mean?”

  “I’d like you to come and take a look for yourself,” said Henry.

  He got up and led the way to Helen’s office, where a policeman stood guard over the door. Rachel hesitated. “Is she…?” she asked tentatively. She had gone very pale.

  “It’s all right,” said Henry reassuringly. “There’s nothing in there, except…well, you’ll see.”

  He opened the door, and they went in. Rachel’s eyes widened as she saw the chaos, and a look of unmistakable anger came into her face.

  “My things,” she said. “How dared he…?”

  “Why do you say ‘he’?” Henry asked quickly.

  Rachel looked taken aback. “Well,” she said, “it must have been a man, mustn’t it? I mean…”

  “It may not have been a man,” said Henry. “What I want you to do is to check up and see if there’s anything missing… anything at all.”

  At once, Rachel became businesslike. She went down on her knees and began to sort through the disorderly piles of clothes. Once she looked up and said, “What about fingerprints?”

  “That’s all right,” said Henry. “It’s already been attended to.”

  “I see. Good.” She went systematically through the scattered contents of the case, and then said, “Everything seems to be here.”

  Henry looked thoughtful. “So,” he said, “either somebody was looking for something which wasn’t there, or…” He paused. “Miss Field, would anyone else have had an opportunity of putting something into your case in Paris, without you knowing it?”

  Rachel said, with no hesitation, “Oh, yes. On these trips we use our hotel rooms virtually as offices. I try to keep other people out of mine, so that I can work in peace…but of course they come wandering in with queries and so on. In fact, Veronica Spence was there nearly all the time I was packing.”

  “Was she?” Henry asked slowly. He did not like the way his niece was involved in the case, but in spite of himself the thought crossed his mind that she could indeed be a useful source of information. For a fleeting moment he felt a stab of fear that she might be mixed up in the affair in a more sinister way, but he put the thought firmly aside. It was unthinkable. To Rachel, he said, “Well, I suppose we shall find out eventually what it was that somebody hoped to find. Meanwhile, you can repack your case and take it away now, if you like.”

  “Thank you,” said Rachel.

  She repacked hurriedly, and Henry saw that her hands were not quite steady. For such a meticulous person, she seemed to be cramming things in higgledy-piggledy; shoes and lingerie and dresses were pushed carelessly one on top of the other. Still, it was understandable that even such an imperturbable character as Rachel Field should be rattled at such a moment.

  When the case was shut again, Henry thanked her for her help, told her to leave her address with the sergeant, and sent her back to her own office. Left alone, he took another long look around him. Somewhere in this room, he felt sure, lay the basic clue to the mystery, but he could not see it. He considered the evidence he had heard so far. Several of the witnesses were concealing something; that much was clear. But what? Something to do with Helen’s private life, he guessed—a private life which was inextricably mixed up with her work. Perhaps a visit to Hindhurst might provide the answer. Henry sighed, and went off to have a look at the back door of the Style building.

  There was nothing remarkable about it. The door was served by a battered lift at the rear of the house—a lift which was used, according to Alf, for bringing up heavy goods such as furniture to the studio for photographing. The door led out into a grubby mews, and was secured by a Yale lock. Alf assured Henry that the two keys to this lock were in his possession. One he carried always on his key ring. The other was kept hanging on a hook in his cubbyhole, in case of emergencies. Anybody with goods to deliver at the back door would ring a bell which sounded in Alf’s cubicle in the front hall, and he would detail one of the messengers to go and let them in. He admitted somewhat shamefacedly that he had sanctioned the admission of the cheetah that morning, seeing no harm in it.

  “I knew it was expected for Mr. Healy’s sitting,” he explained. “I didn’t like to leave a dangerous beast like that out in the mews.”

  “You should have asked the sergeant’s permission,” said Henry, “but never mind.”

  He left Alf in the middle of a spate of self-justification, and went across the road to have a talk with Nicholas Knight.

  CHAPTER SIX

  BESIDE THE ENTRANCE to The Orangery, Henry found a door with a smart black plaque on it, on which was written in white lettering, Nicholas Knight—Haute Couture—First floor. He climbed a narrow staircase, and found himself facing a pair of swing doors which bore another plaque, similarly inscribed. He pushed them open, and went in. The blast of warm, scented air which greeted him was suddenly and disquietingly reminiscent of the room in which Helen had died.

  The long salon covered the entire floor of the building. It was close-carpeted in white, with black satin curtains held back by thick ropes of white braid, and a huge vase of white lilies and red roses stood in the empty fireplace. There were small gilt chairs along one wall, and an enormous mirror occupied most of another. Just inside the door was an antique walnut table, at which sat an impossibly blonde girl, painting her fingernails silver. She got up when Henry came in, and swayed langourously towards him.

  “Cain Ay help yew?” she enquired, in an accent so affected as to be almost incomprehensible. She looked at Henry’s elderly raincoat as a keen gardener might look at a slug.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Knight, please,” said Henry, and gave the girl his card.

  “Just tayk a seat,” said the blonde. “Ay’ll see if he’s free.”

  She teetered off down the room on her stiltlike heels, leaving Henry perched uncomfortably on the edge of a gilt chair. A minute later she was back.

  “Mr. Knayte will see yew rayt away,” she said. There was more respect in her voice now. “Would yew come up?”

  Henry followed her through the draped black curtains at the far end of the room, and up a small, twisting staircase. Here, as in the offices of Style, he noticed an abrupt change of décor once across the borderline between the public façade and the working quarters. The staircase was shabby, its dingy white paint peeling, and worn brown linoleum had replaced the plushy white
carpet of the salon.

  At the head of the stairs, Henry became aware of the sound of chattering female voices, which appeared to be coming from behind a half-open door on his left. On the right was a door marked “Private.”

  “He’s in the aytelier,” said the blonde. “Won’t yew go in?” She pushed open the left-hand door, and stood back to let Henry pass.

  Once inside, Henry’s first instinct was to bolt straight out again. He found himself in a huge, fantastically untidy room, full of people. Bales of fabric, bobbins of thread, pins, discarded scraps of material, tape measures, fashion sketches, feathers, lengths of veiling, artificial flowers, dressmakers’ dummies, and ropes of beads were just some of the things that contributed to the heady confusion. From the far end of the room came a perpetual whirring of sewing machines, as half a dozen pale girls in brown overalls pedaled and wheeled and guided the precious cloth under the needles with deft hands.

  None of this, however, caused Henry any alarm; what did upset him was the immediate foreground. For here, a yard away from his startled nose, were—as far as he could make out—about a hundred and twenty exquisitely lovely girls, dressed only in the briefest of panties and bras. It was only when he caught sight of an infinite series of Nicholas Knights diminishing down apparently endless corridors into the distance that Henry realized that the effect had been caused by the placing of two huge mirrors in such a way as to reflect each other. There were, in fact, only three scantily clad girls, but that was quite enough.

  Nicholas Knight was engaged in draping a swathe of green satin round the slim hips of a fourth model—a brunette with a head like Nefertiti, who stood like a resigned statue, regarding her purple fingernails with more interest than pleasure. She, too, was naked from the waist up, except for a scrap of white bra.

  “Do come in,” said Knight indistinctly, through a mouthful of pins.

  “Perhaps I’d better…” began Henry nervously, preparing to retreat.

  “Shan’t be a moment. Get Mr. Tibbett a chair, somebody.”

  One of the unclothed beauties moved a roll of deep blue velvet to reveal a wooden stool underneath it. Another nymph pulled out the stool, dusted it perfunctorily with a piece of gold lamé, and planted it down conveniently for Henry. He thanked her and sat down, feeling more at ease. He was fascinated by the fact that the girls showed absolutely no self-consciousness at the arrival of a strange man. A moment later, a messenger boy arrived with a bale of cloth, which he carried down the room and slung neatly onto a high shelf with the ease of long practice. The girls greeted him cheerfully, and he replied with equal good humour. There was no squealing or rushing for wraps; no sniggers or suggestive remarks. Henry felt positively ashamed of his earlier reticence. Smut, he decided, was in the eye of the beholder, and did not exist here.

  Knight took a swathe of green satin, draped it across the model’s bosom, and secured it with a pin.

  “Turn round slowly, Rene, there’s a love,” he said.

  With no change of expression, the girl began to revolve gracefully. Knight watched her critically. “Go on. More. A bit more. Stop!” He made an adjustment. “Right. Go on, darling. Now walk away from me.” Rene swayed elegantly towards the sewing machines, her hips undulating. Knight watched her through half-closed eyes. “Yes. All right. Stop. That’ll do, love. Martha!”

  “Yes, Nicholas?” A plump, middle-aged woman dressed in black had materialized at Knight’s elbow.

  “Get that off Rene and to the cutters,” he said. “Use the toile of number 18 for the underskirt, and these drapes. It’s urgent. Lady Prendergast.”

  A Chinese girl sauntered up, wearing one of the strangest garments Henry had ever seen. It was, in shape, a full-skirted evening dress, but it was made entirely of tough, cream-coloured cotton crash, liberally ornamented with pencil marks.

  “I have wearing the toile of number 24, like as you said, Mr. Knight,” said the wearer, in a delightfully tinged accent.

  “Oh, dear.” Knight sounded petulant. “I’d forgotten all about that. Well, it will just have to wait. I’m busy.”

  “Miss Martha say…” began the girl.

  Knight stamped his smartly shod right foot. “Martha can say what she likes,” he exclaimed crossly. “I have an appointment. Go away.”

  The girl shrugged slightly, intimating that it was none of her business, and sauntered off. Knight turned to Henry.

  “I’m most terribly sorry to have kept you waiting, Inspector,” he said. “This is the busiest time for us poor dressmakers. My summer show next week, and all the big winter parties in full swing, and not a woman in London who doesn’t decide to have a new dress, but at the last minute, positively the last. I don’t know what they think I am. I’ve worked my fingers to the bone since before Christmas. Literally to the bone.”

  While doubting this, Henry had already noticed that the young man did look tired and strained. Considering the atmosphere of nervous tension coupled with lack of organization in which he worked, this was not surprising.

  “Come into my office,” Knight was saying. “Perhaps there we can get a little peace.”

  He led the way out onto the landing, and in through the door marked “Private.” Nicholas Knight’s office was, if anything, more chaotic than his atelier, because it was smaller. The desk and walls were covered with ink-and-wash sketches of dresses, boldly and competently drawn. Most of them had several scraps of fabric pinned to them. The rest of the room seemed to have disappeared under a snowdrift of papers and photographs, among which Henry caught sight of one of Veronica apparently about to leap off the Eiffel Tower.

  Knight swept an armful of papers off a chair, and indicated that Henry should sit on it. Then he himself sat down in the leather swivel chair on the far side of the desk, offered Henry a black cigarette from a gold case, took one himself, and said, “There. Now we can talk.”

  Henry began almost diffidently. “I don’t suppose you can tell me very much, Mr. Knight,” he said, “but I have a feeling that your opinions as what I might call an interested outsider may be very valuable.”

  Nicholas beamed. “Anything I can do…” he said, with an expansive gesture. He seemed to have recovered from the nervousness which he had shown in the restaurant.

  “For a start, then, did you know Helen Pankhurst?”

  “No. That’s to say, hardly at all. I knew of her, of course, but her job was mainly in the office. I know the fashion staff of Style intimately, of course, Teresa and Beth and the others.”

  “What I’m trying to get at,” said Henry, “is a true picture of the relationships between various people.”

  Knight’s smile faded abruptly, and for some reason he looked terrified. “What do you mean, Inspector?”

  “I mean,” said Henry, “Miss Pankhurst’s relationships with other people in the office.”

  “Oh.” Knight looked relieved. “I’ll tell you all I can.” He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “Of course, you realize that this world of fashion is a curious one.”

  “So people keep telling me,” said Henry.

  “It isn’t that people are not what they seem,” Nicholas went on. “On the contrary, they tend to exaggerate what they are to the point of absurdity.”

  Henry nodded. “I have noticed that,” he said.

  “Take Uncle,” said Nicholas. “I presume you’ve met Uncle by now.”

  “I have,” said Henry, feelingly.

  “Well,” said Knight, maliciously, “he’s an utter fraud, and a nasty one at that. All he is really is an ordinary, pig-headed Irishman. Very ordinary,” he added, with what sounded like regret. “But he’s been practically forced to turn himself into a character. The great thing about Helen Pankhurst was that she didn’t play that particular game—she remained herself, no more and no less. Or so they tell me.”

  “So who tells you?”

  “Oh, it’s common knowledge,” said Nicholas, waving a well-cared-for hand. “Then take Teresa and Michael. What sort
of a marriage is that, I ask you?”

  “Well, what sort is it?” Henry asked.

  “My dear, it’s a farce.” Nicholas laughed. “When they got married, Teresa was already assistant fashion editor of Style, but Michael had only just started his own studio—one sordid room in Charlotte Street. He was photographing embroidered tea cosies at three guineas a go. Oh, yes, one can see why he married her. For many reasons.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know who Teresa is, don’t you?” Knight asked.

  “No.”

  “Lord Clandon’s second daughter,” said Nicholas. “Rolling. Positively rolling. Teresa took a job simply to amuse herself, and then turned out to have this fantastic flair. Michael was smart enough to jump on the bandwagon. He’d never have got anywhere without Teresa. I believe the Clandons were livid when she married him. Of course, the ironic thing is that the boot’s on the other foot now.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “My dear,” cried Knight, “Michael is comme il faut. If he didn’t happen to be their son-in-law, the Clandons would never be lucky enough to get him at their dinner table. Oh, no.”

  Privately, Henry doubted this, but he did not say so. He merely remarked, “All that doesn’t necessarily mean that their marriage is a farce.”

  “I don’t want to sound bitchy,” said Nicholas primly, “but Teresa is solid bone above the neck. Solid. A wonderful fashion sense, and nothing else. And Michael has always had all sorts of other interests.” The way in which he said these words was chilling in its venom. Henry wondered exactly what Knight meant, and asked him as much.

  At once, the designer became cagey. “Oh, this and that,” he said. “One hears rumours, you know.”

  “Did any of these rumours concern Helen Pankhurst?” Henry asked.

  Knight looked genuinely surprised. “Helen?” he said. “No, not Helen …that is…” he hesitated, and then went on, with blatant untruthfulness, “I’m not a gossip, Inspector. It’s perfectly possible that there have been rumours about Michael and Helen. I just don’t happen to have heard them, that’s all.” He sounded faintly aggrieved by the fact.