‘It’s an address,’ she read aloud. ‘M Maurice, Bespoke Tailor, Church Lane, Fulham.’
‘Knock-off merchant.’ Sally sniffed derisively. ‘Thought as much.’
‘I believe you’re right, Sally.’ Flora tapped the card against her bottom lip. It seems Lady Merivale isn’t the only one in town wearing chevrons this season. My search for the red coat might not be over after all.’
She strode to where the chauffeur held open the rear door of the motor car and showed him the card. ‘Do you know your way to this address?’
‘I could probably find it, madam.’ Timms touched his cap, his wry smile of one who is accustomed to keeping secrets.
After a couple of false turns, Timms pulled the motor car to a halt in front of a row of houses that might have once been grand residences but had been split into places of business on the ground and lower floors with lodgings above. The rendered façades were cracked and stained, with flaking paint on doors and window frames. A cigar shop stood beside a sign offering legal services, and a ‘For Rent’ sign was displayed in an upper window. Dull paint, unsteady railings and broken paving stones proliferated, with not a tree or patch of grass in sight to break the unrelenting brick and concrete, stained by years of coal smoke.
‘It’s number twelve,’ Flora tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder. ‘On our right and farther down.’
‘Are you sure you want to go in there, madam?’ Timms gave the street a hard glance as he held open the door for her to alight.
‘I shall be as quick as I can.’ She did not remind him not to leave the motor car unattended. He loved the machine as much as her husband did. ‘Sally, you stay here with Timms.’
‘Why can’t I come with you?’ Sally halted half-way out of the rear seat.
‘Because I’ll find out more if I’m alone. Now don’t look at me like that, I know what I’m doing.’
Flora hesitated at the bottom of three worn stone steps with a dip in the centre from thousands of feet, which led to a shabby black door; an upper-ground-floor window beside it blacked out by a faded blind. Avoiding the wrought-iron rail which threatened to topple at the slightest touch, Flora paused in front of the door and took a deep breath.
She followed a tentative knock with a firmer one, which was answered by a lanky man in a smart, if slightly threadbare suit, a pair of round spectacles perched on his head over a severely receding hairline. He slid them expertly down his forehead onto his nose to examine the card Abigail had given her, at which his expression altered from wary suspicion to surprised delight.
Flora held out her hand to retrieve it, but he slid the card into his pocket, leaving her hand in mid-air.
‘Do come this way, Mrs—?’ he broke off with an enquiring look.
‘Madam will suffice.’ Flora mimicked the bored condescension her mother-in-law saved for tradesmen and recalcitrant shop assistants.
‘It usually does.’ He sighed and inclined his head, an arm extended in an invitation to precede him into a narrow, dimly lit dark green hallway that carried a faint smell of mildew. With the door closed, the hall was thrown into deeper gloom, making Flora feel less confident as her footsteps echoed on the cracked lino. Regretting not having brought Sally with her, Flora forced herself forward into the room he directed her to at the end of the corridor.
Gas jets hissed from the walls, lit to supplement the meagre light from one tiny window at shoulder height. A plain pine table dominated the centre of a room filled with shambolic wooden racks ending a foot below the yellowed ceiling, each one stacked with bolts of cloth.
‘The garments aren’t made in here,’ he said quickly when he caught her staring round the dingy space. ‘My seamstresses have a studio at the top of the house with better light.’ He indicated a plain wheel-back chair, which she declined.
‘I wondered if you could make a certain style of coat I’ve seen,’ Flora blurted, determined to get the unpleasant business over with as soon as possible. ‘A one-off design which the designers refuse to make for me. The young lady who gave me the card said you might be able to oblige me.’ She went on to describe the coat with the chevron pattern for a second time that morning.
‘I believe I know the garment to which you refer.’ He removed the spectacles and laid them on the long table. ‘I could make one to resemble the original design so closely you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. For a considerably lower fee, I might add.’
‘I see. So, you copy the designs from The House of Joel and reproduce them for ladies who do not wish to pay their prices?’
‘A somewhat curt summary but, in essence, correct.’ He flushed and coughed into a fist. ‘There will be certain differences. The buttons, for instance, are manufactured and not handmade from bone, but in all other respects—’
‘It will be identical.’ Flora nodded slowly. ‘I understand. Might I ask how many of this particular design of coat you have made?’
‘I… I beg your pardon?’ He blinked, snatched the glasses from the table and put them on, either to see her more clearly or hide behind. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I think you do, sir.’ Flora’s confidence rose in direct proportion to his nervousness. ‘I would like to know for whom you made these coats.’
‘My good lady, I really don’t think that’s any of your concern.’ His voice remained steady but the hand he brought to adjust his spectacles shook.
‘It might well be, because such a coat was worn by someone in the commission of a serious crime.’ She had no idea if she had guessed correctly about the lady in the red coat, but something about Mrs Thompson’s death still niggled at her.
‘What are you insinuating?’ He pulled in his chin, his eyes wide with shock.
‘Nothing at all. In fact, I might be able to help you.’
‘Help me?’ Scepticism replaced his surprise.
‘Indeed. If you give me the names and addresses of the women to whom you sold the chevron coats, I can guarantee the police won’t bother you.’
‘Madam, please understand,’ he extended both hands in a gesture of regret, ‘I have a reputation to protect. The ladies I supply expect confidentiality, therefore I am unable—’
‘As you wish,’ Flora interrupted him. ‘I had hoped to avoid having to mention your name to the police.’ She gave the room a sweeping look of disdain. ‘There’s also the matter of the girl.’
‘Girl?’
‘If the House of Joel discovers one of their seamstresses entices customers to your establishment, I doubt she’ll have her job long.’
‘You cannot do that.’ His eyes widened in alarm. ‘Abigail is my youngest sister. She needs the job. I cannot afford to employ her here.’
Flora’s stomach dropped. Had she gone too far? The one time in her life she employed her mother-in-law’s condescension, she had threatened a man for no other reason than he tried to make a living. Even Flora knew it was not an unknown practice for tailors to copy their competitor’s designs and sell them off at cheaper rates.
‘I… I didn’t mean to threaten you. All I need is information.’ Guilt brought heat to her cheeks. ‘If you help me, I’ll have no reason to mention our conversation to anyone. Especially the police.’
Why did she say that? Now he would really think she was threatening him.
‘That is all you want? The names of these particular clients?’ Hope flared in his flat eyes as he realized this was a negotiation, not a confrontation.
‘You have my word.’
He hesitated for a few seconds, then gave a brisk nod and strode to a rack in the corner. He pulled down a cardboard box the size of a small suitcase and laid it on the table. ‘I made three coats like the one you mentioned. I have the receipts here.’ He rummaged through the contents, pulled out a wad of paper and flicked through it. ‘Here they are. The first was for a Mrs Walters who lives in Chelsea.’
‘What did she look like?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ He blinked, confused.
‘You have her measurements there.’ Flora nodded at the paper in his hand. ‘Was she tall, short, old or young?’
‘Oh, er.’ His lips moved as he did mental calculations. ‘A short lady, and generously proportioned, as I recall. About sixty. Her husband is a grocer who—’
‘No, she isn’t who I’m looking for.’ Dr Billings had described her as a tall attractive woman. ‘Who else?’
He selected another card. ‘I made one for a Miss Ann Craft of twenty-six Courthouse Road, Finchley.’ He pressed a finger to his cheek and stared off in an aid to memory. ‘I remember her very well. A blonde, blue-eyed young woman of about twenty with a waist measurement of an enviable eighteen inches and she—’ He broke off as he caught Flora’s expression. ‘Is she not of interest?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Flora thought for a moment. ‘Possibly not, as the lady I am looking for was dark-haired.’ Though she memorized the address just in case. ‘And the next?’
‘The only other person who bought this particular coat did not give her name, so I marked her down in the order book as a “Miss S”.’
‘Surely you know something about her? You took her measurements I imagine and must have spoken to her at least twice.’
‘Well… er.’ He flushed a deep red. ‘You’re quite right I did, but she wasn’t particularly memorable as I recall.’
‘Really?’ Flora speculated he had made some unwelcome compliment, and the memory of her uncompromising set-down was what put that high colour in his cheeks.
‘All right. She was attractive, tall and of slender proportions which showed the coat off to advantage. She kept her hat on so I didn’t see her hair colour but her high cheekbones gave her an exotic look.’
‘You see, it wasn’t that difficult, was it?’ That telling off must have been chilling. ‘Anything else? An address, perhaps?’
‘Uh… no. She refused to give an address and requested the coat be delivered.’
‘Delivered where?’ That sounded more like it.
He turned the copy of the bill of sale over. ‘Ah yes, here it is. The Dahlia Hotel in Coptic Street, Bloomsbury. I’m afraid there’s nothing else I can add.’ His slow shrug displayed an air of defeat. ‘I made this one at the end of last year and have had no reason to see the lady since. I assume, that as she stayed at a hotel, she has since moved on.’
‘Thank you, Mr Maurice, you’ve been most helpful.’ Flora quoted the name printed on the card, despite the fact he had not introduced himself.
He escorted her to the front door, where she extended her hand for a parting shake. Her gloved fingers connected with his and she transferred a sovereign into his palm. He did not look down but his eyes widened a fraction.
‘How did you get on, madam?’ Sally eased along the rear seat to make way for her. ‘You look like you’ve lost a half-crown and found sixpence.’
‘Considerably more, actually,’ Flora murmured, troubled by guilt as she took her seat. ‘Because he stole other people’s designs, I assumed he was dishonest, so I wasn’t very nice to him.’
‘Feeling bad, now are you?’ Sally asked.
‘Actually yes. I’ve just bullied a man simply for trying to make a living. His shop makes no difference at all to the Lady Merivale’s of this world. I imagine there’s many a librarian or office girl pleased to own a suit or a coat similar to those worn by society ladies. Never mind the cheaper buttons or the thin lining. In a former life I would have been happy with one too.’
‘Don’t see anything wrong with them m’self. My mam used to make knock-offs.’ Sally unfolded a cone of stiff paper and peered inside. ‘Well, more like knock-offs of knock-offs, if you see what I mean.’ She thrust the paper cone under Flora’s nose. ‘Would you like one?’
‘What are they?’ Flora eyed the paper suspiciously.
‘Mint imperials.’ Sally popped one into her mouth.
‘Thank you, no.’ Flora inwardly shuddered at the idea of cracking her teeth on a solid lump of sugar.
‘Good at it she was, my mam. Kept us kids from starving at any rate. ’Cos me dad weren’t no good at it. At least I think he was me dad.’ Her voice tailed off as she peered into the paper cone, crumpled it in one hand before returning it to her pocket.
Flora bit her lip to prevent a laugh, while reminding herself she shouldn’t seek entertainment in her maid’s underprivileged early life. Something Sally made almost impossible with her casual pragmatism.
‘Seems to me you’re going to a lot of trouble madam,’ Sally continued. ‘There must be hundreds of red coats in London.’
‘I know, but this particular coat is very distinctive. And I might have found it’. That man back there delivered it to The Dahlia Hotel.’
‘What’s that when it’s at home, then?’
‘A hotel with the name of a flower that begins with a “D”, Sally, and as Master Bunny always, says, I don’t believe in coincidences.’
‘I’ve never ’eard him say that,’ Sally mumbled through a bulge in her cheek.
Chapter 12
Flora dressed early for dinner that evening in order to give her some time to compose a letter to Mrs Tilney, the lady Amy claimed had been Mrs Thompson’s closest friend.
After several false starts, evident by the rapidly filling wastepaper basket at her side, she began with an apology for approaching someone to whom she had not been introduced, followed by condolences on the loss of her friend, Sylvia Thompson, with whom Flora claimed a slight acquaintance. In the hope of encouraging openness on Mrs Tilney’s part, Flora explained her upbringing at Cleeve Abbey. She explained that she now lived in London and had only recently been informed of Sylvia’s demise, expressing her sympathy to Leo as well.
The approach of Bunny’s footsteps made her slide the sealed envelope into a drawer.
‘Sorry I’m late, but I lost track of time and then couldn’t find a hansom.’ He planted a swift kiss on her temple, tossed his jacket over a nearby chair and untucked his shirt from his trousers. ‘How was your day?’
‘Eventful, if frustrating. Jocasta called to see me this morning.’
‘Did you manage to shove Ed into the cupboard under the stairs before she spotted him?’ Bunny chuckled at his own joke.
‘Something like that. She told me about a couture house called The House of Joel. I paid it a visit today in search of a red coat.’
‘You bought a coat?’ Without unfastening the buttons, he pulled the shirt over his head and hurled it in the general direction of the chair without looking to see where it fell.
‘No, but I found the perfect dress for Lydia’s wedding.’ She watched the shirt tumble to the floor in dismay. Three years of marriage had taught her complaints about his untidiness went nowhere. It also confirmed her decision not to mention the pink silk until it occupied space in her wardrobe.
‘So, what’s this about a coat?’
‘Do you recall Dr Billings said the woman who helped Sylvia Thompson when she was injured wore one?’ She dragged her gaze from the crumpled shirt.
‘Vaguely, is it likely to be important?’
‘I don’t know – yet.’ Flora selected a sapphire pendant from her jewellery box and fastened it around her neck, her chin tucked down. ‘For Dr Billings to notice what she was wearing is significant. I thought finding out to whom the coat belonged might lead us to the woman.’
‘Did you find out much?’ He kicked off his left shoe, followed swiftly with his right.
‘As I said, frustrating. But there is a connection.’ Flora arranged the pendant in the hollow in her throat and twisted on the stool to face him. ‘A tailor in Fulham who makes copies of couture designs made an identical coat for a woman who asked for it to be delivered to The Dahlia Hotel in Bloomsbury.’
‘Now that is interesting.’ Bunny contemplated the ceiling, one hand beneath his chin. ‘But hardly conclusive.’
‘It’s more than a coincidence though. A woman wearing the same coat was in Cheltenham when—’
‘A
similar coat. You don’t know it was the same one or the same woman.’ He threw his socks into a corner, then pulled out three drawers in succession, looking for a clean pair.
‘Spoken like a true man of law. Pedantic to the last. Similar then. And your socks are in the top drawer, where they always are.’ She tried not to sigh. ‘The tailor said he only made three coats like it.’
‘Or three dozen. Flora, you cannot believe anything he said. He’s hardly likely to have revealed his activities to you if he’s stealing designs.’ He located a pair of socks, which he held up in triumph. ‘Anyway, whose murder are we investigating? Leo’s or his mother’s?’
‘Leo’s, I suppose but—’
‘Exactly. And this woman, whoever she is, is probably long gone by now.’ He gave her shoulders a squeeze on his way to the door. ‘I’m going to have a bath before dinner.’
Flora propped her chin in her hand and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She kept recalling what Dr Billings had said about the woman’s strange behaviour when she brought Sylvia to the surgery. The way she kept fussing and how clumsy she was by getting in the doctor’s way. Nothing definite, but as Riordan Maguire would have said, Flora could no more ignore it than a cat after mackerel.
*
‘That policeman is here again, sir,’ the butler announced just as Flora and Bunny settled in the sitting room with a pre-prandial sherry. ‘I explained this is an unsociable hour to call, but he insists on speaking with you and Lord Trent,’ he added with the trace of a sneer.
‘It’s quite all right, Stokes. Show him in, would you?’ Bunny waited for the door to click shut again before asking, ‘Do you sometimes feel Stokes is a little too grand for us?’
‘Frequently.’ Flora puffed air through her pursed lips. ‘I imagine him seated at the kitchen table, a pencil behind one ear as he trawls through advertisements in The Lady in search of more conventional employers. Preferably titled ones.’
‘I’m a solicitor.’ Bunny pulled a face. ‘How more conventional can one be?’
‘I meant me.’ She leaned across the space between them on the sofa and tweaked a lock of hair from his forehead with her free hand. ‘A mistress who investigates grisly murders and entertains police officers probably offends his sensibilities.’
The Bloomsbury Affair Page 11