“I understand that you are upset it was stolen, but why are you so worried? What is there to connect you to it?”
“My handwriting. ‘Fit for a princess,’ I wrote at the bottom, and I added in little details, too. About how there was a secret good-luck motif for the bride. Miss Duley will know. As soon as she takes a good look at that newspaper she’ll know.”
“Surely she will understand.”
“I’m awful at drawing figures. Getting the proportions right and so on. So I traced one of Mr. Hartnell’s sketches from his last collection. Just the arms and head. But it will look as if I was trying to pass off his work as my own. What was I thinking?”
“You say the drawing was cut from your sketchbook. Who might have taken it? Who even knew you had such a thing in your bag?”
“I showed the sketch to Doris. It was meant to be her dress, after all. We were in the canteen at dinner, with everyone sitting around the table. But I— Oh, God, no. No.”
“What is it?” Miriam asked, thoroughly rattled.
“I know who did it,” Ann muttered, her voice thick with suppressed tears. “Jeremy.”
“Why? Why would he do such a thing?”
“He said information about the gown would be worth a king’s ransom in the right hands. He was so angry. He’d thought a few evenings out would soften me up, and I’d tell him everything he wanted to know, or I’d let something slip. But I never said a thing, and he . . .”
“What did he do?”
Ann covered her face with her hands. “Nothing. Nothing.”
“When did he take the drawing?” Miriam pressed. “Could it have been the night you last saw him?”
“It must have been. I was . . . I was in the other room. For a while. And he was alone with my bag, and I think he looked through it then. I don’t know why, though, because he knew I don’t have any money. I don’t have anything worth taking.”
“Had he known about your sketchbook?”
Ann shook her head, wiped at her eyes. “No. At least I don’t think he did. Oh, Miriam. He must have thought he’d won the pools. A sketchbook full of designs, and a grand wedding dress right at the end. With a label just in case it wasn’t clear. ‘Fit for a princess.’ I’m going to be sick.”
“Put your head between your knees,” Miriam directed her. “Yes. Breathe deeply. You are not going to be sick, and you did not do anything wrong. It is not the correct gown, to begin with. If anything, this will make things better for all of us. The journalists will think they have uncovered the secret. They will leave us all alone.”
“I have to tell Miss Duley and Mr. Hartnell. I have to tell them what happened.”
Did Ann not possess a single gram of self-preservation? To admit the truth of it, blameless though she was, would be madness. But that was an argument for another day.
“Wait until we know more. After work, I shall go to see Walter. He will be able to help. I am certain he will help.”
“What can he do?” Ann whispered wretchedly.
“To begin with, he can confirm that this Jeremy, cet espèce de con, is the thief. Now, tell me everything you remember about him.”
THERE WASN’T TIME, in what was left of the day, for Miriam to run out and find a telephone box and ring Walter at his office. He worked late most evenings, though, and she did have the telephone number for his flat. One way or another she would find him.
He’d taken her to his office once before, so she knew the way—a good thing, too, since the door to the Picture Weekly premises was tucked away on a side street.
The receptionist remembered Miriam from her previous visit. “Miss Dassin. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Is he in?” She would apologize later for her abrupt manner.
“He is—no need to wait. Just go along down the hall. If you don’t find him in his office, come back and I’ll help you.”
He was at his desk, hunched low over a sheaf of typewritten pages, and even from the doorway she could see how he’d marked them up with slashes and notations in red pencil.
“Walter,” she said, and he looked up, startled from his thoughts.
“Miriam,” he said, smiling. And then, “Something is wrong.”
“Yes. I am sorry to bother you here, but I need your help.”
He came round his desk, shut the door, and cleared a mountain of books from two battered chairs. “Sit down, next to me here, and tell me what is the matter.”
“I know you had nothing to do with it. I must say this at the start. I want you to know this, and that I have not come to accuse you of anything.”
“The gown,” he said. “On the front page of The Examiner.”
“Yes,” she acknowledged. “Although it is not the real gown. It is not even close.”
“So why the concern?”
“The drawing was stolen from Ann. Her handwriting is on it.”
“Bloody hell.”
“She believes it was taken by a man she was seeing. They had dinner about a month ago and at one point he was alone with her bag for some time. He cut the drawing from her sketchbook then.”
“Does she have any proof?”
Miriam shook her head. “None at all.”
“Could one of your colleagues at—”
“No. It would have been easier to make their own drawing. And they—we—are all loyal to Monsieur Hartnell. None of us would do such a thing.”
“Of course. What does he look like? The thief? Have you ever met him?”
“Only the once. It was the same night you and I met. He came up to Ann at the Astoria and asked her to dance. He was very handsome. Tall and fair and beautifully dressed.”
Kaz pulled a notebook from his coat pocket and, balancing it on his knee, began to take notes. “His name?”
“Jeremy Thickett-Milne.”
“Age?”
“I think about thirty? Ann was not certain.”
“Anything else?”
“She told me he was an officer in the war. A guard of some kind?”
“With a Guards regiment? Yes? Any idea which one? No matter. And did Ann say what he does for a living? Assuming that he works, of course.”
“Oh—I ought to have said. He is an aide to Queen Mary. So I suppose that makes him very important.”
“Not necessarily. Young, ex-Guards, tall and good-looking . . . more likely there for decoration. Think of him as a footman with a better line in small talk.” He closed the notebook, capped his pen, and rubbed at his eyes. “That’ll do for now. Let me ask around—discreetly, I promise—and I’ll meet you and Ann later. Shall I come out to your house? Say around ten o’clock? It may take a few hours.”
“I do not wish to inconvenience you,” she protested. “Barking is very far.”
“Nonsense. I’ll try to be with you by ten, but don’t fret if I’m late.”
“Thank you.”
“I should tell you that the editor of The Examiner is an old enemy of mine. I gave Nigel the sack some years ago and he hasn’t forgiven me. It won’t be as simple as my just ringing him up.”
“Then what will you do?”
“Nigel runs that rag on a shoestring. He wouldn’t have been able to offer much by payment for the drawing, and that makes me think your thief likely went elsewhere first. I’ll ring up some friends and find out if he approached any of them.”
“So I should go home and wait?”
“Yes. Tell Miss Hughes not to panic. It may help her to know that Hartnell was already planning to reveal the design to the press on the thirteenth. Ruby received her invitation at the beginning of October. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what prompted the theft of Ann’s drawing. After then, you see, it won’t be worth a penny.”
“Will everyone see the design then?”
“Not everyone. Only a handful of writers from the broadsheets and weekly magazines. And there’ll be an embargo until the wedding day.”
“I do not know this word. Embargo?”
“A restriction. We agree no
t to describe the dress or print any photographs of the design until November twentieth. In principle, it means we can have our write-ups ready for the day of the wedding.”
“What of those who break this embargo?”
“They never get a return invitation. That’s incentive enough.”
WALTER KNOCKED ON their door at half-past ten that night. It had been raining, and in lieu of a mackintosh or coat he had thought only to wrap a long and moth-eaten scarf around his neck.
“Did you walk all the way from the station?” she asked worriedly, though he didn’t seem especially rain-sodden.
“I borrowed Bennett’s car.”
“Come through to the back with me. Even if you are not wet, you must be cold. I will make you some tea.”
She led him to the kitchen, and he greeted Ann with a gentle handshake and an apology for his lateness. Miriam took his jacket, just so she might hang it on the drying rack before the sitting room fire, and he looked so handsome in his shirtsleeves and ink-stained tweed vest, and his expression was so kind and understanding, that her heart cracked a little at the sight of him.
“I do have some answers for you,” he began. “It’s all pretty much as you suspected. This Thickett-Milne started shopping around your drawing last month. Not under his real name. He rang up a friend of mine around a fortnight ago. Told him he had details of the princess’s wedding gown and insisted they meet at the bar of a hotel up in Bayswater. He appeared to be wearing a false mustache, if you can believe it.”
“Did he have the drawing with him then?” Ann asked.
“Yes. Insisted it was from Hartnell himself. Asked for five thousand pounds.”
“Five thousand pounds?” Miriam echoed. “He must be mad.”
“Not mad,” Ann said flatly. “Desperate.”
“And desperate men do awful things,” Walter agreed. “My friend just laughed in his face. Told Milne he’d have better luck with the Americans. Of course he didn’t, otherwise he wouldn’t have ended up at The Examiner. I’d be surprised if Nigel—he’s the editor there—was able to scrape together even a hundred pounds.”
“Why was no one interested?” Miriam asked. “I thought the entire world was hoping to see the gown before the wedding.”
“The handwriting on the sketch gave it away. Totally different to Hartnell’s. Everyone knew it was a fake. And with the preview of the gown so soon, why take the risk?”
Ann’s eyes were closed, her fists clenched, her face stark with agony. Miriam looked to Walter and, understanding, he nodded.
“I had best head back into London. I’ll leave you with a copy of my card, and of course Miriam knows how to find me. If there is anything else I can do, please let me know.”
Back in the front vestibule, Walter shrugged on his jacket and knotted his scarf around his neck once more. “I meant what I said before. If there is anything I can do to help, call me straightaway. Do you promise?”
“I do.”
“Very well. I’ll say good night.” He bent his head, set a fleeting kiss upon her cheek, and retreated into the night.
Ann had not moved. Her hands were folded on her lap, and she was staring, her expression unfathomable, at the cooling mug of tea that Walter had left untouched.
“I’ll be sacked,” she whispered. “I know it.”
“You do not know any such thing. Monsieur Hartnell is a good man. A fair man. He gave me a position even after I forced myself into his office without permission or an invitation. I am certain that he will understand.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Ann’s voice was so flat, so devoid of hope.
“Imagine the worst thing that can happen to you. Are you thinking of it? Now tell me. What is it? What would ruin your life?”
“I . . . I can’t talk of it. I can’t.” Ann shook her head and covered her face with her hands, and in that moment Miriam knew. It was all she could do not to run into the night with a knife in her hand, find the wicked man who had brutalized her friend, and thrust its blade into his black heart.
“You do not have to say any more, ma belle. I will not ask it of you. But I wish you to know that not so long ago I, too, believed my life was over. That my dreams were dead and buried, along with those I loved, and the most I could expect from the days left to me was to endure. But I do not believe that now. I have hope.”
“How?”
“Because of you, and Walter, and the other friends I have made here. You have changed everything for me. I will not say that anything is possible, for we both know the world is too broken for such a thing, and there are people like this Jeremy who will try to stand in your way. But you have many friends. This you must know. And you are not alone.”
“But—”
“But you are young and intelligent and kind and strong. Too strong to let him win. And that is what will happen if you allow him to ruin your life.”
Ann nodded, and wiped her eyes, and then she took Miriam’s hand in hers and held it tight.
“What now?”
“I will go with you tomorrow. If you wish to see Monsieur Hartnell I will stand at your side, and I will fight for you if it comes to that. And if, as you fear, the worst should happen? I will still be at your side.”
WATCHING ANN TELL Miss Duley of her betrayal was exceedingly painful. Miriam knew her friend would survive, and perhaps one day be happy again, but she would never forget the humiliation visited upon her by Jeremy Thickett-Milne.
“I am so sorry,” Ann said when she had finished recounting the entire sorry tale. “I should never have gone out with him. I know that now.”
“How could you have known? Oh, my dear girl.”
“I swear I never said a thing about the gown. I never even told him I worked here.”
“I believe you. Now, this drawing of yours—who was it for again?”
“It was for Doris. I’d had some ideas for how she might make over her mum’s wedding dress, and I did up a sketch for her as a keepsake. I liked it so well I made a version of it for myself in my book. My good sketchbook.”
“Only for your private use? Not because you had a thought of setting up shop on your own?” Miss Duley pressed.
“Me? No. I’d never do that. It was just a way of passing the time. And it’s not as if they’re very good. Set next to one of Mr. Hartnell’s drawings, it’s as plain as day that he’s the artist, not me.”
Miss Duley sighed, swiped a hand over her eyes, and then she went to the mirror and smoothed back her hair. “I suppose we had better tell Mr. Hartnell, if only to reassure him there’s no spy in our midst.”
“Don’t you believe me?” Ann asked, an edge of panic creeping into her voice.
“Of course I do. But now that you’ve told me we have to tell him, too. Let’s get it over with.”
Miss Duley called up to Mrs. Price, just to make sure he was in his office and alone, and then they set off, as gloomy as if they’d been herded into the back of a tumbrel.
He was in a cheerful mood, fortunately, but then again he nearly always seemed to be in good spirits. “Come in, Miss Duley, ladies. Do sit down. Is anything the matter?”
“Yes and no, sir. We’ve come about the article in The Examiner yesterday.”
“Dreadful rag. Useful for lining a rubbish bin but not much more.”
“I agree, sir. The thing is, Miss Hughes came to me just now, and she has a . . . well, a story to tell about how the drawing ended up in that paper, and I’m hoping you’ll hear her out.”
Monsieur Hartnell had begun to frown. “Very well. Do go on, Miss Hughes.”
Every particle of color had drained away from Ann’s face, and her hands, which she held tightly clasped in her lap, were shaking. “The drawing was stolen from me, from a sketchbook I sometimes carry in my handbag. I draw things I’d like to make for myself, or for friends, if I had all the time in the world and could afford really lovely materials. I’d drawn a wedding dress for Doris a while back. Just some ideas I’d had on how to make over
her mum’s old dress so it looked new and fit her properly. One version stayed in my book and the other went to Doris. Only, well, I’m not very good at people’s faces or hands, so I’d traced those parts from one of your drawings. Just to get the proportions right. And I wrote ‘fit for a princess’ at the bottom, only I don’t know why, now, that I did that. I think I must have been feeling a bit silly and romantic that day.”
“So you are saying that someone stole a drawing that you had created for your own personal use, and having taken it from you then sold it to a newspaper under the pretext of it being a copy of my design?”
“Yes, sir. I’m so sorry.”
“I appreciate your honesty very much, Miss Hughes, but I fail to see why you are so worried. There isn’t a person in England who believes it to be an actual sketch of the princess’s wedding gown. If the editor of The Examiner paid more than a fiver for it, he’s a bigger fool than I’d imagined. I’m certainly not going to chastise you for playing an inadvertent role in its publication.”
“But the queen . . . Princess Elizabeth . . .” Ann faltered. “Won’t they be upset? What if they think someone here went to the press?”
“I doubt either of them even noticed. Even if they did, they’re used to people printing lies about them. I suppose it goes along with the job.” He paused to light a cigarette and then, his nerves suitably soothed, he directed his attention at Ann once again. “You didn’t say how the drawing was stolen. It wasn’t someone from here, was it?”
“No, sir,” said Miss Duley, her face reddening in indignation. “Certainly not.”
“It was a man I was seeing,” Ann explained. “I met him just before you were awarded the commission for the gown. He thought he could get me to tell him something about the design, but I knew not to say anything, not even to admit I worked here. And then, about a month ago, he took me out and . . .”
“That is when he took the drawing,” Miriam intervened, for the last of Ann’s composure was melting away. “That is when he stole it from her.”
“My goodness. What a dreadful experience for you. I had no idea a journalist would stoop to such villainous behavior,” Monsieur Hartnell said, his brow creased in a sympathetic frown.
The Gown Page 26
