Fifth Member

by Claire Rayner

  She lifted her face and kissed him swiftly. ‘Bless you for caring. And I’ll be careful. I do know the risks – didn’t I do the post-mortems? I know viciousness when I see it, and there’s plenty in this case. But I’ll be safe enough here. Broad daylight and a place so sleepy it’d take an atom blast to wake it up. I’ll see you around, then.’

  He kissed her then, a little more thoroughly, and watched her go. At the door she looked back and he lifted his hand and snapped the brim of his non-existent hat with his thumb and forefinger, and she laughed and went, feeling warm and happy. Dear Gus, she thought as she came out into the street and looked about her. He puts up with so much from me. I’m a lucky woman. Then she walked across the square purposefully towards the narrow street entrance where there appeared to be some shops. She had work to do.

  George took her time, wandering from window display to window display and peering in, sometimes going into the little shops to browse among the goods inside. At this time of year, when the weather was unreliable and the tourist season, such as it was, was dwindling to its close, there were few customers; and even if it had been the height of the season, she told herself, looking up and down the quiet street, nine o’clock on a Monday morning is never exactly boom time.

  She remarked on the quietness of the place to the assistant in the grocery store in which she bought a pot of fiery mustard to take home; Gus loved mustard that threatened to drop through his chin. The girl looked up from her cash register and grimaced.

  ‘Most borin’ place in the world, this is,’ she said, in a marked Midlands accent that George had to concentrate on to understand fully. ‘Nothin’ to do, not nowhere. S’always quiet ’ere.’

  ‘As quiet as this?’ George looked round the empty shop. ‘Then how do you stay in business?’

  The girl shrugged. ‘Oh, it ain’t that quiet. I mean, there’s always the fancy people, like, buying their fancy stuff.’ She looked at the shelf nearest her with some disparagement, and George followed her gaze, taking in the jars of asparagus, the row of olive oils in elegant bottles and the pots of country chutneys and jams. ‘Real people goes out to the supermarket over towards Baston ’ill. This is for the weekenders and the rich ones.’ She looked up at George consideringly. ‘An’ tourists, o’ course. But I don’t get to see none of my mates in ’ere.’

  George could understand her sulkiness. It would clearly have been much more agreeable to have worked where young men might wander in for a packet of crisps or a pot noodle. She smiled sympathetically at the girl. ‘What about clothes and so forth? Is there any worthwhile fashion shop here in Durleighton?’

  ‘Fashion?’ The girl laughed. ‘Oh, if you’ve got a few bob to spend, there’s always the fancy shops, but for the sort of stuff I like I ’ave to go all the way into Birmingham or sometimes Warwick to the market. But it costs, o’course, the buses being what they are. My friend Dawn’s got a car and sometimes she takes me shoppin’. Otherwise it’s like I said. There’s nothin’ to do not nowhere in this place.’ And she hit the keys on her cash register crossly. ‘Will there be anythin’ else, then?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ George said. ‘I wish I could buy more if only to cheer you up.’

  The girl stared at her for a moment, then giggled and relaxed. ‘It might cheer my boss up,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t do nothin’ for me, would it?’

  ‘What would cheer you up? Is there any other shop in the town you’d rather work in?’ George settled for a cosy woman-to-woman chat. ‘I always used to think it would be great to work in a fashion store. Somewhere they had really nice stuff, you know, and you could try things on?’

  ‘My friend Dawn, she works in a place like that.’ The girl leaned comfortably on the counter, clearly delighted to have the chance to talk. ‘But it’s not like you said. You can’t go trying the clothes on – they’d ’ave a fit if you did that. You just ’ave to fetch and carry, like. It’s not even as though Dawn gets to talk to the customers much. It’s always the boss what does that.’

  ‘Oh,’ George caught her breath. Had she struck gold? ‘What shop is that then?’

  ‘It’s a place called Sloane’s,’ the girl said. ‘Over to the end of Market Street, just before you get to the church.’ She pointed vaguely. ‘Next door to that men’s shop – whatsit, Adonis.’

  George smiled brilliantly at the girl. She had indeed struck gold. The mother lode, in fact. ‘Sloane’s?’ she said. ‘Funny name for a shop, isn’t it?’

  ‘Funny? Not really. I suppose you bein’ an American – you are, aren’t you? Yeah, I thought so – maybe you haven’t heard of ’em. They’re from London, silly people what they call Sloane Rangers. They’re always on about them,’ the girl said with some contempt. ‘So Dawn says. Only they’re sort of old-fashioned now. But the shop’s ever so old-fashioned, so I suppose it don’t matter what it’s called.’

  George’s heart sank. There was no way a shop owned by Alice Diamond could be unfashionable. ‘Old-fashioned? But I thought you said it was a fashion store?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, but not what I’d call fashion. They got all these tweeds and silks, like. There’s a dress they’ve got in their window what’s just black silk, nothin’ special at all, but it’s six ’undred pounds! Imagine, six ’undred … I seen better’n that in Warwick Market for twenty quid and I still wouldn’t give them ’ouseroom! There’s no excitin’ stuff, like. No nice big clumpy shoes or anything.’ She sighed. ‘So Dawn doesn’t mind not tryin’ things on all that much after all. I reckon I’m better off ’ere. At least I don’t ’ave to run around makin’ cups o’ coffee for the customers and bein’ all smarmy all the time. I just takes the money and lets ’em get on with it.’

  ‘What’s Dawn’s boss like?’ George said casually. ‘Nice person to work for?’

  The girl made a grimace. ‘All right, I suppose. Always on the phone to London, Dawn says, and thinks ’erself no end of a madam, but she’s just workin’ there like Dawn is and doesn’t ’ave no cause to give ’erself such airs. It’s not like she owns it, is it?’

  ‘Oh? Who does?’

  The girl looked at her sharply then and George smiled back vaguely. Careful, she told herself. Don’t be too nosy. ‘Some chap, I dare say. They really are the worst, aren’t they? At least here your boss owns the place.’

  ‘I think that makes ’im worse.’ The girl allowed herself to be distracted, to George’s relief. ‘’E thinks he can do anything ’c likes and so ’e can, I s’pose. Comes in when ’e fancies and goes on at me like you’d never believe. I’d be off only there aren’t that many jobs in Durleighton now, not even at the supermarket. I’m on the list there, mind you, for a cashier.’

  ‘Well, I hope you get the job.’ George said heartily. ‘Is Dawn trying to work there too?’

  ‘No, she’s happy enough where she is. Like she says, she can always get back at Mrs Morris, tellin’ her she’ll complain to the boss if she treats her bad. An’ she would too.’

  ‘Oh, does she know the boss, then?’ George was as casual as she could be, busying herself packing her jar of mustard into her handbag, in amongst the make-up and change purse and assorted detritus. The girl seemed happier about answering now.

  ‘Oh, yes. She comes to Durleighton sometimes. Got a shop in London, you see, as well. And in other places, seemingly.’

  The door of the shop opened and a woman in a raincoat and with her hair tied up in a scarf came in. ‘Good morning, Hayley,’ she fluted. ‘How are you today? Nice weekend, I hope?’

  ‘Very nice, thank you, Mrs Charteris,’ Hayley said straightening up. ‘I’ve got your jam all ready. Mr Edmunds said you’d be in for it.’ And she went slouching away to the back of the shop. George smiled vaguely at the new arrival and closed her handbag. ‘Well, I must be going,’ she said to no one in particular. ‘Good morning. Goodbye, Hayley.’

  The girl waved her hand from behind the counter and the customer herself smiled inquisitively at George. ‘Visiting, are you, dear? How nice. I
hope you find it pleasant here in Durleighton. We think it a charming place to live.’

  ‘Oh, very, very,’ George said and escaped. The last thing she wanted was to stay talking to a shop’s customers. It was the staff who would give her the material she needed, and she set off for the end of the street in the direction Hayley had indicated, trying to make herself walk slowly. But she couldn’t. So she stepped out with a swing, no longer looking in shop windows, and reached the end of the street in a matter of minutes.

  Traffic was beginning to build up now and she stood at the side of the road and looked across at the shop as she waited for a couple of vans and cars to pass her. It was a handsome building and probably an old one, she thought, trying to remember what Gus had told her in the past about the differences between Queen Anne, Victorian and Edwardian structures. She came to the tentative conclusion that this had originally been a Queen Anne house, with its flat front and the small flight of steps that led up to the door from the pavement level. The shop windows, which were clearly a later addition, were set high and sparsely dressed. In one was the black dress about which Hayley had spoken so scathingly; even from here George could see that it was in fact a most handsome garment, beautifully cut and with a good deal of flair in its design. It stood in the window in splendid isolation against a stark white background. On the other side the window had been reversed, with a black background in front of which a white silk coat was displayed. The effect was dramatic and seductive and George wanted to go into the shop for its own sake, never mind the name on the fascia above the door, which read in discreet black letters, ‘Sloane’s.’

  She was able to cross the road at last and did so at a fast pace, and almost ran up the steps of the shop in her eagerness. Inside it was precisely what she would have expected, had she thought about it. The big room that formed the showroom was lit with a large overhead chandelier as well as spotlights, the walls were a soft cream and dotted about were cream suede-covered chairs set in chrome, modern yet looking perfectly at home in the clearly old room, with rosewood and chrome tables between them bearing glossy magazines and flowers in silver bowls and ashtrays. Around the walls were mirrors, set at various angles, and here and there, on headless models, garments. There was in the far corner a curtain, made of cream and silver beads, and beyond it she could just see rails of clothes. The place smelled of hyacinths and coffee and was as relaxing as it was possible for a shop to be. She felt a stab of pure pleasure at it all.

  The girl who popped her head out through the bead curtain was clearly Dawn. She had the same petulant look of her friend at the grocery store, George thought, but had been better advised about her appearance. Where Hayley had been undoubtedly over-lipsticked and -mascaraed, this girl had a discreet make-up and her fair hair held back by a velvet Alice band, rather than the elaborate cut Hayley had sported.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said with false brightness. ‘CanIhelpyou?’ It was clearly one word, which she used often, but contained not an atom of any real interest in giving assistance. George, however, smiled at her as though she believed it had been meant in all sincerity.

  ‘Good morning!’ she said. ‘How kind of you. May I look around?’

  ‘Oh, sure, yes,’ the girl said, bringing the rest of her body out through the bead curtain. She was wearing a copy of the black dress in the window, George thought. It looked good on her because she had the young figure that such a garment demanded, and yet it didn’t look quite the same. She took a deep breath.

  ‘There now,’ she said in her most American drawl, which she always found so useful on these occasions. ‘If you aren’t wearing that darling dress that’s in the window! It is the same, isn’t it?’

  The girl giggled and looked down at herself. ‘I wish,’ she said. ‘No, Mrs Morris had it copied for me. Just to wear here of course. I wouldn’t wear it out anywhere.’

  ‘But it looks perfect on you!’ George said and was truthful. The dress mightn’t have the special qualities of the one in the window but it looked fine on Dawn.

  ‘Well.’ The girl smiled at her in a rather mechanical way. ‘It’s not what you might call my style, really. But it’s good for work. Is there anything I can show you? Mrs Morris’ll be back in a minute if you want to wait. She said if anyone came in I was to say to wait for her, an’ give you a cup of coffee or tea.’

  ‘Oh, how very nice!’ George promptly sat down on one of the suede chairs, which was not quite as comfortable as it looked. ‘I’d just adore some coffee! How kind of you. I’ve plenty of time, so why not?’

  23

  By the time the shop door opened again to let Mrs Morris in, George had learned a lot about Sloane’s, because Dawn needed only the most gentle of prodding to release a flood of chatter. Clearly the girl spent so much time alone in the shop that having someone to talk to was a major event in her life.

  George realized almost at once from Dawn’s artless complaining that the shop took very little money over the counter. The weekdays were almost invariably quite empty of any activity. George herself was, Dawn said, the only person she could ever remember coming in so early on a Monday morning. Not that they did no custom; the weekends could be busy, Dawn said. The rich people from the big houses round and about the town as well as some of the weekend visitors and tourists came in; Sloane’s did a very nice business in costly designer clothes.

  ‘We’ve got every famous label you could think of,’ Dawn said with a sort of irritated pride. ‘Though I have to say for my part I go by what a dress looks like, not what it says on the label. But seemingly there’s a lot of people put a lot of store by that.’ She looked alarmed for a moment. ‘I hope I’m not speakin’ out of turn. Maybe you –’

  ‘It’s all right,’ George assured her. ‘I agree with you. I’ve no time at all for label snobbery. But I do like nice clothes and you can see that the things in here are very nice indeed.’

  ‘Well, I suppose. I like stuff with a bit more pizazz, m’self.’ Dawn went pink for a moment. ‘Ooh, you won’t tell Mrs Morris I was talking like that, will you? She’d be dead annoyed if she thought I wasn’t saying our stuff was the best thing since sliced bread.’

  ‘Not a word,’ George assured her. ‘Though I must say if she scares you that much …’ and she waited hopefully.

  She wasn’t disappointed. ‘Oh, she doesn’t scare me! I just can’t be bothered with her goin’ on at me the way she does. She thinks she’s God Almighty, that’s her trouble, but she’s only the manageress here, no matter how many fancy friends she reckons she’s got. It’s Mrs Dee what’s the owner, an’ I’ve got her phone number in London so if I ever need to tell her anythin’ about Mrs Morris, I shall. Not that Mrs Morris knows that.’ Dawn giggled then, and there was an unpleasant edge to the sound.

  ‘Mrs Dee?’ George said, trying to sound offhand. ‘What does that stand for?’

  ‘Stand for?’ The girl was puzzled.

  ‘Dee. What’s it for? Dawkins? Donald …?’

  Dawn’s face cleared. ‘Oh, I see what you mean. No, it’s not an initial. That’s her name. Dee. Arabella Dee Ltd. That’s the name of the company, like. I’ve seen it on the papers.’ Again she gave a little giggle. ‘Not supposed to, but I did. Oh’ – she shook her head – ‘I’m really talking too much, aren’t I? My mum says I always let my tongue run away with me and one of these days it’ll get me into real trouble. You won’t say to Mrs Morris I’ve been chattering, will you?’

  ‘Trust me.’ George smiled brilliantly. ‘I’m just the same myself. I was always being put down for being a chatterbox when I was a child. But I don’t think it’s so bad. It means I always know what’s going on, because when you talk to people they talk back, don’t they?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Dawn said and leaned comfortably against a mirror, clearly happy to go on gossiping as long as George wanted her to. Someone up there loves me, George thought.

  ‘So do tell me, what is Mrs Morris really like? As well as going on at you?’ She left the words inv
itingly in the air.

  Dawn rose to them obligingly. ‘Oh, a real bighead, that one! You’d think there was no one in the world as sophisticated as she is. Sophisticated!’ That warranted a snort. ‘She’s got as much chance of being sophisticated as I’ve got of changing into a fella, livin’ here. I’ll be out of this town as soon as I’ve got a few bob together, off to London to live. That’s the only place to really be sophisticated, ’n’t it?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ George was touched by her adolescent small-town yearning. ‘But you’re fine as you are, Dawn. You needn’t worry about being anything other than yourself. People who put on a show of being something different –’

  ‘Oh, yes! Aren’t they awful? Always goin’ on about her famous friends and Lord Durleigh this and Lord Durleigh that. The way she carried on when he got killed, you’d think they’d been lovers or something. And I know they was never that close because I saw him once in the street outside and said, “Oh, there’s Lord Durleigh,” and she was out there like a shot and chattin’ him up, and it was obvious he was dead bored. She just likes to suck up to rich and famous people, that’s all.’

  ‘I know the sort.’ George’s pulse had quickened. This was getting more and more interesting. ‘It was awful about Lord Durleigh, wasn’t it? Being killed that way.’

  ‘Awful,’ Dawn said with relish. ‘Just imagine, a madman running about in London. Of course it makes my mum extra nervous. Every time I say I want to go and work in London she goes potty, and with all these killings – well, it don’t help. But I say to her, it’s only a madman. They’ll catch him and then I’ll be as safe as anywhere else. You can get terrible things happening in the smaller places after all. Think of Hungerford.’